NO SNUBBING REQUIRED.

I had a “Pretty Woman” moment the other day. Movie, not song. And no, I wasn’t picked up by a zillionaire knight in shining armour blah blah blah. Remember when Jules walked into a fancy shmancy store and they snubbed her? Then she returned with Dick and bought out the place? “Big mistake. Huge.”

My Pretty Woman moment started the same way. My friend and I went into a fancy shmancy store. I won’t name names. Let’s just say Oprah is no longer a fan of said shop. She thinks they were rude to her in their Paris boutique. But I thought most Parisian boutique employees were rude to Americans. Our Oprah thinks it’s ‘cuz they’re racist. But I thought most Parisians…Nevermind, I digress. This Store...OK you got it out of me; it was Hermes. ANYWAY, my friend and I went in. And guess what? Snub central.

The sales-hag looked at us, gave a tight smile and proceeded to ignore us in favour of fawning over the woman who walked in behind us. She even gestured for a different salesperson to help, and I quote, flicking her hand our way, "them." (to be said dripping with disdain). Rude/Not Rude. RUDE! Apparently, this Other Woman had the right to be treated like, oh, a person, because she was about to purchase a $10,000 bag. Hmmm. And yet, this Other Woman barely glanced at the saleslady or her investment, I mean, purse, preferring to type feverishly on her crackberry instead. The whole thing was bizarre.

My friend wasn’t nearly as incensed as I was. But I found it vile. This saleswoman had no clue whether we were big spender movie stars or glamourama queens or couture collectors. In fact, we went into the shop because my friend was returning something she’d bought there. And the other, much nicer and supposed b-list saleswoman recognized my friend to boot. She was a regular, yet still treated like shit.

If it were me that was the reg, I would’ve huffed up a storm, talked loudly, and made snide comments about how rude everybody was. Oh wait. I did that. But no one noticed. Except my friend. And no, she wasn’t embarrassed. At least I don’t think so. She thought the whole thing was amusing. I didn’t get it then. And I don’t get it now. In fact, I never understand why salesfolk in fancy shmancy stores need to be such snot bags. It’s not like they’re shopping in these places. They’re working there.

Sure, there are those who are rude shoppers. Often they’re the same people who are rude to waiters. Not a good thing. But usually someone who’s worked retail or been a waiter (and by that I mean waitress too) is a nice customer. Not necessarily a drop-a-bomb, shop-a-thon customer, but a pleasant customer. I know I am. An ex-waitress and an ex-shopgirl, I know how to say please and thank you. I know how to be friendly – but not too friendly. Hell, that’s almost as bad as rudeness (see: Gap). I pick up after myself in change rooms, I don’t leave things in piles on the floor. I even try to re-hang. And I don’t get why salespeople at some places are just so bloody rude.

Again, a friendly reminder: they’re working there. I’m shopping there.

I understand the odd bad day. And I understand having to deal with obnoxious customers, but come on people, let’s give the good ones a break. When someone walks into store that sells $10,000 bags, say hello and smile. You never know who’s buying what. I wish my friend would go back to that store and really do the Pretty Woman thing. But she’s a lady, so she won’t. I wish I could do it. Actually, I wish I could afford to do it. After being treated like crap by the hired help, even if I could afford it I’d hit Gucci. Apparently, they’re much nicer in there.

THE FINALE

Everybody’s talkin’ about the young Mr. Hicks. The Grey Goose. The Silver Fox. The harmonica-totin’ whiskey tenor who kicked some serious Idol butt last night! What more can I say? Soul patrol rocked the house down. Or is that a contradiction in terms? Whatever. He did. His new force-fed single aside, the guy’s the bomb. Some people I know thought he was mentally challenged. But for real. I say all part of his charm, people, all part of his charm.

I think American Idol is the new Miss America – it’s just all the talent competition. Or maybe it’s Oscar Night. But less boring. Think about it: in Hollywoood, at the Kodak Theatre. Broadcast to 200 million people world-wide. It has the glitz, the glamour, the cheesy host with the cheesier jokes. Last night’s show even had the statues – or were they statuettes? Swap the songs for speeches and waddaya get? The Academy Awards. Guest stars, skits ‘n sketches, even a red carpet - Oscars. Minus the death montage. I wish they’d do a where-are-they-now segment. That’s a death montage in itself. Kind of.

Since pretty much anybody who’s anybody watched the damn thing (and if you didn’t, shame on you!) let’s just recap some of the finer moments, shall we?

Who could forget the quick shot of David Hasselhoff in the audience? Crying. Yup. Real tears. Runnin’ down his face…

Who can understand why they bothered giving those who already had their 15 minutes (or 15 seconds) of fame another shot? That freakazoid dancing guy? He scared me. That weird Clay Aiken guy? He scared me too. Pick a better idol friend. That Mr “I-swear-I’m-straight” Aiken? He scared me the most.

And what’s with Meatloaf’s aversion to touching? Didja notice? The red hankie thing? I kept waiting for him to wave it or throw it or wipe his brow with it. Or something. But he used it to touch McPheever. He held her hand, whilst holding the hankie. Was he afraid of picking up some germ? From her? Other way around, dirty boy, other way around.

I loved Elliott, as always. And his mother. And his duet with Mary J. Sure he lost his newfound confidence real quick. But that’s part of his charm. God bless him.

And Paris. Held her own with Al Jarreau.

Toni Braxton. Toni, Toni, Toni. I think she and Paula got together and shared a little tipple or popped a little somethin' before the show.

I thought Chris and his twin from Live were kinda funny – funny, strange, not funny haha.

Does anybody remember the husky-voiced, dead-eyed girl? She was one of the first to go. What on earth was her name? I felt kinda badly for her.

Mandisa, Mandisa, Mandisa. Red and white. Not great colours for couches.

Burt Bacharach and Dione Warwick. What more can I say. There was something for EVERYONE.

And finally…PRINCE!! Now the show’s really got cred. And no intro or nothin’. My take is that they weren’t sure whether or not he’d show up. They probably had the finalists prepare a little fare-thee-well duet just in case. Thank god he showed. 'Cuz he was HOT.

As you can tell, I don’t have much to write about today. Idol. It was on. It was hokey. It was sappy. It was long. And I loved it. And my PVR worked so I could fast-forward the commercials. So I really loved it. The phonelines and computers were buzzing today, friends. Yes, everybody called it: Taylor all the way. It looks to me like the bandwagon is jam-packed. Too bad show’s over. For now.

So you think you can dance? It starts tonight….

STUFF IT

We are li-ving in a material world. And-I-AM-a-material girl.

But sometimes, you need to pare down. To ditch. To rid, perchance to clean. Yup, I’m talking ye olde cupboard clean out. Let’s face it, the more space we have to fill, the more, well, we fill it.

I grew up with a basement of crap: cases of pop and bad-for-you canned goods. Old clothes, older toys, and even older appliances – all in working order. We’d go through our closets and get rid of anything that didn’t fit. Scan the shelves for things we didn’t use. And then it would all disappear. Into the basement.

When I moved into my own place, I was a ditching devil. A real pro. I’d go through my old clothes. Anything that I no longer wore (or fit into) I’d give away. Usually to my friends. And then they’d wear my old stuff and I’d feel the pangs. The pangs of regret. The pangs of envy – they didn’t look like that on me!! And I’d promptly go out and buy something remarkably similar to the previously ditched item.

Sometimes, I’d go one further - do the old extend-o-lend: let my friends borrow the item and then wait and see if I really did want it back. This can also be applied to furniture, by the way. I’d test-drive the empty space. See what, if anything, I was missing. Invariably I’d forget about whatever it was. Or, on the very rare occasion, call it in and take it back. Extend-o-lend would end.

Moving also helps. With each move, I'd fill bag after bag of no longer needed stuff. What was one person's crap was another person's treasure. Or whatever. Either way, I thought I was paring down quite nicely. I was embracing the whole simple living thing. Or at least pretending to. Really I was just getting rid of the fat pants/skinny pants – insert whichever fits.

I think there are keepers and tossers. No, Brit friends, not that kind of tosser. Those who keep, holding on and holding out for a rainy day or some other emergency. And those who dump. Ditch. Toss. There are also the worst of the worst – the toss ‘n keep. Witness the childhood basement full of stuff. Well guess what? I know have my own basement.

I’ve tried to ditch, really I have. Just last week I went through my cupboards and made piles of clothes to give away. And there they sat, waiting. They’ve been picked through slightly, but they’re still there. I even went back and rescued some things. Black pant kind of things…What? They don’t make ‘em like they used to.

Being a woman means never staying the same size. Us or the clothes. And being a mother means old clothes, when-I-was-thin clothes, maternity clothes, post-pregnancy fat clothes, post-pregnancy almost-there clothes, new clothes, etc. The list is endless. And that’s just clothing!

Actually, that’s just my clothing. Don’t think I don’t relish going through my kids cupboards and ditch-ditch-ditching. I daren’t touch my husband’s stuff. He keeps EVERYTHING. He even kept the stand from a defunct fan. Just in case we needed it. But he’s getting better now. The basement is his domain. One room in particular. And it’s filling up fast: cases of pop and bad-for-you canned goods. Old clothes, older toys, and even older appliances – all in working order. Wait, does this sound familiar?

Anyway, I see a garage sale in our future. Everything must go. I’ve already started giving away books. Looking for a good read? Take one. Take three. I’ve got shelves lining my living room three books deep. And counting. Come one, come all. Yet there’s still the little part of me that misses ‘em when they’re gone. So now I’m back to lending only. Just in case….

BULLIED? OR BULLSH*T?

A while back I was in browsing (yes, out of my house) when someone approached me, ready to rumble. “Hi” she said accusingly. I looked at her. And drew a blank. I thought back, way back... Did I know this person? Should I know this person? Apparently, yes and yes. “We went to summer camp together” she said and after a strange, stunted, go-nowhere convo, she stormed off. I chalked it up to personal issues. And then racked my brain. What was her name? How did I know her? Which camp? Who the hell was she?

I went home and called my friends from the three different summer camps I’d gone to. No one remembered this girl. Oh well, I thought, another sign that the aging process is taking its toll. Hadn’t a clue. Appropriately enough, I soon forgot about the whole incident.

Until several months later when this girl resurfaced. This time, we were at a friend’s party. Spotting her, I immediately remembered her as the mystery girl – from the store. I still had no recollection of her from camp. Trying to be nice, and to pretend I knew who on earth she was, I went over to say hello. We started chatting, the usual stuff: what do you do, where do you live etc. Turns out she has a couple of kids, boys. Boys who, she claimed, “are much easier than girls. And much nicer.” Sheturned to leave but first, looking me square in the eye, she added, “girls are bitches." Whoa! I'm a girl. A mother of boys, but still a girl. A girly-girl with a lot of girlfriends. Sure, some girls are bitches. But some boys are too. What was up her ass? Watching her walk away, I marveled at her anger. In front of a practocal stranger. And at that moment I remembered her: as one of the 'losers' in my cabin at camp.

Sounds harsh, I know, but that’s exactly what she was. Especially in our year. Not that we were any different, r better, or worse, from other 15 year olds. But, see, that’s just it – we were 15!! Mean girls? We had ‘em. The kind who stole your boyfriends, got thrown out of camp, and then stole your clothes. Yep, they got the boot, packed what they liked and left. We had the athletes, the sunworshippers and the secret smokers. The only-friends-with-counsellors-gals. The gung-ho campers, the performers, the canoe trippers. The girls who went out with the trippers. And everyone in between.

And then there were the few who hated everything and everybody. They made no effort to “fit in” – a must in any teenage social situation. Nor did they try to just get along. They were the ones who sat around being miserable, complaining. They were dripping in attittude. Not tough ‘tude, or too-cool-for-school-tude. Just “poor me” ‘tude. Poor me, no one likes me. Poor me, I never get to sit at overflow. Poor me, my clothes aren’t as hip as everybody else’s. Poor me, I’m not pretty. Poor me, I’ll never get a boyfriend. Poor me – I’m the same as everybody else with the same insecurities yet have entitlement issues and am bitter!!!! Yeah, that girl was one of them.

Oddly enough, that girl bumped into one of my best friends the very next day, telling her about this girl she bumped into, a nasty bitch who pretended not to know her. When she mentioned my name, it was all my friend could do to keep her mouth shut. In fact, she couldn’t. “That’s one of my best friends” she stated, proud. (That’s why we’re such tight pals).

At first I was outraged. My name was being dragged through the mud! Especially since with the recollection of who this girl was came the recollection that she wasn’t even in my cabin. And that I left halfway through the summer. And that there was someone else who was rather nasty with the same first name as me. Oh yeah, I remember her now. But then my ire faded. How sad it all was. Bullied? Hardly. Just bitter. She was barely a blip on my childhood radar. And come to think of it, I know exactly why.

THERE IS A SILVER LINING

Quick: what’s 0.20% of 50 million? What's 0.10%?

Anybody? Anyone at all? Bueller?

Me, I haven’t a clue – math ain’t my forte. But this I know: it’s the difference between being in the finals of American Idol, and being kicked off. Just ask Elliott who, as of last night, is out of the running.

I almost missed last night’s one hour king-for-a-day extravaganza. The Network that airs the show chose The Amazing Race finale instead. Hello? Everyone knows AI is the Amazing Race. Luckily, I tracked it down before my PVR let me down (again). I even had friends calling in a panic, desperate for their Idol fix. Fox, people. It’s always on Fox.

And what an hour it was. The folks in AI’s editing suite had me thinking it really might be a boy-on-boy final. Taylor had a jam packed mall and the requisite parade. Elliott had people on skyscraper roofs and the requisite parade. Katherine had her high school gym. You call that McPheever? Puh-lease. But despite it all, the name behind score number three – Mr. Yamin

Cry me a river, you say? No problem. Elliott’s the never-a-dry-eye guy. His own and everybody else’s. He’s the one who made Paula break down in tears – more than once (it’s not just the drugs. Or whatever she’s “not on”). He's the one who overcame it all – illness, deafness, those teeth – to get to the final three. He's the modest counter-boy who adores his mother. And, of course, he’s the biggest weeper on primetime TV. Who wouldn’t cry for him E. Yamin-a? I would. Granted, I am one of AI’s more hormonal viewers, but Elliott? Even the pity vote couldn't save him from getting the ax...And now he's gone. But not forgotten…

Or is he? Let’s face it, unless you make the finals, you’re a bit of a no-hoper. We’re as likely to see Elliott climbing the music charts as, say, well, any of the other non-finalists of the past. Sure, some tread the boards for touring productions of B’way musicals but other than that, where are they now? Oh, I know – they’re in the audience at American Idol! That’s who goes to the taping—I mean—live shows. But now, Mr Yamin is yesterday’s news.

And then there were two.

My man predicted Kat would win from day one. The pipes, the looks blah blah blah. Me? I’m rooting for the Soul Patrol. The man who spent his day down home on an eating binge. While Kate was kissing babies and hugging high school football jocks, Taylor was chowing down on ribs. Who doesn’t love that? Sure, it’s a grey day now that Elliott’s gone.

A Grey Day indeed!

MOTHER'S DAY - BUT FOR REAL

Last night I went to one helluva raucous party. People got tanked. Glasses were broken. The decibel level rose waaaay higher than anyone would’ve thought. I even scored a phone number (this girl’s still got it).

Funny thing is, it was all chicks. Even crazier – it was all moms and daughters.

Who would’ve thought that 48 hours after Mother’s Day, 7 sets of moms and their girlies would get together for a big group hug of an evening – and have a blast? Not me, that’s for sure.

When I first heard of the plan, I feigned excitement. My mother was delirious- over the moon with excitement, as I’m sure all the moms were. But as one of the daughters, I thought it would be some kind of pseudo-civilized, non-wedding shower sort o’ thang, a real eye-roller. To top it off, I learned that my own mother, the queen of the mom/daughter love affair, the biggest promoter of parent-offspring bonding EVER, the Maharaja of mothers would not be there. She was devastated. I thought for sure we were doomed… for a night of dud-dom.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

The food? Spectacular. The drinks? Fully flowing - as were the convos. People were chatting – and not just to their friends, but their friends’ mothers. And their mother's friends. We suppposed grown up, sophisticated ladies soon turned into a noisy, rowdy crew. We came, we bonded, we conquered. We ate, we drank and we were all really, really, merry. We even have the photographic evidence to prove it.

I also learned a lot: that Neopolitan cake is not just for Bar Mitzvahs. That butts are the new boobs. That everybody colours their hair. That no one (other than yours truly) watches American Idol. That such a thing as a made-for-ice-cream spoon exists (they're called ice cream spoons, go figure. That we all lie to our kids – white lies - to protect them. Or keep them from shrieking or doing drugs or whatever undesirable behaviour we wish to curb. That the whole strenght from adversity thing isn't just a pile of shit. It's true! And mostly I learned that, like it or not, the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree. Whether we like it or not.

Amid the mother/daughter dates, I was the only one flying solo. And each one of the lovely ladies who came to the dinner had some story, some anecdote, something special to say about my mother. And I couldn’t have been prouder. Or missed her more. When I got home, all I wanted to do was call her, to rehash, discuss and laugh. Yup, I was one of those nearby apples. Closer to the tree than I'd ever imagined. But hey - aren't we all?!

MOTHER'S DAY

Another Mother’s Day has come and gone...

And not a minute too soon. Is it just me? Or is this Hallmark holiday kinda tense? What to make, what to buy, where to go… It’s a day-long food fest, gift swap and family fun fair.

My god, it’s the new Christmas!

Think about it: Easter passes and suddenly the retail motifs change from pale yellows and blues to pinks. The ads start, the florists stress and families start discussing – lunch or brunch? Dinner: in or out? Who brings what? Whose house holds everyone? Can we book tables for 20 people? Can we mix it up a little and do a one-stop shop of all the mothers? What if it rains? Blah blah blah.

Look, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for celebrating motherhood. I am a mother, and I have a mother. I also have a couple of grandmothers and a mother-in-law. Plus there’s a common-law-stepmother. That’s a motherload if there ever was one – a load far too great for just one day of celebration.

I say have Mother’s Week. Like Reading Week, or Spring Break, but for moms. That way, the mommies really can have it all: time with their kids, time with their parents, and time by themselves. Apparently that’s what most moms really want – time alone. I read it in the paper so it must be true. Yet my mother told me Mother’s Day is more important to her than her birthday. So I guess she’d rather not be alone. And my mother-in-law was thrilled to hang out with the family all together. Grandmothers and great-grandmothers probably spend enough time on their own to add Mother’s Day to the mix – that’s just depressing. But if you devote a whole week to us, imagine: Sunday brunch with your kids, Monday off, Tuesday dinner with the in-laws, Wednesday lunch with your own mother, Thursday out with your friends, Friday….well, you get the picture.

Personally, I’m not so fussed about Mother’s Day. But that could be because it falls in May – the very same month as my birthday and anniversary. Hurray for May! Sure Mother’s day has its perks – my mom actually gives me a gift – she says that it’s because of me that she’s a mother. Who could argue with that? And my husband made a huge fuss on behalf of himself and our kids. That’s not so bad either. Sure my diet went up in smoke the minute the BBQ was lit. And I totally fell off the wagon when the cupcakes came out. But they were pretty damn good. In fact, maybe Mother’s Day wasn’t so bad. See? It should be a week. At least!

This morning I was up changing diapers and making breakfast. Cleaning it up too. Stressing about (lack of) work. Organizing my kids; their plans and mine. Nope, it’s no holiday. If Mother’s Day is the new Christmas, then surely today is Boxing Day. A day off, spent eating leftovers and going shopping – and not just for groceries.

Sure. Maybe next year…

RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE

The sun is shining. The flowers are in bloom. Yes, spring has sprung and summer is on its way. In other words: it’s construction season. And in my neighbourhood, it’s everywhere. New homes, new decks, new gardens. Old houses, old sidewalks, old potholes. It’s not pretty. And the ugliest of all? The traffic that accompanies it. Yep, I’m talkin’ Road Rage.

I’m no commuter, so I’m not as afflicted as I probably would be - if I strayed from my ever-shrinking quadrant. Sure, I've been known to let the odd expletive slip out. But only sometimes. And I’ve found myself getting hot under the collar if someone stops at a yellow light (c’mon, you had time!) or slows for no reason (get a map!). And of course I can’t ignore the bizarre correlation between drivers of a certain height and bad drivers. It’s true! No offense to those who are shorter in stature, but next time you’re behind a particularly annoying car, note where the top of the driver's head hits. Maybe they're slouching. Or, not. Anyway…lately I’ve tried a new tack - ignoring. As my grandmother used to say, "it's faster than walking". So I've tried taking deep breaths and letting any potential road rage situations roll gently off my shoulders.

But it ain’t working. Au contraire. It's backfiring.

So far, I’ve been called a c**t (sorry, this is a family-friendly blog) because I failed to signal. A bitch (I can say that) for going through an intersection – when it was my turn. And today I pulled up a stop sign around the corner from my house and was practically accosted. Honestly!

Some guy signaled for me to roll down my window. Like a fool, I did. He proceeded to berate me for going 60 in a 40 zone. What the hell? Who was this guy? Was he an X Men mutant with a penchant for radar? I don’t think so. Instead of zooming away, I engaged him: How do you know how fast I was going? Yeah? But how do you know? The block is so minute, my non-performance car wouldn’t even make it to 60 klicks. Raising his voice, he told me there were 30 kids living on the block and I was a danger on the road. It was all I could do to not let my potty mouth get the better of me. Instead, I figured, I’d show him! And took off as fast as my little car could carry me. Bite my dust, scumbag!

I didn’t get too far. As I said, they’re short blocks. And then I panicked. What if he took my license plate? Tracked me down to make a citizen’s arrest? What if I am a dangerous driver? I know I can be a little flighty sometimes, especially if it’s pissing down with rain or a good tune comes on the radio. But can’t everybody?

Next weekend is a long one. Then first of the summer. And when summer comes to Canada, Canada hits the streets. In their cars. So buckle up people, it’s gonna be a hot one. It’s gonna f**king rage….

IDOL SHAVES CHRIS

I didn't make up the title. E news did. But I thought it was funny, so I nabbed it. Whatever. Did you see his face? Did you? Shock and awe, people. Shock and awe.

Unless you’re living in another galaxy, you’ll know I mean Chris. American Idol Chris. Who else?

Poor guy. I don’t know who was most surprised – the judges, Kitty, or the Bald One himself. Total devastation. Now that is good tv. With nary a dry eye, we said bye bye to Mr Daughtry, the rock ‘n roller who was waaaay too alterna rock for AI in the first place. And yet, we liked him, we really liked him. A lot. Rod, Queen, Andrea B., Mr Mottola – everyone, as they say, had it goin’ on for Chris. Baz Manilow maybe not so much, but our Chrissy was still favourite-to-the-stars, no doubt about it. Even the on-line gambling sites were backing the Bald Eagle. Now, however, the eagle has landed, on his ass, and all bets are off.

I’m secretly pleased. You see, as good as Chris is - I mean, was - he was getting kinda tired. The knee-stomping vibrato was starting to grate. I wanted something new and different from him. He needed to mix it up a little, maybe have some fun with facial hair and reshape the ‘burns. Or ditch the fob watch chain. Or even try some lifts (he's a bit of a pune I think). But it's all too little, too late, mate. And now we're stuck with McPuke.

Yep, another week to suffer from McPheever. Sure she’s talented. And easy on the eyes. And the camera clearly loves her. And, let’s face it, she’s bringing in the male viewers. But what does any of that mean when she wears a belly-baring, belted, combo on national television?! Maybe the stylists should be voted off the show. Between Kat’s linebacker looks and Paris’ stewardess chic, we’re not looking at any new trends here. But back to Katherine. Outfits aside, the woman’s become a train wreck. Last week she's kneeling on the floor, this week she's a one-woman dance-off, something’s gotta give. She’s actually getting worse with each performance. She better pick one helluva torch with which to light up the stage next week or else she’ll end up with the rest of the sisters: gone. Or…

…we’ll end up with an Elliott - Taylor finale! Grey-haired-guy and Bad-teeth-guy, duking it outfor the title. What could be better?

(insert annoying randyspeak barking here)

Bring on the underdogs!

OUTTA LOX

Once upon a time there was a dairy. A creamery that carried the best smoked fish in town. Need party sandwiches? They had ‘em. Low fat, no fat and full fat Havarti? Check. Dr. Brown’s cream soda in diet and regular? No problem. It's clientele was pretty specific but to know the store, was to love the store. And the store's name? Daiter’s.

Guess what? It’s gone.

Yup, Daiter’s has closed its door. Split, kaput, finished. On Friday my informant bought .5% Lana cottage cheese and their no-oil, no-dairy but oh-o-tasty vegetable roll. On Monday she went for smoked chubs and it was gone. Where there was once a vibrant cheese counter and freezer full of blintzes, there now lay an empty store. Nothing left. Nothing, that is, except a note asking the loyal customers to visit their other locations.

Loyal customers, my ass. How could they dump us like that? No clues, no hints, no sign that anything was wrong. Sure it was a little overpriced and the service was, well, somewhat surly, but puh-lease – it was Daiter’s! It was allowed to be old school. It was SUPPOSED to be old school. For those who don't know, we're talking about a veritable institution. The place your grandparents shopped at that probably still have some relics on their shelves - and no, rudeys, I'm not talking about the staff. Regardless, the Daiter-ites upped and ran with no warning whatsoever. Talk about being dumped.

I' always amazed when a seemingly brisk business disappears in a cloud of dust. Sometimes, they make an announcement, or, better still, have a sale, giving us a chance to go in and vulturize the place. Admit it, as much as we want the stores we like to succeed, there’s nothin’ like a good going out of business sale. It makes the bad closing-down news much more palatable.

There are a couple of spots near me that have recently closed their doors. One was hideous sundae shoppe that had unbelievable pina colada yoghurt shakes and spectacular ice cream. However, as I said, it was hideous. Who wants to go to a hideous resto? Actually, I once saw a table full of 14 year old girls eating Caesar salads there. It was an ice cream parlour. So maybe it’s no surprise that it’s gone. The other place was a BBQ joint that prided itself on having the best ribs in town. I went there once and found the service so friendly it borderlined on offensive. And the ribs? Way too wet. Pretty foul actually. So again, no surprise it’s closed up. But the third was a card store that had been there since forever. They had a massive blow out sale when they left. We have enough paper plates and cheesy greeting cards to last us until, well, until they open up in their new location. Or fill the empty store. It's a nice slice of prime real estate.

But Daiter’s???

I wonder if they upped and left in the middle of the night, carting away all the goods. But what does a person do with a truckload of cold fish? Or 40 pounds of cheese? The canned goods I get – they’re probably in somebody’s basement somewhere. Did they take everything to a different branch? If so, why wouldn’t they at least say goodbye? It makes no sense.

People of a certain age are bound to be devastated. Me? I’ll probably just hit the rip-off shop up the road for all my smoked fish needs. But alas, ‘tis the end of an era….Later Daiter’s…

BAT BOY

Aaaah, childhood. First steps, first words, first teeth…

When those first teeth appear it’s a relief for everyone – that’s why my angel baby has become the devil. That explains the runny nose/rash/fever and combo platter that medically has nothing to do with teething yet coincidentally always accompanies the cutting of new teeth. And that’s for sure the explanation for the drool fest. We often ask about other babies’ teeth to confirm that our toothless wonders aren’t the only freaks in town. Or, if we’re breastfeeding, to commiserate. Most babes follow the same pattern – a couple bottom teeth, followed by the top two and then, well, who really notices? It’s all about the initial front teeth. And then suddenly the gaps are filled, the bites are real and they’re poppin’ cheerios like nobody’s business.

But something different happened at our house.

Our child grew fangs.

That’s right, fangs. At 6 months, he got his first teeth – two on the bottom. A week later they were bracketed by two more. No top teeth in sight. But still – they were obviously en route. Then he went through hell. Fever. Drool. Rash. Drool. Pain. Drool. More pain. More drool. And then one morning, I spotted them. Full on fangs. Who ever heard of such a thing? Fangs first? I had a nine month old Dracula. A Draculito.

A couple of days passed, and I became obsessed with these little teeth (and lack of more). I’d look at my laughing Bat Boy and think it’s hilarious. I snap pictures, as proof, but the fangs never come out. Maybe he really is a vampire. He’s up at night. Sometimes. And he doesn’t like the sun… We have no crosses to hold up, but he does get a real charge out of his own reflection, so it’s more likely he’s a werewolf. Or maybe he’s just a bit of an oddity. I’m sure the other teeth are coming, but for now, it’s all about those fangs. I show them to everybody. I am constantly trying to make him smile – not because it’s fun for him, but because I want others to see these crazy canines. It’s like the anti-competition: your child walks and talks? Mine has fangs!

We went to see the doctor the other day, nothing dental-related. She noticed his teeth and laughed. It seems I’m not the only mother-of-fang in town. Two of her kids had fangs first too. Dammit. We're not as special as we thought. See? Try as you might, it’s hard not to compare and contrast your kids with everybody else’s.

They don’t last long, these days of early childhood. Or fangdom. I just spotted a top tooth making it’s way south. Harumph.

FRIENDS WITH MONEY

Yesterday I skipped off on life and went to see an afternooner: Friends with Money. Apparently, everyone’s talking about it. I only know a couple of friends who’ve even mentioned it – one loved it, one did not – but I’m a fan of writer/director Nicole Holofwhatever so I went to check it out. I also have tendencies to over-identify with her characters, so I couldn't really miss it.

Maybe I should have. Not missed it entirely, but maybe waited for dvd. You see, it was all rather... ish. Performances? Mostly good. Dialogue? Lovely and amazing (yep, that’s me throwing a bone to one of her other flicks. Cheesy, I know. But too bad. It’s my blog.) Each individual scene worked. But the movie as a whole? Not really. Not for me anyway. In fact, it kinda left me cold.

Open-ended structure and wispy storylines aside, there's the Aniston problem. Let’s face it, this isn’t just another indie chick flick, it’s Janiston’s new movie. The One where she looks like a tranny, has no self-esteem, the worst taste in men, – oh and is broke. Sounds like art imitating life, doesn’t it? Sure, she could do much worse than shack up with Vinnie Vaughan. Personally, I’d take VV over Pitt any day of the week. No comparison. But for the Gen Pop it’s all about Brad.) Here’s what I find most interesting: in the movie she leaves her well paid, highly respectable teaching job to clean houses. And in real life she leaves her highly respectable TV job to make bad movies. Geddit? Same same!

I’m not wholly convinced by our Rachel…I mean, Jennifer. It's not that she's that bad. She's just, not that good. Remember The Good Girl? I liked that movie despite her performance - everybody else was terrific. Yet she's the marquee name, the one who's meant to be carrying the film. And she's just not strong enough In that one and this she relied on a bad dye job, vacant staring, and being thin-lipped. NOT ENOUGH.

Personally, I’m a huge Kitty Keener fan – and I think La Aniston is too. They’re pal-o-rinis of the highest order. It seems to me she (Jenny) has even borrowed a page or two (or three) from Kate’s book of acting. Here’s a tip: it works on Ms Keener, not so much on Ms. Aniston. Overall, however, the (other) performances were pretty damn good. And I loved all scenes with or about the gay-straight guy. Or straight-gay guy. Or whoever the hell he was. Whatever. He was the best girlfriend any of them could’ve wished for. For therein lies my real problem with this movie: I didn’t believe these chicitas were friends in the first place.

Friends don’t let friends go without washing their hair. They just don’t. And friends don’t let friends obsess over a fling - without them, that is. Friends whose friends have smashed their noses into glass plate windows might be a little more concerned about those friends. And above all, friends tell their friends that Lancome Resolution D anti-wrinkle skin care, practically a character in the movie, sucks. Honestly, friends, it’s a really mediocre cream. Talk about product placement!

One of my friends thinks this movie is about money making you happy. I pointed out that all these characters seemed pretty miserable. But she disagreed. See? Friends tell friends when they’re wrong. 'Cuz guess what? She was right: the only happy people weren’t the ones “with money”. They were the ones with more money than they knew what to do with. The one who we saw the least of. The ridiculously loaded ones. Who wouldn't share. And with friends like those…

WE'LL ALWAYS HAVE PARIS. OR WHOEVER.

And then there were four.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Wake me when it’s over.

Is it just me, or is American Idol’s result show getting more boring? Last week, as y’all know, I missed it due to technical difficulties. Turns out I was even luckier than I thought, ‘cuz last night was a yawn-fest. A bore. A drag. It was American Midol – a real pain, may cause drowsiness.

I’ll admit it: I find the faux-mercial amusing. I do. But the group-hug gospel song? Ernie Earnesto, you’ve gone too far! I’d much prefer aging rockers and middle aged balladeers any day of the week. OK, not any day, but for sure on Wednesdays.

My theory goes something like this: when the duds get dumped, the show gets dull. Think about it. We tune in to make sure the good ones don’t get away. Without at least one lame-o to root against, the show's a snooze. Remember the "3 divas" from two seasons ago? Each one more spectacular than the next? Two get booted and the country’s in an uproar. The third and most talented is left with a redheaded crooner from hell, a sap with a flower in her hair and a couple of forgettables. “Racists!” charged Sir Elton. “Loser American voters” said I. We sat at the edge of our seats as the competition got too close for comfort. Vindication and relief came when Fantasia won.

Last year, it was the opposite - one talent amid a sea of mediocrity. But it still made for good TV. That is until Constantine got ousted and, horror of horrors, we were stuck with a little bit country and a little bit rock ‘n roll. And Fat Felon Scott. Suddenly the show, well, sucked. Without Connie making love to the camera, there was no one left to root for. Sure, we still had Simon Says, but mostly we tuned in because we’d already committed. More might-see than must-see TV.

This year is a little different in that the remaining contestants are all good. And that’s what’s making the show, well, less good. There’s no one left to really hate – so no outrage when a lesser talent wins out. The anti-idol website votefortheworst.com is now backing Taylor. Yeah, I checked. I actually like the Silver Fox. Sure, he’s a bit of a dad, maybe George Clooney’s dad, but his Ray Charles-isms and chunky dancing crack me up. If he beats out a more talented Chris, who cares?

Ditto Elliott the underdog. He’s always had my vote, though I’m kinda surprised he’s still kicking around. Call it the pity vote. Despite that Stevie Wondery voice of his, he’s far more radio than TV. Growing his hair has helped, but he’s got a ways to go. I even discussed it with my oral hygienist and she agreed: the guy’s a dental surgeon’s wet dream. Now that he’s famous now, the dream’ll come true. (American Dental anyone?)

I’m betting on Rockin’ Chris and Pipes McPheever for the final two. Sure, her Sally Field “you really like me” smile is getting tired, and he’s as serious as a heart attack, but they’re young, hot and talented. No outrage, scandals, or secret criminal pasts. Just clean family fun.

And the talk round the water cooler? It won’t be about American Idol. All we'll be left with is one burning question: when is Nip/Tuck coming back? Now that’s entertainment worth talking about!

THE ART OF RE-GIFTING

I just opened my gift cupboard, and it’s almost bare. That’s right, my gift cupboard. Actually, it's more like my re-gift cupboard. What? I’m no Candy Spelling, it’s not a room, just a small cupboard, full of unwanted gifts that may be better off with someone else. In their house. Don’t raise your eyebrows, everybody re-gifts. And if you don’t, you should start.

I pride myself on being a great re-gifter. Not every bad gift makes a good re-gift. You need to put some thought into it. The unwanted religious paraphernalia? Not great candidates for re-gifting. Anyone who knows me, knows I would never buy the stuff. That special framed prayer or ceremonial plate would scream re-gift. But a lovely frame or photo album? BINGO! And therein lies the art – the item in question may not be to your taste, but it can't be so hideous that you'd never be caught dead buying it.

I myself have been the victim of re-gifting gone wrong. We’ve received stuff for our kids that has so obviously been passed along that I am tempted to call the giver and out them. We’re talking mismatched outfits from different stores on the same hangers, toys that are clearly gender-specific (and not specific for the gender we have), or shoes that are several sizes too small. A weird part of me wants to pawn these suckers off on someone else – like a broken telephone of presents – just to see if I’ll get busted!

One time, I received a used candle. USED!!! Another time, I unwrapped a lovely leather notebook. Turns out it was a freebie, a gift-with-purchase. I have to admit, the only reason I found out about that one was when I tried to return it and the saleswoman looked at me as though I had stolen the thing. So not only was the gift completely lame, but I was humiliated! After slinking out of the store, I had to confront the giver – how can someone pass off a promo item as a present? The giver didn’t even bat an eye, explaining they had to spend over $400 to get it. Umm, does that make it OK to pass it off as a gift? I don’t think so.

Unfortunately, it looks as though my re-gifting days are coming to an end. First off, it’s hard to re-gift someone you genuinely like, let alone love. I’ve been on the receiving end of lame, obvious re-gifts from a loved one and let me tell you – it hurts. And secondly, I’m running out of acceptable re-gifts. Either people are getting smarter with what they’re choosing, or maybe we’re just not getting as many gifts. The ones that never make it out of my cupboard are stuck in present purgatory for a reason – they suck. How can I give away an itchy, ugly, baby blanket? Or jewellery that's far more garage sale than estate sale? No one deserves a stinky perfume set (with matching faux crystal tray) or painted rock people. No one.

A last resort is the charity box. But be careful – not only might you get busted by the giver, but someone may spot some of the duds and think they’re actually yours! Fact is, everyone thinks they have great taste. They don’t. And that’s why, sometimes, it really is better to give than to receive.

FOR ALL YOUR INSURANCE NEEDS

Did you know that Canadians are the most insured people on the planet? It’s true! From government required UI and car insurance, to home, health and life insurance. You name it, we insure it. The insurance companies prey on our nerves. We wonder if it’s worth paying a couple hundred dollars extra each month…just in case.

Going away? Get travel insurance. We’ve all heard the one about the guy who went to Buffalo and got in a car accident…Tens of thousands of (US) dollars later, his family faced bankruptcy... Faced with that fear, we always make sure to buy travel/health insurance. In Mexico, we took our son to the doctor with sun poisoning. A few ‘scripts and visits later, we were out of pocket. Did the insurance cover it? Um, no. Our deductible was too high.

Have a pet? Don’t forget pet insurance. I know someone who had a dud of a dog – divine little fella, but a dud in the health department. Two hip replacements, several tumors and many dental issues made this guy the poster pup for PetPlan. Our Labrador’s been known to eat anything from socks to picture frames (including the glass) (don’t’ ask). We’re quite smug about having pet insurance. Make that, we were. Every time I send in a claim, there’s a catch. Routine shots aren’t covered. I owe $0.41 on the deductible before I can start being reimbursed etc. In some warped way, I ‘m kinda wishing the dog’s thyroid condition would worsen, just so the insurance company will have to pay.

If you live in a country with public healthcare, like we supposedly do, you might be safe in the knowledge that your health is covered. Um, not quite. But I can’t really complain, because I’m one of the lucky ones. I’m on my husband’s health insurance policy. Suddenly, the dentist doesn’t seem as scary. Let’s face it, it’s not the cleaning that hurts, it’s the bills. Optional immunizations? Covered. Chiropractic visits and therapeutic massage? Covered. I love my health insurance! Until I need to go the eye doctor. Which I do, annually. Then I’m S.O.L.

I don’t know why lawyers get such bad raps, when it’s the insurance companies who are the real leeches. They blame insurance fraudsters. Who? How? Maybe these scammers can give us all pointers so we could at least break even. I knew this one guy who had real entitlement issues. He believed it was his god-given right to defraud the insurance companies. So he “lost” his camera, filed the requisite police report, and sat back smugly and waited. When his cheque finally came, it was made out to the store where he bought the cameras. Since he already had a camera, he cashed in his “claim” and bought an engagement ring for his then-girlfriend. He proposed, Lloyd’s of London paid, she said no.

But at least he broke even. And he had a spare diamond ring. Just in case.