Friday, July 31, 2009


Psst. I love the Urban Dictionary ( It's taught me so much in so little time. I now know that assclam is not in the dictionary, but ass clown is.

Ass clown (noun) : one, who, through the fault of his parents conception, is a skid mark in society's collective underwear; an unmitigated fool or jerk; a sad sack; a tool or goof; One whose stupidity and/or ineptitude exceeds the descriptive potential of both the terms ass and clown in isolation, and in so doing demands to be referred to as the conjugate of the two.

I was thoroughly disappointed to see that assclam was not in the dictionary, but then I saw the silver lining (okay, I pulled down t he cloud and stitched in the lining myself): I was truly an original and will continue to "invent" words that should be incorporated into the dictionary. If only I can get more people to use them. So far, bum fluff has not warranted any new mention. Neither has crotch rot, but I will persevere.

My good friend Magnet started the urban dictionary love affair earlier this week with her new blog ( There, she introduced me to a new word that she insist I look up. Kittywompus - my imagination started to run rampant, which is really nothing new (for those of you who read about my sperm tea. Yes, you read that right). Kittywompus - a romper room for kids? And who really uses the term romber room? A cat fight gone array? A wombat convention? No, it's when your world is askew, crooked or disorderly. I know that feeling all too well. Sometimes, it's several times in the same day.

I don't think I'm alone, given the conversations I've had with numerous friends. As I approach 40 (gasp! Yes!), I'm a little more introspective, looking at where I've been and where I'd like to go next. The tough part is mapping it out, the roads to take, which routes to demolish and which ones to expand. I'm tired of the old map full of potholes, sometimes self-dug, old familiar roadways and the same damn scenery time and time again. It's time for change. I just have to figure out what that change is.

I'll be a kittywompus for now but if I stop too long in the rest area, kick my ass, arrest me, throw water bottles at me. Howl at me. I'll be sure to move on.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Poetry break: Substance surfacing

The easiest part of my day
is watching you smile
in technicolour dream mode,
transpacial interludes oblivious
to my recording eyes
tendrils a frame curling seductively
on your expanse, unfurled forehead
The easiest part of my day
is hearing you breathe
in tender, innocent, off guard moments
eyes locked explorative with mine,
looking for depth you think is there
and I know is not
The depth exists in you
mirrored pools you think are merely surface substance
Impassable paint and glitter on a barren canvas
but I just don my wide-eyed, in wonder goggles
and dive into your amber waves.

The song of survival

First I was afraid

I was petrified

Kept thinking I could never live

without you by my side

But I spent so many nights

thinking how you did me wrong

I grew strong

I learned how to carry on

You will have surmised by now that I have parental unit issues. Who really doesn't? But, it's amazing how parents can smother the life out of their children with well-meaning intentions.

Over the past four days - the weekend, plus yesterday and today, my parents have called me exactly seven times. That's more than once a day. Tonight, it was my dad's turn. They're worried. What else is new? If it's not to double-check whether I've changed the filter in my furnace this month or paid all of my bills, it's to enquire whether I've eaten that day, purchased travel insurance for my upcoming trip and today, it was to demand that I provide my location details, telephone numbers and emails of the people I will be visiting on my last leg of my trip.

I'm venturing by train to Bristol to visit friends who I met while on vacation in the Dominican Republic. They are respected members of society, a mom and dad team with two kids in tow. Not exactly the druglords my parents envision.

My response: I will email you when I get there via Hotmail but I am not providing a background check for these people (my mother did ask). I will call you when I arrive and IF there is a problem, you'll be the first on my speed dial.

As I got off the phone, I was bewildered that, at the age of 38 years old, I am still treated like a 15-year-old by the two people who have done their utmost to instill in me a good set of values but also what they consider to be a healthy dose of fear. For years, all I heard was "Be careful." "Watch out for strangers." "Don't drive on the highway because you'll die." "Don't fail." Is that healthy?

What isn't healthy is that they assume I will purposely put myself in danger, by inviting strangers in, not locking my door at night, jumping off of a cliff... you name it, they thought it.

Tonight's request was not my father's doing. It was my mom coaching my dad from the sidelines. Make sure she has enough travel and health insurance, coach her on the importance of keeping your passport and traveler's cheques close, don't talk to strangers on the train, don't get on the wrong train. They think they are preparing me for life. At 38 years old, I had hoped their job was done. What they don't realize is that by constantly pointing out what I should be doing and how I should be doing it, they are chipping away my self confidence.

Eight years ago, my mother uttered eight words that I will never forget: "You'll never survive on your own without me." Those eight words are engraved in my brain, and however I try to erase them, they remain, sometimes in neon lights. While on the job, organizing my home life, choosing a life partner, paying the bills, looking for my next employ. "You will never survive."

Has it hindered me? Yes and no. Any therapist will tell you if you're told you are one way over and over again, it's often difficult to think any different. I am in a constant struggle to keep those voices at bay. "You will never survive." "Be careful." "Don't fail." "Don't fall." "You will always need me to take care of you." How do I break this cycle?

It's highly likely that I will fail at some point. That is life. You jump in and learn from your mistakes. I just need to feel that it's okay to make those mistakes in the first place. Margaret and Joe need to realize that they have prepared me as much as they can. Otherwise, I will be pre-determined to sit on the sidelines and wonder "what if I fail," "what if I get hurt," what if I can't survive on my own without them."

No parent is perfect. No child is perfect. No one is perfect. Scribe is not perfect and neither are her parents. But, I will always love them.

Oh no, not I

I will survive

As long as i know how to love

I know I will stay alive

I've got all my life to live

I've got all my love to give

and I'll survive

I will survive

I'm sure Gloria Gaynor did not have this post in mind when she first sang this song. It is all about survival though, in love and life.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

You don’t choose your family and it’s too messy to kill them…

Unless you carpet your entire house with the same plastic that went on the couches in our for-show living room. Then you can bludgeon to your heart’s desire.

Really, I’m not that perverse. I was up late watching back-to-back episodes of CSI, but I can see how it would be easy to go from the Norman Rockwell family unit to The Manson Family. Especially with my family.

I do love them, honestly, but it’s overkill when your mother calls three times in one day to find out how you’re managing with your brother’s 67-lb. ball of afro. After the first call there is nothing left to talk about, but she wanted commiseration that my already-physically and emotionally spent brother has to add another item to the ever-growing list of responsibilities. In honesty, yes, he should have thought of the time constraints and the training involved in getting a dog, especially from puppyhood. But he’s trying his best and that’s all anyone can ask.

Like I said, you can’t choose your family. If I could, I would have traded my brother in for the next model when, at the age of 12, he hid underneath my bed and grabbed my ankles as I passed by. Already a child who envisioned monsters lurking around every corner, this was enough to set me over the edge. I actually peed on my brother’s hands, which some would say is punishment enough. I don’t think so.

My dad doesn’t get off scot-free either. He’s the one who told me about said monsters. He also told me that I sounded like a dying cat whenever I sang songs he didn’t like. Sing along to the radio station in the car? Not this girl. Try it and you would be subjected to Joe’s caterwauling – yes, he would actually growl, spit and cry like the neighbourhood cat just to prove his point. Sing a big band song, a song from his repertoire and there was nothing as sweet as your voice. Styx? Stinks, he’d say. INXS? Crap. Depeche Mode? Nothing I can repeat. His ears would bleed if he heard some of the music on my mp3 today: Green Day, Billy Talent, U2.

It could be worse. I could be kin to these folks (yes, that is a possum).

Or, I could have a little clarinet player floating in the head of another larger, more life-like clarinet player.

Or my dad could fall asleep in his recliner like this old dude. Nah, that’s my mom’s job.

Happy Tuesday, bloggers. We’re one more day closer to the weekend, Canada’s long August long weekend. Long live summer, or long live the summer whenever it does get started.

Friday, July 24, 2009

Update - the gods are smiling

Karma Chameleons everywhere are smiling... The man's baseball game as been called due to thunder and now he can be home to help me reign control over the castle of fuzz muppets.

All is well in Scribe's world. All is well.

And then there were five

Last night, my brother and his three kids came over for a whirlwind visit. The "kids" - Emme, Ry-Guy and Toby - were the whirlwind. Coffee cups were almost knocked over, toys were fought over and upstairs off-limits rooms were explored. Oh, and I now have a new air conditioning system thanks to Kao. Yes, he put his entire head through the front screen door.

He was excited to see his cousins, and especially to see Toby and his full-body afro. Now before you get a visual in your head, let me explain that Toby is my brother's 8-month-old Labradoodle, who would look so cool with a mohawk that I am trying to convince my brother that I should give him one.

Toby is coming for the weekend, a sort of extended play date while my brother, sis-in-law and the kids are at a weekend-long baseball tournament in Amherst, NY. They left this morning, with me in charge of picking up the mutt at the end of my work day. It will be chaos for the remainder of the weekend as both boys love jumping, boxing and barking. Toby does most of the barking, but Kao howls at his rubber chicken and when he thinks we're not listening to him.

Chou is on reprieve for the night. His excuse... I mean reason: a baseball game. It's his regular team so I have no cause for complaint. Only I will be the one to chase both dogs through the house as Toby explores every nook and cranny while Kao follows wondering where he can find his next pair of underwear. He considers it a delicacy, especially when they're mine.

A few dozen dog park visits are in order, I think. It will give me a little bit of a break and the boys will hopefully let off some steam before we venture back to the house of breakables, Bella and bells (cowbells).

The weekend, bloggers, has gone to the dogs. Bella is going to have a heart attack. Either that, or she'll pack her bags and start hitchhiking to the next town.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

For the love of Chapman's!

I went to the store after work today to rustle something presentable for dinner. The man is a mean, keen, grilling machine so I picked up a package of turkey sausages (over half the fat, baby), some sauerkraut and high-fibre buns (oh my, it's going to be a dutch oven night!) and proceeded to the checkout.

There was a lady behind me in the line-up, talking to her kids about an upcoming camp and carrying my favourite ice cream in the world. It's so good that I had to compliment her on her choice. You see, the ice cream is made in my dad's hometown of Markdale, Ont. and I have great memories of venturing to the dairy for a small scoop when my brother and I were shipped off... I mean lucky enough for a week-long visit. Chapman's Ice Cream was the only ice cream allowed in the house - my dad was loyal.

So, I said "that's the best ice cream ever" and was about to tell her that it's made in Markdale and that Markdale, though small, is da bomb. Her reaction: disdain. Disdain for what, I don't know. Me? Perhaps? My gastroriffic choice of a dinner? No. Perhaps, even in the suburbs, locals don't talk to each other. Sure, we flip each other the bird, spew venom at the clogged roads, but rudeness? I hadn't thought the city had gone as far as thumbing noses at complete strangers. Over ice cream dreams.

Perhaps I shouldn't have said anything, made my purchase and gone on my merry way, but that's boring. Predictable. Un-community like.

So, to the woman behind me in the line-up at the Fair & Fresh I extend my middle finger, snub my nose with it and say "Get over yourself." It's a little polite conversation and a recongizing of great ice cream when we see it. I called you on the ice cream and now I'm calling you on this. May your ice cream rot your teeth. May you lick my hairy... big toe. Okay, it's not hairy but it's been in a closed toe shoe for 9 hours. It's enough to kill someone. My death laser stare will have to do. Or, I can rub my toe jam under your nostrils. Your choice. Now if you will excuse me, I have some sauerkraut to eat. With ice cream. And toe jam.

You really like me...

“You like me, you really like me!” I feel like Sally Fields up here, on the podium accepting my very first awards. I’d like to thank Darwin, Ghandi and of course, my Chou. Darwin for evolution, Ghandi for enlightenment and Chou for his kisses.

More importantly, I want to thank you, my readers for visiting me and coming back for more of my rants. Akilah, you’re the tops and thanks for the nod, my first. I’m humble. I'll tumble for ya.
Now, it’s my duty (and pleasure) to pass along the nominations and award 10 deserving bloggers, my peeps, for their insightful and very entertaining ramblings. I’m hooked on blogging and I’m hooked on you, having a window into many different lives and perspectives I may not have had a chance to experience before.

Without further ado, here are my top bloggers. You’re my favourites. You can stay.

Petunia Face
Blogger Queen
Clever Girl Goes Blog
Holy Mackerel
Libby Logic
Yellow Trash Diaries
Wind in your Vagina (It’s a Daddy-blog but with a name like that it’s worth at least two awards)

The Honest Scrap Award… drumroll please…

“The Honest Scrap” award is not one to hold all to yourself but it must be shared!
  1. First, the recipient has to tell 10 true things about themselves in their blog that no one else knows.
  2. Second, the recipient has to pass along this prestigious award to 10 more bloggers.
  3. Third, those 10 bloggers all have to be notified they have been given this award.5. Those 10 bloggers that receive this award should link back to the blog that awarded them “The Honest Scrap" award.

Scribe’s Top Ten Truths

  • I hate organizing mail. I open it, read it but fail to file it for a while until I have a mountain of papers to file – phone bills, utilities – the only things I do file are mortgage and RRSP related ‘cause I need those for taxes!

  • This is no secret, but I’m a procrastinator. I’ll probably avoid packing for Scotland until the day before. I’m not one to start packing three weeks in advance since it’s guaranteed I’ll forget something that way.

  • I hate lima beans and liver. I was visiting my parents at their condo in Florida one year and we had gone out to a Pub Night dinner. I ordered the swordfish and “seasonal” vegetables, which resulted in me receiving a full bed of lima beans. My parents fell off their chair from laughing too hard.

  • I love jewelry, the bigger the better. My friends laughed when I bought this one ring (the size of my entire finger) and my boyfriend put the ring on his pinkie, extended his arm in the air and summoned the powers of Greyskull.

  • I used to have a crush on Dennis DeYoung, the former lead singer of Styx. I now think he’s a washed-up has-been who revels in his own greatness. But when I was 12, he was the bee’s knees.

  • I once sprained my ankle playing with a “lemon twister.” I think they’re called Skip-Its now. I was 37.

  • I cry at Hallmark commercials, and Tim Horton’s commercials too – the one with the dad and his son at the hockey arena. Ahh, I feel a tear. Damn you for making me cry again!

  • When I was younger I used to cut the milk bag corner and put the small piece of plastic, not in the garbage where it should be, but in the utensil drawer along with the pair of scissors. It’s now one of my major pet peeves.

  • I stole the word assclam from another blog. Don’t arrest me. I don’t look good in stripes… or orange… or shackles… well, only if there’s something in it for me.

  • My parents had sex twice. Twice. One for my brother and then five years later for me. That's it. That's all I want to know. (Covering ears... lalalalalalalalala, I can't hear you!)

Now here are my fave peeps… uh, I mean blogs…

Petunia Face

Blogger Queen
Clever Girl Goes Blog
Holy Mackerel
Libby Logic

Yellow Trash Diaries
Wind in your Vagina

I would have totally voted for Summer of The Circus Has Come to Town, but Akilah beat me to it. Damn you Akilah (ahhh, I have nothing but luvre for ya!)

Tuesday, July 21, 2009


When I was little I constantly mixed up memory and remember. Easy to do, isn't it? I thought so, and my parents thought it was ever-so cute that they still tell the story. "Remember when you used to say 'I have a really good rememory'?" And then they'd laugh, at their cleverness, at me, at my cuteness.

I no longer mix up the words but sometimes bring it out at opportune times to get a giggle from my dad. He'd then launch into another memory - about me, at 18 months old - wearing really, really big, pink sunglasses. I mean really big. Really. Or about my very first black eye. Okay, I've had only one, but the story is cute so he insists on telling it.

I had decided in my wise five-year-old brain that it was a brilliant idea to fashion a train out of two bikes joined together by a long skipping rope. What I hadn't taken into account was the physics of the task, with my oversized tryke and my friend's oh-so-cool but much squatter two-wheeler with training wheels. All was well until we went around the corner . She went one way, I went the other and landed face first on the pavement. And from high on my perch, it was quite a tumble.

But, I didn't cry, and I think that's what my dad was most proud of. Not one tear. Instead, I calmly walked back to my house, went inside to where my dad was reading in his bathroom library (I actually gave him a sign that read "This is a bathroom not a library," until he reminded me that I was afflicted with the same bathroom reading disease). I calmly asked if he could come out and look at something. He opened the door and I said in my five-year-old voice: "Daddy, is this black?" I explained what had happened and he handed me a cold face cloth and said "Don't tell your mother or you'll never be allowed back on that bike." I wondered then how he could be so intuitive. Well, I wondered how he could be so smart as I had yet to learn what "intuitive" meant.

I have a lot of rememories, from as far back as I can remember. Some are as clear as day and others are a little blurry from years of trying to remember particulars. Sometimes I still feel like that little girl who was inaugurated into the world of black eyes, who would run past doors in the basement for fear of hands reaching out to grab her, or would hide behind her father's legs when she was too shy to even say hello. I've outgrown my shyness to some extent, but in new situations I still wish I could fit behind my father's legs. I wish he could still swing me into a pool and cheer when I managed to swim up to the surface.

He's older now, approaching 80, but don't tell him. He'll just deny it. But I couldn't deny it about eight years ago when he went into the hospital to repair a bulge in his aorta. My mother was a basket case, which is a normal occurence, and I was going through the start of a messy separation and subsequent divorce. And here was my father, my hero, my slayer of dragons, the man who would tell me we were going to Timbuktu when we were driving only an hour north to visit my grandmother, hooked up to intravenous tubes, oxygen and a mess of EKG wires monitoring his huge, loving heart. His damaged heart.

I fainted. I felt so weak, like I did at four years old, scared of the monsters lurking beneath the stairs. But this time the monsters were real - a potentially fatal bulge and a threat of oncoming pneumonia - it was the first time, in my 30 years, that I was faced with my own father's mortality. It was close and I wanted to hold my breath until the monster went away.

The story has a happy ending. My father and I got a reprieve. The operation was a success, and while the recovery was a tough one - pneumonia did rear its ugly head - we fought the monster together and we've had almost nine more years of memories.

I've always thought my dad was cool. While I often romanticized my mother's Scottish upbringing, it was my father who held the cool card. A third-generation Canadian in Ontario farmland, my father grew up in the time between the Depression and World War II. He not only knew what a "teddy boy" was, he was one. He had a pet crow that would land on his head on his way home from school, he knew how to rollerskate, ride a bike and a horse and he could whistle any tune. When I was 12 and entering into my pre-teen world, my father offered to drop me off at the roller skating place - SkateCountry - and I was mortified when he announced that he would skate too. Until he put the skates on and did five laps around the rink -- he could kick my butt on rollerskates, blindfolded.

At 78 (or 80 as I often add two years on for good measure), Joe is still cool. He's Joe Cool, the epitome of cool, and though we may disagree on some key points, I know that he'll always offer me refuge behind his legs. I can always count on him for a quick joke and a teasing tone and a twinkle in his eye as he says he should have got another dog instead of having me. A quick wink and I know he's got his fingers crossed behind his back. Thank goodness for reprieves.

Friday, July 17, 2009

You can never have enough cowbell...

Unless you’re in a car that’s stuck in traffic on your way to the Green Day concert and your friend (yes, it was me) kept clanging the cowbell when pedestrians went by. That’s when there is too much cowbell and there is a danger of getting said cowbell thrown out the window or stuffed up your… ve-jay.

I was just excited. I was seeing my boyfriend up there on that stage, eye make-up done to perfection and his cute little butt (and I mean little) stuffed into some skinny black jeans, dancing around, jumping off of stage sets and looking fierce. It’s just too bad he’s so busy with his Green Day band mates that our relationship almost seems non-existent. At least the restraining order proves we have some contact, well outside of 500 ft., that is.

Over two hours of non-stop action later, including a humping scene on the stage that left me breathless, and we were on the move – navigating through the crowds at Hamilton’s Copps Coliseum – and the cowbell was in service once more. I don’t like crowds, I really don’t, and unless you want a fist upside the head you will not cut me off and step on my toes in the process. Breath on me and I’ll bring out the uzi.

So the cowbell did the job, without the blood letting. Which is a good thing. Sometimes. Sometimes you want there to be blood, just a little, so your point of moving the hell out of the way is brought home. Nothing brings it home like a contusion.

Despite the restraining order and with the help of a borrowed set of binoculars, I am a happy girl. Not Mrs. Billie Joe Armstrong-happy, but it will have to do. I sure hope the man isn’t reading this… it’s you I love Mon Petit Chou Chou (which means, my little cabbage in French btw). Billie Joe and I are just a passing fancy. I fancy him and he passes on me. It’s okay, I’ve come to terms with it.

The cowbell now has a permanent spot in my oversized purse, just for crowd situations like the one we experienced last night. It’s also good for serving notice to pick-up drivers talking on the cell phone while smoking a cigarette and driving on Hwy. 403 going into Hamilton. For that, bucko? Cowbell.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Billie Joe, I love you...

...and not in the platonic, friends-only, brotherly sort of way.

It must have seemed like Quiz Night on the network channels last night because I was asked a few "If you could" questions. "If you could live anywhere, in any city, where would it be... and why.... If you could 'have' anyone famous, who would it be?" Oh, what questions!

It took me all of two seconds to answer, quite emphatically "John Cusack." I don't know what it is - his soft eyes, soft lips or the dark hair. I can't pinpoint any one thing but I do remember watching Say Anything and thinking "Oh man, now there's a guy I'd spoon with..." Despite his oft-sucky movies of late, I remained a fan. Oh sorry, present tense... I remain a fan, an oogly, love-struck fan. That's me. Remind me to wipe my drool off the keyboard before it crusts over with my saliva.

I soon added to that list: Matthew McConaughey. It goes without saying. He's eat-off-the-washboard-abs Y-U-M-M-Y. What took a little bit more thought and a run-through of his band's new album, not to mention an upcoming concert (Oh my Darwin, it's tonight!!) is my next crush. Now, Billie Joe Armstrong is not my typical choice for a leading man, my leading man. He's shorter than I like them but what he lacks in height, he makes up for in stage presence. His lyrics are spot-on, as is his delivery (and the entire Green Day line-up for that matter). And, he can make fun of himself too. That's sexy. And so are his eyes, rimmed in kohl and willing me to gaze deeply into them. I wish I had front row seats, but the restraining order won't let me (okay, just kidding. Really. I am).

Add Taye Diggs and my love list is complete. Yes, I like them tall, dark and handsome, or in Billie Joe's case, dark and handsome. I'm just hoping they love me as much. Why wouldn't they? I'm lovable. I sometimes just have to make them love me, all Misery-like. But with no clubs. That would be messy.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Summer is delish!

It's Wednesday night and I've just spent a delicious night in downtown T.O. Well, not in the downtown core but on the outskirts but it was delicious just the same. My yentas and I spent the evening waxing poetic over a three-course meal at one of Toronto's top spots, North 44 on Yonge St. It was part of the city's Summerlicious promotion where the city's restaurants and its plethora of culinary experts offer a tasting - a three-course tasting - of some of their best recipes. I want to go again before Summerlicious' end this Sunday, but next time I'll check out another place. There are so many more restaurants than the usual Swiss Chalet or Montana's and I'd like to try them all.

I live in the suburbs -- yes, I'm a suburbanite. Always have been, having lived in the bedroom community of Brampton since I was knee-high to a zygot. But, I used to spend every weekend downtown, usually in one of the clubs where I would stay past close before moving on to an after-hours party.

I take the car into the city occasionally now, usually keeping my vehicle west of the 401 (I needed the GPS tonight, I'm so directionally illiterate). This wasn't always the case. I used to dream of living downtown, preferably in a loft close to the subway line. I longed for a downtown job, with downtown friends and downtown dreams, the city my playground. My friend Magnet asked me tonight where I could imagine myself living if I wasn't in Brampton. It wasn't that long ago that Toronto was always top on my list, followed by Edinburgh, Montreal and even Ottawa. But tonight, I couldn't think of an answer. Have I really changed that much? I hadn't thought so but now I'm really not sure.

What job would I have? Would I be the artistic, writer type sitting in a floor-to-ceiling glass high-rise? Or on a rooftop patio, my patio of my re-furbished warehouse loft? Or how about in a small, war-time house with not enough space and no parking, but incredible architecture? Would I be working on a major daily newspaper, or working for a monthly magazine?

Regardless of my position, I know that I would be enjoying the city to the fullest. Suburbs seem to be so spread out, and Brampton's case, the roads are just as crowded here than they would be downtown. The reason? Our bus system sucks and it takes two to three hours to get anywhere. In Toronto, your favourite coffee shop is usually just down the street - a five- to 10-minute walk even in the worst weather. And, I'd get to enjoy more nights like these, without the 40-minute drive home on two major highways.

Toronto is definitely Summerlicious and I look forward to exploring more of the city. Will it be a place where I'll permanently rest my head? That remains to be seen. Until then, I'll enjoy the rest of this great promotion. Bring on the scallops, yentas. Scribe has a rumblin' in the tummy only scallops in a curry-coriander-okra infusion can satisfy.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Margaritas... who knew?

This is not mine. But it was too good not to share, so I stole it. For you. You're welcome.

Important Woman's Health Issue:

Do you have feelings of inadequacy?

Do you suffer from shyness?

Do you sometimes wish you were more assertive?

If you answered yes to any of these questions, ask your doctor or
pharmacist about Margaritas!

Margaritas are the safe, natural way to feel better and more confident about yourself and your actions.

Margaritas can help ease you out of your shyness and let you tell the world that you're ready and willing to do just about anything.

You will notice the benefits of Margaritas almost immediately and with a regimen of regular doses you can overcome any obstacles that prevent you from living the life you want to live.

Shyness and awkwardness will be a thing of the past and you will discover many talents you never knew you had. Stop hiding and start living, with Margaritas.

Margaritas may not be right for everyone. Women who are pregnant or nursing should not use Margaritas. However, women who wouldn't mind nursing or becoming pregnant are encouraged to try it.

Side effects may include:

Dizziness, nausea, vomiting, incarceration

Erotic lustfulness

Loss of motor control

Loss of clothing

Loss of money

Loss of virginity

Table dancing



Dry mouth

And a desire to sing Karaoke


The consumption of Margaritas may make you think you are whispering when you are not.


The consumption of Margaritas may cause you to tell your friends over and over again that you love them.


The consumption of Margaritas may cause you to think you can sing.


The consumption of Margaritas may make you think you can logically converse with members of the opposite sex without spitting.

Please share this with other women who may need Margaritas. Thank you.

Monday, July 6, 2009

Cheers to you, Mags!

A Toast to my friend, Magnet:

I raise a toast to you, my sister friend, for being the magnetic, most effervescent personality one could hope to find in a friend. I thought you were a biatch in high school but you grew on me, like a fungus, to become an honoured member of my inner sanctum. Welcome and please stay. While I know that I'm crazier than you, to the outside world, you make me look somewhat normal.

You are no Nana Mouskourri, though you wished yourself to be in Grade 12 when being a cheerleader was all you aspired to. Today, you look more like Celine Dion without the French accent but with a French last name. Damn Frogs. They should all be put in a stew.

But, not you. You're gold, Pony Boy. Stay gold. I don't know what my life would be like without you. Normal? No, I'm afraid not. I'm beyond helping. It would, however, be a little boring - comatose actually. I'd like to think it would be the same way with me. I guess we'll just have to wait to see if we follow through with our bucket list, you with your gold lamee bikini, tits up, and me with my aviator sunglasses and free rings for the taking. Open casket, of course. Oh, and their must be Brugal. And martinis. And U2 for you, Styx for me. I think I hear Anasatan crying already - not for our choice of entertainment but in complaint that her ears are bleeding. Suck it up, princess, we'd both say. This is our bucklet list. Back off and get your own.

So here's to Mags. May all you continue to fly like a big bird, so high up in the sky and may you remember that Linda still means beautiful in Spanish (... oh Leeenda!).

Leeenda out.

Last week, my friend Mags and I attended a Toastmasters meeting to see if public speaking is something we need help with. According to the toast I just made, we do. Well, I do. My first Toastmaster speech will certainly not be the post above. Clearly, that was verbal diarrhea, full of inside jokes that no one else will get. So, that one goes in the vault. For now.

I might write about our bucket list. Now, it's not even close to the bucket list that was immortalized on film by Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman where they break out of a hospital to fulfill all of the wishes on their "bucket list" - the things you would want to do before you bite the big one, sign off, over and out. Our bucket list is a list of things we'd want done at our funeral. A little morbid, I know, but a girl's got to think of these things 'cause no one else will. Unless you're Mags. We've taken a pact - the first one to go will honour the other's wishes. We spit on it. It's sealed.

Of course, it would be an open casket because open caskets are just ever-so welcoming and comforting. And Mags, my friend, would be outfitted in a gold lamee bikini, with U2 blaring and Bono delivering the eulogy. Me, I'm not sure about my outfit, but I would be sporting aviator sunglasses, just in case people could read my after-life thoughts. My rings would be displayed around the top of the open casket, not just for decoration but for the taking. It's like I'd be bequeathing my incredible good taste in jewellery and fashion. "If there was a big, gaudy, over-the-top ring that you must have... take it 'cause I can't take it with me."

There would be no tears but laughter and music. I'd request the funeral director to rig my feet so I could still tap away to the beat, beat, beat. The fact that it would freak people out is a side benefit. It's just what I do.

I'm sure I'll think of something a little less macabre for my first "icebreaker" speech. After all, I don't want to give too much of myself away too fast. What then would I do for an encore?

Thursday, July 2, 2009


I had a dream last night, that I was swimming. But it wasn't the usual swimming pool, lake or ocean in which I dipped my toes and flutter-kicked. It was a backyard oasis but instead of a aquamarine pool, it was a 9-ft., Olympic-sized vat of wine. Red wine. And I was swimming in it.

Now for those of you who do not yet know me well, I'm Flipper. Yes, the aquatic mammal who helps Timmy out of many dangerous spots. My friends tell me it's because I have freakishly short arms and legs - flippers, really. But I think they like how I scull back and forth between the loungers and the swim-up bar, a fistful of drinks every time. Or, it could be because I'm always the first one in and the last one out of any pool anywhere. Whether I'm swimming or treading water, it's the first place I'd ever want to be. Make it an ocean and I'll see ya next year.

But tonight, I will be swimming in wine. TGFW! The man and I are putting together Ikea furniture together - for the very first time. So, I'll take the wine as back-up; back-up in case I get my back up. You see, I have some good suggestions and I'm often quite meticulous, character traits (which Mon Petit sees as flaws) that come in handy when tackling an Ikea design. I think, at least. We ventured out last night and bought a TV stand. The dresser-cum-TV stand in employ right now is not big enough and it's old, like Depression-old. It's been repainted and repainted, mostly by my father, who thought at 17, metallic silver was oh-so-cool. It's not when it's 2009 and I'm picking paint chip after paint chip off of the floor before Kao or Bella can lap them up.

Its age is not the only reason we're exchanging the dresser for something a bit more this bi-centenntial. It won't fit our new high-def TV. Yes, people, we're so def we're high. Okay, I got that wrong but you know what I mean (or do you?). So it's hats off to the clean design, Allen key assembley and the fact that a good-sized television stand could fit in the back of our car.

The label on the box mentioned that "some assembly is required." I think a vat of wine is. We all have our priorities.