My blog

Hello All,

 

I have attached a link to my blog which has several articles on it now.  I have 18 actual followers!  I am trying to get this to circulate with the ultimate goal of building content and publishing and of course entertaining folks.  My writing is a light, funny read for the most part.  I don’t do politics, drama, or routine status updates about my next doctor’s appointment or car repair.

 

Please share the link to anyone you think might enjoy it.  My supporters will get front row seats at my first book signing and a 20 minute supply of Ibuprofen.   I know there is a place for me in the literary world somewhere between teenage vampire lust and the DIY Guide for a Complete Garage Makeover.

 

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Enjoy!

 

http://aprilfinallywrites.blogspot.com/

 

 

Diamond Cupcake Sprinkles

I went to a Gold Party. Now I’ve been to every home party out there - Tupperware, Mary Kay, Jewels by Park Lane, Pampered Chef (isn’t this an oxymoron?), Passions Party, Creative Memories (the implication here is that if your actual memories suck, you can create better ones) Weekender’s clothes ($75 for spandex pants? Can’t I just take my sweats to Vegas? They don’t wrinkle either.)


Okay, so a Gold Party rocks.


It’s easy for my friend Jen to lure me in, she says, “Wine and appetizers.” That’s a no brainer. Self-esteem-rattling day at work, teenager with failing report card, menstrual bloat, what better way to ebb the demons of stress and self-degradation than alcohol and finger food.


I race home from work and pillage my jewelry box over a glass of wine. I have a smattering of gold chains from which dangle bobbles that might have been fashionable in 1982. There is one earring because the other one is no doubt laying on the floorboard of an ex-boyfriend’s Camaro (aka AMC Pacer); a filigree owl with a loop to attach charms, also from the 80s. A Lapis Lazuli circle resembling a lifesaver candy framed in Chinese characters. I brutally unpair chains from pendants suddenly lusting after any yellow metal in the hopes that it might be actual gold. The irony that I may be replacing some of the stuff almost instantly is not lost on me. 


I arrive at my friend’s home with a small box of trinkets thinking that I’ll be lucky if my cache of unwanted accessories brings me enough to pay for the gas I used to drive there. I lay my humble pile out, fill out the information card and head into the kitchen to find the Cab.


Twenty minutes later the Gold Lady calls out my name. I see my chains, necklaces and rings stacked in a misshapen heap like accident victims. She has applied a little dremmel tool to most items separating stones from the precious metal. She is wearing one of those jewelers visors that resembles a mini welder’s shield and I ponder how is it she looks totally cool with that thing on her head?


We have deposited once precious pieces here, items given by lovers, beloved aunts, revered mothers, grandmothers who were our best friends. It comes down to a few squirts of acid, the weight and feel of it in her expert hands and we discover that half of our treasures are just ordinary memories and nothing more. But there are a few things that pass muster.


I approach the table and see the carcass of a pendent I surrendered. There is a pang of sorrow as I realize I have given over that memory and now it’s gone forever. There will be no sentimental grasp of its warm lustre evermore.


The Gold Lady has extracted 23 miniscule baguette diamonds from my pendant. My “precious gems” are in a plastic bag not unlike the ones used by drug dealers to parcel out their product. I have no doubt that an 1/8 of an ounce of marijuana is more valuable than the 1/8 of a teaspoon of diamond shards just handed to me. The fact that the Gold Lady even extracted and kept track of them is a miracle in my mind, since most of us would have flicked them onto the carpet like bread crumbs.


Fascinated, I fetch a full glass of red wine.


At the table, the Gold Lady who is charming and beautiful in her jewelers mask and latex gloves asks me to speculate on the value of my trove.


“$100?” I mutter, complacent, sheepish.


“$205” She says brightly.


Really? Suddenly she is snapping my photograph and handing me two crisp Ben Franklins. I resist the immediate urge to hold them up to the light and see if they are real. They are accompanied by a worn out five dollar bill (thank you Abe.)


I am almost ashamed. Every “home party” I’ve ever attended usually resulted in the emptying of my wallet - NEVER the other way around. I start to churn. What if I had a party selling doo dads or gadgets preceded by the GOLD PARTY? Imagine liquidating the crap your college boyfriend gave you and getting $500 to spend on new jewelry or a state of the art spatula? Paired with the precise over-pouring of Cabernet, I could make out like a bandit.


What a hot idea… Income stream coupled with an immediate shopping outlet. That’s a chick’s dream, right?


Well, actually after I pocketed my $205, I had another idea. I was holding the mini-Ziploc bag up to the light noting that even tiny diamonds sparkle.


What in the name of Todd (more on taking Todd’s name in vain later) am I supposed to do with these?


And then it hits me. My 45th birthday is coming up.


The Ultimate Cupcake Sprinkles!


I am enchanted. Dark chocolate cupcake, a silver cupcake paper, its accordion spines shimmering in the July sun, pale pink butter cream frosting and…


23 Diamond Sprinkles…


You know that disgusting peppermint Schnapps, with the gold flake in it? I’ve been drunk on that, pretty sure I vomited up a Krugerrand. But Diamond Cupcake Sprinkles! Suddenly I am seized with excitement, my plan seems flawless. I am committed to the idea that I will adorn my 45th birthday cake with actual diamonds.


As soon as I spew my exciting idea, I look at the Gold Lady. She immediately perceives the inherent danger. Diamonds are the hardest substance on earth. 23 tiny rocks have to make it through my nether-regions and suddenly the concept of a perforated bowel and scraped intestines blooms. Gold Lady agrees – this is a VERY BADY IDEA.


Dammit..

Now I have to Google it, or BING (does this really stand for Because It’s Not Google)? Do I have to seek the opinion of a medical professional before ingesting what amounts to $40 worth of diamonds? What about the dirt and rocks happily consumed by children? Aren’t we biologically predisposed to take in at least of 10% of our body weight in things that are questionably digestible such as orange colored petroleum food products like Velveeta?


And what of all the health stuff out there? Ever tried “colon hydrotherapy”? Yes, may I please pay $70 for a turbo-enema? How about magnetic insoles, hemp lotion (all the moisture, none of the high), charcoal supplements, blue algae, acai berries, ohm, Namaste, ob la di, ob la da…


So how can a mouse turd’s worth of baguette diamonds possibly pose a threat as cupcake embellishments?


I beg for an answer…


Game on.

The Truth About Toilet Seat Covers...

Who for one second believes that a micro-thin layer of wood pulp actually prevents bacteria from sticking to your butt? Really? Frankly, they are a bother. Chances are a public toilet nice enough to offer a full dispenser of toilet seat covers also has perky ladies that come in after hours and disinfect the entire toilet daily. I can’t say the same for my house. I usually do a lid check for splatters prior to friends arriving and if there are no visible signs of filth, we’re good to go.



And yet, despite my conviction that the ridiculous tissue paper film is useless, I reach for one each time. Why?


Because, what in the name of God will others think of me if I sit on a bare toilet seat?


Usually, I collect one anticipating that there will be one of two outcomes:

1. It will rip in half while I attempt to disengage the center piece from the edges.
2. If successfully placed on the seat, the center piece will fall into the water followed unceremoniously by the rest of the cover while I fiddle with my array of buttons, latches, control top panty hose and zippers.

I estimate that this occurs 94% of the time. 6% of the time, I successfully navigate buttocks placement and finish my business and when I stand up…


The f***ing thing is stuck to my ass as a result of static electricity. This is a recent development and I can only blame it on the fall of stock prices or bad Chinese imports or anything not related to electron migration from my backside. I am loathe to think how that whole thing goes down.


At work, the seat covers have visible particles of wood embedded in them and come in a package labeled, “Rest Assured”.  Encircling this provocative statement is, “Clean-Safety-Clean…Safety-Clean-Safety.”


Rest Assured? Assured of what, that my bottom is uber-safe from harmful ick? Did I miss something on Good Morning America about a pandemic caused by toilet seat cover failure? I suggest that we just smear that gelatinized grain alcohol masquerading under the label “Hand Sanitizer” over the seat and be done. My friend Pam points out that there is a good likelihood that the laws of physics will come into play and we will slide off the seat almost instantly. But I haven’t let go of the concept, I mean really, if the whole business down there is disinfected, then why do we need hand sanitizer? Frankly, hand sanitizer is just a 15 second opportunity to get high in the office restroom before returning to work anyway.


Let’s break this down further. Clean? Okay, I see what they’re implying with clean, but safety? Is there a chance I am going to be injured during my toilet experience if I don’ t use a seat cover? I’ve never thought of that! Again, I am trolling the internet to find relevant information about injuries sustained while using the toilet and the safety statistics of toilet seat covers.


Go ahead and Google it, I dare you.


So what the hell do you think of the person in the adjacent stall who deliberately omits the application of the seat cover? Do you assume she’s hovering, in which case she is making a mess for the patron that follows her…if you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie.”  ...whatever.

Really, unless you have Peyton Manning’s quads, who are you fooling? I can no more hold myself up at a 45 degree squat over a toilet seat than I can do a one-armed push up with Gerard Butler on my back. Those girls that say they hover are lying or they are 25 and weigh 109 pounds or they hover but brace themselves with two hands on the seat which is more disgusting. At least if my butt gets stuff on it, I can pull my panties on and go about my day. If my hands touch the seat, then I’m left to the mercy of some watery soap that squirts out smelling like somebody’s grandmother.

And here’s the confession…


Sometimes, I pull a seat cover out and make rustling noises with it and then I wad it up and throw it in the bowl. I pause a moment to see if anyone figured out what just happened.  I thought I was the only one whoever did this until one day when I queried my friends who sheepishly confessed to similar indiscretions.  I hugged them fiercely.

So join the rebellion, go commando on your next privy visit.  Survey says?

Beauty, Bras and Canadian Tourists....

April 24, 2010


I just paid $55 for a bra! It makes my bosoms look magnificent. Never mind the fact there is as much hardware on it as my minivan. Back fat is squished up and out of all edges like putting a rubber band around a bag of frosting but my breasts are riding high and firm!

I’m trying not to grimace at the folds and pleats on my body that weren’t there, well, yesterday when I had on a cheap bra that did little more than conceal a cold breeze. Who am I kidding? They were there, discreetly concealed under a shirt that is generous enough to hide that shit. Thank the heavens for BLACK anything. I am running my hands over the mounds willing them away. It’s an aggregate of moose tracks ice cream and vodka, carefully collected over the last 20 years. I’ve seen round butts and full bellies and on other women and they look curvy and natural and beautiful to me. But when the svelte clerk at Victoria’s Secret is scrambling to find something in a 38 DD that isn’t the color of somebody’s grandmother’s single-wide, I feel, well…

FAT, humongous, bulbous.

I know that somebody thinks I’m sexy, my boyfriend doesn’t complain, my friends think I’m hot so where is that nasty little bitch that is whispering, “that's disgusting!”? When I find her, I’m going to kick her sorry ass. I have beautiful green eyes and softly curled red hair. I am smart, funny, compassionate and sexy. Who cares if there are tufts of flesh bubbling up out of the confines of a bra that could undoubtedly hold up a Buick. 38DD is a respectable dimension, some Hollywood ladies pay good money for those measurements. Of course they mount those babies on a size two frame and they have the asses of 18 year old boys. Is that attractive? Must be, it’s a multi-billion dollar industry – objectifying women.

Once I take this thing off, out will pop the grapefruits in tube socks, oh boy! Only, they won’t pop; they will descend toward my navel and if I lay down, they will nest in my arm pits. Oh God, who thinks that is sexy? I want his cell number.

I console myself with a big fat Grey Goose and tonic. I remind myself that there is much more to me than my boobs or droopy ass. I am fun to be with, I am reliable, I can cook and I can steer a 40 foot dragon boat without puncturing yachts in the marina. I am a good mother, a good bank employee, a good sister, daughter, friend. My first husband blamed my size on his lack of sexual interest in me even though I gained just 15 pounds more than when we married. I am today 20 pounds heavier than that and as far as I can tell, there is at least one or two men who might want to see me naked… and no, I don’t have to give them money.

Last summer, I had a crush on a man on my dragon boat team. He was strikingly handsome and we flirted on a few occasions. When the team went to Victoria BC for races, I was thrilled that I might get to spend some time with him. One night at dinner, he was chatting and I overheard him say that he had not met any women recently that he was attracted to. That solved that puzzle – he had ample time and space to get to know me better on that trip, so if he was going to, he would have. Insecurity caked over me like wet mud.

At that same dinner, I left to use the ladies room. I had stopped to admire the artwork along the hallway when out of the men’s room came a young, handsome Canadian man. He bounced into me and said, “Excuse me!” I smiled and he started to talk to me.

“Are you a tourist?” Really? I am wearing an oversized red hoodie with a giant white maple leaf on it, do you think I’m not a tourist? I explained that yes, of course I was a tourist, in town for the Victoria Dragon Boat Races and Festival.

“Do you want to make out?”

What? Did he just say, do you want to make out? Holy Mother of God…

“Make out, like kissing?” I say, surely there is a catch or this will cost money or I will be on some inane Canadian Reality Show…Local hotties hit on fat American tourists, film at 11:00 or local serial killer strikes again, stupid American woman found dead in men's room…

“Yeah, that’s what we do here in Canada, we make out.”

“Make out, like no hanky panky, just making out, kissing, that’s it?”

”Yeah, it will be fun, let’s go!” He asks my name and tells me his – it’s Paul.

Paul has a hybrid Canadian-Irish accent and there is not a damn thing unattractive or even creepy about him that I can detect. He is not overtly intoxicated nor am I at this point and I am pondering what in the hell could be appealing about me in an oversized red sweatshirt. I’ve been racing on Inner Harbour all day, no make up, hair blown in three different directions, and Oh God, the huge white maple leaf festooned across my rack! It causes me to blurt out, “But you’re so attractive...” as if to say, why the hell would you want to kiss me?

Paul says, ”Yes – you are.” Okay, game on, that puts me over the edge of restraint and I agree to “make out” with Paul. He ushers me by the hand into the men’s room of this swank restaurant, locks us into a stall and we proceed to make out.

He is a great kisser, there is groping to be sure, and I shoo his hands away from the danger zones. I am not about to go “all the way” with a stranger, albeit young, foreign and handsome, in a men’s restroom in Victoria, British Columbia. I am reminded of my handsome and young first husband, also Canadian and am pronged with a spur of sadness but only for a moment. The “making out” lasts all of five minutes until my logic sensors decide to push him away from me before things get out of hand. He does not persist to my relief.

Back in the hallway, I tell him that he’s made my weekend, hell, my year. He smiles and walks away. He turns back and says, “Hey!”

“yes?”

“What’s my name?”

“Paul…” I say smiling, still not sure that any of it just happened. He says, “Will you remember me?”

Yes, for the rest of my life.

And that is the story of how I know I’m attractive, $55 bra or not.

Alas, I am out of firewood….

Fire is cathartic. It crackles and spits and heats and whatever shame you are carrying can be tossed into the flame, figuratively or really. I have tossed empty liquor bottles into bon fires on camping trips and then retrieved the molten, brittle art form out of the ash the next day thinking it made the coolest souvenir. Letters from old lovers, the cigarettes you didn't want your mom to find, an ill-gotten candy wrapper.

Yes, the fire is good. It warms and it is a labor of love. I live in a small apartment which boasts a "fireplace" as one of it's amenities. My fireplace is about the size of a microwave oven. An average split log if placed perpendicular to the back wall will jut out into the living room. I put them at slants or stack them against the back, where on a good day, they will stay precariously tilted amongst one another and burn peacefully. On other days, the wads of newspaper I used to ignite them will burn down and the whole stack will tumble onto the tile narrowly missing the highly flammable carpet which is undoubtedly spun from some ill-begotten petroleum product.

My friend is kind enough to bring the splitting maul his mother gave him and make kindling and other pieces that actually fit. When I come home from work, when the apartment is frigid and my mind is spent, the siren song of the fire is palpable. I want to be warm and bask in the pale amber light. We are beautiful by firelight. The dirtiest most disheveled people huddled around the most robust of camp fires are like small demi-gods with glowing gorgeous faces. Fire is life, the miracle of cooked food, warmth, resurrection, and purification. I want it - every spitting ember, the prickling heat, the thrust of the flame searching every crevice for air and fuel.

Next comes my own personal game of Jenga Inferno. I have watched my friend (same with maul) wad up most of the Sunday paper into tidy little grenades and criss-cross kindling over them. With one match, the flame erupts across the foot of the pile. In moments the fire is alive and the cat is happy (more on this later).

I come home to an empty apartment and I meticulously wad up the paper and weave the kindling into a leaning tower. I light it. In about 90 seconds, the newspaper vaporizes and wood is tumbling onto the carpet and my apartment is filling with smoke. The cat has joined me on my knees but he has an entirely different agenda. He wants the fire too because he is old and skinny and his bones no doubt, ache. He is ardently waiting for there to be heat and the fact that his intrusion prohibits me from effective fire management is of little consequence to him. He vocalizes his disapproval.

Now all the paper is twirling bits of flat ash and none of the kindling is alight. Plenty of it is smoking and it occurs to me that I will have to open at least two windows to start venting the soot which will, of course, let in the cold air. So much for my economic green solution to turning on the baseboard heater. I decide that the best solution is wad up more paper and use my barbecue tongs to reconfigure the singed kindling for another pass at ignition. This routine goes on until I get frustrated enough to open a bottle of wine. But not to be out done by my houseguest who shows up and seemingly ignites piles of damp logs with magical fairy sparks out the end of his fingers, I blow and pant and keep lighting wads of paper until the right chemical configuration of fuel-heat-oxygen is produced. Jenga be dammed, my helter skelter throw of sticks is now burning adequately enough to consider tossing on an actual piece of firewood.

The cat is laying 18 inches from the flame. Air pockets collapse and explode and projectiles of coal rocket out between the gnarled (and useless) mesh screen. The cat is on fire but barely notices. I brush the embers from his long fur, noting that it is too hot to touch. I wonder if he will die happily here, driven by a primal mad instinct to be comfortable. The fire is his love language, he requires nothing further in the way of consolation at this moment. I want to be him, singularly driven by the consummation of one desire.

To be warm, content, sleeping; blissfully unaware that bills will arrive, lovers will leave, jobs will be lost, friends will die. At that moment, all of his worldly needs are met. The flame has chased off discomfort, doubt and despair.

I am the cat or the flame or both or none. I am grateful that the fire burns. Friends brought me the wood, God the flame. Tonight I will be content in the burning…