Thoughtful Thursday

Let it be stated, for the record, that The Baroness is extremely excited about going to see one of her oldest friends today. The Fair Countess Ariom is staying with her parents somewhere in the back of beyond, and I am only too happy to make the 2 hour drive, without a moment's hesitation.

When I first heard of her travel plans, there may have been some squealing, and perhaps a titch of incontinence.

This friend, you see, is one who knows me almost as well as I know myself. She and I have been together forever, in very good times (think drunken dancing on go-go boxes) and in very dire times as well. Think hospitals and funerals, then take a dogleg turn towards that very dark tunnel.

She is one of the most fascinating women I've ever known, and when I'm around her I feel reborn with a new infusion of intelligence, wit and sassiness. She forces my brain to bring its A-Game, and I feel vital and silly and cherished. Ahhh.

And we all need friends like that - those whom we love beyond measure, and those who love us, warts and all. Those who will talk us off the ledge and then, once inside, will call us on our shit. For hours.

Those who, regardless of correspondance dysfuntion or distance, remain in our heads and our hearts. Those with whom we can gracefully pick up where we left off without missing a beat.

Today's TT comes from yet another one of my old cronies, Euripides - the dude so in love with himself he feels the need to use only one name (like Cher, for instance.)(Or Charo):

Friends, and I mean real friends - reserve nothing.

The property of one belongs to the other.

Speaking of which, where is that purple mohair sweater I lent you three years ago?

Weisenheimer Wednesday*

* in which I stroll into my local library, straight to the 'Complete Idiot's' shelf, and randomly grab the first book I lay eyes on. I then scan derisively, quote shamelessly, cackle maniacally and do my best to raise your level of edu-mack-ay-shun up/down to mine.

So that we can both be Weisenheimer MDs** together.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today, it would seem, that fate was on my side. Had I consulted my most trusted advisor about whether or not I would hit the blog fodder jackpot today, Monsieur Magic 8 Ball would have emphatically stated, "Decidedly So."

Our font of knowledge today comes from Diane Ahlquist. It is "Complete Idiot's Guide to F..."

. . . Hold up a minute.

I feel an apt quote (cited in the book, btw) is in order. And really, any quote from this luscious hunk of brain is always in order:

"The truly valuable thing is the intuition"
Albert Einstein

He then also added "Suck it, Simmons".

But the quote I refer to is the first one. Because Mr. Science Guy is giving some validation to something that for some, is kind of out there. And this almost-sponsorship by such a fine mind of the 20th century - please remember - is important. Dude wasn't too crazy about Dippity Do, but he did know a thing or two about other stuff. Intuition stuff.

With out further ado, today's book is "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Fortune Telling".

I didn't really need a crystal ball to know that inside the covers of this little gem were 318 pages of mock-worthy goodness.

But then I sat back and thought WWAD?

('A' is for Albert here. For god's sake, pay attention to my learnin' you!)

My agenda here is not to mock. It is to inform.

And I should not mock.

Because I haven't even written a published book. Have you written a published book?

I salute the talent of Ms. Ahlquist and gratefully acknowledge that she has done a incredibly thorough job of detailing a field of which I know very little about.

Until now. Now? I'm ready to polish up the Ouija board, burn some incense and get my gypsy vibe on.

Crap. Was that disrespectful?

I'm trying really hard here.

Just inform, Baroness.

Inform.

Inform. Inform. Inform.

OK! So, I'll give you some information, and you can do with it what you will. I will never know what happens behind your closed doors.

(Well, technically that's not really true anymore, as I am acquiring the skill set to be a seer. But I'm not quite there yet, so hurry up and do whatever voodoo that you do.) (So well.)

First off, I would be remiss if I didn't whet your psychic appetite with some of the chapter titles:

"The Magic of Salt"

"Reading Tea Leaves and Coffee Grounds"

"Ice Rendering"

"Spondanomancy"

"Dominoes and Dice: Not Just Games!"

"Tablets of Fate"

"Cloud Prophecies"

"Pendulums and Dowsing: Getting into the Swing of Things"

There is so much, much more. This is a mere dappling of some of the highlights.

Next, we'll talk a little about phrenology, which is the study of bumps on one's head and the shapeof one's head in order to predict the 'character and inclinations of a person'. The presence and size of a bump can, apparently, be quite telling. Who knew?

We do, thanks to me.

So. If you were to divide (not literally)

(although that might be kind of scientific and wicked cool)

(although sadly illegal)

the areas of the skull into 35 areas, thusly:

(photo source: www.wildberrygifts.com)

each section would reveal different characteristics about the person.

I must say, I included this section because I am LOVING the some of the descriptive names of the areas:

Area 1: Amativeness (sexuality and muscle movement)
2: Philoprogentiveness (Love, as in love for one's offspring)
3. Concentrativeness
4: Adhesiveness (attachments to love objects)
5. Combativeness
6. Destructiveness/alimentiveness
7. Secretiveness
8. Acquisitiveness
9. Constructiveness
10. Self-Esteem
11. Love of approbation (love for attention and praise)
12. Cautiousness
13. Benevolence
14. Veneration (reverence, respect, religious feelings)
15. Firmness (determination and perseverence)
16. Conscientiousness
17. Hope
18. Wonder
19. Ideality
20. Wit or mirthfulness
21. Imitation
22. Individuality (perception of objects and things)
23. Form (ability used to help in face recognition and grasping of size and shape)
24. Size (ability to gauge size in reference to something else)
25. Weight or resistance (the ability to grasp the physics of things)
26. Coloring (Perception of colors)
27. Locality (recognition of locale and landmarks)
28. Number (ability with math)
29. Order
30. Eventuality (learning and remembering)
31. Time
32. Tune
33. Language
34. Comparison (ability to make analogies)
35. Causality (ability to see cause and effect)

My Area 11? A little bulge-y.

And Area 20 is freakishly goose-egged. Maybe more like emu-egged.

It would appear at first grope that my skull is actually concave in areas 25 and 31; I feel so much better knowing that I can scientifically be proven to be a Complete Idiot.

Now I know.

(I think.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

** MD- Doctor of Malarkey

I May Be Clinically Insane

As I began to regale the just-arrived-home Baron with the tales of my day (hey - he asked), there occurred a weird phenomenon.

You know the one. Where you're having a conversation with someone while simultaneously having an internal conversation with yourself about said conversation. But your mouth is on about a 3.2 second delay. And the alarms start to go off like a McGruber bomb-dismantling.

To Baron: "...Blah, blah, blah, and then she called me to arrange for me to take her shopping..."

* BEEP * BEEP * BEEP * BEEP *

To self: "Do you really want to keep going into this? Because the more details you're spewing out, the more you're sounding like some lunatic whose been left by herself for a week with no one to talk to except the dog...(which is, in fact, completely accurate)"

Other self: "Oh, shut up. He wants to know. He'll see the humor in it all."

Still other self: "...Or will he? Are you sure he won't be fighting the urge to roll his eyes AND do any one of his many versions of the 'I Told You So' dance?"

To all selves: "Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!!!!"

Screw it. I told him everything.

I think I was secretly hoping that my brain convolutions would either:
a) tire him out,
b) mildly amuse him,
c) make him feel all protective (because his wife is clinically insane and needs sheltering from the cruel world), or
d) all of the above.

Here's what happened.

One of my dearest friends has a daughter that is 'graduating' from Junior High to Senior High School. There's the ceremony, and also a dinner/dance.

The dress has been bought, but I offered to take the beautiful young graduate shoe shopping. There is nothing like bonding with your crazy auntie over some seriously funky shoes. My friend loved the idea, offered it up to Young Countess Sadie, who then texted me to arrange for a time.

We agreed on Saturday afternoon, and that was that.

I must admit that things like are kind of like performance art for me. The daughter is expecting me to be some force-of-nature whack-a-doodle with just enough of a foothold in reality to drive a car , know my way around a shoe store, and pay for lunch.

I do not disappoint.

It took me quite some time to find just the right outfit - I had to look sassy, and the footwear had to be nothing short of inspirational. I had to have street cred. You know, so when I tried to sell a savvy 13 year old on something non-lucite and marginally age-appropriate, she would truly believe that I knew of what I spoke, unequivocally.

Yeah, about that.

Most of my 'inspirational' footwear is good only in about 10 minute increments: from the parking lot to the restaurant, from the table to the washroom and back, to the front door at the end of the evening as the Baron fetches the car.

My sassy footwear is anything but practical. I'm sure that when I'm a wildly famous essayist/talk show hostess, I'll be able to match complete comfort with style; for now, this combo comes at a steep price.

For now, style and comfort are only vaguely related. Sassy shoes currently work as long as there is neither blood shed nor non-sassy wincing.

After trying on nearly every pair of shoes in my wardrobe, I settled on a yummy pair; summery, happy colors, jute-coveredwedge heel, surprisingly comfortable. I could possibly roam the mall in these.

Only one problem - they were peep-toe and I did not have painted toes. We all know that a naked toe peeping through a peep-toe is not worth even a first glance.

Well, hell. I'd have to quickly paint my nails.

I was actually going to be on time for a change. Hair - done. Clothes to compliment sassy shoes - selected. Cloven hooves - painted.

And then it all fell apart, as I went to put the hoof paint away and proceeded to spill the bottle ALL over - the floor, the edge of the tub, the bathmat. What a f&$@%$# mess.

And then it got all over my hands as I tried to wipe it up. And when I used the nail polish remover, I started dripping on my just-lacquered toes. And when I went to correct that, I smudged them into a fantastic state of disrepair and got more polish on my hands trying to clean THAT up. How g.d. inspirational am I?

The best laid plans, people.

As it turned out, young girlfriend fell ill sometime during the morning and had to cancel while I was still busy making my magic.

My black, crazy magic.

Maybe it's better this way.

Thoughtful Thursday

Gloria Steinham, cover your ears.

One of my greatest pleasures in the whole wide world is cooking for my family. I may not be the best or the most innovative, but I love to experiment and tweak, and I know for a fact that my secret ingredient has the potential to boost any meal into a feast.

And this would be?

Love. As I prepare my food, I think of my husband and my children and what a privelege it is to be able to provide something that will nourish their bellies and their souls. I really take the time to awaken my senses to all the ingredients have to offer, and honor each item as it is popped into the mixing bowl.

I used to think that all this was a bunch of hooey, but then I cooked the same dish the same way I've always cooked it, but in an angry frame of mind.

It was unpalatable.

Stranger things, people. Stranger things.

Today's TT comes as a result of my mad eavesdropping skills.

While making dinner and listening in on a conversation of one of my sons and his friends, I heard them referring to a 'kinda weird' movie that they were watching in English class. One they started filling in some details, I realized that they were talking about a visually amazing movie based on a food-related book (the diet's going great, thanks for asking)(except for the non-stop fantasizing about mac & cheese and milkshakes...) , Laura Esquivel's "Like Water for Chocolate".

As suggested in the post title, take a moment this Thursday and think.

What is your candle? What is your oxygen?

“...[E]ach of us is born with a box of matches inside us but we can't strike them all by ourselves; just as in the experiment, we need oxygen and a candle to help. In this case, the oxygen, for example, would come from the breath of the person you love; the candle could be any kind of food, music, caress, word, or sound that engenders the explosion that lights one of the matches.”

Here's to a day of seeking out the catalyst - and the subsequent flame that ignites within you.

Weisenheimer Wednesday

Here I is - Dr. vonBloggenschtern, MD* - with yet another installment of Weisenheimer Wednesday.

[* MD = Doctor of Malarkey]

Today's Complete Idiot's Tome of Knowledge is "The Guide to Classic Movies", by a certain Lee Pfeiffer.

Truth be told, I was kind of expecting Lee to provide a lot more background scoop on the movies. Some on-set gossip, maybe. Some "Did you Know - 'Reel'y?" sort of stuff. But what can I do, when part of my rules to these segments is to pull the first orange spine I see off of the library shelf, check it out, and do the research after the fact? You gets what you gets.

I did find out that African-American Oscar-winner Hattie McDaniel opted not to attend the 1939 premiere of "Gone with the Wind" in Atlanta, because state law still enforced segregation in theatres.

Sadly, these factoids were few and far between.

However, it was not all skim-worthy and disappointing. At the back of the book was a fun list of the America Film Institute's Top 100 Films of All Times.

Two things about this:

1) This book was written in 2006, so the list may have been changed; after all, the cinematic genius that is - oh, what's that guy's name again? Benjamin? No, no, no.

Not Benjamin.

Indiana? Nope.

Not Indiana.

Wally?

Him neither.

Oh, yeah.

Paul.

Paul Blart, Mall Cop - didn't happen until late last year.

2) I did not personally write this list, so don't be giving me any grief either over entries or omissions. I can only assume from the title that these folks are somewhat the authority on these things. Or at least I think so because of the name:
a) American - implies that they are unequivocally correct. Even if they're wrong.

b) Film - note here the hoity-toity word. Not 'flick', nor even 'movie'. Film, darling. A word associated with art houses and Galoise-smoking, beret-toting bohos. Puff puff, snap. So hip.

c) Institute - a place where important things happen. Not 'shack; not 'duplex' (although I'm sure some very pivotal events occur in these as well...).

Institute, though. Think crazy.

Crazy smart.

Like the kid's summer reading list, maybe we should make this our summer viewing list.

Here goes this list - what percentage have you seen*?

America Film Institute's Top 100 Films of All Time
1. Citizen Kane (1941)
2. Casablanca (1942)
3. The Godfather (1972)
4. Gone With the Wind (1939)
5. Lawrence of Arabia (1962)
6. The Wizard of Oz (1939)
7. The Graduate (1967)
8. On the Waterfront (1954)
9. Schindler's List (1993)
10. Singin' in the Rain (1952)
11. It's a Wonderful Life (1946)
12. Sunset Boulevard (1950)
13. The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957)
14. Some Like it Hot (1959)
15. Star Wars (1977)
16. All About Eve (1950)
17. The African Queen (1951)
18. Psycho (1960)
19. Chinatown (1974)
20. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1975)
21. The Grapes of Wrath (1940)
22. 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
23. The Maltese Falcon (1941)
24. Raging Bull (1980)
25. ET, the Extra-Terrestrial (1982)
26. Dr. Strangelove (1964)
27. Bonnie and Clyde (1967)
28. Apocalypse Now (1979)
29. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939)
30. Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948)
31. Annie Hall (1977)
32. The Godfather, Part II (1974)
33. High Noon (1952)
34. To Kill a Mockingbird (1962)
35. It Happened One Night (1934)
36. Midnight Cowboy (1969)
37. The Best Years of Our Lives (1946)
38. Double Indemnity (1944)
39. Doctor Zhivago (1965)
40. North by Northwest (1959)
41. West Side Story (1961)
42. Rear Window (1954)
43. King Kong (1933)
44. The Birth of a Nation (1915)
45. A Streetcar Named Desire (1951)
46. A Clockwork Orange (1971)
47. Taxi Driver (1976)
48. Jaws (1973)
49. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937)
50. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969)
51. The Philadelphia Story (1940)
52. From Here to Eternity (1953)
53. Amadeus (1984)
54. All Quiet on the Western Front (1930)
55. The Sound of Music (1965)
56. M*A*S*H (1970)
57. The Third Man (1949)
58. Fantasia (1940)
59. Rebel Without a Cause (1955)
60. Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)
61. Vertigo (1958)
62. Tootsie (1982)
63. Stagecoach (1939)
64. Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977)
65. The Silence of the Lambs (1991)
66. Network (1976)
67. The Manchurian Candidate (1962)
68. An American in Paris (1951)
69. Shane (1953)
70. The French Connection (1971)
71. Forrest Gump (1994)
72. Ben-Hur (1959)
73. Wuthering Heights (1939)
74. The Gold Rush (1925)
75. Dances With Wolves (1990)
76. City Lights (1931)
77. American Graffiti (1973)
78. Rocky (1976)
79. The Deer Hunter (1978)
80. The Wild Bunch (1969)
81. Modern Times (1936)
82. Giant (1956)
83. Platoon (1986)
84. Fargo (1996)
85. Duck Soup (1933)
86. Mutiny on the Bounty (1935)
87. Frankenstein (1931)
88. Easy Rider (1969)
89. Patton (1970)
90. The Jazz Singer (1927)
91. My Fair Lady (1964)
92. A Place in the Sun (1951)
93. The Apartment (1960)
94. Goodfellas (1990)
95. Pulp Fiction (1994)
96. The Searchers (1956)
97. Bringing up Baby (1938)
98. Unforgiven (1992)
99. Guess Who's Coming to Dinner (1967)
100. Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942)

*39% for me. How pathetic.

(I think I should get an extra 60 percent, though, for seeing both Ben-Hur and 2001 before I was 9 years old.)

So, 99%.

Ah, much better.

(not that I'm competitive, or anything. Just don't want you thinking I'm a complete idiot)

Meet the New Boss

So, the Baron periodically gets a glossy advert magazine from his favored habadashery.

Shockingly, he has never actually seen it, as it is alway intercepted : yeah, come get me, Canada Post - I'm stealing my husband's mail.

In this year's Spring edition, there was a fabulous campaign for Hugo Boss. The locale looked warm and inviting [I want to go to there], the photo itself had great composition, the young men were shiny and well-groomed. You just know looking at them that they smell like yummy Aqua Di Parma. Behold:

(OK, for all I know, dude on the right has a severed head in his man purse. This is beside my point).

You have to agree - this image brings forth sunny happy thoughts. It is, most assuredly, evocative.

And then I remembered another evocative ad campaign. Remember here, evocative can be soul-stirring good, or it can be this:

I cannot even begin to count the ways that this ad makes me never want to be in a 5 mile radius of anyone wearing Emporio Armani cologne. It screams both skank and stank.

What crackhead did the styling for this? Because to my mind, this 'designer' scent as portrayed by its raffish actor/model can only smell like the inside of a freight train fraught with hobos: wet wool, yellow nicotine fingers, Mateus breath and a slightly saucy faint urine aroma.

Ack.

There is a reason that Hugo has his last name.

Ciao, Georgio.

Thoughtful Thursday

You know how some times when you're driving, and you get into sort of a Zen state where you're just in the moment, and you hear a song on the radio and the lyrics subtly percolate their way into your brain?

And you're surprised by how eloquent they truly are, especially when they're heard for the first with an open mind? Without that reflex that makes you jaded, snide, sarcastic?

Well, when I heard today's TT lyrics, I was shocked at how they moved me. They come from a genre I never listen to as a rule (I have a just a few music rules), but when I was clicking around station to station, I landed here for some reason.

Then I heard the song again on another station. An odd coincidence.

Later that day, going out again; yet another station, same song. Beyond coincidence; just plain eerie.

I had to rush back home to search if something tragic had happened to Tim McGraw.

Nope.

I checked to see if it was the anniversary of his dad's passing. Not that either.

I'll just chalk it up to the universe sending me a message that we should all embrace every given moment of the life we're given - there are no backsies, there are no do-overs.

No matter how crazy busy your life is, how much you're scrambling around in an valiant effort to try to keep on top of things for you and your spouse and your family for today and tomorrow and next week simultaneously, bring an awareness to the right now.

We all think we're immortal until we're shown otherwise.

One of the verses that really resonated with me was this:

"And I loved deeper
and I spoke sweeter
And I gave forgiveness I'd been denying.
And he said: "Some day, I hope you get the chance,
To live like you were dyin'."

How hard is it to speak sweetly? Words can be weapons, but they can also be balm for a soul.

And how many of us are shouldering some grudge so heavy that it begets a daily struggle to walk upright?

How much lighter would we feel if we were to just lay that burden down once and for all?

Time is sweeter than we think. Live that way.

Weisenheimer Wednesday

Greetings to you, oh curious masses.

Today's presentation arrives to us via a visit to my public library. Whilst kickin' it old school, and looking for some inspiration in the -wait for it - written word, I couldn't help but notice that the particular shelf I was standing in front of was primarily orange.

Why?

Apparently, there are a lot of complete idiots out there who need guiding.

(Present company excluded, but of course)

(Oh, and, btw? Isn't 'Complete Idiot' kind of an oxymoron? Just sayin'...)

Since there is such a wealth of information out there, waiting to be shared? I would certainly be the idiot not to elucidate.

Before we begin, I would like to extend gratitude to a certain Mr. Cormac Brown, who suggested that perhaps I have a diploma hanging on my wall that shows me graduating Magna Cum Laude* from Weisenheimer University.

Yes, Mr. Brown. Yes, I do.

And every time I write my posts, I wear the cap and gown. Just for a little extra magna.

(* this all began from a comment about this post, asking if there were any vegetables to go along with the sausage-fest) (I merely sent him along some tomatoes) (or maybe they were honeydews - I forget)

So, without further a-boob, er, ado - I give you fascinating factoids from Chapter 17 of "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Creating a Web Page and Blog":

Who Is Your Audience?
. They want to learn [sometimes a little knowledge goes a long way - look at me. Graduate. WU. Reach for the stars, people. Oh and four little words - Lessons from the Louvre. If this isn't edu-mack-ashun, I don't know what is.]

. They want an expert's view [just so you know, if I put my mind and highly sociopathic nature to work, I can be an expert on anything. Did I mention that I wrote Wikipedia?]

. They want journalism they can trust [look at this face. OK, that's not me. But I am as trustworthy as him. The journalism thing? Not my bag, man. Too much work. You can be honest without toil.] [Can't you?]

. They want to be entertained [all I know is that I find myself highly amusing. Partly because I dress like a clown, but mostly because of my extremely shallow standards. So, I'm no Joan Rivers. Sue me.]

. They want to get 'cool' links [Hello? Salma Hayak's schmeebs? BatBoy? I am the walking embodiment of cool.][I'm Canadian, for god's sake. We have no choice.]

. They want to experience something 'real' [hmm. Let's see. Fake name, deftly-constructed persona...Well, I am real, in a sense. I'm not imaginary. Which makes me real. Suck on that logic, Spock.]

. They want to watch your life unfold online [uh, no. You don't] [It's far more fascinating watching it fold in on itself like an origami swan. Artsy-craftsy, too]

Final words from this section: "Using these ideas as a starting point, you must give a lot of thought to why people will want to spend time reading your blog. If you don't satisfy at least one of these desires (and preferably two or three of them), few people will come to your blog, and most of these people won't stick around."

Whoa. Tough love, that.

I think I better do some more reading. I'm still an incomplete idiot.

Thoughtful Thursday

So. This Sunday.

Mother's Day.

Wha-h-h-ht? If this comes as a surprise to you, you are quite welcome. I've given you 2 days to get your ca-ca together.

I suppose I could have found apt quote about mothers, but blech. Kind of trite. Kind of hackneyed. (I know - they both mean the same thing, but today was I felt the urge to say both).

You'll all get your fill of mush in your cards. Instead, I found you this. And really, the two do go together. One can't be a mother without a child, and most offspring had to sproing from somewhere.

Except when they're having a nuclear meltdown in the candy aisle. Or at the insanely expensive label-whore boutique. Then no adult in their right mind will lay claim to them.

Just.

Walk.

Away.

From "Metropolitan Life" by the perpetually irked, curmudgeonly Fran Lebowitz - a list of pros and cons regarding children.

"... Of course, until now prospective parents have not had the opportunity to see the facts spelled out in black and white and therefore cannot reasonably be held accountable for their actions. To this end I have carefully set down all pertinent information in the fervent hope that it will result in a future populated by a more attractive array of children than I have thus far encountered.

Pro
. I must take issue with the term "a mere child", for it has been my invariable experience that the company of a mere child is infinitely preferable to that of a mere adult.

. Children are usually small in stature, which makes them quite useful for getting at those hard-to-reach places.

. Children do not sit next to one in restaurants and discuss their preposterous hopes for the future in loud tones of voice.

. Children ask better questions than do adults. "May I have a cookie?" "Why is the sky blue?" and "What does a cow say?" are far more likely to elicit a cheerful response than "Where's your manuscript?" "Why haven't you called?" and "Who's your lawyer?".

. Children give life to the concept of immaturity.

. Children make the most desirable opponents in Scrabble as they are both easy to beat and fun to cheat.

. It is still quite possible to stand in a throng of children without once detecting even the faintest whiff of an exciting, rugged after-shave or cologne.

. Not a single member of the under-age set has yet to propose the word chairchild.

. Children sleep either alone or with small toy animals. The wisdom of such behaviour is unquestionable, as it frees them from the immeasurable tedium of being privy to the whispered confessions of others. I have yet to run across a teddy bear who was harboring the secret desire to wear a maid's uniform.

Con

. Even when freshly washed and relieved of all obvious confections, children tend to be sticky. One can only assume that this has something to do with not smoking enough.

. Children have decidedly little fashion sense and if left to their own devices will more often than not be drawn to garments of unfortunate cut. In this respect they do not differ greatly from the majority of their elders, but somehow one blames them more.

. Children respond inadequately to sardonic humor and veiled threats.

. Notoriously insensitive to subtle shifts in mood, children will persist in discussing the color of a recently sighted cement-mixer long after one's own interest in the topic has waned.

. Children are rarely in the position to lend one a truly interesting sum of money. There are, however, exceptions, and such children are an excellent addition to any party.

. Children arise at an unseemly hour and are ofttimes in the habit of putting food on an empty stomach.

. Children do not look well in evening clothes.

. All too often children are accompanied by adults. "

Strength in Numbers

For one Wednesday evening, for last two months, I have done the very thing that I swore up, down, back, forth and sideways I would never do.

I am going to a Colon Cancer Support Group.

2 and a half years ago, almost immediately after I had finished my radiation at "The Agency", I got a phone call from one of the facility's social workers. He told me that they were going to try starting up a group, and would I be interested in coming? Knee jerk reaction? Thank you very much, but Noooooo.

Emphatically no.

Hell. To. The. Big N. Big O.

Every fibre of my being balked; I had no desire whatsoever to sit in on one of these sessions. To me, the very notion of a support group conjured up images of a bunch of whiners, moaning about how sick they felt and how depressed they were and wah wah wah. This was not to even remotely be considered as part of the complicated and necessary eleventy-five-point positivity plan I had created for myself.

My decision - of sorts - to give in? Well, it just kinda happened. Through a mutual friend, I met a lovely lady who was in the final stage of treatment and was looking for someone to share experiences with. A buddy, as it were. She mentioned during one of our early conversations that she had heard about a support group that was being held at our city's Cancer Agency, and she was intrigued as to what it was all about.

Typical me - with the words spilling out of my mouth faster than I could reel them back in - blurted, "Would you like me to go to the first one with you?".

Shit. There would be no backsies on this offer.

But then, the strangest thing happened. I decided to sit with my resistance and my discomfort. I decided to hike up the big girl panties and figure out why this was pushing my buttons. While I sat there, I realized that maybe - just maybe - I hadn't ever really processed all of the feelings that I had just kind of squashed to the musty corner of my mental closet.

While on the first few layers I was all Mary Sunshine and "Let's just Git'R'Done" and lovingly assuring family and friends "I am going to be Just Fine", I think that the terrified inner monologue I was having wa-a-a-y deep down was just simply ignored. Like a whining child.

So even though - partially buried - the words remained in their endless constant loop, eroding my optimism a little more with each cycle, I chose not to listen. Or I deluded myself into thinking I made that choice.

As I sat there, listening to everyone's very real and painfully honest stories, I had this weird analogy come to mind. You know the dingy old Army and Air Force Legions, where your grandpas and uncles and maybe dads hoisted a few with their fellow compatriots?

It finally occurred to me why these places exist.

These people get each other. There is no need for long-winded conversation. There is no reason within that haven to judge, to seek approval, to give solace. These are men and women who have all been, at one time or another, in the same hellacious place.

There is a shorthand amongst them - in the way their brow turns, in the quiver of their chin when they speak,in the hint of a quaver of their voice. in the darkness behind their eyes.

They get each other.

Just like my fellow support group members get each other.

Listen to me, would ya? My fellow group members.

Yup. We get each other.

Pure and simple, and simply pure.

Classified Information

Peaceful journeys, Domenico, Kaz, and Olga.

May your path be an easy one, Patricia, Yamina and Erica.

Rest well, Evelyn, John, Susan and Cecil.

And thus goes another of the Baroness' daily rituals - the reading of the obituaries. Of investing the whole 5 minutes or so a day that it takes to acknowledge that a person's life has ended, and to honor them by reading the oh-too-brief synopsis of their full, robust lives.

Do you think this is weird?

Most of my friends do.

Until we have "the chat".

You know the one?

The one where we sit and I try to rationalize my fascination with obituaries, and where they sit and stare at me, silently thinking "what the hell was I thinking, ever aligning myself with such a whack-a-doodle?".

Don't get me wrong here.

I'm not fascinated with death. I've had my cha-cha with mortality, and that's enough to do me for, oh, about another 40 years or so (32.92 more years according to actuarial data for 2010).

What I am fascinated by is life. Everyone's life. Because everyone, bar none, has a story. A story so worthy of telling and retelling. A story that brings each and every one of us from the cradle to our final place of rest.

I am in awe of how a life, no matter how spectacular or dreary, can be distilled down into an inch or so of type.

How does one decide what to put in? Who makes this decision? Has the deceased had the foresight to sketch out the broad strokes, so that no pertinent information is overlooked?

Oftentimes, the announcement is a creation of the director of the funeral home. They glean as much information as they sensitively can from the bereaved family, then awkwardly fill in the blanks from their standard lexicon of too-safe and stoic/tactful phrases. These are no poets, my friends.

Which is why we are left with a plethora of "Jane Smith, passed away peacefully....".

(I have already apprised my family that, when the time comes, should they put pen to paper and even dare to think to write the words "passed away peacefully", I will haunt their sorry asses for all eternity. Hell hath no fury like a Baroness scorned. )

(Peacefully, my ass.)

And while I acknowledge fully that death is a sacred rite, I just want to know why all of that good juicy information is often completed eclipsed by such a phone-it-in, trite opener.

Every once in a while, there is a tribute so original, so heartfelt, so obviously pouring over with love, I am deeply saddened that I never got the opportunity to cross paths with this glorious being.

I remember a conversation I had once with a friend while we were at a funeral. During the eulogy, we learned things about this person that neither of us were ever remotely aware of.

"Why", she wondered,"does it take us sitting here today to learn all of these amazing things about our friend?"

"Why couldn't we have honored these accomplishments, these attributes, these talents, while they were still alive?"

Why indeed.

Perhaps its time to cast a loving glance onto the lives of those who we think we know so well.

There may be some pretty praise-worthy classified information waiting for us to discover.

The Queen of Queef*

Are you there, God?

It's me, Baroness.

So, hey? I've got a couple of issues to discuss with you, regarding the attributes that you have so kindly seen fit to bestow upon me.

Was it not enough that you gave my hands an other-worldly, reptilian texture, thereby making me the social pariah of elementary school?

Then was it not enough that you made my colon so accomodating that I not only could entertain a gajillion strains of healthy bacteria, but be the hostess with the mostest for their trailer-park cousin, cancer?

Was that not enough to amuse you? Did that not give you mirth and satisfaction as you tossed humility and despair onto my character-building pile?

Did you not think, at that point, that I had become enough of an evolved individual?

Now this.

This I'm finding really hard to get over.

Apparently, in your infinite wisdom, you deem it necessary that I add "Chatty Uterus" to my repetoire.

Here's where I finally balk. Enough, already.

I've had it, and I'm officially giving you the "thanks but no thanks".

Yup, me.

Oh, yeah. Me.

And the 20 other women in my yoga class.

The ones who have the pleasure of eavesdropping on my no-good, no-sounds-barred, filibustin' no-no.

Dude. C'mon. This really has to stop.

Because for once, I don't think you're getting the big picture.

You know how they say that the beating of one butterfly's wings can unleash a hurricane on the other side of the world?

Let me just reveal that, thanks to your new "gift", I am destroying a signficant chunk of the Australian Outback.

For the love of You, please make it stop.


*queef: syn - vart. (figure it out, people)