Dr. Brooks & the Magic Fire Truck

People are so incredible. One of my greatest pleasures in life is to meet new people, hear their stories, discover their uniqueness and ultimately; experience some kind of adventure with them. Sometimes these adventures last decades, some only brief moments. The most important adventures for me are the ones I think back to and question; did that really happen?! How was I SO unbelievably lucky to have met that person/people leading to THAT crazy event!? Might as well be magic ‘cause I have no other explanation.  

In Lunenburg, NS, a quaint little coastal fishing village south of Halifax, I had such an adventure. Starting with a polite hand shake and introduction to Dr. Brooks and his lovely wife Cheryl, I was quickly aware that this visit would be all but ordinary when I was casually related to “Sister Sarah”, an alias for a once was brothel babe from Maine. Weird - my favorite.

The adventure gained its true momentum however with a tour of Dr. B’s private replica fire hall. Here’s where it gets unbelievable. This man, an extremely involved volunteer fire fighter and successful psychologist has been collecting fire fighter paraphernalia for decades. Most recently, his “hobby” evolved to include the purchase of 2 fully functioning vintage fire engines. That’s right, he owns 2 fire trucks! Not stopping there though, wife Cheryl skillfully contracted the building of a replica fire hall to store these fine trucks. Of course! Adding to that, the hall has a museum of Dr. B’s private collection and a guest room where we were kindly welcomed to stay.  

Over the course of the 48 hours spent in Lunenburg, I often stopped to exclaim “Can you believe we are here!?” The entire town was like a pulsing movie scene. It seemed only appropriate that before leaving Lunenburg and the Brooks’, we ride around town on the truck.  

Last month, for the First time, I took a private tour around small town Nova Scotia on a fire truck...on one condition; the driver received a kiss of thanks. Easy peezy Sister Sarah ;)

Thank you Will. It was a magical adventure!

Fishy Business

Why is it that catching a fish is so satisfying? Dominance? I’m not a vicious person, nor do I assume anyone else is either. Somehow though, feeling the sudden tug, race to reel in the line and discovery of a frantic fish desperately gasping for air at my mercy makes me want to fist pump and hiss “yesssssss”.   

It’s a bit sick when you consider it. I certainly do not feel this way about birds or mammals (despite being a happy carnivore) but with fish, I’m down for the kill.   

Hanging out on PEI a few weeks ago, my killer instincts set sail. Near Brackley Beach at Cove Head Harbour, my hunting partner and I boarded Richards Deep Sea Fishing liner hungry for fin. First jigging for mackerel to use later as bait, our crew had a slow start. We wormed our way around a few different areas and finally snagged a hot spot to caste. We eventually hooked enough keepers to move on to cod. This is when the knife came out.  

I was shown how to swiftly sever the body into suitable pieces of bait. Excited by what was to come, my hands were steady as the blood gushed and the kids on the boat screamed zombie fish!”  
A few hours later, with little success by most, we were on our way back to shore; chased by gulls under the most gorgeous setting sun I’ve ever seen.

I’m proud to report that of 26 fish caught by our crew of 15, we caught 50% of them! 12 mackerel and 1 of only 3 cod; snagged by yours truly.   

The following night, over an open camp fire, we cooked up our prize prey. Served with new PEI potatoes and green beans, we tore through their salted, tasty flesh with groans of delight. This I decided, is why catching a fish is so satisfying. Delicious!   

Naughty by Nature

Some of my favorite memories as a kid living on Raleigh St. in Brantford were of the times we would set up my Grandfather’s Boy Scout army tent for summer sleepovers in the shared backyard that stretched behind our row of townhouses. Constructed of deep, dense green canvas and held upright by dozens of 1” thick poles that required meticulous assembly plans and great physical commitment, setting up the tent was rarely free of argument and near surrender. Eventually however, the tent would always rise and the rewards of our hard work savoured.

 Needless to say, camping has always been a part of my life.  I love the sensation of huddling beneath the low roof, zipping up tight in the dark, the click of the flashlight and waking to the murmurs of random creatures. When in a proper forest, camping of course becomes more about the surrounding environment and “survival” activities: collecting wood, starting a fire, tying up the dry line, cooking dinner, tarping against rain etc/etc. And sometimes, as I’ve always wanted to do in Algonquin, portaging to the site.   

Unfortunately, I did not get to Algonquin this summer. I did however, have the amazing experience of spending 24 days driving to and around the east coast during which I camped in 11 different places, for the “First” time. Here how it all went down...  

E18 - Whale Cove Campground, Digby, NS
13 - Blomidon Provincial Park, Minus Bay, NS
XX - Darrel’s back yard, Louisburg, Cape Breton
33 - Hideaway Campground, Dingwall, Cape Breton
T1 - Adventures East, Baddeck, Cape Breton
412 - Ponderosa Family Campground, Hopewell Rocks, NB
144 - Cabot beach Provincial Park, Cabot beach, PEI
22 - Green Park Provincial, (near) Tyne Valley, PEI
31 - West River Countryside Inn, backyard of Power family cottage rental, Charlottetown, PEI  
38 - Cymbria Campground, Cymbria, PEI
54 - North Beach Campground, Burlington, VT (USA

Thanks to advances in camping equipment (and a healthy competitive, must-beat-our-best-time spirit), setting up camp reached a personal best of under 5 minutes. My Grandpa would be amazed!

Never Start a Fire Nude

As I move through this list of Firsts, I'm noticing that some of my original goals now lack luster. Some haven’t been attainable, some I chickened out on and some...are just not things I care to do anymore.  Why did I want to hang around in the nude with a bunch of strangers again? 
I looked into a few places and genuinely did consider attending the nudist volleyball weekend, nudist glow stick party, nudist golf cart parade and/or the “Bare as you Dare” dance. But, when I read rule #2 on the Nudist Policy stating that, “When in the nude, always use a towel to sit on” (to avoid sharing body goo I would guess??) and then #7 which said “All persons MUST be nude when using the swimming pool, hot tub or sauna.” I somehow felt....conflicted.
As a runner up to visiting a nudist camp, I decided to do something as equally dangerous. Start a fire. Perhaps it took a weeks’ worth of newspaper and 20 minutes to light and perhaps it smoked more than flamed and just maybe it burned less than 5 minutes, but dammit - if you stuck your hand in it, it still would have hurt.

Lus-ter: radiant, luminous brightness; brilliance, or glory.” Yep, that pretty much describes my fire ;)

Screaming Trapeze

It’s difficult to describe the madness that is trapeze, especially by a person fairly threatened by heights.

Originally meant to be a sky dive or bungee jump, when gearing up for this activity I reminded myself that this project is not about conquering the world, but discovering it. I’m proud to share that, for the first time, at The Toronto School for Performing Circus Arts, I briefly surrendered my fear and found that (even subtle) adventures in the sky can be thrilling. I also reminded myself that it’s completely ok to scream in public, enclosed spaces.

Wedding Crashers

At age 15, I got a (yes, totally cheesy) tattoo on my right ring finger. I remember thinking, “I should get this on my wedding finger as a protest and claim my eternal independence!” Much less radical than I thought I was, I opted out and quietly maintained a pseudo sense of resistance. To this day however, I love attending weddings.  Nowhere else can you indulge in so much awesome slow dancing, chicken dancing, jiggin’ with Grandpa or bust out the Running Man and still have friends the next day.For the first (and just recently, second) time, I paired my teenage desire for radicism (is that a word?) with my love of wedding receptions to succeed in crashing a total of 4 weddings!!

Inspired, planned and accompanied by one of the most good-fun-times guys I know, weddings #1, 2 & 3 took place at a classy, multi-venue joint near Jane & Steels called the Paradise Ballroom.  Dolled up and determined, we began our journey north on the Jane St. bus with cans of beer in paper bags of courage.  Well prepared with alias names (Frank Journey & Penny Power), background stories and quick escape plans, we arrived about 9:30 ready to hit the floor.
Folks, if you’re ever craving something new and quirky to do on a Saturday night, I highly recommend the P.B! I couldn’t believe how simple it was to walk in, grab a drink and start twisting the night away. We ate, did I mention drink (for FREE), got pics with the brides...we did it all...and we didn’t know a soul!

Just the other week, while tearing through Louisburg on Cape Breton Island with my new favorite guy, the universe sent out another crash test. Wedding #4 was the best yet! Held at the local fire hall and attended by some unruly randos and seriously drunken Capers, we arrived just in time to participate in the garter and bouquet toss. Within 3 minutes, we had drinks in hand, found a crowd of new friends and were two-steppin’ until closing time. Islanders are a different bunch to say the least. I received two warnings that night: not to claw at eyes when chasing the bouquet and to never meet a man’s eyes on the dance floor. I see. Sloppy and aggressive was apparently an understatement.


Sadly while away, I missed a family wedding here in Ontario. Congratulations Deanna & Joe!! Couples like you keep me believing that love can last as long as my tattoo (ya, I already said it was cheesy...).  xo

Salsa Off the Scoville

Who doesn’t like to shake a tail on the dance floor, right?! Boppin, groovin, tappin n’ clappin - all good things. While I’m all about the group dance hall thing, I’ve always been curious about the mechanics of synchronized dancing as a pair. Communicating with your body to move in unison while remembering all the steps, (eek!) is seriously complex (in my mind). Add to that, the fact that I am leaps and bounds from having any notable rhythm or sexuality in my stride. Nonetheless, I decided I wanted to master Salsa.

I met a friend at Lulu Lounge on Dundas to take part, for the Firtst time, in their early evening lesson. The idea was that there would be many “available” men to introduce me to the dance floor (and their hips). Here’s a breakdown of the night.

8pm - No Latin Lovers. No problem, I was fine learning the steps in a line with the other solos.

9pm - I’m ready. I stand on the rim of the floor. No takers.

9:15 - Impatience sets in. Somebody take and shake this body!

9:20 - Panic. Hands on hips, hair flip, licking lips, sultry glances....what’s a girl gotta do?!   

9:25 - Desperation. I will Salsa tonight - even if with my girl friend! And, so we do.  Thanks Jen! xo

9:40 - Confidence on the rise. The girl on girl thing may have attracted some attention ;)

9:42 - Salsa! I find an older, experienced (shorter and sweatier. no biggie) man who is more than happy to make me look good on the dance floor. I laugh more than I twirl, but finally learn that Salsa is about following the man’s lead. Perhaps this is my glitch...

10pm - I pull the guy (who I really want to be dancing with) to the floor, ditch the rules of Salsa and we get ridiculous. My kind of fun!  xxx

Whore-A-Scope

I confess. I dig my daily horoscope. I don’t study the zodiac (much), but find the idea of astrology pretty intriguing. The way I see it, the sun, moon and planets obviously have a kinky relationship with Earth who is fully getting it on with humanity. So, if we’re all in bed together, as Sun journeys around the earth every 12 months and hits the right position (ya ya, ohh right there) it doesn’t seem that absurd for things to feel a little frisky now and then. Like on a full-moon night.
This affect, first suggested by Carl Jung by the way, is said to influence our behaviours (not occurrences or doings - huge difference) based on where and when the Sun penetrates Earth. I dunno - the fact that we’re even alive and will likely never understand why is pretty out there, so why not subscribe to a little magic under the mattress.
That said, I do read my horoscope with a slight snicker. Instead of investing in the message though, all too corny, vague and applicable to anyone, I pay attention to my reaction to it. Whatever thoughts or feelings rise in response to my horoscope I trust as something I likely need to put some work into. Like today “A huge heated battle between Uranus and Pluto is causing you to feel trapped in a hopeless situation”… I have a few minor conflicts going on at the moment (as we all do), so I’ve taken this as a reminder to contemplate these particular things more. Anyway, that’s how I do. And, thanks to Phil Booth, I indulge in this affair every morning after receiving his daily email update. A while ago, I met Phil in person to have my First astrology reading.
I entered his dim room late in the afternoon. His mystical eyes lowered me to sit closely to him.  Without hesitation he began to undo my mind. He knew what I came for. He circled my story with hunger as each new secret drove itself gently inside me. His words were teasing and made me plead for more.  In what seemed like only minutes, he whispered that my time was up and that he accepted Cash or Visa. I sighed and thanked him meekly as I left, realizing I’d just been seduced and conquered by a master of the stars. I looked up to the sky as Sun, Earth and all the rest snicker down at me, “silly tramp”.   

I Heart ______!

Without training, looming rainstorms, a snagged chain and a 6:30am start time, why wouldn’t cycling 75km (ok, I only completed 50km...) across the Gardiner and up the DVP, and back again, be the first thing that comes to mind for a Sunday activity?!  

Celebrating 25 years, the Ride for Heart took place this past weekend to raise funds to save lives touched by heart disease and stroke.

My personal connection aside, I was thrilled to be part of this momentous event and to have commemorated the occasion appropriately with burgers and beer directly following.  

Thanks to everyone who donated their generous support! xoxo

Screen Sneaks

Last weekend, accompanied by an experienced adventurer, I snuck into a movie for the first time. It takes skills folks, but I highly recommend it. Here’s how:

1.  Select a rainy day when you have hours to kill, but don’t bring an umbrella - it creates too much baggage in the case of a mad dash (at which time, pantyhose over the face are ideal)

2.  Choose a viewing companion you really like. You may end up spending the night in jail together.

3.  Abandon all fear, flashy clothes and sunglasses. Looking guilty or drawing attention could be deadly.

4.  Pre-plan. Timing is everything & re-routing may become necessary, so be prepared with a few well scheduled options

5.  Scope out the scene. Know your exits, staff stations and where the washrooms are; your safest refuge

6.  Rehearse your story - if caught, interrogation and torture can be intimidating.  

7.   Pay for and see the good movie first. Your thief show should be dispensable to reduce suspicion.  

8.  Secure an aisle seat & avoid single viewers. They're spies!   

9.  Never abort the mission - you will prevail.

10. (I didn’t, but...) pack snacks and rations - concession prices are more criminal that the sneak!

Peterson! (and the Notorious Bollywood Mob)

Each year, to celebrate International Dance Day, Canada’s National Ballet School puts on a flash mob performance. This year, for the first time, I joined in for their Bollywood number thanks to a suggestion from the lovely Zoe and her mail-lady friend.

Defined by Wiki as “a group of people who assemble suddenly in a public, perform an unusual and seemingly pointless act for a brief time, then disperse, often for the purposes of entertainment, satire, and artistic expression” the mob (in my opinion) lives up to its reputation. It’s a super quirky activity that if nothing else, creates a space for participants to do something out of the ordinary. I’m an advocate for complete ridiculousness and fortuned from a healthy dose with the mob experience. I have next to no coordination (curse all those hours of tap and jazz as a child!), can’t remember a routine to save my life and bungrah like a drunk child.

Thankfully, my charming dance crime partner abstained from mocking me at rehearsal. He certainly didn’t bust-out laughing when I commonly pivoted the wrong way or lost my footing. He always arrived sober and with fresh smelling feet (essential criteria for such a serious dancer). He was swift, regimented and undeniable passionate about expressing himself through movement. Unrelated, but noteworthy, he also has a fascinating awareness of hotels, in particular the lobbies, in the downtown area. I indulged in a post-rehearsal tour - more than once. Delightful. I look forward to more dancing (and more tours).

When mob day finally came, after weeks of rehearsal, it sadly felt a bit too contrived. None the less, it was a total buzz and far from pointless.

Check out the skills in jays hat and white fedora!!http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zjM5MSDzZJE&feature=related

Official Video
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nncjoSVAHwA

Giddy Up

Call me simple, but I really enjoy clichés about...keeping it simple. “It is what it is - as luck would have it - it’s all good - easy as pie - simple stupid - kick your feet up - life’s a beach”...you get the point.  So, when I realized that snowshoeing was not going to happen last winter, I scanned my repertoire and settled on “whatever will be will be” knowing that  something as equally thrilling would eventually turn up to First. And oh boy it did. It came with horns, a control panel operated by a nasty, angsty 20-something bleach blonde and a saddle made for slipping.  

While in Orillia coordinating the MS Walk, one of the committee members invited me to a bachelorette party in Barrie at The Ranch, claimed the largest country bar in ON. To myself I thought, Option #1: get a good, responsible rest for the 6am event start the following day, or Option #2, drink ridonculous amounts of girly cocktails and dosey doe with a bunch of cowfolk strangers til 3am. When I discovered the venue had a mechanical bull, the choice was obvious. 
  

Not many of my friends are married and in fact I don’t think I’ve even been to a hen party for someone I actually know (so perhaps another first?). When the wedding bells do start ringing for my crew though, I’m convinced I will never experience what I did on this night in Barrie. Bull Riding is likely a once in a lifetime thing for me, especially with the bum knee I now have as a result.  

A photo tells a thousand words - another great cliché. See below, and let the good times roll.

Walking Full Circle

At the end of April, for the first time, I volunteered as the weekend coordinator for the MS Walk. While this may appear as a good deed (and of course it was that too!), this First was more about reclaiming something that I’d been unsettled by for a long while. Let me explain. I’ve mentioned that I was very unhappy at my former office job. I quit and took a parallel role for more money which subsequently didn’t last more than 3 months. A hard lesson in learning to pay attention to yourself, but it was necessary and ultimately led to this blog. That said, I’m totally comfortable with how everything rolled out, but I’ve always had this nagging feeling that I missed out on the best parts of running a charity event because I was too distracted trying to be perfect at a job that I wasn’t  meant for. So, returning as a volunteer was my way of appreciating the event like I’d always wanted to.  

The Orillia MS Walk where I was stationed is led by a fabulous committee of real, lovely people. I felt so welcome (see next post) and because I wasn’t wigging out about logistics and silly details, I was able to just absorb the day and visit with walkers and supporters.  

As I was reading through the coordinator manual after the event (cause who reads it before right?), I noticed a line in the “Steps to Running a Successful Walk” which funny enough, because I’m always so put off by regulating literature, speaks very clearly to how I think about a lot of things. “It’s not about getting it perfect, it’s about getting it done”.  

Workin 9 - 5

YIPPEEEE!! While my goal was to be hired by an Ontario school board, I’ve landed a teaching contract, for the first time, that I consider to be even better! The school is a private learning centre for students with multiple exceptionalities, most with Autism. Starting in September, I will teach a class of 6 (high school aged) students among a population of 55 incredibly unique, sensitive little people who fill my days with the most hilarious personalities I’ve ever encountered.

Autism is a developmental disability affecting 1 in 88 Canadian kids, most often boys. Children with Autism typically have difficulty in verbal and non-verbal communication, social interaction and leisure or play activities. Challenged in their ability to understand and make connections with others, living socially can be extremely stressful and isolating for people with Autism. I’m humbled each day I work with these kids. I do what I can to help students feel confident and comforted by the basic relationships they struggle to navigate as they jouney to discover their own awesomeness.

We take so much for granted.     

Hypno Hype

I’ve always had this uncomfortable memory of my high school boyfriend clucking like a chicken (or something stupid, I can’t actually recall the specific details) on stage in front of the whole school at one of those corny group hypnotist sessions. A complete sceptic at the time, I was pretty embarrassed with how far the “act” went. How could he be so phoney!?   

Over time however, I’ve become very open to exploring....well anything really....even the possibility of hypnosis. Where many people become more defined and narrowly pronounced in their routines and ideas, I seem to drift with each new experience. Not to say that I`m ambiguous, but for interests sake and to ensure I keep growing, I function best with a little randomness and a lot of grey. So, a while ago I went to a hypnotist for the first time to challenge my lingering teenage doubt.   

Not wanting to spend $200 for a private session, I joined a group workshop focused on enhancing personal prosperity through hypnosis. The objective was to unravel doubt (fitting, given my motive for being there in the first place) in order to dissolve sub/unconscious barriers to believing that anything and everything is achievable.

The fundamentals of hypnotherapy suggest quite simply that episodes in our life impact our subconscious (emotional), reside in our unconscious (immune system/auto response) and manifest in our conscious mind (logic/belief) as “reality”. Presenting a whole bunch of cool questions about how closely health is linked to thought, I started thinking about my own anxieties and times in my life when I felt healthy or unhealthy and what level of “prosperity” I was experiencing at the time. No surprise, there’s been a pretty direct line between the two.  Without going into the gory details though, I’ll jump to the juice...the session ended with a group hypnotism meant to lead us to acknowledge the core of our doubt (self, financial, success - whatever).  No one made farm animal sounds or fell off their chair, especially me, but it was certainly affecting. I cried.  Weird, I know.

As with all of my Firsts I try to suspend expectations and just live the moments, so while I won’t try to fake that I had some hypno-revelation, I will say that every time I visit a new experience, I feel less and less a tourist. I obviously accept that hypnotherapy is legitimate and finally take comfort in knowing that my high school hunk wasn’t a total dweeb ;) 

Gunslinger

Not going to lie, when my shooting partner and I arrived at the Silverdale Gun Club a few weeks ago to shoot 4 different guns for the first time, I was unexpectedly terrified. Already able to hear the shower of shots going off as we drove down the Niagara region back roads, the reality of how vulnerable I was sunk straight to my gut. It didn’t help that as we pulled up to the muddy lot we saw an old guy fly up, out and flat on his back from the kick-back of a shotgun. Jeepers. Why had I wanted to do this again?

As a kid at the CNE or annual Brantford Carnie, the game where you blew up a balloon or sent the ‘whatever’ to the top of the pole by shooting a water gun was my immediate go-to. Unlike the frantic tossing, squashing or ball rolling games, I liked that shooting was silent, steady, focused. Anyway, after we got set up and our incredible guide eased my fears with his endless knowledge, I was ready to light up some lead!

We started with a 10/22 semi-auto rifle which shot off 10 smooth rounds really quickly. This was my favorite gun of the day. Secondly, we shot a M1911, single action, semi-auto handgun designed by John Moses Browning. This model was used in WW1, WW11, the Korean and Vietnam wars. It kicked! There was another, lighter tempered handgun, a 9mm Lugar and finally the 22, semi-automatic, pump action shot gun that brought Duck Hunt to life! I didn’t manage to knock out a skeet, but by this time I was just so fired up that anything was a treat.

We ended the day with an appropriately gourmet meal at Swiss Chalet. We were sun soaked,
burnt out and blissful. Call me wimpy, but it really felt like I’d discovered some serious courage which is never a bad thing (unless you’re a psychotic egomaniac living in the US with access guns at your local Wal-mart!) While I’m now relatively fearless of shooting, I’ll reserve my killer skills for water guns and fuzzy prizes.

Turkey for Two

Turkey is absolutely wonderful. It gathers people together, marks celebration and kicks ass in the left-over department; enjoyed in so many ways. I’ll spare you the Bubba list. Better yet, turkey is by far the oddest looking meat and fully entertaining to play with while preparing. The wish bone adds a bit of magic as well.

For me, cooking a turkey has always represented a passage to some unspoken state of adulthood. When the honour of hosting turkey dinner was handed to Mom from my Grandmother, it was like the generations had officially rolled over. I’ve always wondered, with mild concern, when that would happen to me. I’ve got skills, but most do not relate to the kitchen.

Since my step-father passed a few weeks after Christmas 6 years ago, my Mom has not cooked a proper turkey. We now sit down to a pre-stuffed turkey loaf from M&M’s which I actually think is glorious in a coupon clipping, you-have-to-love-and-laugh-at-spam kind of way. For whatever reason, when developing my list of Firsts, I decided it was time for generations to roll and that true turkey be brought back to my family.

This past Christmas, we had Chinese take-out at my Grandma’s old-age home (long, funny story), so I didn’t get the chance to host turkey. Breaking the rule of ham, I finally received my “I’m All Gown-Up” badge today by cooking an Easter turkey. After an eventful trip to St. Lawrence Market, in my wee bachelor apartment drinking Sangria and Sapporo, my Mom cheered me on as I went through the motions of preparing my first turkey. It was the greatest day and the best damn turkey I’ve had in years!

My Mom won the wish bone pull, and although the superstition wasn’t really mine to participate in, I’m pretty sure we both wished for the same thing.

7 Songs too Long

Attraction for me, as with most women, is very cerebral. This is all wonderful and meaningful and yada yada, but in truth I've sometimes felt cheated that (most) men can become excited, at least thoroughly entertained, by simply gawking at a women’s bare body. The overwhelming strip club, porno and nudy mag industry are proof of this - not to mention that a dude will generally just say so. No shame, and why should there be? I wanted a little piece of this, so last month for the First time, I went to a male strip club. Here’s my story.

I sent out the FB invite as a rejection to Valentine’s Day entitled, “How to Avoid VD Ron Jeremy Style”. Get it? VD - valentine’s day/venereal disease, strip club…anyway. A small bunch of us gathered outside Remmington’s after dusk - prepared for a bit of stupid fun. Soon after claiming our creep seats and settling into the show, I found that I was actually, really enjoying the scene. The guys were hot and preformed some pretty outstanding tricks on the pole. It was still completely tongue and cheek of course, but the crowd wasn’t the pathetic chick n’ pom poms riot that I had expected, so all was good.

I made my selection. A very sexy young ginger covered in tattoos who dominated the pole like an acrobat. My friend set it up and before I knew it, I was being escorted up a black lit staircase to a private dance room. Hold on now - of course I was going to have a dance! It’s part of the experience! Nervous and unknowing though, I asked stripper X how it worked and what the boundaries were. I felt SO out of place. Would he touch me…with IT? What would we talk about (like talking was on the agenda! what an idiot.) I rambled on for a bit about completely dumbass stuff like the weather and my Sunday brunch plans until he finally shut me up with “everything is negotiable, let’s get started”.

I sat like a kid in a dunce cap on the small bench behind the musty curtain watching him pulse around as I tried to maintain my best “ooohh, I’m so turned on” face when in reality my only thoughts were "I’m such a cougar", "is being scared normalright now, and then suddenly, “Oh shit how long have we been in here?!”

Here’s where my lack of experience kicks me in the ass.
I politely thanked and complimented him (seriously Sarah?) as he dressed and we made our way to the pay counter. I’d been too nervous and forgot to ask the price prior to purchase so when I did and he responded - “7 songs” - I was confused. Ok…so…ya…what does that mean? Stripper X says “Well, it’s $20 per song”. GASP!!! Dance + tax + tip = $191.48 for (likely) the most unusually awkward experiences of my life. I can't even tell you one song that played....ahem, and I'm convinced they must have been 2 minute songs.

In the end, I no longer envy a man’s ability to enjoy primal, detached desires. Have fun with your peep shows and videos boys. This girl is happy to have strings attached - they’re free.

Granny Power

I think it’s pretty amazing that somehow in the late 90’s, it became cool to go Granny. Maybe it was always there and I’m just late in noticing, but all of a sudden things like baking (especially cupcakes which aren’t fully Granny, but kinda), crocheting, decorating with doilies (see Anthopology.com) and knitting spiked in popularity among the young female adult crowd. Granny glasses are now hip (and annoying at that), old ugly granny shoes and furs go for $50-$200 at 69Vintage and dare I say, I read a fashion article the other day titled “Granny Chic”.

My Granny Westman was the best. She lived well over 90 years and still regularly sent feisty political letters to city council. She wrote a children’s book, painted in oil and had her own a kiln in her wee downtown Peterborough apartment.

When I visited, she would play creepy organ music for me as I explored her home like a museum and begged her to remove her wig and/or falsies. She never did, she was a lady. She always smelled of musty moth balls and flowery perfume which was comforting in an unusual, non-threatening way. Her collection of home-made dried apple dolls however did cause quite a threat to my tender eyes and mind. She had this hobby of drying out old apples, molding faces in them, adding bodies and clothes and then display them as her dearest treasures. Seriously - the weirdest shit ever. Google image “dried apple dolls”, but don’t sleep alone that night.

Anyway, my Granny Westman was far from typical. In fact, I never saw her rock in a chair or knit a stitch - two very quintessential Granny traits. So, when I completed my First scarf ever (yes, on this first day of spring during the mildest winter of my life…how fitting) I thought of my Granny and wished I could give it to her. She would of course snicker and say that I'd knit a shawl, not a scarf, but she's dance around in it for a bit just to be sure I were entertained.

In closing, I'd like to point out that with my last name, if I’m ever fortunate enough to have Great-Grandkids, I will forever be referred to as Granny “Power”!