ANISTON WEARS PRADA

Tonight I went to see the movie everyone’s been talking about – The Devil Wears Prada. I even got there with 30 minutes to spare (unheard of for this chicita) And guess what? SRO. On a Wednesday. What the funk?! Not being one to let a movie night go to waste, I ended up seeing the flick no one’s talking about – The Breakup.

And now Jenny and I are definitely back together. Rachel Green is dead. Long live Rachel Green. Or any romantic comic heroine our Jenny chooses to play. Is it any wonder her career was flagging? This is her genre. She’s the Meg Ryan for the noughties – even if they are half over. Was it a perfect movie? Mais non. But did I laugh and, dare I say, even choke up a teeny tiny bit? You betcha.

OK. The Vaughn may have had a little something to do with it. I love him. I feel like I know him. And I love him. Actually, I kinda feel like I’m married to him – making me love him more. And no, I am not completely delusional, nor am I a stalking freakazoid. He just reminds me of the man I happen to be married to (in real life). You get the picture. Point is, Vinnie wrote it, produced it, and, duh, starred in it – how bad can it be?

Yes they had reshoots. But what movie doesn't? And yes, those reshoots were a wee bit too obvo. They were in Chicago. In winter. And sure, it left me wondering what the real ending could've - and should've - been. But Vinnie winks for the camera and it's worth the price of admission. And parking.

WAIT! Before you rush out to buy your tix, be warned – it’s no award winner. It’s just better than I thought it would be. Oddly enough, it’s the casting that was make or break... up (hee hee). You see, for every great performance, there was an equal and opposite sucky one. Jason Bateman? Barely there. Jon Favreau? Scenery muncher (last scene aside, that is: he's hi-hi-hi-larious in his own - and only - subtle way). Joey Lauren Adams? Snip. Judy Davis? Keep. Sure she’s hokey and shticky and can’t pronounce the simplest of yiddisher terminology. But so what? That beats the earnest, raspy (but-not-in-a-good-way) squirrelyness of Ms. J.L.A. Ye olde Ann Margrock has a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it cameo. Maybe blink a bit. But in the other corner is the man who steals the show: John Michael Higgins. You’ll know him - and love him - when you see him. The man’s a comic genius. GENIUS.

So it wasn’t the buzzy movie of the week. Or last week’s buzzy movie. Or even the week before’s. Yep, I’m a little behind the times. But it was good clean fun nonetheless. And with no great expectations, it was bound not to disappoint. So I say thanks Vinnie! Way to charm. And thanks Jenny! Way to dress. Gather round children, it's time for a group hug. VV - you've still got it. J'aniston and me? We’re back together.

Meryl? I'll see you next week.

WORLD CUP - OF COFFEE

World Cup fever has taken over the asylum. It's everywhere. Me, I'm rooting for England - but only because I used to live there and fancy myself a bit of a Brit. I like Italy too - for obvious reasons (have you seen the Italian football team?! Stunners, the lot of 'em.) I also support Brazil. I kinda feel like they're the real winners, so why not jump on the bandwagon early?

OK. Truth be told, I couldn't give a rat's ass about any of it. Yep, that's me - TOTAL non-sports fan - (except Leafer hockey. I'm a glutton for punishment.) But soccer/football? Uh, no thanks. Sure the little flags waving out of everyone's window are sweet. That kind of patriotism is somewhat palatable. But to sit around and watch a game that really only gets going at the very end? Pass.

A few weeks ago I was the recipient of a Tassimo coffee machine. It's actually less a machine than, well, a way of life. I have a friend who thinks she's Oprah:when she falls in love with something, she gives it away on her show. Only she doesn't have show. Nor does she have the resources for massive giveaways. Instead, she simply credits Ms O for the magnanimous gesture concept, chooses a (small) (very small) handful of fans and bestows the mystery gift on them. And I was one of the lucky ones.

What the f&ck does that have to do with football, you ask?

"Tassimo" - how Italiano. Made by Braun - German, right? Suchard hot choc - Francais, n'est ce pas? Coffees by Nabob and Maxwell House - the down home conglomerates serving up South American blends. The tea - English of course (well, probably more Indian but y'know what I mean. It's tea. It tastes English.) Put 'em all together....The results? A World Cup...of coffee. Geddit?

I know it's a stretch, but so what?

I was a skeptic at first. Sure, I feigned delight when I opened the box, but secretly I found the whole thing too car dealership-ish for my liking. In fact last time I had my oil changed I think I used a Tassimo - I just didn't know it yet. The machine has these little discs with bar codes. It reads the codes and presto - perfect cuppa, every time. There's also something of the office coffee pot about it. And yet, a flip of the switch and you're done.

My man fell for it from the start. It was techy, it was easy,it was tasty. Sold! I, however, had to be convinced. I became a tourist, trying out every single disc in every single combo - name your Starbuckian term - I tried making it on my Tassimo. Before I knew it, I was a barista, and I was hooked. My house had become java central. Y'know how every house has its own particular small? Ours became roasted coffee beans.

I've since calmed down. And I've narrowed down the discs worth driving for (cappucino, espresso, and cafe crema). And I'm not as jittery or shaky as those early heady days... Just happily caffienated.

The Tassimo express is leaving the station. So hop on board 'cuz if you think those discs are selling like hotcakes ('n coffee) now, wait 'til Oprah hears about it....

Oops I did it again.

I feel like a terrible mother. In recent days I have caused my child pain. Not you-don't-get-to-watch-Dora pain. Nor was it too-much-hummous-you're-paying-later pain. I caused my child pure, preventable pain. And I feel terrible.

The first strike was on Saturday. I went to securely fasten my 10-month old into his stroller and his shirt had ridden up and.....I caught his skin in the buckle. (insert collective cringe here) He went silent, then looked at me and burst into tears. It even left a mark. It kind of looked like a hickey, which isn't something you want to see on your baby's tummy.

The next strike was worse. Different day but, alas, same baby. He was on his change table (yup, this is going that way). I had my hand on his stomach - probably on the spot I had disfigured the day before. I bent over to toss out a diaper and I picked up my hand for one split second. And in that one split second, my babe was airborne. I watched him tumble. Down down down. I tried to grab him but only managed to scoop him up the second he landed. Too little, too late. Once again, we shared the moment of silence followed by crazy waterworks.

Luckily his memory isn't as good as mine and he's over it. But I of course am mortified. Not only because I caused my child pain, but because these little nasties happened on my watch!!!

It was the same with my first. Fall over and slam head into wooden box (on my watch)? Check. Roll right off the bed (on my watch)? Check. Fall down the babyproofed stairs (on my watch)? Check. The irony is not lost on my husband. Obviously my man would sooner cut off one of his limbs than hurt his children, but he's somewhat amused by the fact that all these accidents happen - yep, on my watch.

I have gates and latches and locks. I'm peanut-free. I hover - in a good way. I'm not completely insane about the whole thing - babyproofing, feeding or whatever safety issue turns your crank. I'm definitely cautious, careful and common-sensical. Or so I thought. But it seems my own clutzy tendencies don't end with ass-over-tit tumbles, wipe-outs on sidewalks or bloody falls up stairs. (Yeah bloody. In every sense of the word) . I'm passing this shit on to my kids.

If my man was the one who accidentally screwed up - and left marks no less - he'd rue the day. The guilt may only last a few minutes but he'd be tortured for weeks. Possibly longer. Yep, I'd never let him forget it. My child would probably grow up knowing the one about his dad buckling his belly. But luckily, I think my guy's memory is even shorter than my kids'. Chalk it up to having a lot on his plate. Or maybe just having a life.

I console myself with the fact that I can only do my best. And that one day we'll look back and laugh. And of course that no one would even know about these...slips...had I not opened my big yap. Britney - I feel your pain sister. At least my fuck ups happen off camera.

So far.

MY FAVOURITE WASTE OF TIME

Y'know when you have a million-and-one things to do in the morning? For the domestic gods and goddesses among us it's the whole feed-and-dress-kids, feed-and-dress-self routine. For those of us who still have their own lives it could be a mere feed-dress-get out the door, or hit-the-gym or just S, S and S (shit, shave, shower?!). Whatever the combo, we all know that mornings are precious. And yet, in my case, I somehow find time I really do not have to sit down and read the paper. But wait, it gets worse. I even make time to do the crossword. And sudoku. Gasp! Forsooth! Oh dear!

I know!!!

Truth be told, I don't really read the whole paper and do all the puzzles every morning. Sometimes I'll wait 'til it's afternoon. Or nighttime. Or sometimes I'll even skip all the newsy bits in favour of the puzzles. Which are often found a little too close to the obits, which I then feel compelled to read. Reminders of our own mortality. But then I assuage any puzzler's-guilt I may have by considering it mental calisthenics. Doing crosswords and other puzzles can help delay the onslaught of Alhzeimer's and/or dementia. Or so they say. Whatev. I just like doing them. Or trying to.

So this week I was really wacky. Not only did I waste a good chunk of morning time doing the crossword. I snuck away and spent an afternoon watching Wordplay. It's the latest must-see, non-political/non-national geographic/non-Michael Moore documentary. It's good, clean, feel-good fun. And why the hell not?!

I loved Wordplay. Loved it! Granted, as you know I also love crosswords, but I think even if you don't, you'd like the flick. Spellers and dummies alike loved Spellbound. And tone-deaf grownups with two left feet appreciated Mad Hot B-room. So there you go. The friend I went with confessed the only crosswords she even tried were the ones in People Magazine. She doesn't like to start something she can't finish. So a fairweather crossword fan. But she loved Wordplay too.

The movie follows a slew of crossword makers and their fans. Some famous (it's Jon Stewart!), some infamous (it's Bill Clinton!) and some not-so-regular joes (it's Trip from Ft. Lauderdale!) take us on a journey culminating at the National Crossword competition, officiated by the one, the only (drumroll puh-lease) Will Shortz!

I can hear you already: Will Shortz? Who's Will Shortz??

Well, duh, he's only the Superman of the crossword set. A real Clark Kent, he works at the NY Times as its crossword (and sudoku) editor. Mild mannered and seemingly meek, give the guy a pencil - no, make it a pen - and look out. In fact, you don't have to give him any writing utensil - he's the guy who writes/solves/finds/does the puzzles. He's Geek Chic personafied. And I think I may have developed a bit of a crush on him. What? He's so damn clever, it's hard not to.

Here's the thing with this flick - they're all so smart it's crazy. Crazy good. Crazy entertaining. Crazy, scary, smart. Smarter than the smartest guy you know kind of smart. But don't let that turn you off, 'cuz these smarty pants (unlike the ones you actually do know) are not the least bit pretentious. Sure you've got the familiar names (it's the Indigo Girls!) and faces (it's that famous baseball player, whose name escapes me because I am soooo not a sports fan! But he's a big star athlete. And he's smart too!). And yet, it's the behind the scenes at the Big Competition that rock the house down. In a very civilized, very nerdy way of course.

You'll laugh, you'll cry. You'll want to rush out and do the crossword. And you won't be able to. But you won't care because in failing to complete an end-of-week NY Times crossword, you'll love the movie even more. 'Cuz it's Revenge of the Nerds. But for real. And revenge was never so sweet. And so watchable.

Next stop on the feel-good doc parade: Sudoku.....yeah....

THE REAL 411

Hello? Um, yes, I'd like the phone number for....insert any name of your choice... And then ask yourself the last time you uttered these words.

Does anybody use 411 anymore? Y'know, directory inquiries? The one they charge a whole dollar for and yet get wrong half the time because you've said one name and they've heard another? I don't. I'm not a cheapskate but when it comes to those little charges I become ever so thrifty. It bugs me giving the phone companies even a dollar more than I abvsolutely have to. What? It adds up!

Sometimes this backfires. I recently switched phone companies. It was my way of saying "up yours" to Bell Canada. Sadly, I soon learned that their competitor's call answer service totally sucked. I returned to Bell after a measly 3 weeks, tail between my legs. And they charged me 50 bucks! I said "up yours". They said "right back atcha". Sheesh.

Still, that's just my local phone company. As in, for local calls. When it comes to the big bucks, the long distance calls, I'm off the board for a hundred. Several hundred if I stuck with Bell. Nope, for the long distance VIP calls, I use CIBC Guaranteed Proof. Anyone with a CIBC Aerogold Visa can get it (sorry non-Canucks). They compare and contrast the prices of Bell, Sprint and Rogers, find the cheapest option and then minus 10% before charging it to your credit card and sending you a statement. Sure there are waaaaay cheaper long distance options around, but I can't be bothered typing in extra phone numbers, using PIN's etc. See? Sometimes I cheap out, sometimes I don't.

But with 411? Total tight-ass.

Miser central here goes for the old fashioned phone book or the on-line directory. Trouble is, the on-line directory only works sometimes. It's true! Last night I had a friend over who tried finding a listing on Canada411.com. It was a no-show on my computer. And yet when she let her fingers do the walking over her own home keyboard - voila! Like magic, her listing appeared. I don't get it. But computers are weird and have tendencies to be possessed, so what do I know about that....

One thing I do know, is that when you turn 65 you become an official Senior Citizen. Old, but entitled. Aside from discounts at children's attractions (what the hell??), movies, and public transit, you get free 411. That's right, if you make it to 65, you get free Directory Inquiry. Now there's a perk if I've ever heard one.

But guess what? We don't have to wait 'til we're 65 anymore!! Anyone and their uncle can now access 411 for free! Yup, gratis. All you need to do is dial 1-800-FREE 411. I swear! I just tried it. It works anywhere in North America (sorry Euros). The nice computer lady asks you for city and state, but don't be put off, Canadians. It's kinda funny - when I said Canada, the computer voice asked me if I meant Indiana. And soon I was redirected to a real genius of an operator who was trying to find a listing for Quebec City instead of in Quebec City....

OK, so if you're after an operator who's a clever sort, you may be disappointed. But if it's free 411 you're after, here's the golden ticket: 1 800 FREE 411.

SOUP'S ON

Summertime, and the livin' is...soupy....

That's right. Hot 'n bothered? Nothin' like a steamy bowl of soup to cool you down. I'm serious, by the way. When I was travelling in Southeast Asia a million years ago it was crazy hot. And where were the locals? Not running for shade, but sipping soup. I tried to too. My bowl of pho soon became sweat soup. Not a pretty sight. Or taste. I'm a salt person but that was too much, even for a diehard like me. But I remembered the hot meal/hot weather thing and decided to try it again for the very first time.

We-e-e-e-ll. Not exactly. More like I was out food shopping and ab rav (that's absolutely ravenous for those not in the know). I'm telling you - starving! And you know the old adage? Not the one about soup but the one about not shopping hungry? Well I'm glad I ignored it today because I discovered the most spectacular soup I have ever tasted. Ever.

I know soup. I make soup. And I rarely buy soup because I'm one of those who tends to sneer at store bought soup, convinced I can make bigger and better soup by myself. There is one exception: Covent Garden Soup Company in the UK. Now that's fab f&ckin' soup. But here? Tried 'em all. The best part about them is you end up with a mason jar for your own soups.

Besides, let's face it, whether you eat soup in summer or not, making it in the summertime is a whole different kettle of fish soup. It's just gross. And I don't care how good your air con is. Smelling like soup? Gross in winter. Uber gross in summer. Hot 'n soupy on the outside AND on the inside? Uh, no thanks.

But back to my discovery! It's the Soup Man soup! Y'know... the soup nazi. The guy immortalized on Seinfeld? THAT soup. It's incredible. It's (ahem) super! I went for Al's Garden Vegetable and I doubt I'll ever make my own soup again. Why bother? With soup this good who needs homemade? Not me. On the bag it says it's "world renown". Maybe it is. Maybe I'm the last to try it. Doubtful, but maybe. It's also billed as "what New Yorkers line up for". They've always been a little ahead of we Canadians. And I'm telling you, judging from the veggie one, it's woirth the wait.

Only now you don't have to. 'Cuz it's here. And it's cheaper here in the Great White North than it is there (or at least on line) (Mind you, it's worth every penny. But still, it's nice to know). See? I was so crazy for this soup I even went on to the Soup Man's website (www.originalsoupman.com) It's kinda funny - funny-strange, not funny ha ha. This guy's got a cultish following - or so he'd like us to believe. But cheesiness aside (the website, not the soup - tho' I'm sure there are cheesy ones too) go and check out this soup. (hee hee...grocery humour...)

Once you've got it in your hot little hands, waste no time in getting it home. And don't share it. This bag ain't big enough for the both of us. Microwave users, be warned: don't trust the bag. Despite the cooking instructions, you cannot stand it up and go for broke. And yeah, yeah, yeah, I know you're not supposed to nuke in plastic. Gimme a break, I hadn't eaten all day. But just when I thought it was safe to eat, I opened the door and saw the bag, lying on it's side. And get this - the soup is so chock-a-block barely anything spilled out. OK, a couple of bits managed to escape and I was left spooning bits of veg from the mic into my mouth---I mean, bowl. So? I couldn't let a drop go to waste.

Run, don't walk and pick up some soup. I fear I'm not the only one who's on to this liquid gem. The freezer was half empty. No, not half full. I'm not so positive when it comes to limited grocery shleves. It was half-empty. And by tomorrow it could be completely bare. Cuz I'm goin' back to get me some soup!!!

Bon appetite!

JEAN GENIUS

VIVA LA REVOLUCIONE!

The jeans revolution, that is. Yeah yeah, I know it's been going on for aaaaages, but still. It's quite extraordinary the lengths (lengths!) people (like, ahem, me) will go to find a good pair of jeans.

Ebay? All the way. Sample sales - um, only if you're a certain (sample) size. Vintage? Uh, OK. But the glut of Levi's back in the day? Prison. Uh-huh. From the prisoners' butts to your own. I doubt many inmates are sporting Citizens of Humanity...

Gone are the days of the Levi question - red tab, white tab, button, or zip. (red tab, button fly for me). New or used? A non-issue. It's always new baby, new. But they need to look used. And no, not in a dirty denim sort of way. I never bought into that whole dirty denim. They just looked too....too...what's the word I'm looking for? Oh, I know - DIRTY! Blech.

I know jeans were never passe compose, but they weren't as dress-up-dress-down-wear-'em-to-work as they are now. Were they? I don't think so. But I've been wrong before and (gasp!) I just might be again. I was definitely wrong when I said I would never pay over $100 for jeans. HA HA HA HA HA.

Gap? Whatev. I was a gap girl for years. Modern boot cut? Loved' 'em. As I said, I never believed in paying for jeans. But then something happened. My sister-in-law convinced me to try on her 7's, and I never looked back. My husband agreed - goodbye Gap, it was time for the grown up, low slungers that all the cool kids were wearing. I hit the streets a skeptic and came home a changed woman.

I blame it on Adriano Goldschmied. You know, AG? The Angel and The Legend especially. I tried on the Angels and walked out 3 pairs richer (and several hundred dollars poorer). For jeans! JEANS! I didn't get it then and I still don't get it now. And yet it makes the $10,000 question ("does my ass look big in these?") so much easier - and cheaper than 10 grand - to answer...

But here is a legitimate question: what's with the oh so long legs? I don't get the ultra low rise - really, I don't get them. It just wouldn't be a pretty sight. A bikini wax? For jeans? Why? WHY? But despite any unsightly overhang one (er, not me, one) might experience with low risers, there are always the long shirts to hide it. Double them up and you're a bean pole. But lady long legs? They're just a pain. I'm no shrimp, yet every time I get a new pair of jean genies I have to get them shortened. And as any girl worth her - well, worth her jeans - knows, when you buy something, you kinda wanna wear it ASAP. No? Yes! Especially jeans. You buy new ones and suddenly the oldies aren't such goodies. But you have to hold off and shorten 'em. Original hem to boot (boot!)

I take solace in the fact that, for the most part, the denim thief, I mean merchant, willl shorten 'em free of charge. As they should - at these prices... People, look around at all the lovelies shakin' their thangs in their jeans. Take a good look. Because y'all should know that tapered, high wasted jeans are on the (ahem) rise. God help us all....

But for now, enjoy your jeans. After all you've spent on them, you have tooo. Even if it's hot - no, sweltering. And even if you're not really going anyplace. As the saleschicky said, "Dress up, dress down". And get 'em straight (straight!): Chip & Pepper? Not a band. Paper Denim? Not stationary. James Jeans? Not an actor. My latest find are Paige jeans. AWESOME. And no, they aren't over $200 like some other "new and improved" jeans you can find. Who buys those? Don't answer - I'm sure I'll be slinking aorund in 'em soon enough.

WOMEN BE SHOPPIN', WOMEN BE SHOPPIN, WOMEN BE SHOPPIN'

Live from New York, it's Mother of all Mavens!

Except I'm not really live from New York at all. I'm live, post-New York and I gotta say, I heart New York. F&ck the spas....Looking to rejuvenate? Then pack your bags - and check 'em, why not?! - and head to the Big Apple. That's what I did - sans babes or my man. No offence boys, but it was A-W-E-S-O-M-E. The sights, the sounds, the smells....THE SHOPPING.

Bear in mind I haven't been alone in 3 years. And I haven't been on a successful shopping spree in longer. 'member? Pregnant, post-pregnant, almost-there. Pregnant, post-pregnant, etc. Not a great look, no matter how you slice it. Back in the almost-there phase, alone, with a pal, in NYC, how could I resist?

Answer: I couldn't.

So after lounging (alone!) and coffee (alone! in bed!) I hit the streets, Visas blazin'.

Ladies, and those who love 'em, take note: Olive and Bette's. That's all you need to know. I was sent there by a fashionista friend and boy-yoy-yoing was she on the beam with this one. Unreal. All pink and girly on the outside, hip and not too-too-trendy on the inside. Talk about girls gone wild. This place was the bomb.

I walked in wearing one outfit, walked out in another. And then shopped at a different Olive & Bette's in yet another O & B combo. Talk about wearing the concert T to the concert!! But I did, proudly. It was one of those places where you try to hold off but just can't. I think that could be the number one rule when it comes to shopping (and dating, kind of): if you love it, buy it. Sounds obvo, I know. But bird in hand, folks, bird in hand.

And guess what? There are four of these lovely boutiques across the city - something for everyone, everywhere! I only hit two: West Village and Soho. And here's the scoop (aside from being better than Scoop, another clothing emporium par excellence): Bleeker was better.

I met a lovely lady named Amy who quickly became my new best friend. She had me trying - and buying - everything. And she got me, really got me! Knew her butt-skimmin' skirts from her cling-ons. The look-like-you've-had-your-boobs-done tops from the where'd-they-go's. We played dress-up girlfriends for about an hour before I was utterly spent - literally.

Or not. Because I couldn't resist checking out the Soho shop (concert-T to the concert, remember?). Now these chicitas saw me comin' a mile away. How could they not when I was dressed to the nines in my new duds from their sister shop? They circled, my pal and I, hurling so many compliments it made us want to, well, hurl. Sure, they introduced my ass to a lovely new pair of jeans (Paige, since you asked) but after entering the changeroom with piles of stuff and emerging with only the jeans and a cardy, all these new best friends dropped us. But fast. We could barely find someone to take our money. That ain't right!

Soho staff aside, it's a mighty fine find. So remember, when next you find yourself in New York: ditch your men, hit the streets, and run, don't walk to Olive & Bette's. And then cut your visas into millions of itty bitty pieces because this place'll break the bank. But at least you'll look good. Damn good.

OTHER FISH IN THE SEA

Toronto. Like it or loathe it, one thing’s for sure: we Torontonians love a good patio. Maybe it’s ‘cuz of the winter. Our summer’s are short, blah blah blah…Who really cares? At the end of the day, if you build it, we might come. But if you tack on a patio, we’ll be there with bells on.

Once upon a time, there was a charming restaurant called Adriatico. Nice food. Pretty dining room. KICK ASS PATIO. Really. It was stunning. Stunning in a who-even-cares-if-the-food’s-good kind of way. It was that great. Made you feel like you were far, far away. This is another weird thing about patios in Toronto: the more they make you feel like you’re anyplace but Toronto, the better. But I digress…

The kind folks at Adriatico upped and left. Heavy sigh…Adriatico, R.I.P. And now, it’s been replaced by Lure. Another restaurant. Another fish place even. But, sadly, just another patio. Another mediocre patio.

My man and I went to Lure last week for our anniversary. It was funny because I wanted to go there but forgot the name, and then didn’t want to tell him as he’d already made reservations somewhere. Turned out they were for that very same restaurant: Lure. It was fate! Kismet! We were so in sync… we were so in love…we were so on the same page. We were so….about to be disappointed. You see, we’d been to Adriatico (R.I.P.) and loved it. Aside from being a stunning spot, and having awesome food, we could pretend we were still on our honeymoon. For real -that patio looked like just like a place we stayed at on our honeymoon. So we were excited. Look out Lure, here we come!

And then we got there. And, despite being loved up and all, we hit the patio and saw that the honeymoon really was over.

The place was in need of… something: a cleaning, a paint job, a sponge-down… Anything. And we both noticed it, not just anal ‘ol me. Since it was customer-challenged (aka almost empty) we got to pick any seat we wanted. The first was, we were told, too dusty. The next had personal space issues. Finally, we headed to the back. Where once there were stunning wicker couches with fluffy white cushions and plants, there now lay a dusty rattan mat, the same furniture, only older and cushionless, and empty terra cotta pots. Were they going for the dingy look? If so, it was working.

The waiter arrived. He, like the patio, was a bit dim. But we ordered: seared tuna for me and fritto misto for him. We also chose the ‘chef’s choice’ starter platter, joking how the chef would probably choose all veggies for the meze plate. Joke was on us, because he did. It arrived and amid the various veg concoctions was a single shrimp split in two, a spoonful of crabmeat, a lone scallop and, to quote the waiter, “thing-a-ma-bobs”. I swear, he said “thing-a-ma-bobs”! Who says that? And who says that instead of saying, oh, artichokes? Yeah, artichokes. It was bad enough the guy had to read the specials off his paper (he couldn’t remember grilled whole fish? Or seared tuna? COME ON!), but then he couldn’t even identify what we were having. It was a good thing that whatever it was we were eating proved to be tasty. Unidentifiable, to be sure, but tasty.

Did I mention we couldn’t see? The fairy lights of Adriatico (R.I.P.) must’ve burnt out last summer. And I suppose the new management figured they’d replace them with fog lights. At least they seemed like fog lights – or some other kind of bright yellow spotlights. They’d come on for a few minutes, and then turn off. Maybe they were motion sensor lights. Too bad they didn’t have ‘em at the back where someone was emptying glass bottles into recycling bins. I kid you not. Surely it couldn’t have been the restaurant. Or maybe it was. Who knows? We couldn’t see anything. Honestly, we ate blind. I don’t know about you, but I always find it a bit weird when I can’t see what I’m eating. As my brother-in-law says, “we eat with our eyes”. Yeah? Not at Lure we don’t .

Determined to celebrate, we tried to find each other over the tiny candles and gaze…But instead we discussed what a bizarre place Lure was. We agreed: great food, but service and ambience were lack-lack-lacking. Aaaaw, we both felt the same way! So in sync… so in love… so ready to get the hell out of there. If Lure’s patio was like being away, we were ready to come home. R.I.P. Adriatico, R.I.P.

SPONSORSHIP SCANDAL

I’m just a girl who can’t say no.

Got your attention, didn’t I? Well get your pervy minds outta the gutter. We’re not going there. Not today anyway.

No, today I’m talking about thons. That’s right, thons. No, not tuna in French (thon), but ‘a-thons’. You know the ones: walk-a-thons, bike-a-thons, spin-a-thons. As much as all the charities bombard us with gift of giving guilt around Christmas time, I always succumb to the old fashioned sponsorship request. Biking for breast cancer? I’ll give. Dance-off for diabetes? Sign me up. Golfing for gout? Here’s a twenty.

I’ve been known to toss many a charity-by-mail request. Sometimes unopened. That’s because I know that if read about the starvation in Sudan or the plight of puppies I’ll immediately get out my Visa. No cause is too small – I always get suckered in. But if I can resist opening these letters, I can assuage my guilt for not giving. So sometimes, I admit it, I dump ‘em.

Phone requests? Never. In this, the age of call display, I don’t answer unless I know who it is. Usually. If I see the name of an organization, no matter how noble the cause it’s pretty much a given that I won’t pick up. Again, the guilt factor. It’s easy to hang up on a telemarketer with a quick “sorry-no-time-thanks-bye”. But when someone asks you directly to give to leukemia? How can you say no without sounding like a selfish ass? You can’t.

I hate having to call up and - gasp - speak to someone. It makes me feel like my donation, while big for me, is a paltry drop in the bucket. And it’s not the kind soul on the other end of the phone’s fault either. It’s my own guilt talking. My personal preference is the email request. Always personal, but not too personal. And it’s convenient too. Just click and pay. No talking.

Actually, I did have one friend who sent me an email request that I deleted (the email, grammar police, not the friend). And I still feel badly about it. OK, not so bad that I've retrieved the email and sent something. I didn't. 'Cuz while obviously important to my friend, this cause was, for me, simply too small a fish in a vast ocean of deserving causes. But I feel kinda guilty. And of course every time I see that friend I wonder if they're on to me. Or if they think I'm a miser. Or a tightwad. Maybe now they'll bust me and start. But I hope not.

That one blip aside, chez moi if you’re a friend, and you ask, you’ll get lucky. How could it be any other way? Forget about the guilt of not giving, I can't leave a friend high ‘n dry. Fact is, no matter how broke you are, someone else has got it worse. Waaaaay worse.

Excuse me while I hop off my high horse here.

I’m not saying you’ve got to drop a hunny every time someone asks. Let’s face it, that gets expensive. And while your friends are getting fit and having a grand ole time, you’re going broke. And that's no fun at all. But a little something, no matter how tiny, does go a long way. Yeah, I know you're not supposed to judge what someone gives. I'm not. I'm judging what they don't give.

Whoa Trigger…looks like I’m still riding that horse.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m hardly the most generous of souls. I’m neither the gal who’s volunteering nor the hard-core crusader. My spare change, and anything I can scrounge, is usually spent on clothing – for me or my kiddies (after all, charity begins at home). But I still try to do my part – in a lazy, sit-back-and-sponsor kinda way. Yep, that's me, saving the world one tiny tax-deductible donation at a time.

If you’re one of my regular readers - or shall I say, one of my regular, local, readers - you've probably been hit up by me in recent days. Possibly even twice. Hey - if you don't ask, you don't get. And yes, you’re absolutely correct if, as you read, you’re thinking “hey wait, this is more of a guilt trip than a guilty pleasure”. But before you close me down and go back to work or whatever it is you're really supposed to be doing, give yourself a little pat on the back. You’ve just completed a guilt-a-thon! Congratulations! Now open your wallet....

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…