NO FLIES ON US

Irish eyes are not smiling. Carly's gone and I didn't even acknowledge. I know, I know...I'm terrible, Muriel. Believe me, I was as shocked as the next guy. But my shock wasn't Idol's white trash teenage fan base. Hell no. The minute she belted out those two magic words, "Jesus" and "Christ", she was a goner.

But whatever. This is not an I-can't-believe-it Idol post. I couldn't take in Carly's untimely departure because I was still reeling from the news that my house was infested with sewer flies and I'd need to rip up my basement floors.

S-E-W-E-R flies. Uh-huh. Exactly what you think they are. Flies. That breed in sewers. IN MY HOUSE.

Did I mention we've lived here all of 8 months?

Way back in the halcyon days of new housedom, there were these flies that would flit around and then pop-off after 24 hours of hurling themselves against our screens. We figured they were fruit flies. Except they had no interest in fruit. Hmmmm.....Strange. A quick call to an exterminator and we decided to heed their advice and wait until after the winter to investigate further. Maybe they'd just die off and never return.

Or maybe not.

After an insanely long and drawn out winter from hell, we welcomed April's (global warming) warmth....And The Return of The Flies. Pest control was called. And 45 seconds and $65 dollars later told me we had sewer flies. Also called drain moths, I learned that these non-biting, bacteria carriers are flies that breed in standing sewage. And then I learned that said sewage was, in all likelihood, standing under my dreamhouse.

Next stop: plumber.

I have to say, of all the housing trades, I do like a plumber. Contractors are cocky and I hate being at their mercy. Electricians are a bit odd. Some of them even more than a bit. And gardners, well, it's all such a cliche. Between the gardner, the poolboy, and any other scantilly clad maintenance man, you'd think every one of your neighbours is the next Lady Chatterly. But not plumbers.

So far, I haven't met a plumber I haven't liked. They all seem to be nice, funny, smart. And plumber butt? A total myth. Only plumber butts I see come with low-cut designer jeans attached to 'em. Anyhoo, I've recently learned that plumbers are also the highest paid of the trades. I guess they deserve to be, dealing with other peoples' shit for a living. And with these prices, they'd better be charming.

Anyhoo, Mike the plumber shows up to save my house. And hopefully, my sanity. SEWER FLIES. Hello? What could be grosser?

First came the residential colonscopy. Exatcly what it sounds like: the camera snake. Drain cam - down the drains and through the house. If your lucky. If you're me, it's drain cam down the drains, through the house, under oceans of sludge, and, finally, The Wall. No, not stones or bricks or mortar. A wall of "material". "Debris". Somethin' sticky. And vile.

Next stop: The Drainworks A Team.

They emerged from their trucks like Smith from the Matrix - only instead of black-suited, slick and trim, they were blue-t-shirted, bald and enormous. And they proceeded to rip up my floors, digging trenches in hopes of finding The Blockage. And then they struck gold. Black gold. A geyser. And not in a good way.

I wasn't home when it happened. Thank god. My delicate constitution would've failed me for sure. It had these burly he-men running for cover. And frsh air. 'Cuz 7000 uninsured dollars and thousands of flies later, when they finally found the culprit, my house was a no go zone. You could smell it down the street. My castle had become the pit of hell, with more than a hint of Dead Sea stink. Only difference being there were no anti-aging benefits to the sulphuric soil they removed by the bagfull.

Before you rush into the shower, let me reassure you (and myself): There is a silver lining. Ish. We get new basement floors. And apparently that part of this unwanted reno is covered by insurance. And I found an awesome plumber - Mike and Drainworks if anyone's interested. And next week is Neil Diamond week on Idol, so all is not lost...

You'll forgive me if I didn't give Carly her due. I was up to my eyes in flies.

Ell-eeee-ooooo-t

OK, I'll admit it: Idol, I am still into you.

Last night I was still on the edge. Mariah Carey? Could it get any worse? Uh, yeah, the Idols actually having to sing Mariah Carey songs. And us having to watch. As one sage put it: "this is the side of pop I cannot stand". Brutal. Hideous. And yet, like some sort of train wreck....I had to watch. Did I cringe? Yes. Did it make me a little uncomfortable? Uh - a lot. Loved the luau that was JayJay Castro. And David Cook rocked my world, as he always does (despite what some folks call his Hootie Voice).

Overall, however, it was a snore. I don't get Mimi. I really don't. All's I knew was the hotness had left the building. And it showed.

And then, tonight: redemption. Not just because, at long last, Kristy Lee was (ahem) cooked. Thank heavens for small mercies, as her fan base might say. And not just because the bottom three were the right bottom three. And definitely not because Carly said what we all think - Simon really is hardest on her. She's bringing the A and he wants the A+. I feel badly for her.

But whatev. Tonight, it was all about Elliot Yamin.

LOVE. HIM.

Always have, always will. New teeth, new look, new song. That voice! Awesome. And god bless him and his long silk scarf. I'll bet there were piano keys on the other side. Tonight, he wore his velvet blazer with panache, pulling off what it would take a much taller man to do. And then, the piece de resistance - the palm sign. This is obviously the latest and greatest of shout-outs. "We miss you mom"!?!?!?! Who's we? And when did his mother die? Mere days ago? And here he is, performing and acknowledging and looking to the ceiling....I mean, heavenward... Now THAT's good tv.

Sure, I wondered what a nice Jewish boy like Yaminsky was doing performing so soon. Doesn't he sit shiva? Was it really just days ago? Maybe he's a three-day mourner... I was a little surprised. And yet....he made me cry. As always. And I waited for him to well up too - as always - but it didn't happen. Maybe his tears mirrored his beloved mama, kvelling from the front row. Maybe, now that she's history, he's getting tougher. He's money, baby. No more tears.

Nah...No chance....No matter how much dental work, how shaggy his hair gets, and how cool for school he becomes, he's still the Elliot the Underdog. And he gets my vote everytime.

Not that it counts....

THE BREAK UP

Did you see the shock on his face? How he practically had to blink back tears? How he brushed off Carly's are-you-ok concern? Didja? Didja? Huh? Huh?

It was a bloodbath. A travesty. A real shocker. The booting of Michael Johns. Hot Idol, R.I.P.

Dev-ah-station.

And didja see when Ryan mentioned how they let the loser live last year - in the spirit of charity and Idol giving back and all? And he had that hopeful look for a second? And then...And then he whipped the rug out from under him? N-a-s-t-y.

Now that's good tv.

But really...was it?

Coulda been. Shoulda been. But wasn't. Not for me. 'Cuz I suddenly find myself not giving a rat's ass. Even about the contestants I thought I liked. Am I emotionally invested in any of these cats? Not a one; nay nay nay.

At this point I'm sick of Earnest Archuleta and his lip-licking ways. And Brooke with her knowing nods and sad smiles. I've grown to like Carly, furrowed brow and all. And of course the Crossword Combover is my new fave. But at the end of the day, do I care? Syesha the weak, Kristy Lee Snore, Stoner Boy Dread....

As a wise young virgin once said: "that's it?"

Seems to be. The publicity machine is spinning its wheels (see: return of idols of yesteryear). They've raised a fortune for charity (good for them). And for themselves (that's showbiz). All the power to all the people. But between the butchering of the Beatles and this evening's hideous Ode to Jesus, it's all become a little insufferable. I even found myself stalling for time before turning on and tuning in.

Where are the Elton John days? Stevie Wonder weeks? I thought Barry Manilow would be an annual thing. Wha happened? Sing, sing, sing: doesn't anybody promote themselves anymore?

Is it just me? Has anybody else lost that lovin' feeling for this no-longer-must-see tv? I really believed I was in it for the long haul. But I'm not so sure. Don't get me wrong - I'll still PVR. I'll still watch. I'll still have the post mortem chats - for all of 2 minutes. It'll be fun while it lasts.

I never thought I'd say this, but....American Idol, I'm just not that into you.

Chickease on down the road

It ain't easy being Chickezie...

And he tried, he really tried, but, at the end of the day, you just can't be something you're not. First it was the bulging eyes - remember in the auditions? It was funny - not haha, but strange. But he worked on it. He battled his bulge too. And when he went all southern and fun he had us on our figurative feet. But he couldn't resist the lure of Luther. The crooner. The balladeer. The snore and a half....

And off he went. A shock? Maybe. But Country Bumpkin Cook is working the ditz. And working it well. The minute she opened her mouth to sing that patriotic crap, you knew she was a shoo-in. For at least another week. It was one of those moments where you wished Idol was truly international. God Bless the USA??? Gag gag gag me. Not that I have anything against the USA - I actually don't. Not a lot, anyway. Except for those flag-waving, 4th of July-ish ditties. I can't deal with 'em from any place. I wanted Simon to rip her a new one - or sing Rule Britannia at the very least - but even he liked it.

FIX!!!

But my boys did well. Not Stoner Dreads - is it me, or was he really high last night? Did you see him dancing during the opening number? Worth a rewind - hilarious. But I think the goofiness is starting to grate. Just a bit. My faves are the opnes that are almost interchangeable. And yet....not. The Hot One and The Comb Over. Love 'em both. In fact, I don't even care who goes, as long as it's not one of those grown-ups. I've grown to love the Word Nerd. I hated him at first, but look at him now? Backlash has begun, but not at my house! And yeah, I know the Aussie's looks are better than his voice...So what?! Unfortunately, I think Earnest Archeletto's got the gig sewn up. I shudder to think of the song choices in his (and our) future, but it ain't over 'til it's over.

And the ladies? Erm, whatever.

So, so long Chickezie. And get yer ear plugs ready - Dolly Parton's coming to town...

DO YOU BELIEVE IN MAGIC - PART II

Well do you? Not gadget wizardry - everybody believes in that (for a couple days anyway). I'm talking magic magic. Magicians and bunnies and ladies sawn in half.

Any takers?

Most folks know that magic tricks can somehow be explained. And while a magician will never reveal his secrets, a bit of cash sometimes helps. Y'know the old vanishing-hanky trick? I do. And such knowledge made me, at one time, the most popular travelling white chick in Southeast Asia! The fact that my companion had the greatest dimples that side of the so-called Bamboo Curtain didn't hurt either. I must say, we were quite the hit. Madonna? Move over...

But I digress....

I went to a company Christmas...I mean, holiday party... a few weeks ago. Yes, a few weeks ago. The hosts are not always known for their punctuality. But better late than never, right? Anyhoo, at this soiree, aside from the regular canapes, drinks, and awkward small talk, was a strange-looking guy dressed all in black. I seem to remember a red tie, ut I might be making that part up. He did have platinum blond hair. And seemed to know fewer people than I did. Now there's a feat!

As it turned out, he was The Entertainment. Also known as.....Chris...he soon corrected our host. Also known as: The Great Mysterion!!!! I don't know if he uses the "great" part but trust me, he was. Un-f&cking-believable. He approached our table and asked my man - a true non-believer to be sure - to write down his favourite rock star on a piece of paper. Mysterion thought for a moment, scribbled something, and then da-na-na'd his way through a bit of Led Zeppelin before opening his paper and announcing the name Jimmy Page. My man opened his piece of paper and --Do I need to spell it out for you? J-i-m-m-y. P-a-g-e.

Not convinced? Neither was I. Actually, I totally was. I love this stuff. But I wanted him to work his magic on me. So he did. Told me I was a reader (I was!! I am!!) and asked me to write down a word associated with the book I was reading. I smiled evilly - little did he know that the book I was reading hadn't even been published in Canada! In paperback anyway. I picked it up in London. No one had ever heard of it here. Hee hee. Mysterion? HA! Get ready to be stumped!!!

I wrote down the word "office" (the book was set in an ad agency) Mysterion paced. He closed his eyes. He wrote something down in his little notebook, tore out the page and folded it up. He asked me the name of the book. When I told him "And Then we Came to the End", he shook his head. never heard of it. And he opened his little piece of paper and I opened mine. And guess what? They both said "office".

Aaaaaaahhhhhh!!!!

He went on to dazzle the crowd. People's birthdays? That's for beginners. This guy was identifying types of cards in wallets. While blindfolded. Laminated obscure id's and family photos - names and dates included. He was getting people to pluck single words out of 300-page novels. And getting them right, every time. Even the naysayers had to admit it was pretty neat.

And yet still there were skeptics! Honestly, what did this guy have to do to prove himself? Some things simply cannot be explained, right? These weren't mere card tricks or slights of hand - tho' he could (and did) do those too. Card after card after card. They weren't simply illusions... Tho' he did, to the chagrin of the waiters, twist a helluva lot of forks that night. No, this was creepy, unexplained stuff. Phenomenons....na....whatever.

He had an audience volunteer place a spike under a styrofoam cup. Then he blindfolded himself and proceeded to smash the cups down one after the next. With each collapsing cup you'd hear the collective intake of breath - even the naysayers liked this one, cuz physical harm was involved. Twisted? Maybe. But he got it right, leaving the last, spiked, one standing. And me with palms sweating. He of course was cooooool as The Fonz.

And on it went. The biggest naysayers? Always someone's date trying to prove themselves...Go figure....They soon lost interest in him, turning to drink. A wise choice, 'cuz they were getting boring. But he sure as hell wasn't. And when his stint was done, and he'd said his good-byes, we all knew the party was over.

And there you have it. How'd he do that? Why doesn't he play the tables in Vegas? Or at least Rama? Does he read fortunes? Do police work? No one knows...

It's all a mystery... It's ma-a-a-a-a-a-gic.

And a lot more entertaining than being a spousal side dish at a company party....

OH...NURSE!

I can't hold out any longer. My need to discuss Idol far outweighs the temptation to wait until the top 10 start dropping like flies. In fact, we're down to the Top 10 now, so technically, the con is back on and it's Idol time!!!! Let's discuss... Come on people - you know there've been requests... The persy emails have been flying. The phone calls, endless.

OK, not exactly what you'd call having a life, but Idol fans are Idol fans. And Idol haters are Idol fans too - they just don't know it yet. Or else won't admit it - especially if they know who the contestants are. It takes more than a passing glance at People to know who's who...

So The Nurse is gone. And, in all likelihood, forgotten. Maybe she'll live the dream and sell out that bar in Lafayette. Doubtful, but maybe. My bet is she's back on her Hog, hopefully ditching the Morticia Adams' extensions and waiting for Rockstar's return.

Meanwhile, we were treated to the new 'n improved Kelly Pickler. God bless her. She knew how to work her 15 episodes of fame. New hair, new face, new boobs. New life. Being stupid was brilliant. Best. Career. Move. Ever. More than having a parent in prison (Pickler's Pops). Better than a newborn baby (last year's Baldy. With the hat.) Even a dying/dead father couldn't sompete (Asiah...Who? Exactly!) Now the Pickled One's giving it her all, channeling La Parton and going on tour. And she didn't even need to change her name!!!! Somehow I can't see the Nurse having the same luck. Or making it for herself.

Which is a shame, 'cuz I kinda liked her. I did!! I was pumped to see the back of Kristy Non-descripty. No, pervs, not in that way. I hate a country gal. Sorry, but it's true. And yet, she survives another week.

I must say, I'm not all that surprised. You know my theory: we need someone to hate to make Idol all the more watchable. Let's face it, Beatles Week 2 didn't slay us in the aisles, did it? But when you've got a lame duck around threatening the good 'uns... Hell - that's good tv!! That's why VoteForTheWorst.com is necessary - keeps the voters on their toes and f&cks with all of us. Who doesn't love a bit of outrage - remember Jennifer Hudson? Voted off before her time and look at her now. Or Daughtry, nee Chris Daughtry: early to leave, early to score. I can see that happening with Rocker Dave. Or Irish Carly.

(Aside: Is my mind playng tricks on me, or she morphing into Boy George?Fat Felon version?)

But back to the blonde. The tomboy/horsey one, Kristy Mc-Whatsit. If she sticks around, we'll be stuck with more country-lite versions of songs we'll never love again. Par for the course, of course. And, sure, there'll be the morning-after-the-night-before watercooler convo. And on-line outrage.

But I shall leave you with one last thought. One last thing to make you giggle and hope she does stick around, sticking it to her talented brothers and sisters.

She's gonna "blow Simon out of his socks".

Need I say more?

BOOTS MADE FOR (WINTER) WALKING

April showers bring May flowers.

So what do March snowstorms bring?

Not a lotta good, that's what. Icy roads. Snowdrifts taller than most children (and seated seniors). Unpassable sidewalks. An extension of the winter blahs. A renewed interest in weather patterns, records and our role in all of it.

And an excuse to go out and buy new boots. La Canadienne boots.

You haven't heard of 'em yet? Or you have, but didn't bite? Whichever, whatever, whoever you are - go go go. Now is the time to bite the bullet, spend the big bucks and spend the rest of this never ending winter in style: toes toasty, feet dry and - believe it or not -in style.

Let's face it, winter is an ugly time. Sure the snow looks pretty falling down, and when it's all white and clean it's quite peaceful. But really, how long does that last? Virgin snow lawns soon give way to grey slush, black ice and worse. The whole season can take its toll on a girl. Especially a footwear girl and, really - are there any other kinds?

I tried Uggs. Of course they're comfy - they'd better be if they're that ugly. The suede ones don't keep your feet dry and the leather ones I had were so halucious they lasted but a season. Yeah, I was that person who went for the leather. Probably the only one. There's a reason you don't see more of 'em. H-I-D-E-O-U-S. I tried putting substance before style. It wasn't easy, And it didn't last.

So I ruined a pair of hot boots. Froze my tootsies off and wrecked 'em. And for what? So I tried again. This time, went for Sorels. Hard-core Canadian boots. For hard-core Canadian winters. And yeah, I stayed warm (ish) and dry. But again, not the most attractive. Or feminine. Even the long ones that we pretend are kinda like go-go boots aren't. Not even close.

And then, it happened. A friend of mine discovered winter lady-boots. Lady boots...winter... Contradiction in terms, right? Wrong! La Canadienne boots are warm, cozy, and, dare I say it - kinda hot. In all the right ways. I admit I was skeptical at first, especially with the upwards of $200 price tag. But after another winter of alternating between salt-stained whore or hefty hefty slush slag, a couple hun seemed a small price to pay to be a cozy snow bunny.

My high-to-the-sky lady boots rock. And they work. I'm not sure how - some kind of secret recipe of ultrasuede, rubber and god-knows-what. Who cares? They look fantastic! And trust me kids, they really, really work the winter. And despite their all-kinds-of-hotness, they're pretty basic. So even if everyone's wearing the same boots - you can't really tell. Which beats the hell out of showing up for dinner in your foxy furries - along with half the other girls.

Now that that we're entering our fifth month of winter, maybe it's time for a quick shoe shuffle. Snowbanks to climb? Easy. Salt stains and splash back? Laugh it off - they fit over calves of all shapes and sizes. Heels? They've got 'em. And need I mention they're Canadian?

Are you still here? They're on sale all over town. If you can still find what's left of them. It's mid-March after all. What are you waiting for?

SCOOP ON POOP

You think it's all about Idol, right? Wrong! See, just when you think you know someone, I can still whip out a surprise or two.

I'm talking sh&t. Poo. Bowel Movements.

EEEEEWWWWW

That said, those boys were pretty crapola last night - Chickezie and the youngster aside - but this is about real poopoos: my 2.5 year old son is toilet training himself.

What??

It started about a month ago. Sounds like no (ahem) biggie but it was. Our eldest refused to go near a toilet until he was well past 3. And even then, it was a negotiation, a struggle, a bloody nightmare. You'd think sitting in your own sh&t would be somewhat, erm, uncomfortable. Apprently not. Puh-lease: don't try it at home....

But I digress. This isn't about the first-born. (Strange, but true) Back in January my baby told me he wanted to "make a poo". I told him to crawl under the table like he usually does, but he was adamant. He wanted la toilette. Who was I to argue? I plopped him down, he plopped one out and we were off to the races.

Except we weren't.

Seems my boy has picked up the habits of....boys. The sitting around, lounging on the can, taking your sweet-ass time kind of habits. All he needs a paper and he's ready for the men's room. Have you noticed that? Boys have no issue picking up the sports section and heading to the john. They'll even wave, stop to chat and tell you where they're going. In public!!! Girls would never. N.E.V.E.R. They'll wait for the comfort of their own homes. And if they must, they'll find a hotel. Or, better still, a WC with floor to ceiling doors. In the workplace, repeat flushings, water running, even faux coughs - the ladies stay lady-like in the loo.

Not my boy. Not any boys I know. Announcements made, they saunter off, close the door (or not) and let 'er rip. My son's new thing is to take at least half an hour. I worry he'll get hemorrhoids from sitting so long (unless that's a myth.) But he will not be moved. And of course the urge to purge comes at the most inopportune moments. Bedtimes, mealtimes, ready-to-walk-out-the-door-times. So far, so good - we've been at home. He's not manly enough to dump in public. Yet. (Thank god. Half an hour in a public bathroom? Pas pour moi.)

I know I should count my blessings - he wants to ditch the diaper and join the big leagues. But when you're held back by BM's? That's just no fun.

Unless of course it's your own.

Eeeeeewwwwwwww

HEY HEY PAULA

OK, I know many of you are sick 'n tired of my Idol rants. But I can't help it. I just can't. At least not today. I didn't pick over the girl on ladies night, did I? Mostly because they kinda sucked. Alexandrea, Asia'h, and Syesha aside. Oh, and the rock'n roll nurse who, while channeling Dilana-I-don't-wanna obviously wishes she'd gone whole hog for Rockstar SuperINXS when she had the chance. Did you see how uncomfortable she was in the group sing-a-long? Did you blame her?

But I digress....

I want to apologize for those of you sick of this "shizz" (yes that's a direct quote) and let you know that I will try to hold off further comments 'til the Top 10. T-R-Y. Trouble is, I get so caught up in Idol Fever and my usual sounding board is away... What's a girl to do but turn to her blog? But this is the last one. For the time being. I hope.

Okay? Can I get on with it now?

So, didya see her? Were you blown away by her? Who, you ask, who?!? Why, the trainwreck that is Paula Abdul of course! No, I'm not talking about her seal claps or lame advice or overall Paula-ness. Not this time. It's that vid! Her triumphant return to pop! Hideous? Hilarious! I couldn't get over it. What was she thinking?

Oh, I know - she was thinking about the audience. The millions, held captive and forced into watching a Paula Abdul video. A new one. Bring back the cat. Bring back Arsenio. Bring back the Lakers. But this? Who styled that sucker?? And the wind! What was with the wind? Afterwards Ryan brought out a massive fan! Not a human who loves her-fan, but a thingy with blades going round 'n round-fan! She laughed like she was in on the joke, but I don't think she was. And to see Randy playing alongside her...And then Simon and Shortstuff showing up at the end. Crude, rude, I'm not in the mood.

But I did think it was funny.....

Otherwise, show was lame. Garrett Lief Garrett is gone. Who? Exactly. And Chuck 'n Buck guy too. Should've been Luke Perry Luke (Who? Exactly). And the wonky-eyed non-beauty is gone. She looked hotter on her family's t-shirts, no? What happened? Keep an eye out for her in Playboy. You heard it here first. I was a bit sad to see Joanne the large-and-in-charge beauty queen go. Thought for sure one of the carrie Underwoodettes would've left the building...But no such luck.

Anyhoo, the con is on....People with labels, accents, all kinds....Tho' no convictions yet. And nothing too too trashy. Aside from Paula, that is.

That's it. 'Til the top 10. MOAM out.

ANDROGYNY IDOL

The writers are back. The Oscars are a-go-go. And American Idol has gone....Androg?! What?

I know it's been on for a couple of weeks now. And yes, I watch it and love it with or without writers striking. I cried for that poor girl who lost her dad and auditioned two days later. Come to think of it, it is a bit weird but hey, that's TV. And that poor boy who lived in his car? The Leo DiCaprio lookalike? He was ever so Christopher McCandless, but striking out for the wilds of Hollywood instead of Alaska. Devastated when he didn't make it. But there's always next year. And that guy from the town of 220? The one whose mom wanted a homecoming queen, but just got...the queen? What happened to him? I'll be looking for both boys in Season 8.

But let's discuss the boys of Season 7. Mostly forgettable, to be sure. But so many ladyboys! And so many girlymen. I'm not just talking sexual orientation. I'm talking s/he. I'm sorry, but Danny Noriega would make for a stunning woman. And tho' he channeled Jonathan Rhys Meyers rather than Elvis last night, I loved him. He's got my vote.

As does the Youngster. David Thingy. Usually they get some young dude who blows (not in a good way). But this time, the 16-year old of the week (or did he say he turned 17?) was unf&ckingbelievable. He has my vote too.

As does Dreads Travolta, the stoner of the group. Did anyone else notice how, despite the crazy locks and the hippy vibe, the guy is a shoo in for our beloved Danny Zuko? Who wouldn't vote for that? I would.

And finally, my fave, Michael Johns. Or is it John Michaels? Y'know, the last guy. The Man. The only one of the lot who ooooooooozed it. Love love love him. As a tv crush only of course. And maybe because he looks like my favourite hockey card, the almost-has-been, Darcy Tucker. (Long live #16! Long live no trade clauses!)

But my guy Si was right on the money, all night long. The Manly Man from Oz has "it". It = sex. There were the guys who radiated Christian country and/or 50's whitey pop groups. Or some wholesome combo. And the indistinguishable boy band graduates, nary a T-lake among 'em. Or that horrible Axel Rose wannabee. Who wears a bandana that screams "botox me?" Seriously, didn't that strange design look like eyeborws that needed lifting, or at the very least, plucking? Eeeeew, I nealry forgot about that other faux-rocker with the terrible comb-over. And don't get me started on that theatrical Chuck 'n Buck fellow. Gross.

Oh Idol....I'm so glad you're back. Bring on the androg, the youngster, the dreads. And of course, the hottie. They've all got my vote. Too bad it doesn't count.

Oh wait! I almost forgot to mention Chickezie Jacuzzi. He of the orange suit and lovely demeanor. He's sweet. he can sing. But does he have what it takes to be remembered? I thought so last night, but obviously in the cold light of day he falls a little short....

Last year, the ladies kicked butt - Be Bop Blake notwithstanding. And tonight, it's Ladies' night. Show 'em girls. I dare you....

IT'S A KIND OF MAGIC

My name is MOAM, and I'm an addict.

It's the bullet. The Magic Bullet. I've been shot.

Huh? You don't know from Bullet? Wha? Where have you been? Obviously not hanging out in flea markets or watching late-night shopping channels. Well, neither have I. So there.

Niether grinder not blender, cuisinart nor mixer, it's combo. A sit-on-the-counter, throw-in-your-dishwasher, who-knew combo.

My intro to the Bullet came through a friend. A friend with fantastic taste and an immaculate kitchen. She swears by the Bullet. Claims she uses it every day. Don't ask how we got on to the subject. I haven't a clue. I don't know how I end up talking about half the crap I come up with. I just do. But back to the Bullet....So she swears by this thing and I humour her. Like I need another gadget.

And then I went trolling through my mom's house looking for an extra hand held blender. Yes, she stocks small household items in her house. My job is not to ask why. But if she's got an extra Braun, I'm all over it. Turns out, she didn't. But what she did have, sitting on her counter in all it's TV-endorsed packaging glory, was The Magic Bullet.

Again with the Magic Bullet!

Call it fate, call it curiosity, or call it shamelss consumerism, whatever. The Bullet came home with me. And then...and then it sat on my counter, in its box for a week or so. I didn't get it. I didn't buy it - literally or figuratively - so I was hardly impressed. Until one Saturday afternoon. It was freezing. It was snowing. I was home alone, and I opened it. And I made a Pina Colada. I did! And I was hooked - on cocktails, maybe. On the Bullet, for sure.

Sucker for smoothies? Now you can make 'em, in about 30 seconds. And you can customize them too in yur own Magic Bullet mugs. It come with four. Pop your ingredients in, screw on the blender bottom and, well, bottoms up. Salad dressing? Five seconds or less. Grating cheese? (I didn't think I'd do it either, but I did). Done like, well, dinner. And it even comes with a shaker top, should you be so inclined. Throw in a garlic clove, a handful of brocolli and some chicken stock. Put on the steamer lid and pop it in the microwave for two minutes(carcinogens be damned). Then, press, presto - soup! Chopped herbs? Check. Salsa? Check. Hummous, fat-free hummous, bean dip and guac? Check, check, check and check. You can also grind coffee beans, nuts, and - god knows who would or why - meat. It's incredible. It's handy. Abracadabra!

It's.....maaaaaagic.

I now call my friend, the original Bullet-head, for the daily Bullet report. And it's not just me. My Man has also, erm, bitten the Bullet. He's ready to go all Oprah and buy one for everyone. (Don't get too excited. It'll never happen. ) But we'll stand proud and say it loud: we're a Magic Bullet Family.

Look, I know you think I've become an infomercial. And I kind of have. Without the show. Or the daily make-up 'n hair. Or the big pay day. But what can I tell you? I'm obsessed. And you will be too. For now, forever, or until the next great American gadget comes along....

FOOD TEN, SERVICE THREE

I thought I discovered a new restaurant the other night. Surfing the web, looking for an answer to that all-important Saturday night question, "where should we go", I thought I was stymied. Everywhere seemed to be booked. Post-snow-day-in-Feb-not-yet-winterlicious. And booked. Was everybody going out for dinner? More importantly, where were they going?

Anyhoo, found this spot, read a couple of announcement blurbs - as opposed to reviews. And booked 'er down. And it was delicious. Flawed, but delicious. And as I sat down to share my so-called discovery, I received an email from the local daily listings thingy... Guess what they were writing about? MY discovery.

Granted, I didn't open it, I don't know the owners, and I have nothing to do with it in any way. But I didn't know anybody else who'd been there and, aside from a couple of head scratches and that-sound-familiar's it was mine to share. At least it would've been if it wasn't for those damn kids.

So I read through their review, kept my opinion mostly to myself and then thought, f&ck it. I've seen the pictures of those staffers and they certainly didn't look like foodies to me. Exercisers? Yep. Makeup experts? Maybe. But most of 'em looked like they could use a good meal.

So, if anyone out there is looking for a good meal - and you're in Toronto (sorry internationales)(and locals too, have you seen it outside?) head on down to Eleven. Guy from Xacutti closed up shop on College (I didn't know either. It's winter. Who knows anything.) and he moved south. No, not south south, just Jarvis and Front. I don't know why either, but he did. And, though there are some, ahem, service issues, the food is DIVINE. Most of it.

They call it Global Comfort Food, but really it's just tasty plates. To share. Or not - go ahead and be piggish. Especially if you have the honey glazed chicken on sesame rice. I doubt I'd share that next time. Share the goat's cheese and mango salad - or give it a miss entirely. Yam fries are good. A little thick and need to be double-dipped, but good. Mushroom rolls are good too. But it's all about the chicken starter. And that sauce! You can dip the other apps in there too. Not that I did. Much.

We had the famous cinnamon-guava ribs - a little gristly. And they don't hold a candle to the BBQ'd beef or the cod on coconut lentils. Spectacular. Also recommended were the duck and halibut, but on of our gang don't do duck, and the table next to us ordered halibut and it smelled a little...high... for my liking.

HAVE DESSERT. You'll want to anyway since you'll be sharing so you never won't really be that full. Ginger donuts are like fancy Tiny Tims. In a good way. We had some kind of chocolate cake - can't remember if it was flourless of what -but it was ish. And then there was the carrot and toffee pudding?! I know, you're thinking "carrot?!" but just think toffee. And get one. Or two. Lick-the-bowl tasty.

Unfortunately, the service was a little challenging. Cocktails arrived with McD-like speed. Wine was so slow you'd think they were stompin on the grapes in the back. Which would also explain why the food took so bloody long. At times. Things arrived in drips and drabs. One thing. Long pause. 3 things. Long pause. One thing. Longer pause. Well, you get the picture.

So go for the food, stay despite the service, and only share with those you love. Especially the bill. STEEP.

Better still - get someone else to pay, accidentally sneeze on the honey chicken, and grab that carrot-toffee-goodness before anyone else notices.

Or do take-out. They do that too.

Bon appetite.

HOLA PUNTA CANA

Forgive me readers, it's been a while. One filled with ups, downs and - oddly - airline travel. That's right, I've been on vacation!

Remember back at school you'd have to write essays about your summer vacation?
Anyone? Anyone? No? (Me neither. Once you were back, you were back. Party's over) And yet, they always seem to in movies. So, without further ado, may I present:

Ten Things I Learned on my Winter Vacation. (Part I.)

1. I learned that Charter Flights blow. Bite. Suck. And not in a good way, pervs.
I always kind of knew this, but when travelling with small children, beware the cheap 'n cheerful charter. Or beware of other people's children (ie. mine) who, after being in transit for nearly 12 hours due to delays on their 4-hour flight might be somewhat, erm, antsy. They might lose interest in the massive bag of books, toys and personal DVDs. They might figure out how to open the tray table. And close it. And open it. And close it. And, well, you get the picture. They might be soothed by massive lollipops but, as everyone knows, the ramifications of the sugar highs can be brutal.

2. I learned that said Charters, despite having a planeload of cranky (irate) passengers, think that by giving out crappy earphones and cheap credit vouchers, all will be OK. It won't. Not after handing out $15 "lunch vouchers" to be spent at night when all the restaurants close. Nor by keeping the overhead lights on during the all-night flight. Nor by pushing the bloody duty-free after we all spent countless hours in the airport browsing... in duty-free shops. Nor by handing out measly $100 credit vuchers for future travel on the same airine - non-transferable to boot. Oh - and another newsflash - staffing the plane with rude teenagers doesn't help either. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm sure they were tired too - but they were being paid time-and-a-half for their trouble. We certainly weren't.

DEEP BREATH......

3. I learned that sometimes weather reports calling for daily showers in the Carribbean can be correct. Even if you surf every single travel site looking for good news. When they say torrential, they mean it.

3a. Thankfully, I also learned that those daily showers only last for 10 minutes.
3b. But can strike at any time, any place.
3c. But the really deep puddles they leave behind can be almost as fun as a swimming pool. for a few minutes at least.

4. I learned that the best ways to entertain your kids is by enlisting other people's kids. Preferably older ones. And if they have accents, even better - endless amusement for everyone.

5. I learned that is really is possible to drown in a mater of minutes, in less than a foot of water. NOT THAT ANYONE DID (god forbid poo poo poo). But when you watch your 2 year old get pushed into a pool, leap out of your seat, jump into the water to find him floating motionless on the top step of a mini pool and fish him out, hysterical - well, let's just say you have a new appreciation for vigilance, paranoia, and landsports.

6. You learn to navigate buffets. Somehow, after walking through day after day and complaining about the cuisine, you manage to fill up your plate. And refill it. And maybe add a little bit more. And then you suck it back. Day after day. And pound after pound.

7. You learn that bulky strollers are RV's. And you love them. Portable beds, baggage handlers, detention centers - these babies really can do it all, not to mention how well they clear traffic. Think big, act big and everyone's outta your space.

8. You learn that your children are vampires-in-reverse. By day, nothing beats the joy you feel as your angels frolic by the seaside. You're all children again, building sandcastles, and playing in the pool. How romantic it all seems: long walks on the beach holding hands, sharing fruity drinks under the palms, posing for family snapshots...Even cheesy organized drinking competitions seem sweet when you watch 'em with your little ones. It's all so wonderful, everyone is deliriously happy, even without their regular naps and routines. Bliss by day...

And then...

The sun sets. And you learn about a new kid in town. Sprung from your loins. Sharing your room. Darkness falls. The moon rises. And with it - El Diablo. Or, even worse, Los Diablos: your very own flesh and blood who, quick to turn on you, remind you of everything you needed a vacation from: them!!!

9. I learned about how quickly we forget. No sooner had we touched down after another, erm, antsy, flight than we started dreaming up the next family vacation. We looked at pictures, reminiscing about the good times....the daytimes...

10. I learned that some of us don't really forget. Sure, for entertainment purposes I've tended to accentuate the negative - that's what creative license is all about. Let's face it, no one wants to read about perfect getaways and happy endings. We're all ambulance chasers, looking for the dirty bits, riveted by the nightmares, thanking the universe or god or whoever that those problems are someone else's, and that we get to hear all about them.... Fact is, it was a fantastic trip - angels and devils notwithstanding. A family love-in. OK, once we were home for a day or so it was back to normal.

But not completely. For within days of returning from our family holiday, I was off on a trip on my own. And I've learned that even sitting alone at a friend's desk, blogging and reliving certain funny-from-far moments, can be a real vacation.

Great Leap Forward

Before I had kids, I vowed I'd never let them watch tv. Until they were old enough to appreciate it, that is.

TV=bad. TV=fat. TV=ADD.

Until I had a baby. And then another one. Suddenly, there was a new god in town, a new kind of salvation. We called it the television. No, not just because I was home with my pvr every night. No, the tube was a godsend. A babysitter. A drug.

Need a break? TV. A rest? TV. A potential punishment? No TV.

And just when we'd finally got a handle on the TV situation, my older son asked me for a Game Cube.

A game cube? Huh? He's 4. he barely knows his own address. What does he know from Game Cubes?

No, no, no.

Video games=bad. Video games=fat. Video games=ADD.

Until my boys were old enough, there was no way I was going to succumb.

Erm, until I did.

No, we don't have a Game Cube. Yet.

We got a Leappad. It was a gift, and I was able to justify it. My neices loved their Leappads when they were little and look how clever and well-behaved they are. Besides, it's basically reading. But with a stylus. And sounds. So my son was hooked. It's essentially an interactive book, not a dreaded video game. No harm done.

And then we got a LeapFrog Word Launch. I stared at my husband in terror: A VIDEO GAME. He rubbed his hands with glee. He is, after all, a computer geek and all-round tech-whore.

He ripped open the package and the world as I knew ended. the Word Launch launched us into the video age. Imagine the sheer joy of a kid as he learns this wasn't just TV, wasn't just a toy - this was a toy you played on the TV. A real, live video game.

The first day we plugged it in, I fumed. I stamped my feet. I was disgusted - with myself, my husband and of course my kids. It was the end of the innocence. So long 4-year old, hello rated-T-for-teen. It was probably a matter of months before he slunk off to the mall, pants below his crack. God help us all.

But then a funny thing happened - and by funny, I mean funny for us: we plugged the thing in and it asked us....I mean, my son...to spell a word. And the word was "hump". For those who know my boy, they know he'll stop, drop and roll on dime. Humping is his thang. Always has been. (Apparently normal...) So to learn to spell it was a highlight for him. And the fact that the first word was, ahem, hump, was a highlight for me.

And then, get this - the next word was "dump". I SWEAR! Who needs primetime when we've got this? Fun for the whole family! Granted, the words that followed were less thrilling - for us - but I noticed a little something. My son wanted to spell. Not that he knew it. Poor soul thought he was rebelling with his video game. Sure we had some fun spelling out dirty words - look, if given the choice, it's hard to resist. But for the most part, it was good, clean fun. And now the guy was coming home from school wanting to word launch! Who could argue with that? No annoying characters or songs (Diego tunes aside, o'course), no muss, no fuss, no guns. This game rocked.

And despite all media evidence to the contrary, he's learning a lot. And listening. And being, well, a good boy. Especially now that I have another "privilege" to dangle over his head.

Thank you, Leap Frog...

Imagine the harmonious house I'll have when he asks for a Wii!

HIT THIS MOB

Once there were two friends. Friends with a vision. Some might call them, well, Family. And the vision? A business venture. Like so many great and powerful Families before them, they figured they'd make it worthwhile to pay a small price for protection.... from mass production, mundane home furnishing and, as they'll tell you, lead paint.

Shopoholics, look out - Mob is back. Modern Objects of Beauty, that is.

What started as a concept back in 2005 has now evolved. Featuring one of a kind objets des artes, painstakingly curated by the women of mob, this is no ordinary retail experience - it's anything but. Candies, cocktails and humour abound at this travelling salon. And boy, does this mob know how to travel.

Showroom, private home, cafe, design show... these ladies, ahem, get around. And through it all, there's me, tagging along, desperate to be a made (wo)man, a part of it all. Because, quite frankly, I can't resist the lure of mob.

The Showroom? Red and pink handblown glass bowl. The Annex house? Bone key ring. The Cafe? Shell necklace. The Design show? Porcelain choker.

And that's me using retraint!

'Cuz what I want, what I really, really want is everything. All of it. The lot. The tubular table. The Mitosis cube. At least two of the clocks. Oh, and the folding lamp.

And don't even get me started on the jewellery! Oh, the jewellery. Animal, mineral, vegetable. Semi-precious, precious, whatever. Hook me up! I modelled a piece for them once (and by modelling I mean I kind of picked it up and flounced around, hoping it - and I - would get noticed). And we did. When I accidentally-on-purpose modelled it all the way home. My man noticed it immediately (that's right ladies). It was almost like it followed me home. So it was only right to keep it.

And I'm not the only one. Once you go mob, you never go back. Mob hits are the kind of things you see, you stalk, you can't resist. Crystal drop necklaces? Bone and horn bracelets? Toy images? Talk about offers you can't refuse...I don't even know where to begin.

Actually I do. www.mobcollection.com

It's a start. A hint. A sneak peak. And maybe, just maybe, if you tell them The Mother sent you, you can get in on their next travellin' show, coming soon, very soon (TOMORROW!!!) to a local hotspot near you . The hits of the season, for every reason. Or not. But they're bringing out the good stuff, and nothing too pricey either! If you're local. If you're not, check out their website, don't just read it and weep.

My cards are cleared and I'm rarin' to go. Oh, and if anybody asks,it's all gifts. For other people. I swear.

It's not personal. It's just business.

A WORD FROM YOUR SPONSOR

When I first started blogging, I never dreamed it would bring me fame and fortune...

Which is a good thing because it hasn't.

A bit of fame, sure - in and amongst my people and their people and even some of their people. But fortune? Erm, not so much.

But then a funny thing happened on the way to the blogosphere.....people started sending me stuff. Free stuff. Despite not making a dime on these musings of mine, I have somehow become one of those bloggers that people think people wanna know about. I love that!!! And now the marketing genies, keen to cash in on all things bloggy - ie. trusted word of mouth - have sent me freebies. Samples. Swag. Call it what you want, it's free free free!!!

HOW COOL IS THAT?!?!

Well, it was cool. Except now that they've paid the bill, I'm expected to, ahem, put out. And I can't. I'm just not that kind of girl. (Anymore.) Look, I know nothing's really free. And that when something seems too good to be true it's cuz it is. Or isn't (is too good? isn't true? Y'know what I mean). Anyhoo, I've been tracked down. The stuff's been sent. And now it's payback time.

Faced with mounting pressure to lie back and spread 'em - the word on these products, that is - I find I'm more inclined to blow is all off and hide. Except now I feel like a real tease. They took their time to treat me to their product, and yeah, I encouraged them to, so the least I could do is tell you about it, right?

Wrong. You see, trusted readers, at the end of the day, I'll only tell you about things I love. Or loathe. Anything in between, well, what's the point, right?

Remember Pom Tea? I adored it. At the time I couldn't sing its praises loud enough... Now I can't stomach the stuff.
Joe Fresh? Cheap and cheerful. And cheap - the zippers are constantly undoing and they wash like crap.
Tassimo? retired my machine the other day - too pricey and I felt like an environmental terrorist in my own home.

No one paid for this press - good or bad.

Banu? Paid full price for every meal. Every hookah. And I'll keep going back for more.
Paige Denim? A bloody fortune, but I love love love 'em. And I'll keep going back for more.
Jude Law? Didn't give me the time of day, despite bringing a hot leggy blond as my winger. And, yeah, I'll keep going back for more. (Sheesh, not even a passing glance...._

Again, think any of that was free? I WISH.

Granted, once in a while something works for me - I got these awesome Crayola crafty paints and markers and crayons that rocked down my house. Especially the crayons - triangular, easy to hold (what? my kid has fine motor issues) and even easier to clean.

And see? I told you about them. Because I wanted to. On my own terms. I don't think I need to write about something simply because someone went to town and couriered it to my house.

Am I protesting too much? Probably. I'd kill to turn a profit here in the blogosphere. Maybe I should whore myself out a little more. Maybe I should write about any - and every - sample that someone sends me. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm not being sent the right kinda things. Hear that PR people? Marketers, start your engines....and start sending me stuff I can get excited about!!

Jude Law's agent - you getting all this?

Please and thanks....

THE DAY THE MUSIC(AL) DIED

Disclaimer: I am a musicals person.

No, that's not a type-o. That is an "s" you see before you. Musicals. Stage, screen... wherever there are folks spontaneously breaking out into song to lament a love lost, a home found, and everything in between, you'll find me. Laughing, crying, whatever. I'm in.

Until last night, that is. When I sat through the train wreck known as "We Will Rock You". Rock me? Hardly. This show was a crime scene. A sickening accident that, despite being destructive and brutal, one feels compelled to watch. Hideous, gory and loud loud loud. A concert gone awry, a story gone south and some creators gone bonkers.

My pal and I sat, mouths agape, wondering if what we were watching was for real. Who was the demo? Youngsters? Nostalgists? This hokey farce of a show appealed to neither. Suburbanites on a big night out? Is that who those freaks were with the glo-stix? There were plenty of 'em, whoopin' and screamin' and jumping to their feet. While my theatre directing pal and I, as I said, sat stunned.

First off: volume issues. Volume, as in wa-a-a-a-a-y too loud. How did the stage-diving fogies lapping this shit up stand it? Was it that loud that they didn't even know what they were hearing? Maybe.

Secondly, performances. I know, I know, touring companies, right? Wrong. This was/is a big deal. And is continually extended. Mamma Mia, anybody? I guess Brian May and his pals are laughing their way to the bank on this one. And poor Freddie M must be rolling in his grave. At least make the campiness work!!

It didn't. 'Cuz it was earnie earnesto from beginning to end. Set in the future and - gasp! - all musical instruments are banned. Only one hero - swoon - The Dreamer, can set the kids free so they can rebel and play air guitar and find their soul.

Soul? Not in this show. Spunky heroine? Too nasal. "Show-stopping" diva? Bored off her socks. Baddie who turns good? Hey, he wasn't bad! And our hero? Well, his voice was OK but he's no triple threat. Can you say the word "wooden"? With feeling? Neither could he.

And the list goes on. Mediocre support characters? Earned screams of delight. Lame Britney Spears jokes? Had 'em rolling in the aisles. Breaking into "flash" as skeletons - wow! - flashed on screens? Gasps of approval.

Where the hell were we? Oh yeah, downtown Toronto, where the self-congratulatory Canadian references guaranteed a standing O. Or two. And they got 'em.

You're probably wondering why didn't leave. So was I. But, as I said, it was strangely compelling. Like an open casket. You're totally uncomfortable, but you need to look.

So my fellow Musical-ists. And Queen fans. And subscribers to theatre packages. Go forth and be rocked if you must. But don't say I didn't warn you.

And don't forget to drink. A lot. Maybe that's the secret to its success...

Back to School Blues

Put away your whites, people, 'cuz it's Back to School time.

Yep, for all us North Americans, it's the real deal new year. Doncha think? You get all sentimental about the summer. Then you reflect: too hot, too cold, too fast. Blah blah blah. Same time next year, right? All through August you lament the end of summer and now it's here. The end, that is. But instead of looking back and waxing nostalgic, it's really a time of looking ahead. To fall. And the rest of the year. As I said it's Back to School time.

Despite all the ads and plans and warnings, it doesn't hit until Labour Day. And then, poof!- it's here. New Year's Rockin' Eve.

For the kiddies, it's a new grade, new teachers, new friends. For the rest of us, it's the memory of that back-to-school feeling. It's makes even the die-hard drop out feel new-ish: new season ( not really, but it feels like it, right?) New job/attitude (even if you've worked all summer, there's a different, fresher, more serious vibe, right?) New movies (Goodbye silly boy flicks, Mr Apatow and co notwithstanding. Hello Oscar Bait. Right?) New footwear (even if it's boiling, you're tempted to put on your boots, right?) And of course new outifts (September mags, right?)

Everything is new new new.

Labour Day (Labor Day for our American cousins) has a certain weight to it. It's far more momentous than any January 1st has the right to be. So I say Labout Day is the new New Year. Why not? New year's resolutions? Do 'em in Sept. Starting a diet? Post-summer's the perfect time to start. Quitting smoking? Hell-ooo? What better day than the one after a long, hot, smokey summer?!

So what, you may wonder, are my resolutions? Hmmmmm....To tell would be giving away too much, don't you think? 'Cuz resolutions aren't really that different from wishes and I'd hate to think that if I told they wouldn't come true.

Let's just say...well, I'm here, right?

Besides, I'm trying to keep my own resolutions at bay. My focus is on my oldest child. For this week, anyway. My almost-4-year-old starts school tomorrow. Real school. The kind that is no longer filed under optional. It's Junior Kindergarten - not just another program in his overprogrammed world. This one is It. The Biggie. The school he starts tomorrow will be, (hopefully, please god, poo poo poo) the one he graduates from in 9 years. Or 10. Whatever. It's the one that'll teach him to read. To write. And god only knows what else. For better or worse.

Yes, this Labour Day is all about Back to School. The first of many for some. And yet another slew of hopeful new beginnings for others.

Healthy. Wealthy. Wise. And working. What more could a girl ask for - for herself, her kids, her people? Aside from a few more glorious weeks of open-toe shoe that is.

Happy New Year.

stalker nation

From friendster to myspace to facebook...Such a long journey. And such mixed metaphors! First there was the printed word: the classifieds. Then the matchmakers - by phone and on-line. And now? These crazy communities sprouting up left, right and alt center on the world wide web.

That's right, communities. 'Cuz that's how they're billing themselves these days. Hmmmmn...

At first, I was skeptical. Sure, singletons unite. Happy hunting. Let us live vicariously through you as you regale us with tales from the dark and technologically advanced side. But marrieds and takens? Nice try. Who but a low-down lying cheating dog would be on these sites?

"Friend"ster? Come on. I never really looked around there. MySpace? Seemed to be an on-line ego trip with options to get laid. Not that I have my OwnSpace. But hey, I've been around. Stalking...That's right, stalking. What else is a married girl to do? I could post a screenplay on there - but puh-lease, does that really work? Music, maybe. And maybe not. Good for friends/snoops to take a listen and pass around to praise or chuckle, but otherwise....Are you telling me all those cats who list Ms P. Hilton as friends really are? Still?

A few months ago, I got my first Facebook request. I immediately declined. I couldn't snoop around without joining, so forget it. Then I got another one. And another. My interest was piquing. Daily. Then a far flung friend put in a request I couldn't deny. Log me in!

And then what?

You see, I still don't really get what to do on there. I still kinda think it's a slippery slope. From secret stalking, to innocent chatting to.....god only knows. Because the fact remains, the people I want to keep in touch with, I...erm, keep in touch with. The people I want to chat with? You guessed it, I chat with. In my own private yahoo world.

And yet...Once I created an account, I couldn't see the harm in having a poke around. And by poke I mean virtual poke - because I find myself doing a lot of that. I also found myself plugging in that device that tells you who, in your address book, is already facebooking.

Is this the new scrapbooking?

It's the new something. And it's addictive. I found myself sending out that mass email asking my friends to be my friends. 'Embrassing? Kinda. It seems to me the aim of facebook is to list as many peeps as possible as pals. Why? Hmmmm, maybe so's you can snoop through their friend list. And so on, and so on and so on.

In other words, it's for looking up exes. Ex lovers, ex friends, ex schoolmates, ex coworkers. All manner of exes, all the time. I, for one, would never acknowledge. Most of my exes are either freaks or friends. Throw in some drunken mistakes and a lack of self esteem and, honestly, do we need to go down that road? Relive it? For what?

I told one of my friends - who only occasionally snoops (via his wife's account). I explained that I didn't want to look up some old stalker. He pointed out maybe that was the point - to turn the tables. Maybe. Another friend and I played secret stalker. But there were hundreds of people with the same name - all of 'em much younger than we are. She seems to think Facebook is THE site for the over 30 crowd.

So what are my nieces and nephews, barely out of their teens doing there?

And what about the guy who shares my husband's name? When it says "view friends", it really means view friends. What if someone thinks that little f*&k is the father of my children?!

A lot of my overseas joined at my behest. they now think I'm the queen of Facebook, so when they email me (publicly!!) asking what it's all about, I quickly yahoo them back. Et voila, we're back in touch. But I don't think that's the main attraction here. Nor is the buzzfeed, giving you the rundown of everybody else's facebook business. It's all so very strange.

So why am I constantly on there?

Good question.

I'll let you know. After further exploration. But now I must dash. I've got some more, erm, friends to find.

HAPPILY EVER AFTER

Location, location, location. The three magic words when it comes to Real Estate. Or are they? I know a couple of others: Just. Listed.

Yep, real esate fever hit me hard. So hard, in fact, I've been able to do nothing but speculate - on my house, my neighbours' houses, your house. The online MLS listings are like porn for me. I need more, more, more. More info, more knowledge. Which sold when. And of course, for how much.

You see, we've just bought and sold houses. Out with the old, in with the new. And what a long, strange, trip it's been.

As anyone who lives locally will tell you, these days it's better to give than to receive. In other words, don't even think of putting your place on the market until you've made damn sure you know where you're going.

You've heard the stories - lost 6 bidding wars. Had to rent month to month. Got pressured into accpeting an offer they couldn't refuse and now rent back their own house as they look for something comparable.

Tell someone from the - ahem - previous generation that you're buying without selling and they'll look at you like you're nuts. Rest assured, you're probably quite sane, but won't be for long.

You see, we bought a new house after 6 months of looking. Not too bad, all things considered. We only lost out one bidding war - which was in itself a true blessing in disguise - we never could've afforded the bills, let alone a reno. Everything we saw didn't really hold a candle to what we had. Until, of course that magical day when I went to see a home on a street I vowed I'd never live on, and fell in love. And after a bidding war of our own, we found our not-quite-dream-but-good-enough-for-us home.

All that was left, was the sale.

Selling our house? Ha! Pas de problem. Everyone knows the demand far outstrips the supply in our 'hood. Who hasn't heard about the crazy bidding wars? The knocks on the door, offers in hand? The private sales? And, hell, if I liked my house enough to buy it, why wouldn't someone else? Cocky? Maybe. But as everyone knows, "it's the market".

So we primped. And cleaned. And tossed out. And cleaned. And vacuumed. And cleaned. And moved out. The whole gang. Kids, cat, dog. We went out, the sign went up and all was well with the world. We were excited. We priced low and were gonna sell high. We started fantasizing: $10K over means a new deck. $20K over, a new bathroom. $100K over, a whole new floor. And why wouldn't we count our chickens? The dumpy house down the road went for $80K over and that was just land value! OK so we have an irregular lot. But it's beautifully landscaped. And, sure, the basement is somewhat, erm, moist. But it's bright. Our kitchen wasn't renovated, not exactly. But the gleaming stainless steal applainces would surely make up for that. We even did a pre-inspection. But let's not go there. After all, our house is a little older. Charming. So what would you expect?

We opened for business. And guess what? Someone else did too. The perfect, extra long, no dampness issue, fully inspected and well up to scratch house down the street. Talk about competition. And really, really, bad timing.

On offer night we sat with bated breath. And ordered in. And couldn't eat. 'Cuz we got nary an offer. Not a-one, nay, nay, nay. We were done for. Finished. Ruined. Our parents were right! Who the hell buys first, sells later? We could've moved in with them. Or friends. Or taken a sabbatical from, uh, life. But noooooo, we were the losers who'd have to re-sell our new house and never leave our old one. Ever.

Now of course things worked out. And, as we soon learned, this kind of thing was happening to lots of people. Friends of friends and actual friends. Mind you, it didn't happen to the house down the road - it got multiple offers and went for$130K over asking. Looks like they'll be getting a lot more than a new floor in their new place.

And us? Yeah, we sold. One day later. To a lovely couple who'd endured 2 years of seeking and 9 lost offers. Everyone was happy. Ish. They got their house, we got our price. In fact, we got just voer. Sure we priced it a little on the low side and the big overage is hardly a new deck (or bathroom). But wait 'til you see our new window boxes!

And what's done is done. And now we can look forward to boxing and cleaning and packing and cleaning and moving and cleaning some more. And then settling in to mess it all up and make it our own.

And next time around? Guess it'll all depend on the market. But I'll be ready for it. 'Cuz I'm still speculating. That house down the road form our new place? You'll never guess what they're asking....