Blah, blah blah, blah blah

And just in the year that I find my way back to pop music and discover an addiction to karaoke, Kesha arises. How dismal that in a popular entertainment landscape that welcomes Lady Gaga and Rhianna, Cee Lo Green and Janelle Monae (and in Canada such bands as Finger Eleven, The Arkells, Hedley, and Down With Webster), a thing like Kesha could rise to prominence, and the critics dare to foretell her continued success and even dominance. I think that nothing original resides in that girl, and her lyrics and music sound derivative and empty-headed to me. I watched an interview with her recently, and my D. nailed it: "She is admitting on camera that she is using everyone to get what she wants, her producers, her mother (co-writer on one of her hits), her fans, and that won't matter at all: they will still buy her and listen to her." Her honesty in that interview -- "So they said, 'Be a pop star [instead of a country music singer/songwriter],' and I was like 'Okay'" -- was almost refreshing, if not a little disturbing, and reminded me that some [read "many"] people do only participate in the music business for the business, the monetary success, not for the joy of sharing their music with an adoring public. So, all right, that interview, while difficult to watch with her eye-sparkles and fake-messy hair, and lazy attitude (thinly disguising her all-consuming drive and ferocious work ethic to MAKE it in the business), and constant winking/sly-nodding at the camera (like, I'm so HOT, right? right?) made an iota of respect for her grow in my otherwise disdainful heart, but only for her as a performer, a commodity, a person who knew what she wanted and went after it with complete commitment, never for the her who purports to be a singer and a songwriter. And, I will never ever buy her stuff or listen to her songs with any joy. And I really really really hate to admit this, but at some point, after I've had one tequila shot too many, I may try this song at karaoke: Blah blah blah
Enough of her, makes me feel a little dirty that I wasted so much time thinking about her and writing about her, and makes me want to only listen to Scandinavian pop music from now on, now those artists know how to make music: Jónsi
Cardigans sing "Lovefool"
and Roxette, of course:

Saying goodbye to an old friend

Once again I take on the challenge of eating healthier, not to extend my life, but to feed my body the proper fuel that will make it not complain so much at my advancing years. I have discovered (make that rediscovered) to my horror that eating copious quantities of raw vegetables gives me terrible acid reflux, and no I won't "get used to it". The 3 tiny men trying to knife their way out through my ribcage this morning are impossible to get used to and I don't wait to revisit the period of my early life when I was on constant antacids. Cooking is the answer. Eat many vegetables, but cook them all quite soundly. Red swiss chard cooked for supper, with some nice bland potato perogies. Not all better, but down to one tiny knife-wielder and him only intermittently.
I have found since my D. became a flexitarian (mainly ovo-lacto vegetarian, but not militant about it) and we began eating many more vegetables that my taste buds and the appetite centre in my brain actually yearn for the green stuff. What a relief that eating more vegetables is not a chore for me; I don't even crave any of the old baddies that I used to require to feel satisfied about food. Except chicken fingers and chicken nuggets: wild midnight cravings for those still pounce on me and bother me for weeks if I deny them, and then I feel flushed with pleasure when I finally do break down and eat them.
Another aspect of trying to create a health body to carry me through a couple more decades on this Earth is the activity. Several friends have taken up jogging/running, and their tales of success have inspired me. Not to run, I'm actually anti-running for myself, but fast walking with my dog. I think that both she and I could stand to lose a little mass in order to produce healthier bodies with which to ride out this next little bit of the millennium.
One thing that bothers me about eating well and moving around more, is the possibility of losing weight, or bulk, heft, substance, mass. I am reluctant to give up some of my bulk. I wear it as a protective layer against the vicissitudes of the natural (read "human") world. While less agile with this bulk, I am warmer, better padded against knocks, and I have more landing space for falls, more weight to throw around or use as a defence; I am more easily spotted by speeding cars, less easily missed by passing waiters. When I was thin (yes, 20 years ago), I felt like a wraith, a nothing, barely recognized as existing by most people. Easily pushed over, quickly passed by, nothing to worry about, a puff of smoke in a crowded dance hall.
I have earned this bulk, this substance, this sign of my successful pursuit of gain, the proof of my opulent and decadent lifestyle, and I cringe to separate my psyche from my physical proof; I also have become friends with the mass of me that I have nurtured for 15 years, and I may need counselling to get over its loss. If I lose any of it. Last fall, I lost 3 pounds with barely trying, but then I put it back on with only a little bit of effort. We'll see if the walking and eating better result in less of me; I'll get used to the new me, just like I got used to the larger me. I'm sure there are some socio-political benefits to being a little slimmer than my current heft; I'll just have to figure them out as I go along. My D. says I could replace one type of bulk with better muscle strength, but let's just start with the walking program and see how that goes.

Pie vacation

Butterscotch with meringue, peach, blueberry, apple, lemon meringue, and chocolate pies, apple crisp, peanut butter chocolate chip cookies: just some of the desserts available during our five days in Nova Scotia. My parents picked us up at the airport, and we stopped in Grand Pre on the return drive (2 hrs just to get to my parents' place from the airport!). We ate supper at the Evangeline Inn in Grand Pre: best pie in the universe. I had hyped the pie pretty hard prior to our trip, and I'm sure my D. was sceptical because he is such a sweets aficionado. The chalkboard list of freshly made pies was a good sign; one caught his eye especially: "butterscotch pie? I've never heard of that before!" It was divine, with lighter than air meringue on top of the best butterscotch pudding I've ever tasted. Well, I only got to taste this one a little bit, because it was his pie; actually one of his two pieces of pie. He enjoyed them both so much (the other was apple) that I had to run up to the cash and pay the bill before he could order a third piece. I was glad that place in Grand Pre lived up to the hype: NS really is the land of pie.
We had a nice visit with my parents, and even got to eat lunch out with my 88-year-old grandmother. She adores the local Chinese food buffet, where they have mussels. My grandmother ate very well and had an extra plate of mussels for dessert!

We had one day (Thursday) of mild and sunny and dry weather that my D. and I took to visit an amazing beach where I always feel refreshed right down to my soul after a trip there: Risser's Beach on the South Shore. We were so lucky to get a day like Thursday: warm as summer and yet very few people because it was a weekday in Sept. The soft pale sand massages and buffs your feet (yes, it was warm enough right there on the Atlantic Ocean for bare feet that day), and the salt breeze cleans out your brain; we walked and tossed stones into the surf and collected sand dollars and sat near the dunes for a minute, not thinking about anything except how good the sun felt on our faces. That's relaxation! There's a campground; maybe some year we'll just stay there at Risser's for our whole vacation week. People can come visit us there for an afternoon: we'll BBQ.
My grandmother of the double-mussels had left a box of her journals with my parents when she moved into a small apartment at an assisted living place in Berwick. My mom remembered the box while we were visiting, so I had a chance to look at the journals for a minute. Grandma had labelled the box: "For Jackie L., to read/to toss." That is so her! The writings chronicle about 30 years of my grandmother's life out on the dairy farm in the Annapolis Valley; I was fascinated, so I wrapped up the box and mailed it to myself. I think I might work on transcribing some of the tidbits for my cousins in the future, when they might be nostalgic for some little extra bits of grandma's life. I hope they arrive in one piece.
On the Tuesday evening, we went to see my father play his banjo at a local bluegrass/country jam, and I was inspired. He seems to really enjoy that socializing aspect of his new interest in banjo-playing. All I could think about the whole time was when would I get to karaoke out with my friends again? All those jammers looked like they were having such fun! One guy did a song I sort of knew, so I sang along a bit in the crowd with other people, but it's not the same as the 'raoke.
Glad we went, but glad to be back: travelling, especially by plane, wears me out. Thank goodness for this new product called "earplanes" which keep the change in pressure from torturing my ears. I used to have so much pain that I would dread flying, but these things truly work: no pain there or back in the middle of ragweed season, and I don't have to take those heavy decongestants either. What a relief: I highly recommend this product. You can get earplanes at Shopper's Drug Mart for $7.49, and I think they last for two return-trips. If you have ever experienced the pain, you will know that is nothing to pay for the relief.
One major joy about returning to Hamilton was seeing my doggie! We were too late to get her last night, and I could barely sleep all night for thinking about her. This morning we rushed over and picked her up; she seems fine, but very tired. I think the other dogs barked so much that she didn't have much chance for her usual naps. We were so happy to see her that we bought her another stuffed toy, like she needs another one of those. She fell asleep on top of it on the sofa just now, so I think she likes it. It's called Burly Berber Bull.
I can't believe how long it has been since I blogged; that was fun, will not wait so long in between again.

Simple foods

Grilling vegetables releases their most primal flavours, reminding the eater of the true taste of those foods. I spent the afternoon grilling large quantities of vegetables, to make into several meals; it's hot out there, but I used the patio umbrella, and I survived. I had one green fig left from my first-ever fresh fig experiment, and I've been reading often on food blogs about grilled figs, so I sliced it in half and popped it on the electric non-stick (non-stick, my A**) that I use because I'm scared of gas and too lazy to work with charcoal. [Aside: can you believe that I waited until I was over 39 to eat a fresh fig?] Grilling a fig (see the one on the left in the pic here) proves that they are basically pure sugar, leaving a gorgeous dark crust on the grill when I pried it off. I let it cool for a few minutes, then cut each piece into halves, so that I would have four mouthfuls of HEAVEN. Yes, just like that, no added herbs or spices or oils, a fresh fig grilled: succulent, sweet, charred to perfection, ooey gooey loveliness.
I enjoy all sorts of foods and recipes and combinations, but lately I have been experimenting with relearning the flavours of the basic food: what does a cooked carrot really taste like, do I actually like broccoli or only when it's drowned in cheese or stir-fried with mucho spices and surrounded by other veggies? That was what I was doing with the fig/grilled fig: I ate both without any added ingredients, and I enjoyed them so much.
As we age, our sense of taste does dull somewhat, so I guess I am trying a mid-life "remembrance of foods past" so that after another 20 yrs on this Earth, I will have those imprints on my brain and the sights of those foods will still evoke the taste-memory if not the actual taste in my mouth. A large part of the enjoyment of food for me is the visual display of the dish and the memories associated with the enjoyment of eating that particular food previously.
As part of thinking about the basic flavours of food, I tried to remember some of the simpler tastes that I have enjoyed over the years. I realized that some of my favourite dishes from among the thousands of recipes I have sampled during 40 years of eating are some of the simplest. The recipes are practically in the description of the dish, they're that simple. If the freshest ingredients and some attention are paid, they are so satisfying and delicious. 

Here are some of the most simple foods that still delight my palate:

Sauteed mushrooms on toast;

Whole grain sourdough bread toasted with BUTTER;

Poached egg with salt and freshly cracked pepper;

Tomato and cucumber salad with lemon juice/evoo vinaigrette;

Crackers and goat cheese;

Spaghetti with butter/olive oil, parmesan cheese, and fresh-ground pepper;
Aged cheddar in a grilled cheese sandwich;
Broccoli and spaghetti;
Fried egg sandwich;
And any vegetable grilled on the Bar-Bee-Q. Good thing I just ate, or this blog entry would be making me hungry!

Should be sleepin'

But wanna be bloggin'
I only took three days off, and the huge number of must-answer emails in my mailbox when I returned was almost overwhelming. Remind self to never take vacation days prior to a deadline on a call for articles. I made it through all of them, but many I answered so briefly and then shifted to my "other inbox" in order to deal with them more thoroughly tomorrow. That's boring: why am I writing about email?
I bought new sneakers: Saucony, with green accents. They are so cushiony and bouncy and were on sale! With the mileage I clock each week walking to work and dog-walking, I need to buy quality sneakers that will help me keep a bounce in my step. I walked in them to work and dog-walked today and they required no breaking-in, so I know they fit well. And they're mesh, for summer coolness; does that mean I can buy a warmer pair for walking in the late autumn? I recommend this brand: they have an arch support, are not too high around the Achilles tendon, and cushiony there too around the ankle, so comfy.
I'm just writing to write, in order to get into the habit of doing this more often, and delaying going to bed. Some nights I don't want to go to bed, well that's rare for me actually, but some nights I just don't want to finish with the day, even if I'm just reading or surfing online. Tonight is one of those nights.
But I have a lot to look forward to tomorrow: it's a part-day at work so I leave early; I might get to have lunch with a bud; the weather is supposed to be spectacular; I'm planning to buy special pizza toppings and make a luscious pie; maybe I'll sing a little while my D. is away golfing with the neighbours. Ooh, sounds like a plan, better hit the rack (naval talk) and catch some zzz's so I'm rested enough to enjoy Friday!

It's all new to me

This afternoon, my D. and I went to a local paint-your-own ceramics studio. I had tried this crafty pastime when I was a kid, thanks to my mom's interest in it, but I hadn't pursued it, and I haven't tried it since. At this franchise place, you don't have to clean the greenware, which was tedious, and the bisque is fired once, ready for painting. You draw the design on with pencil, or trace with graphite paper, and then you paint, paint, paint. I tried an octopus on a salad plate. Then they dip-glaze for you, which was another tedious task back in the old days when I first tried ceramics because you had to paint on the glaze. My D. did a cereal bowl. We get to go back on Saturday and pick up our creations. We could stay in the place and draw and paint all afternoon, no rushing; it was pleasant and creative, and it was fun to concentrate on something that wasn't related to work. The studio is called Crock-A-Doodle.

This outing is another adventure in my year of trying new things, which started in January with my first karaoke outing. Now I am a complete karaoke addict, and will probably go tonight, if I can drag my D. with me: they have it at a pizza restaurant right around the corner, how convenient is that!? I've included a pic of me at a karaoke night out, singing Pink's "So What" song. I can't sing well, but I really get into the songs! I'm enjoying 'raoke so much that I even bought karaoke games for our home Xbox 360 system. That's great fun too.


I also have been attending English Country Dancing with a few friends, which is the type featured in those movie adaptations of all those Jane Austen novels. It's really fun, and two hours per session for only $6 each time we go. I go with a fellow Austen aficionado and a couple others whom we've managed to hook. The music is so sweet and the people are so nice, and the dance figures are great fun.


For the first time, I went to see a famous sci fi writer at a bookstore. I heard Robert Sawyer talk about the future, and that was amazing. I went to a food & drink fest in Hamilton with a fellow foodie, and after I thought, why have I never gone to one of those before? It was really fun and TASTY!


I made a new friend too, tried some new cooking recipes, went to a cooking party at the neighbour's house, mixed a couple new cocktail recipes, tried chocolate beer (delicious!), attended a webinar, went to a PhD defense, hosted a potluck lunch at work, started a facebook group page for the journal, learned some new Google online apps ... this list is getting long! Yay! New things!


It all started with a friend encouraging me to try karaoke, and thanks to her I have rediscovered what it means to enjoy living, to have a passion for something outside myself, to share enthusiasm about life's little joys with other people.


About a year before that first karaoke outing, I actually asked a friend of mine in all seriousness if it were possible for a human to die of boredom. Thank goodness my joie de vivre resurfaced in time to avoid death by disuse.

A new poem, silliness

After Work


Paisley fractals of clouds wisp across the sky.
Two gulls, a thousand miles from the nearest salt water,
wheel on summer updrafts.
The heat of the day seeps from the deck boards
into my back:
too lazy to retrieve a wicker chair from the garage.
What conjunction of humidity, temperature, and wind
permits the creation of pointy fractal clouds?


I praise and bless the conjunction of flavours
in my tequila fruit punch,
spiked with sparkling juice imported from Italy,
which is surrounded by salt water.
"Fractal clouds" ...
the phrase bangs on my brain until I go inside and write it down.

Too hot

I had ordered green curry at several places in the past year or so, and had enjoyed the hot bite mixed with Thai basil and coconut milk. I was not prepared for the Limeridge Mall Thai Express's version of green curry: the woman at the cash register warned me it was hot when I placed my order, but I was naive. The first bite made me choke, and I almost spit my food out on the table! Note to self, in future when the staff person says, "It's hot," take her word for it. Luckily for me, we had ordered a bowl of TomYum soup too, which came with enough noodles to re-roof my garage (I really couldn't think of a better metaphor there; I have over-eater's brain right now). My D. was eating a large portion of veggie pad thai, and looking at the gigantic bowl of soup, so he said I could eat that if my meal was too hot.
I really hate to waste food, so I choked down some of my Green Curry chicken and a few vegetables, but the rice was soaked in the sauce. I warned my D. about the heat, but I guess he didn't really believe me; after listening to me complain with every bite, he grabbed some saucy rice, the worst part for heat, and ate it; he couldn't speak and almost spit it out. "My nose is running, my eyes are watering, I feel hot all over, and I only had one bite; how are you eating that?" "I don't know," I choked, blowing some air past him. "Oh, please don't breathe at me like that, the air is even stinging my eyes!" he winced.
After a few more bites, I gave up and launched into the noodle soup. The broth made the hot spices in my mouth spread around even more, so I had another jolt of that heat before it finally started to get washed away into my stomach. I recommend the TomYum soup, for veggies and value for your money, but so many noodles that I think we could have shared the one serving and been satisfied. But, watch out for the green curry at that particular Thai Express.

After lunch, my D. usually likes a sweet treat, and we were dangerously close to a Cinnabon. Thanks to the escalators, it was a relatively short trip from the food court, so we made the detour to get him his sweet-fix. And, oh my gosh they now serve cupcakes: they're beautiful and the flavours are fun too, including cinnamon and carrot cake. I bought a cinnamon cupcake to take home for later. The reason I'm describing this is because I wanted to write about my D.'s enjoyment of his Cinnabon on the way home in the car. I have never seen or heard another human enjoy eating something that much before in my life. "Is the smacking sound during each chew absolutely necessary?" I asked, after listening to it for a few moments. He was almost non-verbal with sugary ecstasy: "oommm, yeah." "Okay, just so I know," I said. A few oohs and ahs and sighs later, an "Ouch" escaped his lips. "What was that?" I asked. "It's still hot in the middle," he gurgled through sticky-coated lips that were descending toward the box in search of more goodness. But he sure wasn't complaining about the hotness, fresh out of the oven, just sublime, I could tell by the noises he was making. He swiped out the icing from the bottom of the box with his fingers after the last crumbs of dough were gone, and said, "Ooogh, darn." "What?" I thought maybe he had spilled some on the car seat or something. "It's all gone." He sounded so sad. I told him that I enjoyed listening to him eat it with such gusto. I never thought dessert could make me laugh so much; that Cinnabon nosh was immensely entertaining.

To garden or not to garden

This year I chose not to garden; after a couple debacles with the dog in the backyard -- see my post about one incident -- I had already determined that buying plants for the back was a waste of money. I did transplant a giant overgrown sedum to the front yard, to save my dog from her fetish for snapping at stinging insects because flowering sedum really attracts bees.
I also shared some overgrown plants with a friend, and I trimmed back the overly enthusiastic grapevine once or twice, but now I've given up. Maybe it's just too hot this week, or maybe I'm sick of trying to rewind the water hose that bends the opposite way no matter which way I turn or twist it, or maybe I'm just supremely lazy (likely that option), but this summer I had no real desire to excavate an area and try a new planting. I have many perennials that are doing all right, so they've filled in the available areas. If I had wanted to garden this year, I would have had to dig out an area covered in thick knotted grass, and I must be the weakest person in Canada, because excavating one little spot takes me all afternoon. I saved some money with my lack of interest in gardening this year, but I do sort of miss the adventure of picking something at the garden gallery store, planting it and tending it and watching what it turns into ... or watching it get shredded by the dog or eaten by slugs. Yes, I made the right choice this year; now, I just have to accept that choice and move on.
One thing I did learn this year, while tending my perennials, is that I must remind myself while doing a clipping project or weeding, or watering, or raking, or trimming, that I must leave energy for the cleanup part of the project. That has been an important lesson for me; not leaving detritus from a project lying around is crucial for my self-respect. Last fall I clipped a huge section of the grapevine away from the fence, and was so exhausted that I left the pile of vines in the middle of the yard until snow fell; then I was too darn lazy to pick them up and try to bind them and tie them into a manageable bale. Luckily, my long-suffering husband helped me with them this spring and a helpful neighbour took them to the transfer station in his truck for us. He's so nice! That pile of vines and its six-month sojourn in my backyard was an important lesson for me: I remembered it every time I started a project, and I have not left a pile behind yet this year. Yet, I say "yet" because I'm sure if I get any crazy ideas about working in the garden in this heat that I'll run out of gas and leave another mound of weeds or clippings lying about until the temperature changes.

A friend's vegetable garden makes me yearn to be ambitious, and hearing my parents talk about their wondrous food-growing landscape in their backyard almost inspires me to try something modest; but I remember the dog and my absence of fence-building ability, and my general lack of wanting to work hard at anything lately, and I resign myself to begging for excess zucchini or tomatoes from people I know who have gardens. I did that today, actually, while talking to someone about her garden, maybe that conversation will bear fruit/veg. Just call me the punster.

Film subgenres

On Canada Day, a blessed holiday in the middle of the week, I watched one of my favourite movies again for about the 8th time: The Fifth Element. Bruce Willis is not my favourite actor, but he appeals to me in this sci fi movie, wherein I also happen to enjoy the storyline and directing so much that I don't really notice the Bruce but accept him as his character. And his recent  movie called Surrogates was way better than I thought it would be; that's not saying it was great or anything, just way better than a lot of actioner sci fi pics lately. Beyond the amazing production design and the Jean-Paul Gaultier costumes (orange is an important colour in the movie, which is why I keep putting those links in orange), a main reason that I enjoy The Fifth Element so much is for the comedy: I always laugh so hard when Korben, the main character, has these terribly annoying phone conversations with his mother while he's in the middle of getting fired or trying to save the world. Many of my favourite flicks fit snugly into the subgenre of comedy sci fi, such as Galaxy Quest, Evolution, Buckaroo Banzai, Repo Man, and Dude Where's My Car? (several others too). It's not a huge subgenre, but it's highly entertaining.
Subgenres guide me at the video store: I need the mash-up, the combo, because sticking too closely to one genre will likely lose me about halfway through the 90+ minutes of the average drama. Some of my favourite movies wedge themselves into the horror genre, but I don't actually like horror movies. Labelling films and filing them on certain shelves aids people who choose which movies to watch by their box artwork. I scan the horror shelves and read the blurbs on the back of the boxes just in case there's a new horror/sci fi (a la Alien, another fav) or comedy/sci fi (Evil Dead or Tremors are classics in that subgenre, although Abbott and Costello really nailed the comedy/horror movie in the 40s and 50s) that I missed because it went straight to DVD.
Many of my favs of all time are horror/sci fi, the ultimate action mashup, and if some comedic moments are slipped in at odd times, I'm in heaven. The Alien series is probably the best; I have watched Pitch Black with Vin Diesel about a dozen times, and I try to get everybody I know to watch it too. A little known and undervalued mid-nineties pic called Screamers grabs my attention every time it's on tv, and it certainly doesn't hurt that Peter Weller is the star.
Another subgenre I like lately is the zombie story, as all my friends know. Writing about the movie mashups has made me desperate to watch the new Zombieland. I think I must go buy some beer right now and rent that movie.

Enough with the adverbs

Another one of my narrative problems is working out how to express what a character thinks and feels without relying too much on the omniscient narrator and adverbs. A pox on adverbs! I want to write expressive text that sparkles with compelling verbs; not, I want to write expressively and compellingly. In my work as an editor, too much reliance on adverbs strikes me as lazy sometimes: a writer who cannot be bothered to seek the correct, evocative verb, or a writer who gives up when the sentence structure frustrates their attempts to express an idea and throws in a few adverbs to dress it up instead of rewriting. A pox on adverbs, I say! When I get a few more pages of my novel written, I'll do a find/replace and destroy all the -ly words. I don't want to sound like I use a thesaurus when I'm writing, either; where simple verbs will do, that's what I'll use: such as "he said" "she said" almost all the time, never "opined" or "asserted" or "pronounced." The way some writers use adverbs and those specific speech-verbs bothers me because the writers fail to take the time to describe the character's face and voice. I don't need a plethora of details, but a crinkled lip and a turned head combined with the right dialogue conveys disgust in a profound way to the reader, much more so than writing "Tom was disgusted." When people interact in real life, those microexpressions on others' faces, body language, and word choices reveal all we need to know, unless the person actually says, "I am disgusted." And no floating bubble (aka omniscient narrator) resides behind people's heads that reads in a large black font [definitely NOT Comic Sans], "Ooh, Tom was disgusted." My interest in facial expressions expands with every episode that I watch of the Fox show "Lie to Me." I will definitely incorporate some aspects of this study of microexpressions into my novel in order to describe the moods and reactions of my characters -- much better than adverbs.
And this omniscient narrator business, or even the first-person narrator, are getting a bit tired. We never get to see what a person thinks and feels inside their brain, inside their soul, except for our own; how can we identify with this person's innermost thoughts when they are so completely foreign from our own. The only stories using first-person narrators that I enjoy are the ones written like diaries or letters; clusters of glimpses inside a person's thoughts and feelings presents a much more convincing narrative strategy to me. I know, I know "suspension of disbelief"; but that only works for me with movies and similar media. I want a book to convince me of its believability, to work at converting me to its version of the world, to draw me in while I struggle to maintain a foot outside, yet I fail because the word-world compels me to change my beliefs for those moments I indulge in its wonders. Visual media requires suspension of disbelief, while print media forces a change of beliefs, at least for that time my brain engages with the particular wordscape.
Oh third-person omniscient narrator, who invented you? What wunderkind novelist blessed the world with your first appearance? Jane Austen does work wonders with her narrators, but many modern novelists rely on this point of view to the extent that their descriptive work gets lazy. Why do I have to figure out how to inform the reader about the mood of a character, when I can just tell the reader that "Tom sits in a chair by the window, bored, as he watches rain trickle down the pane"; there, wasn't that easy? What if Tom taps his finger, leans his head on the back of the chair, or shifts in his seat: don't those movements convey his boredom without simply writing "bored." I think I'm annoyed lately with the writers telling me how to perceive a situation with such exactness. "Tom is bored," writes the novelist; but what if I want to interpret the situation presented in this novel of Tom's sitting by the window and swinging his leg as a deep-seated melancholy for that character which will influence his life's path and cause him great distress every time he tries to talk to his hyperactive, cheerful sister? Stop telling me as the reader how to read these characters and their dialogues and their actions and participactions; isn't that part of the fun of reading? To take those settings and characters and dialogue into your brain and imagine what is going on; as with paintings, part of the great art of novel-writing should reside in the mental pictures and moods that the reader sees, not only what he or she is told to see and feel by the author. Without that aspect of great fiction, most of literary criticism could not exist. This incompetence exists in so much current fiction, at least what I've been reading lately; I find this informing instead of storytelling even in books that others proclaim to be great works of art of our contemporary era. I want my words to paint a picture, but I don't want to try to control how people see and experience that picture. In my book, Tom will not be "bored" and boring, he will sigh and shift in his chair until the reader thinks, "ah, he's bored; now why is he bored, and what is he going to do about it?" and then turns the page in anticipation. 

Back from the Falls

Two nights and almost two days in Niagara Falls (aka "mini-me Las Vegas") flew by so quickly that I barely had time to blink. My D. golfed in a friendly tournament at the Legends course. Mulligan and I went along for the ride to NF, in order to spend the last couple days of vacay with our dude, and to avoid worrying about him driving on the highway after a full-day of golfing (two rounds). This was our first time with the dog in a hotel, so we booked a pet-friendly place: Best Western Fallsview. For an extra $25 per night, which included kennelling if you're out for the day visiting the Niagara attractions, they give you a treat bag on arrival and many smiles for your family pet. I put the dog in the kennel for a half-hour on Saturday morning so that I could go get something to eat, and she seemed even perkier when I picked her up! Mulligan is a champion traveller, and except for the occasional BOOF! when peeplz in the hall were making noizes, she was perfect.
We ate Antica Pizzeria pizza on Friday, recommended by a friend, and it was delicious! A+ for sure. I had their signature Antica Pizza, with onions and sauce and parmesan cheese (no mozzarella), and I think that might be my new favourite topping combo. Friday was so unbearably hot + high humidity that my brain started to melt, and I turned into cranky-monster with swirling eyes who frightens my D. He said, "Oh, I remember where I saw this version of you before: when we were in Mexico!" We booked a trip to Mexico in September, the tail-end BUT not the end of hurricane season (H-Ivan swamped our beach for a whole day), and we went to the tropical rainforest part of Mexico in SUMMER, not bright am I? I spent the first two days prostrate on the bed from the humidity, and the rest of the week I only ventured out after noon, and always had to stay in the shade, or MY BRAIN WOULD MELT. I inherited this condition from my mother: unable to stand high-humidity plus heat is a genetic defect apparently. Note to self, always book desert vacations if you want to travel in the summer months.
Back in the air-conditioned Niagara Falls hotel room, I was less of a grizzly bear, but I was content to rent a movie on the tv so we stayed in and watched "Hot Tub Time Machine." Except for the soundtrack, don't bother; oooh, and parts of it are really really gross! That guy from the story in the link to the grizzly bear attack certainly has the right to HATE that mo-fo bear, but he doesn't ... maybe I could print out this article and show it to my D. when I have one of my g-bear, brain-melting attacks, and he won't "bear" a grudge against me, like that scientist, who must have a brain disorder to HATE NOT that mo-fo bear!

We walked down the steep hill to the Falls, and luckily the dog pulled me all the way back up because she thought she heard an animal squeaking behind the wall lining the sidewalk. The Falls are beautiful at night, but so think thousands of other people: it was busy for fireworks night, which meant we left before the booming started (goggie is very scared of fireworks!). The mist columned up twice as high as the Falls that night too, which meant we couldn't really see much of the Canadian side.
Saturday I lazed around = heaven! Read a new book (more on that later), napped, walked goggie three times, ate bacon, watched trash tv; it was bliss. That night, we got Thai Express takeout, and if you haven't had it yet, you are seriously deprived! I recommend their food, especially the green curry. The nearest location for local-bros is Lime Ridge Mall: worth the trip!
This morning, Sunday, we came home early, and now I'm blogging. Almost two days without my computer didn't kill me, but now I've been on it for two hours ... catching up I guess. Thanks to Lady Buttons for including me on her list of fav blogs -- yours is my absolute fav, Lady B.!

She's crafty

A new business opened nearby: paint-your-own ceramic dishes, called "Crock a Doodle". I am stoked to go there and try it out, and maybe organize a party with the ladies too. I used to wax crafty now and then, but in my year of trying new things, I've actually let the crafts lapse. I miss the creative process. Although I've been trying to write, I don't usually feel particularly creative during that slog: writing is HARD. I like crafts because of the relatively short period of time needed to get a result, a finished product. And, most of the crafts I've tried are nowhere near as difficult as writing; and the resulting product can sometimes turn into a gift. I made some holiday banners one year that were a big hit; the tote bags were also winners. So satisfying.

I already know which design I'm going to apply to a plate (or platter, if I get ambitious): an octopus. I saw an antique plate with a cephalopod on it, and now I must have one. Cephalopod designs on pottery is an ancient tradition: witness this Minoan vase (right). I can't afford the $700 version of the antique plate that I saw online, so I'm getting my crafty juices flowing again, and thanks to this new business in University Plaza in Dundas, I'm going to make one myself, for myself (no gifting this time). My design will be based on this antique print, but I'm sure the end result will resemble a five-year-old's art project, although that might look great on a platter too.
I only tried ceramics when I was a kid, with my mom, who went to classes and made many ceramic items, a very cool cookie jar among them, if I remember correctly. This activity will also count as a new thing for my 2010, since I really don't remember what it was like from when I was 12 years old.
A craft that I know I like and have done a bit is beadwork, from kits. I want to do more of that too, but I think that will have to remain a late-fall/winter activity. A summer activity that I could do in my nice cool basement is some more sewing. I definitely want to make a few throw pillows, since mine are getting pretty tired, and the last time I washed the covers, they got all pilly and I'm too lazy to pick the pills or cut them off. I also want to finally make a skirt from the piece of fabric that's been hanging in my closet for the past two or three years = LAME. If I make that darn skirt, then I could justify going to the fabric store and buying some more fabric for the next project. One Fabricland store is near a large farmer's market on Ottawa St. and an outlet eyeglasses place, which would be three errands in one trip to the east end. I like that idea; road trip soon.
My relaxing vacation has been going very well; so relaxing that I have read an entire novel and finished singing all the career mode disks on my karaoke game, and have not picked up one project. Ahhhh, my kind of vacation. I think I should be independently wealthy so that I could just relax all the time, instead of working or housekeeping or worrying or making lists. I had a list in mind when I started this vacation almost two weeks ago, but it dissolved. I am a major list-maker (lists, lists, lists always forming in my mind, swirling around, causing me anxiety), but that's a topic for another blog, another day.
Must go now, have one list-item that I must do before we head to Niagara Falls for the weekend = laundry!

Tea is sublime

I am not a daily tea-drinker, but I truly enjoy a cuppa now and then. A couple years ago, I discovered white tea, which contains leaves picked in their early fuzzy-white stage (see pic). One hot cup of that type of tea has enough mellow flavour and aroma to fill my entire morning with pleasure; and not caffeinated pleasure, since white tea contains less than one-quarter the caffeine of black coffee. I tell everyone I know who drinks tea that they must try white tea, and not just for its sublime flavour, but it may have cold-fighting properties too: it's full of antioxidants and anti-viral chemicals.
When I was growing up, all we drank in Nova Scotia was Red Rose Tea, which is perfectly fine for an orange pekoe (a grade of tea, which I only discovered while surfing a little in order to write this blog), and it's a Maritime company, so that was good too, supporting local businesses and all. Oh, and we drank many herbal teas, which I don't really favour. I drank the occasional cup of tea to be sociable at functions and gatherings, but I was far from a tea-lover. Not until I moved to another province did I learn that black tea was available in various flavours and configurations; after trying my first cup of Earl Grey, I was hooked. The scent and flavour of bergamot raise tea to a whole new level. Another bergamot tea is Lady Grey, a kinder, gentler version of Earl Grey and a trademark of Twinings, which is completely worth the extra money to buy a brand-name tea. Lady Grey is downright impressive at an afternoon sandwich luncheon ... Red Rose who?
And to my surprise, different teas at different times of the day do make for a nice change: try English Breakfast or my favourite early-morning brew, Irish Breakfast, upon awakening. Irish Breakfast blend normally uses Indian tea, instead of Chinese tea, which is a distinction in the major region of the world the tea originated and also in the size of the leaves, even though they both come from the same basic tree. People describe Irish Breakfast tea as having "malty" flavours, and I agree that it is a substantial drink with which to start your day, a wake-me-up tea, like a strong cup of coffee.
I usually drink my tea black, but sometimes with a bit of sugar, or a squeeze of lemon juice, or occasionally a dollop of honey; never milk for me, since I'm not a big milk-drinker. White tea never needs sugar or honey because its delicate flavour profile holds a natural sweetness.
Bagged teas are perfectly fine for my palate and my budget; if I had all the time in the world and an inclination to wash many accoutrements, I would indulge in the complete tea-ceremony with the loose leaves and the steeper and the warmed pot, etc., etc., on a regular basis. Loose tea brewed with care actually does taste so much better than bagged tea that it's really hard to describe, but I'm a tea-lover, not a tea-snob, so I enjoy them all. Except, I find green tea too astringent and prefer not to drink it, unless it is flavoured with ginger or some other strong-aroma ingredient.
I only recently tried chai tea, which is very spicy and rather FUN, all caps. I will likely savour that type of tea rarely, since I enjoy the actual flavour of the black tea leaves so much on their own.

Oh, and I almost forgot to mention jasmine tea: the world would definitely be a sad, empty place without jasmine tea.
I've managed to fill an entire blog entry about tea; I hope that my enthusiasm for this drink has come through in this writing. One quick mention about tea as a commodity, though: while it's not currently on my list of socially responsible shopping choices, fair trade tea should probably make it on there in the near future. The list is long, that guilt-list subscribed to by all the people who want commerce to be fair in this globalized world. Imagine that! I'll have to look into it a little more, and I'll let you know when I do decide to put tea on my personal list, because then I'll have some actual tea brands to recommend, not just tea types.

This spice is so nice

My favourite spice is cumin, which I hadn't really tasted until I became an adult. Now I use it in so many dishes that I routinely run out of it and have to make a special trip to the Bulk Barn (my favourite spice store) to stock up. During this most recent restocking trip, when I opened the little bin, the aroma made me smile and giggle a little bit, right there in the aisle of the Bulk Barn; what a weirdo, getting a thrill from a spice aroma. The nutty, peppery flavour of cumin fills in the profile of so many dishes, from chili to curries, from hummus to spiced cornbread; Mexican, Spanish, Indian, and Middle Eastern cuisines favour cumin.
For a treat, fry some potatoes in butter with onions, and then dust with cumin in the last couple minutes of cooking. Lentil soup will earn extra praise with cumin added early in the simmering, so its flavour permeates the broth.
Any time I cook with avocados (cumin punches up guacamole to a whole new level of divinity), such as this summer of my tostado, I always sprinkle in a little cumin. Cumin can improve almost any dish: add a little cumin plus some chili powder to regular macaroni and cheese, and Ole! It's Mexican-inspired Mac & Cheese.
My D. and I disagree about some spices, but he never complains when I add cumin to my favourite dishes, from casseroles to soups and stews to rice pilaf and corn muffins. I should get a mortar and pestle and try the seeds; I bet they're great toasted a bit before they're ground into the powder. Yum.

Ode to cocktails

What an odd thing to write about on a Sunday morning.

The first time I drank a cocktail, a Tom Collins (see pic right) mixed by the bartender at an air force base dance, circa 1986, was a revelation. Wine is fine, beer brings cheer, liquor is quicker, but cocktails are sublime. Alcohol + sweet or sour, fire or cool, jewel fruit or earthy spices creates a recipe meant to evoke emotions, inspire enthusiasm, or mellow temperaments; in the hands of a skilled bartender, cocktails = alchemy. I mean, I slurped that Tom Collins with such gusto that I almost went home with a complete stranger that night, a Quebec air force minion; talk about stranger danger. And I don't even like gin!

I discovered a new cocktail of my own concoction this week, which I just had to share [NOT pictured, that's a margarita on the left]. President's Choice has a new product called Blood Orange-Juice in Italian Soda. I put cubes and gold tequila in a tall glass and topped it with the Blood Orange Soda: delicious and slightly nutritious (real blood orange juice in the soda). Now, lately I think tequila tastes just right in almost any cocktail, but this one was special: the slightly sour but mostly sweet orange soda, the fresh cubes clinking against the glass, the bite of the tequila, the bubbles; ah, a great summer drink. I will definitely serve that at my next party, along with margaritas for the tequila-traditionalists. [Not those frozen abominations called margaritas, the real thing, where you still taste the tequila and it doesn't give you an ice-cream headache].

My favourite cocktail is a cosmopolitan (pic right), and I cannot believe how many places I've visited in Canada where they don't know how to mix one. I mean, this drink recipe has been around for more than 30 years. Catch up, people! I was starting to get really annoyed by the enormous variation in cosmos that I was served, until I realized that I really didn't care that much, as long as I just called it a "cocktail" and enjoyed the drink for its own self and the effort of the maker. I did buy a book called "The Little Pink Book of Cocktails" because it's the perfect size to fit in my purse, and when a waitress at a small place says they do make cocktails but they don't know how to make a cosmo, I can whip out my book and show them the recipe.

Just for the edification and future reference of my readers, a cosmo requires (amounts are for those who enjoy the flavour of vodka, if you want it fruitier, increase the cranberry and lime slightly):

1 oz vodka

1/4 oz triple sec

1/4 oz lime juice

1 dash cranberry juice

Mix vodka, triple sec, lime, and cranberry juice in an iced mixing cup. Strain into a martini glass. Garnish with a lime wedge. Now, is that such a difficult drink recipe to have in your permanent repertoire, people who pretend to be bartenders but really ARE NOT? NOTE: in a mixed drink, premium vodka is optional; regular vodka will do, and saves the wallet. They've done taste tests, and most people cannot tell the diff between vodkas.

In the garden with Mulligan

Now, I adore my Mulligan (see her pic at the top of my blog), my sweet pupster, but sometimes her doggie behaviours irk me. Take this week, for instance, when I was beginning to think about gardening, after a long cold winter followed by a very lazy spring. A new plant I stuck in the ground last year tried its darndest to peek out from under the giant peony bush, so I cut back the peony and wished and hoped that this new (read "expensive") plant would find the sun and not drown in the excessive rain of late April and early May and would make a go of it in my backyard. A few new leaves appeared; I thought it might struggle into glorious burgundy "flame" (the name on the tag included "flaming" something or other to describe the colour). The very next day, while I was out in the yard on scooper duty, I noticed that my beloved pooch had started a new hole, right where my new plant was had been trying to survive. Struggle no more, little plant, now in two pieces and completely extruded from its nice warm bed of mother-earth. I think the dog was trying to get to the other side of the world, by the looks of that gaping maw she excavated. I said goodbye to my little plant and vowed to never buy a new plant for the backyard again, especially after inspecting my new hostas, which were showing signs of shredding from repeated "there's a raccoon! there's a raccoon!" stompings at 5.30 am.
Update on the hole: I allow Mulligan two spots for holes in the fence-hugging garden beds because (1) she's a dog, (2) it's really her yard, and (3) we have too many rabbits in this neighbourhood to expect a dog not to dig near a fence when she espies a rabbit. However, I may have to watch her a little more carefully when digging is in the offing, as her second excavation of the new hole resulted in an injury that could have been terrible: she skinned her carpal pad (that pad about two inches above her foot on the back of her front legs) so badly that it bled. She is an enthusiastic digger! It seems to be healing fine today, after a worrisome yesterday. So, not only does she irk me sometimes, but she worries me often; not entirely her fault since I am a worrywart.

And then I get to enjoy the cuteness; man, my dog is cute. She was resting in the warm grass on the front lawn, under our baby-tree, sniffing up the neighbourhood while I pruned the euonymous shrubbery at the front of the house. No leash, no rope, just my periodic vocal reminders that I was watching her. And her second-favourite place is looking out our upstairs window, which she sits at right now while I'm typing. When the light is right, the neighbours can see her, surveying her kingdom: they always tell me that they wave at her, so they think she's pretty cute too. This pic is of her with the badminton gear; Dan taught her to come get a birdie from him and bring it over to me while we were playing badminton in the backyard.
Enough gushing about my dog; I just wanted to write it down somewhere, how much I enjoy my pupster, even when she's irksome or worrisome, she's still actually pretty cute -- you should see her dig that hole!

More yakkin' about books

I will now describe three books that I own but have not yet read; what a boring way to start a blog entry. How about I start it with some marauding and plundering, downright thievery: I stole this idea to write about books I haven't yet read from a friend's parent's blog. I think it is a great concept, so I will credit that particular book-blog and then only write the occasional entry in this same vein. All great ideas inspire other people to create their own version of those great ideas; that's why you can't copyright an IDEA, just the execution of that idea.

Three books I bought and truly meant to read when I shelled out the cash for them, but still haven't slogged my way through for some reason are: C.G. Jung, Modern Man in Search of a Soul, Jack Hodgins, A Passion for Narrative, and Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women Who Run with the Wolves [the link takes you to a review of this book]. They have survived my periodic book-cleansing ritual, so somewhere in my mind they maintain their status as must-reads. And yet, they don't really fit into my summer-reading plan of only dystopian lit., so I guess I'm writing about them now in order to remind myself that they are waiting my attention, maybe in the autumn this year.
Just a quick scan of the table of contents for the Jung book made me want to dive into it, from the chapter on dream analysis to the one on psychology and literature, to the obliquely titled "Psychotherapists or the Clergy." I haven't read any psychotherapy tomes, and barely anything deeper than pop-psychology, but Jung's ideas have always fascinated me, or what I've read that other people have described as Jung's ideas. And I don't read German, so this translation will have to do. I really do want to read a book by someone who titles his first chapter, "Dream Analysis in Its Practical Applications"; that has got to be a mind-blower.
To be perfectly honest, I have read most of A Passion for Narrative: A Guide for Writing Fiction, but only in bits and pieces, or skimming sections. I want to sit down and devour it over a few days, making copious notes, and getting inspired. I think that is why I have put off for so long reading this book, I hear it inspires writers to WRITE. This blogging has really helped me get into the habit of writing, just sitting down and writing something, anything, and I'm enjoying that part of the process, which enjoyment I have not felt about writing for many years. I think I'm scared of the Hodgins book, that once I read it I will be compelled to write a novel, and then what will happen?
And I started to read Women Who Run with the Wolves years ago when I first bought it; I see the bookmark resides still in the place where I faltered and stopped reading it (1997). the subtitle tells why I wanted to read this one in the first place: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype. I picked this one up halfway through my decade of reading mainly self-help, pop-psych, and other self-improvement volumes. Women Who Run with the Wolves is a "deeply spiritual" book, according to the contemporary review in the Washington Post Book World, and the prospect of reading about the power that women may find deep within and in our genes, and in our stories from eons past, thrills me. I really don't remember why I stopped reading this book, although it is almost 600 pages of teeny tiny type. My commitment to long books is weak at best. Maybe I will tackle that one in bits and pieces; prepare to be astonished, I tell myself: I think this book is full of wondrous words and startling ideas.
I'm sure I've kept all three of these disparately themed books for that very reason: they are all full, full, full of great ideas and my inner bookshelf requires me to keep them around so that I will eventually take them into myself and be inspired by these other writers' words to write more of my own. Every little thing I've ever read has certainly affected me in some way that will reveal itself in all the quirky details with which I will imbue my characters and progress my plots in the future works that are just waiting to leap to life on the page from the ends of my fingertips as I tap, tap, tap away on this keyboard. Just writing about writing like this is inspiring me right now.
Contented sigh.

The summer of my dystopia

Created by Oatmeal

I know this because I took a quiz on the "The Oatmeal" site. HEART "The Oatmeal" forever.
Obligatory cephalopod share:
theoatmeal.com/story/octopus
And one of my all-time favourite "The Oatmeal" rants, NSFW:
theoatmeal.com/comics/ptero
And he posts excellent grammar instructions too; man, I wish I could blog like THAT GUY!

Yakkin' about books

I can't believe this is my first blog entry about books; books are such an integral part of my life, that I imagined I would never stop yakking about them in a blog sit-cha-ma-ta-tion (situation). Whenever the topic of "interests" or "hobbies" comes up, reading is the first thing that I think to mention or type into the "about you" form on facebook or other profile page. Years ago, I entered a phase of divestiture, after watching way too many episodes of the tv show "Clean Sweep." I used to have piles of books, and many in boxes hoarded in my parent's attic back in Nova Scotia. Now, I go through my books periodically and give them away by leaving them on a hallway table at work, trade them in to a secondhand bookstore, or pass them along to friends. I've only kept a few books for a very long time, two in particular I want to mention here and recommend as good summer reads: /Winter's Tale/ (1983) by Mark Helprin, and yes I bought it new, and /Weaveworld/ (1987) by Clive Barker, yes that Clive Barker. 

Winter's Tale fits in the genre of magical realism, of which I have not read much. [Note: I read another novel by Helprin, /Freddy and Fredericka/, but I strongly disliked it, so I am not recommending the author, rather the specific book.] The characters and the dialogue are so real and mesmerizing that you fall in love with the people of this novel almost immediately; the magical elements are appealing and revealing and at the same time stunning and mystifying. I have kept this giant book all these years because I plan to reread it more than once again in my life, and I want to keep something so beautifully wrought around me forever.
Weaveworld by the horror-move-meister Clive Barker relates a tale of supreme fantasy with monstrous elements that terrify and delight simultaneously. This novel does not fit in the horror genre, but the story is as rich and stimulating as any work in Clive Barker's horror oeuvre. "Nothing ever begins." is the first line of this novel, and that's how the story feels, like it has always been around and always will be, something buried deep in the genetic psyche of humans, too close and personal to not be true.
Both novels are urban fantasies, and I love a good gritty-city novel. They teem with political ideals and ideas, dreams of anarchy and freedom, sorrows over the death of imagination in our daily lives. I adore these books, and I want to share them with everyone. Neither could be made into a movie unless it was a 10-part miniseries for each, but even then, the medium of film would never ever succeed in replicating the gorgeous images that these two writers generate in your brain when you sink into these delights.
My summer reading this year of 2010, my year to try new things, is to embrace the dystopia novel and Zombie works in general. I'm currently working on two books that were filed in the comedy section of my local bookstore: The Zombie Survival Guide and The Zombie Combat Manual. I also recently bought a prequel: /Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: The Dawn of the Dreadfuls/. Check out that link for a live-action promo for the book. (I read Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and enjoyed it so much that I mention to almost every person I know about once a month: annoying, I know). These 3 books fit in well with my dystopia theme, but for a more specific example of the genre, I picked up /Neuromancer/ (1984) by Canadian sci fi genius William Gibson. I'll blog a review of it after I finish it, but so far it's awesome! The other books on my dystopia reading list for summer 2010 include Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley; Anthem, by Ayn Rand; Farenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury. Any suggestions of other dystopia novels to add to the list would be greatly appreciated. Signing off with wishes of happy reading to all! Or, for me, this summer anyway: Morbid Reading!

Does not play well with others

Last night, following a lovely dinner party, I roped three people into playing crokinole with me. It's a board game where you flick little wooden discs around; I couldn't remember all the rules, not having played it for many years, so we decided we were playing the "Hamilton Rules" version of the game. 
Playing with those three was immensely fun; people even came in from the party-on-deck outside to see what we were laughing about. But, at some point early on in the game, my evil, overly competitive snarky inner bi-atch surfaced, and I found myself saying the craziest things. And I noticed I was saying them, but I couldn't or wouldn't stop. I won't detail them here, because that would be like saying them out loud all over again, and I don't think any of them were very nice and should not have been put out into the universe. I like snarky humour as much as the next person, but from a comedian, on stage, who does it for a living. I really don't like getting that way when I play crazy board games, or when I'm drinking a bit and playing board games, which was probably part of the problem, you know, that losing-your-inhibitions thing that happens when alcohol soaks into your brain. I really didn't know any of those people well enough to be that snarky. I now have post-snarky regret clouding my brain and making me feel sorry for myself ... all day ... ruining my Sunday. I'm doing this to myself, snap out of it, SELF!
Now that I'm rethinking the whole episode, maybe snarky-Alice wasn't as extremely horrible as I recall, because the other three people kept playing and playing and playing for more than a hour, and we laughed altogether quite a lot; and I was actually the one who broke up the crokinole session ... when my flicking-finger started to get too sore. Ah, self-doubt, what would a post-party, blue-day, Sunday, last day of weekend, deep low-pressure system sort of day be without you? Blergh.

On days like today, I need to find my own "Ego Kevin" to achieve homeostasis ("look it up: wikipedia it" LOL).

Grape juice and ginger ale

Real grape juice mixed half-and-half with Canada Dry ginger ale ranks in my top 5 favourite soft drinks. I'm enjoying some now as I blog. Others in the top 5 include Orangina, exotic root beers, President's Choice Peach White Grape juice, and chocolate milk. I recommend PC White Grape & Peach juice because it is not loaded with refined sugar and it is not mixed with apple juice; one cup also provides 100% of your DV of Vitamin C. Most of the 100% real juice blends use apple juice as the base, because it is cheap and flavours can layer on top of it without being lost in the mix. Apple juice is so acidic, however, that I have to avoid drinking it most of the time: I am a sensitive flower. That adorable pot-bellied Orangina bottle fills me with joy when I see it; how attached I am to a simple container of juice.

Searching for this image, I came across the Orangina.com website, and they have recipes for not-soft drinks on there -- what a brilliant idea; this one sounds delicious. I may have to buy some Orangina and try some of these cocktails. If anyone is ever wondering what to get me for a present (not that I'm hinting here, or, maybe I am), consumables are the way to go (I have a very tiny house), and I adore small-batch or non-Canadian root beers. I rarely make it to the US by car, but when I do, I always stop at a grocery store on the way back and pick up at least 4 different kinds of root beer. Back to the grape juice and ginger ale: that was a drink my mother always made for parties or any number of guests, even one. I don't make it very often because I like it to remain a special treat, and when I do imbibe many pleasant childhood memories are brought into focus. Almost everyone who tries that mix loves it. If you've gotta drink soft, might as well be special.
Short blog tonight, kinda tired; just wanted to share a favourite sipper and recommend a couple products: Orangina and PC Peach, definitely the way to go.