Losers on Parade



Years ago, before I met The Mister, I dated my share of losers.
I went on many dates, my friends that I really shouldn't have gone on.

The interesting thing about losers is that some of them have excellent concealment skills and can fool a girl into thinking that they are normal.
At first glance and "getting to know you" conversation, a good miscreant can trick a girl into thinking that he is an average, conventional guy.
You might end up out for a few hours before Mr. Idiot or Mr. Inappropriate makes his first appearance.

Like the good looking musician I went out with on two normal dates, only to have Mr. Inappropriate make his appearance on our almost third date.
I say almost because here's how it went:

The musician, (we'll call him "Chip" or "Dale" for the sake of argument) had invited me to his apartment for dinner. As I mentioned before, we had been out on two dates previously, so his offer to cook dinner seemed ok at the time.
When I showed up at his apartment and knocked on the door, Chip opened it wearing nothing but a small girly type apron, and announced:
"Rules of the house. Clothes come off at the front door" or some shit to that affect.
It took me a moment to comprehend that I was not, in fact, in a Fellini film.
I then immediately turned on my heels without saying anything and made for the elevator.
Quick as my high heels could take me.
He came out into the hall, but I guess thought better of coming after me with his "Dale" hanging out.
I wouldn't return his calls anymore.

Or the guy I went out with once who seemed relatively normal, and I liked well enough who sent me flowers at work the next day, thanking me for pleasant evening.
Which I thought was a nice thing to do.
Only to start to fill up my answering machine tape with message after message asking me why he couldn't reach me.
It didn't scare me when he left the first message, it was after the 11th in the span of 5 hours that alarmed me.
I kept that tape, because it's an excellent chronicle of normal to lunatic.

Or the U of T student who thought I'd like to see the skinned monkey from the lab in his car trunk.

Or the guy who took me to the airport for dinner.
Ok.
I like the airport.
It's one of my favourite places, but not for a first date.

Oh yes my darlinks...there were many more frogs before The Mister rescued me from the dating pool.

Tanks Got.

Tell me your worst date...C'mon...

Cashew Bark



1/2 Cup Butter
1 Cup Granulated Sugar
1/4 Cup Golden Corn Syrup
1 1/2 Cups Cashews
1/2 Cup Sweetened Coconut (Optional)


In a large saucepan, combine butter, sugar and corn syrup. Cook and stir with a wooden spoon over medium heat until melted, smooth and bubbly. Cover and cook for 1 minute.


Add nuts and increase heat to medium-high. Cook uncovered, stirring constantly until nuts are lightly browned, and syrup is a warm and golden colour (about 5 minutes).
At this point you can throw in the coconut, if you are so inclined.


Pour mixture into a foil-lined and lightly buttered baking sheet, spreading as thinly as possible. Cool until hard. Peel candy from foil and break into pieces.

*The brittle can be saved in an airtight container, at room temperature for up to a week.

**A word of advice: Wash the saucepan immediately after you pour the candy out.
For obvious reasons...why make more work for yourself if you don't need to.
It's my motto for everything.

***The above pictured is the recipe doubled.

There are some people who age like fine wine.
People who may have been relatively attractive when they were younger, but who really came into their "prime", (as Miss Jean Brody once said) as they got older.

Two people who come to mind immediately are Tina Turner:


and

Pam Grier


Ok.
I know that they are celebrities, and that they have plastic surgery at their disposal, but I have met people in my day to day life who are more attractive now than they were when they were younger.

Maybe my taste is changing.
Maybe I've learned to appreciate the experience that shines though as a person gets older.
The laugh lines that I see and find charming, and the lines I once found just plain old, to represent the soul of the person I'm talking to.

My mother used to say that the face you have at 40 is the face that you've earned.

God knows that I've earned every grey hair that I skillfully hide, with regular visits to my hairdresser.
The lines I'm forming on my forhead and around my mouth are representative of my sense of humour and bittersweet experiences.

Faces that I once saw as just plain "old" are now faces that I look at with a different view.
There are sweet faces, and bitter faces, and kind faces.
Faces with crags and cracks that represent a personal journey.

I can only hope that I'm aging gracefully, and not tragically.

To see some pictures of our day trip to Ottawa, click the above picture of The Argos receiving the Grey Cup last night.

The Mister and I are back from Ottawa, and I must say I had forgotten what a beautiful city it is.

So even though I am not a football fan, I did enjoy the experience.I have never seen so many happy and soused people in one place in my entire life.

Supposedly, there were 53,000 people in the stadium, and I've never heard "O Canada" sung at the top of 52,998 sauced lungs, and it was pretty cool.

We had a good time, and it was nice to get out of T.O. for a day.

In other news (Since we're on the topic of sports):
For this tidbit of new to reach me, it's gotten to the point of ridiculous.
What is up with Vince Carter?
When did he turn into such a whiney suck?
Shut the fuck up, and do what you're paid for.

Just 'Cause I'm Sentimental


Image Source Parkdale Photo Gallery

Parkdale is my old neighbourhood.
The above picture is of the old bus station diner and the Edgewater Hotel.
When I look at it, I am immediately shot back to my childhood.
That corner was one of the two corners that I used to wait for my mother to come home from work when I was a child.
I used to walk to either to Lansdowne and Queen to watch her get off the Landsdowne Bus or I used to wait at the Greyhound Bus Station Depot to wait for her to get off the King Car at Queen Street. At both corners there were diners.

At Roncesvalles and Queen, the diner had a waitress named Margaret who wore her red hair in curls on the top of her head with a little bow. Her eyebrows were drawn on and she was a little on the chunky side.

Margaret was kind to me.

While waiting for my mother, Margaret would give me hot chocolate in the winter and pop in the summer.
She never charged me.
She knew through our conversations that I was waiting for my mother and she took care of me.

She looked out for me.

Me, in my too short pants that my Tetka Ljuba made for me from the odd pieces of fabric left over from her factory job, and my brown winter jacket with the broken zipper, my house key hanging from a string around my neck.

As an adult I see what Margaret must have seen when she saw me come in every weekday.
Back in the ‘70’s, people still looked after children.
Margaret would chat with me and pass the time until my mother would step off of the King streetcar.

My mother never met Margaret.
I never told her about Margaret.
Margaret was my secret friend and took care of me.

Free of charge.

Thanks Margaret, wherever you are.

God Bless you.