Still wondering about my saucy marriage...

An oldie but a goodie, so much I thought it deserved a second peek. 'Cause it's funny and I think I'm still in love with that nice piece of meat...

I'm quite enjoying the single life - being responsible for only my own well-being, coming and going freely save spending more time with Kao so he's not so lonely - so you can imagine my surprise when I considered entering into a union so delicious that I was aflush with excitement, drooling at the possibility of a rendez-vous with a piece of fresh meat.

It started this past Wednesday evening at a dinner held by an old co-worker. Her and her husband had invited me to break bread with them, perhaps taking pity on me cooking for one again. As I sat down to a barbecue dinner, I looked across the table and felt a pang, a flitter of my mending heart.

He was rich, full-bodied, red-blooded, and I couldn't wait to ravish him. I raised my glass and gave a slow wink and an even slower smile to show my interest. A flirt by nature, I had forgotten how fun it was to flutter my eyelashes and use my feminine wiles.

He was the perfect companion, the strong silent type but with an aroma that spoke volumes. He wore a suit of reddish-brown, with a spicy disposition that bordered on saucy.

Our initial rendez-vous was brief but I knew I had fallen in love and announced at the table our intention to marry. My fellow Cell Block C inmate was surprised but laughed, knowing I was serious but also realizing that the union would never hold up.

I tried to savour it, hold on and lovingly caress his flank. It had been a while since I had seen such a specimen, choosing others with a more refined, blander palette. It was sometimes easier that way - less temptation and a bit less guilt. But in this case I was done for. I had succumbed.

"I love this so much I think I want to marry it," I had announced as I slipped my knife in time and time again, stretching the culinary experience out for an hour or more. Sauteed mushrooms, summer salad with feta cheese and olive oil, corn on the cob, roasted potatoes... it was all good but nothing held my attention the way Mr. Sirloin did.

Now, three days later, I find myself yearning for him, calling him in the middle of the night as I remember how tender and loving he was - the way he fit perfectly on my fork and let me take from him time and time again with no questions, no requests and no strings.

Okay, so yes, I didn't have an encounter with a potential new partner - certainly not this soon after I'd managed to oust the Ex Man and take my house back - but it was intense nonetheless. And, it was a great break to the week, to visit with friends, talk over dinner and enjoy a piece of meat that I don't otherwise ingest. I'm sure we'll meet again, but I may have to wait. After all, I am in mourning for the last rendez-vous I had around the barbecue.

Too close for comfort

I owe you an update. I know. It's been a long three months full of hope, optimism and more than a few "tears caught in the throat" situations.

I'm not one to cry. Just ask any of my friends. If the tears well, I take a deep breath and say "Suck it up.  There are people who are worse off." And, there always are. There are weary cancer soldiers (and I include their families in that group). There are those with no support system. There are even those who do not know that some situations deserve laughter instead of worry. But, these past few months, I've cried. Not as openly as some friends and family would wish for me, but tears nonetheless. And, while I owe you an update, a "hey I'm still here" post, I owe you the truth as well.

Christmas has come and gone. It was harder than most because of the roller coaster of weeks prior. My dad - my fighter of monsters under the bed - was more victim than soldier. He was weak, pale and mortal. October and November brought a constant blur, of visits to the St. Catharines Hospital, of late night texts and a slew of ambulance rides - so many that my parents' neighbours were used to the swirling lights and the sirens. "Oh, there goes Joe" they said.

There he went time and time to the hospital, each time with worrying symptoms. Crohns, C. difficile, pneumonia, an irregular heartbeat, congestive heart failure and finally a mini-stroke. The doctors were baffled (or at least they never seemed to have an answer). It was daily and it was difficult. While I could focus on the day-to-day, the future was not yet determined. To see him shuffle from the gurney to the xray table and back to the bed was horrible. Rubbing his feet was the only solace and he put up with it. He also put up with the worried looks  my mum and I would exchange when his memory failed and his feet, legs and hands swelled from the lack of circulation. The strong and vibrant character was failing. His larger-than-life stature seemed stunted, changed, and closer to the end of his journey rather than a hiatus.

But, there is a light - a glimpse of the soldier he has always been. It's been over a month since his mini-stroke, and thanks to a revamping of his medications - additions of one and decrease of another (10 in all, if you can believe it) - he has had no other symptoms, no other ambulance rides, and he's now gathering his strength at the local gym by walking the track (and taking lots of naps).

Christmas was low-key - gathering at my brother and sister-in-law's house to relieve some of the Christmas dinner stress from Mum. There were lots of hugs and I love you's. And there was lots of laughter and tears. I never miss a chance now to tell someone I love them because you never know when it will be your last chance.

Hello? Is it me you're looking for?

Hello Blogosphere. It’s been a while and I’ve really missed you, missed you so much that I thought about you almost every day since I’ve been away.

In my time away from you, I’ve done a lot of thinking, a lot of working and a lot of living. I’ve rearranged my living room at least three times and it’s even now going under its latest transformation. I’ve moved couches, rescued an ottoman from the Goodwill for a meager $10 (I brought them down from $15) and offered new homes for things that no longer worked in my humble abode – things that no longer fit my existence. It’s been liberating and a little scary as I stumble to discover my new sense of self. My living room reflects that as I wonder what exactly my new sense of style and self entails. And, like myself, my home for the past eight years still feels unfinished despite the work that’s already taken place.

I will admit that I was stuck in limbo for a bit. It was like I was thinking “if it’s not broke, don’t fix it.” But it was. I was. Broken. Holding onto an image of what or who I was supposed to be. I can’t say I’m fully better now, but I’m definitely a little closer than I ever have been before.

So, in celebration of the changes I’ve made I am going to let you in on what has been happening since I last wrote, the places I’ve been and the new experiences that have popped up.

• I got myself a new tenant this past September. He’s got a snake tattoo but I didn’t judge him for that. While he’s a little rough around the edges looks-wise, he’s kind, decent, honest and he loves Kao, proving it’s best not to judge a book by its cover. Oh, and he willingly shares in the chores. My floors, bathroom and kitchen have never been cleaner. I also laid down the rules of the house before he moved in and I’ve remained true to them and to myself.
• I developed elephant ankles and claw hands in August from a serious infection. And while it was not fun and I don’t want to see the inside of an emergency room or my doctor for quite some time, I did discover just how awesome my friends are – bringing me smut magazines, soup and cleaning my house when I could barely manage to walk the stairs to my bedroom.
• On that note, I’ve forged an awesome new friendship with an old acquaintance – one that I hope to have for a very long time.
• I visited an antique market with another new friend where we unveiled a love of antiques and a genuine appreciation for each other.
• I found that my decorating style is not traditional and not modern but rather transitional, sort of like me.
• I started dating, not as a way to find my next relationship but more to have fun, meet new people and to realize that not every fork will match my spoon.
• I made Anasatan insanely proud because both of us realized that the initial change of not accepting second best was not a one-time occurrence.
• I got hired, or I should say re-hired, on a part-time contract with the safety association and learned that I am a good event planner. It’s also closer to where I want to be career-wise and that my skills transfer brilliantly.
• While we did not manage to attend the taping of The Rick Mercer Report one Friday night as planned (we got stuck in downtown Toronto traffic), Anasatan and my extended family did enjoy an awesome dinner, a lot of laughs and a plethora of smoked meat at a downtown deli.
• Mags, G-Girl and I attended a comedy night on Labour Day weekend that, unbeknown to us, was held above a sex club. We looked in, curious to see what it was all about. Judging from the patrons already there, it was not for us. So, instead we ventured off to see what other trouble we could get ourselves into on a Sunday night and ended up getting a three finger salute from a rather attractive exotic dancer at a local strip club.
• My Cloak and Dagger Dad admitted that we’re more alike than we ever thought. He too had a doctor tell him he was full of shit (he had a blockage in his lower intestines)… UPDATE: Dad has just been diagnosed with Crohn’s and has spent the last two weeks in hospital fighting a myriad of illnesses, including potential pneumonia and a definite irregular heartbeat. We’re hoping he’s on the mend since he hates the meals hospitals pass off as real food. I’m trying to keep my hopes up and away from googling his symptoms. The potential diagnoses are just too much to process right now.

 That’s not all but it’s late and my insomnia appears to be receding and I must catch that wave. Until next time, blogosphere. Oh, how much I have missed you!

Missing: myself

The other day a friend of mine asked me how I was doing since The Ex Man had left my humble abode and my life. She asked if I missed him and if there was any chance that we would work things out.

It's been over a month so it was a fair question. I had time to be acclimatized to a bedroom without hitting my toe on a dresser that was too big for the space or sleep in the bed that kept mysteriously losing bolts (but only on my side - coincidence or murder plot... hmm...). I also had a full month of permanent garbage duty and poop patrol details, and a month of no cheesy lines or stories repeated verbatim ad nauseum.

The truth of the matter is that while I miss the companionship, the connection between two human beings I don't miss him as a partner. It was a partnership that never truly was. I don't miss the long silences and stares as he tried to guess how I would react before deliverying any news - from his dinner preference or weekend plans to his penchant for Money Mart loans. I miss laughing over Kao's antics or how he'd play hide and seek throughout the house and have Kao chase him up the stairs laughing (The Ex Man, not Kao - that's just ridiculous). I don't miss relying on someone who could not be relied upon.

Even though he was a quiet guy (and still is), the house is even quieter now. Kao has taken to grunting at me, constantly by my side to play, go out, romp, throw sticks, rubber chickens and pigs. He does let me sleep in and he hasn't tried to eat any more of my undergarments but I think even he feels the void. To say it's any one person, I can't say. He just senses the shift in dynamics, the table set for one. As I write this, he's grunting at me to go out or to give me a kiss. I sure wish he could use his words.

I miss words, conversation, a connection between two people who live in close quarters. I miss having my back scratched every night before sleep and someone to tell me how awesome, beautiful, sexy and smart I am. So now, I scratch my own back (don't use the spagetti strainer if ever you visit - it's not in the kitchen anymore). Every morning when I'm greeted with my image in the mirror, I tell myself exactly what I see: a strong, beautiful, sexy, smart and funny woman who stood her ground and refused to accept second best.

It's working, slowly but surely. But it's in these quiet times that I yearn for the hopes of days past when I believed in and was excited by the possibilities that lay ahead in the new relationship of four years past, and when I believed that there was a fork to match my spoon.

I know there will come a day when the quiet times and these feelings will slip away, and now, a month past, it is getting easier and easier. I may just have to keep the radio on 24-7 until I'm dancing joyously and missing nothing.

He's on a cougar hunt and he's found one...

I should have known when he danced up to our table and announced he was a progressive house DJ who hoped he would get the part-time gig as a sandwich master at Subway for which he had interviewed last week.

It was our first full day in Charlottetown and Anasatan and I had secured a table on the patio, listening to the band du jour at Peake's Quay down by the Charlottetown waterfront. We were tying on a few rum and Diet Cokes and were just thankful and excited to be back at Peake's, the scene for many a fun night during our last visit five years ago. We knew there would be young'uns but there had been a good mix of people in the past and we were looking forward to letting loose.

Mr. DJ looked about 19 though he swore he was 25, hip-hopping his way over to our table with an Alpine beer (swill) and Rev in hand. Besides his very stylish and exhuberant dancing, what stood out the most was his inability to look away, taking in what he thought was our predator pheramones.

We may have just entered the 40-club, but neither myself or Anasatan are ready to enter Cougar-dom just yet. Besides our need for mid-day naps, we did not look nor feel any of our 40 years. And, I certainly wasn't into the young meat Mr. DJ was showcasing. He was impressed that we hailed from just around Toronto, thinking we had the inside scoop of the latest raves, lounges and clubs. What he didn't realize was we were both more Jesus of Surburbia than downtown hipster. He also didn't realize that the conversation would turn from friendly to downright strange. He should have known. We, on the other hand, had no idea how the conversation (and our stomachs) would turn.

Just one of the things I love about Anasatan is her awesome sense of humour (and also her great taste in best friends), so I wasn't surprised when she quipped in with one of her zingers. After inviting Mr. DJ to join us at the table for some stimulating conversation and finding that he clammed up instantly when in the presence of our awesomeness, I was trying to make conversation and had asked him what brought him out on that particular windy night. I had grown tired of his adoration and non-blinking stare and needed to fill in the air space in with something other than his deep breathing and drooling (Yes, it goes without saying that we were hawt).

"Well, Scribe, he's out on a cougar hunt and he's found one," joked Anasatan in her usual devilish attitude, laughing at Mr. DJ's shocked expression. I wasn't sure how he was going to answer or if he'd manage a retort at all. He wasn't exactly rating high on the wit scale. What we got was even more shocking (and a whole load more disturbing).

"I can't do anything," he confessed. "I've got genital warts."

Yes, genital warts. Not "well, really, you're not my type and while I'm enjoying this conversation I think I'm going to drink up some lemonade and dance with the hipsters in the corner." Genital warts. Herpes. An STD broadcast.

And, while I appreciated his blatant honesty, the fact that I had not even expressed an iota of interest had me second guessing as to what phrase had actually left his lips. So, I asked him to repeat it. My ears had heard correctly. Genital warts. I did not know what to say, and it's a rare occasion that I'm left speechless and automatically feeling the need to wash my hands, my eyes, my ears and generally any part of my body that may or may not have come into contact with DJ Penil Warts.

Copious amounts of alcohol followed more to kill any germs that may have congregated on his chair during his thankfully brief time with us but also to be able to process what had just occurred. And process we did, telling everyone from the young ladies waiting for a taxi out in front of the patio bar to the waitress and the cab drivers we would hire throughout the week.

It also became our phrase of the entire holiday: "Oh, I can't do the dishes - I've got genital warts," "Oh, I think I need to  take a third shower today to ward off those genital warts," "Oh, Mr. Cab Driver, we can't possibly consider inviting you in for a drink - we've become afflicted with genital warts." You get the picture.

What a picture it is... having never seen or come into contact with anyone with genital warts I was curious. Rule to live by: never Google images of genital warts after ingesting a meal... or ever. In this case, it's better to remain curious than to be in the know. Unless you've got itching and your member looks like a roll of braille. Then it's time to go see a doctor and put that penis or vagina into hiatus, hiding or just chop it off.

There's not room enough for the both of us...

I am under no delusions that real-life mice are like the little mice in Cinderella and all other Disney films - cute, friendly and more than likely to break out into song at every turn. I know that if I run into a crab it's not going to be the calypso singing crustacean from the Little Mermaid. I will not invite them into my house for a visit and I will not tell them to pull up a chair to share a meal with me.

I'm a lover of all creatures, despite recent reportings of a Thumper killing. That bunny had a death wish and a crazed look in his eyes; I was doing society a favour.

I love my boxer boy, I continue to love my soccer ball cat though she has left this world, I even love the robin who visits me every morning in the garden 'though I would never consider a parakeet, cockatoo or even a budgie within the confines of my home. What I do not love is the scurry of little feet across the ground, and that is why I want to crunch their little tiny brains under my feet, take a stiletto to the cranium and poison the feck out of the little varmints.

About three years ago, well before I started this blog, I learned that I can shriek like a girl when I come into contact with a mouse, especially if it runs across the counter right in front of me. And rats... forget about it. Bubonic plague, anyone?

I live in a townhouse complex. I like my neighbours, for the most part, and because we all share a common roofline it's often in the best interest to eradicate the critters. I haven't seen any in the past two years ('cause I poisoned the crap out of the last bunch), so imagine my surprise when one ran across my patio (thankfully still outside) a week ago. Two, three, four sightings followed on a daily basis. I'm not sure if it's the same mouse or its brothers or sisters but my first instinct (to scream) came to my lips immediately. And then I wanted to kill them. To poison them. To trap them and feed them to snakes, watching their round little bodies and tiny brains devoured, digested. Gone. Oh, and I dislike snakes even more.

So, to arm myself, I called in for reinforcements. Artillery. Nuclear weapons. While they are still outside, I know when the temperature drops and snow starts to fly, they will seek heat and that heat will be in my house. The pest control came the other day to place sticky traps underneath my hollow concrete stoop. I hadn't seen any activity for a few days, so I thought it was one and that we'd got him. Not the case.

I don't know how many there are, but tonight as I was sitting out enjoying the last few rays of sunlight, I heard it. The squeak. The call of Stuart Little (whose cuter than these backyard visitors 'cause he speaks English and wears a bow tie). And then I saw his friend sent in to haul his platoon mate off of the battlefield and away to safety. And then I heard a louder squeak as both (if not more) got their tiny feet and tails stuck down on the lacquered surface of the trap.

Kao's ears were doing double duty with him cocking his head to the left and right as he heard the screams of death and the scratching and munching as the mice tried to gnaw their legs off and execute their escape. I'm just thankful he has yet to notice the mice running into the hollowed out shell of the stoop or try to get into the mouse cemetary underneath the stoop.

I think I'm also becoming accustomed to sharing the backyard space for them as I now make sure Kao is far away from them instead of screaming like a banshee first. Don't get me wrong... if one runs across my foot I will not guarantee that I will not freak out. What will do it is if the mice start sewing buttons and doing my laundry as they deliver a very cute rendition of "It's a Small World." Now that would be freaky.

We're all full up here

I have a confession to make... a lovely, guilty pleasure, sweet confession... I have spent the last two days in limbo, in a cozy space I created for myself with no ringing phones but welcome texts, hours spent in the full heat of summer with a hot dog and a garden hose. And, all I wore was a bathing suit and a cover-up as to not shock the neighbours.

My house is a bit of a mess, cereal box on the counter, bowl and spoon left suspended on the drying rack with no motion towards the cupboard. The books that I removed from my livingroom bookshelf for rearranging or packing up elsewhere still sit on the floor waiting for something - for movement, for a day out of limbo.

It's deliciously decadent. At a time when I should be scouring the job ads I've pointed my curser to other parts of the net, clicking on that site and that one over there and avoiding the sites that seem to bring disappointment, no movement.

There's another resident living with me in these days of limbo. It's a familiar face and one that comes back for visits time and time again. While familiar, it's not a welcome guest as it points out over and over again what I'm doing wrong, what I should be doing, the person I should be.

I don't know where he comes from or where he goes when he disappears from me, but each time Guilt visits it's like a constant barrage of fists in the gut. Equally timed and each jab a little bit harder than the next, Guilt pummels me until I doubt my very existence. I can't wait until he moves on.

I'm hoping I can get him to pack his bags a little longer by moving out of limbo, out of my yard, away from my garden hose and into the house where I can find a new home for my stack of books. Movement, I think, is the cure.

Just to be sure, I'm going to hang a no-vacancy sign on my door leading into my brain. There's no room for you here, I'd call. We're all full up.