Yuletide Death Rattle

I haven’t always been a “Christmas person”.  Only when I got married did I really relish in the ‘chestnuts roasting on an open fire’ romantic element.  Growing up, there was something about Christmas that made me feel rather melancholy.  Christmas joy is a bit like chasing the dragon. There’s extraordinary highs and lows.  It comes and then just as quickly it goes.  As a child I anticipated Santa and dreamt about new toys, Barbie dolls, mostly.  When I became too old for dolls, there was a certain Christmas magic that passed away.


I loved the decorations, Nat King Cole singing “The Christmas Song” that warm holiday feeling…but mostly I just loved the Christmas tree.  I loved turning off all the lights and how it glowed in the dark.  I loved lying under the tree and staring up through ornaments, tinsel and colored balls.

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To me, dismantling the tree is one of the saddest events of the calendar year.

Christmas - Chopping Down the Christmas Tree Poem, 1921Straight and ready, tall and steady. That’s how I like my trees and my men.  And similarly so, I don’t want to get my holly jolly’s out of them for a month or so and toss them away carelessly. Not unless you count an old Spanish lover I had…Rodrigo.  I used to wrap him in lights, cover him in tinsel and stare up at his balls.

But that was another time altogether.


On the last day of my Christmas holiday, I was feeling jazzed.  Moving forward. Looking ahead.  I’ve had a nice break, and now it’s time to go back to work.  I’m telling this to my husband, speaking in an upbeat voice “I’ve had a nice rest, I’m ready…” and then I’m crying like a baby.  And not because I’m not totally in love with my job, it’s like a friend once said to me: “When given the option, time off is preferable”.


We had intended on taking the tree down that Sunday.  We were doing laundry, making lunches, organizing rooms; really taking on the new year and the upcoming work week.  But there was a general sense of the blues, that last day of summer camp feeling.  That tree was like our glittering mascot, the wing-man for the fireplace…we’ve grown accustomed to it.  Taking the tree down is the last straw, the Yuletide death rattle.  We decided to just leave it be and enjoy the rest of our Sunday, enjoy what was left of Christmas.

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Though I was organized and prepared, the first day of work was like waking up from a gorgeous sleep, but realized you overslept and missed your flight.


It was busy, that phone wouldn’t stop ringing, people kept asking me questions.  I felt very tongue-tied, responding with phrases like: “I like the Christmas because of the lights and the balls”.


I’m suddenly not used to not wearing a bathrobe at noon. Pants have become a real problem for me.


That Monday I cringed at the taste of my coffee. The lack of Irish Cream had the same effect as thinking you are about to sip coke through a straw, but it’s actually ice tea.  It’s startling…and depending on how must you anticipated that carbonated sip…deeply upsetting.


Now, the week has passed.  It was filled with meetings and late work days, and a first aid course.  My husband was struck down by a dreadful flu.  It’s now Saturday, January 11th and our Christmas tree is still up.

tumblr_mfjr5wwWQp1r7dlj2o1_500And I’m actually wearing a similar outfit as this gal overhead.  I often mince around the house in sheer pants and a mink stole.  They frown on that code of dress at work, fur and partial nudity…and that’s just another thing I have to deal with post-holiday.


Benjamin is the sickest I’ve ever seen him. Fevered and delusional, the last few days have been a blur of work and getting my Florence Nightingale on.

images__63668__22908.1348588447.1280.1280The outfit does feel extreme, but I’m one to dress for the occasion.  If you must get profoundly ill during the first week of work, causing you to act like a wounded animal caught in a fence, rendering us unable to attend a much anticipated mini-break this weekend….then I get to wear this.


I made mention to Benjamin that I would take down the tree on Saturday.  He kindly offered to watch me do so.  Once home from a meeting, and after a few hours of work. The tree was staring at me…expectantly.  Like it knows that it’s stayed at the party for far too long.  It is the morning of the holiday season, and this is the tree’s walk of shame.


Truth is…Christmas tree, (and I know I’ve said this about carbs) I just can’t quit you.


It makes me sad…what happens to a tree in January.  Last year we chopped a tree down in the woods, this year we bought a tree at a lovely market.  Both seasons we discussed the idea of an artificial tree.  This seems so frightfully inauthentic to me.


Then, once you’ve enjoyed that pine smell of an authentic tree, you have the authentic task of removing it as though it were a dead stripper after an ill-fated bachelor party.  Last winter, we intended to recycle it, and ultimately my husband tossed it in the dumpster.  Ugh, there was nothing sadder than the errant string of silver tinsel poking out of mouth of the yellow metal dumpster.


Perish the thought of dumping the once living tree.  Driving away with the greenery shrinking in the rear view window.  “I’m sorry little tree, you deserved better.  I should have done right by you”.


Tomorrow we will face the task of packing the rest of Christmas into a box.  And I will miss the sparkle of the little white lights.

carole-xmasImages Courtesy of Google

Crossed Lines at the Cal-Neva

This has been the most delicious holiday of my life.  I’m rested, I’m relaxed, I’m at peace. If the time came that I was to supply a “How I spent my Christmas holiday” essay, I could boil it down rather easily.

Eat. Sleep. Family. Gift Giving/Receiving. Drink. Walk. Cuddle. Research. Blog. Tidy. Organize. Putter. Pinterest. 


It started innocently enough. I had a Pinterest account, but with very few pins.  My computer does happen to be teeming to various images. I search, click and save pictures in the hope that one day I might need them.  To this day, I can not find this adorable picture of a young Bill Murray with a scarf, so now I save everything.  Occasionally, I’d cast off an unused image to Pinterest, not yet understanding the wealth of imagery in store.


My husband got a new video game for Christmas.  Once home from my parents place, Benjamin really wanted to clock some hours.  I was happily scouring the internet for the last blog entry, “Vintage Grudge Match”.  Between researching biographies, taking notes, writing and searching for photographs, afternoon passed into evening, which then passed into night, then into the darkest side of the following morning.  This may not sound productive, but it really was. Creating a palatable aesthetic for the blog takes time.  And in this recent period I have hit pay-dirt, finding some pretty exceptional snapshots.


I received some nice compliments about the last post; people were into the rehashing of Old Hollywood feuds and dusty bits of gossip.  That thrills me to no end, because I had the most fun delving into these lives.  There are other lives I’d like to look into. If that suits the reader, that suits me.  After all, I’ve been lounging around in yoga pants, drinking coffee and Baileys and mucking around on Pinterest for the last week, nothing’s happening to me that’s worth mentioning.  Finding these vintage paparazzi shots, those wonderful glimpses into the personal lives of others, have led to endless fascination, too many hours of obsessive reading, which suits my husband just fine, there’s a war going on inside the television, and he’s busy fighting in it.


Nancy Reagan and Mr T? ….what? How have I gone my whole life and not seen this picture? I like how Mr T takes on the Santa Claus look, but brings in his own flavor to the ensemble with the sleevelessness and the gold chains.  Feels perfectly normal for Nancy to cop a squat on your lap as you hand out action figures molded to your likeness.


Jack Nicholson…meet The Monkees.  Got to wonder how this meeting came to be.  Did Jack burst in on The Monkees all like “Here’s Johnny!…but seriously, could you play “Last Train to Clarksville?”


The Monkees look uncomfortable here.  And if you’ve ever seen the opening credits to their television program, you know that the boys could get downright wacky.  Micky gets into a bathtub on wheels for cripes sake! And then Jack Nicholson bursts into their green room for a little jam sesh and all the guys look like they just got caught masturbating by their wives.  It doesn’t get anymore uncomfortable than this…until two hours and approximately thirty years later.


This looks like the waiting room in hell. Sure, Trent Reznor and Marilyn Manson, totally conceivable to see them in a room together, the creepy clown entourage…that comes with the territory.  Just kicking back with Jon Stewart over a few beers? How does that even happen?  Speaking of how the hell do things happen…who talked Meryl Streep into this catty one piece?  But that’s the power of the Streep, give her a stool and a broken cigarette and she’ll still get Oscar buzz.


Social activist Martin Luther King having a laugh with Rat Pack entertainer Sammy Davis Jr.  In 1960  Davis married May Britt, a white woman.  Interracial marriages were illegal in 31 states, but it was perfectly legal in the state of New York.  Regardless, Frank Sinatra (a major supporter of Kennedy) was concerned that it would the future presidents chances at the polls; he insisted that Davis hold his wedding after the election took place.  And even afterwards, he was stricken from the list of performers for Kennedy’s inaugural ball. He was also bombarded with hate mail for years to come.  Years later, Davis caught a lot of criticism for hugging President Nixon, startling him during a live television broadcast.  Yes you can, Sammy Davis Jr? No actually you can’t.


I can’t decide what I like most about this picture: that Roy Orbison is being pampered and fed by the Beatles, or the little kid at the bottom of this photo who at that present time is having a stroke from all the awesome going around in his living room.


What I love about this picture in that you just know Cher has told Val Kilmer is to keep his mullet long and his trap shut.   She’s looking so engaged with this unseen individual, and Kilmer looks like he’s just bursting with fruit flavour with something over there.  A carefully constructed comment, an intelligent insight,  but more likely “Cher and I had sex and now we are in love!”


Marilyn and Frank.  While these two never officially dated, they were old-school ‘friends with benefits’.  After Monroe and DiMaggio split, she came to stay with Frank (around the same time Sinatra was breaking up with dancer Juliet Prowse).  According to biographers they were strictly platonic until one morning when Sinatra came into the kitchen where Monroe was standing naked in from of the fridge looking for juice.  She said something along the lines of “Frankie–I didn’t think you’d be up so early”, and he responded by giving her a good rogering up against said refrigerator.  (He doesn’t usually get up that early, but can be easily encouraged).


Frank was a good friend, but he’d never commit to being her full-time partner.  Monroe had wanted him to marry her, in a way to keep her safe, but Sinatra had his limits.  Monroe was not a low-maintenance gal, and famously needy. Just a week before Monroe died, she spent a weekend at the Cal-Neva Lodge, a casino that Frank Sinatra allegedly co-owned with mobster Sam Giancana. Amongst historians, this time is often known as “The Lost Weekend”.

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Marilyn was in a bad place. She had been fired from “Something’s Got to Give”, and had been dumped by Bobby Kennedy after being cast aside by John F. Kennedy.  She had sung her infamous “Happy Birthday Mr President”, in May of that year, and it was such a blatant insult to Jackie Kennedy that she refused to attend her husband’s birthday celebration.   (Bonus fun fact: Audrey Hepburn, who dated him briefly in the early 1950’s sang to JFK the following year).  By that weekend in July of 1962, both men had stopped returning Marilyn’s calls.  She had legitimately believed that one of those fine Catholic husbands intended to leave their wives and children for her.  She saw herself as the first lady; as a political wife.


Marilyn had allegedly called Jackie to confess to the affair, and of her intentions. Jackie replied “Marilyn, you’ll marry Jack, that’s great. And you’ll move into the White House and you’ll assume the responsibility of the first lady, and I’ll move out and you’ll have all the problems”.  Only Jackie could be that cool under those circumstances.  Then again, she was more than aware of JFK’s rampant infidelity, and of Marilyn’s reputation. But out of all the President’s lovers, his relationship with this famous sex symbol was nearly too much to bear.  Even though Jackie herself was unimpressed with JFK’s sexual bravado, telling a longtime confidant: “he goes too fast and falls asleep”.  There were rumors that Monroe had fallen pregnant, but didn’t know which brother was responsible.  According to FBI documents, she was encouraged by Bobby to have an abortion, which she did on July 20, 1962.  Monroe was unraveling, and those involved with the Kennedy’s were deeply concerned that a rejected and unhinged Monroe would hold a press conference and reveal all.


On July 28, 1962, Monroe arrived at the Cal-Neva Lodge and Casino, a grand getaway that straddled the state lines of Nevada and California.


She arrived with Peter Lawford, whom she was not speaking to due to his Kennedy affiliations (though ironically, he was one of the last people she ever spoke to, he called to invite her to a party the night she died). They used Sinatra’s private plane but by the end of the weekend she was sent home in the same fashion.  Though she started off in good spirits, Monroe was like a water main fixing to burst, especially as the champagne and prescription cocktail began its toxic tailspin.  She was getting sloppy, making scenes, spilling secrets, she even overdosed in her famed Cabin 3. Apparently Sinatra had given photographers strict instructions to not snap them together;  Marilyn kept trying to…well photo-bomb him, which really ticked off Old Blue Eyes. As the weekend went on, she became increasingly intoxicated, obnoxious and indiscreet. Sinatra had to get rid of her.

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Like her death, the details about this weekend is shrouded in mystery.  This was her last public appearance, these are the last pictures of Monroe alive.  Depending on who you ask, Marilyn died at the Cal-Neva, in the famous round bed that was tossed in a dumpster after Sinatra sold the establishment.   Conspiracy theorists think it would have been easy enough.  With the combined forces of Sinatra, the Mafia and the Kennedy’s, moving a body would be easier than a quick game of golf, or a scotch and a cig whilst crooning with Dean and the crew.

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The Cal-Neva had once burned down, and all that remained of the previous structure was tunnels that ran under the buildings.  Many secrets passed along those passageways, mistresses, booze…why not a body?  With Sinatra at the helm, with his heli-pad and mafia connections, anything was possible.  His lodge and casino was made to be a secret celebrity playground where the press would never get wind of the kinky hi-jinks.

What the agents couldn’t see was what went on inside the Cal-Neva’s secluded bungalows after the opening night party had ended. Momo Giancana reportedly told his brother that he had been present at a Kennedy brothers slumber party that night at the Cal-Neva Casino. “The men,” he said, “had sex with prostitutes, sometimes two or more at a time, in bath-tubs, hallways, closets, on floors,almost everywhere but the bed.”(Quoted from the FBI Frank Sinatra files).

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Wow, you could really count on Sinatra being the best-ever host. Except if Frank gets even a hint that you are going to die on his premises, in his presence, he will have you removed.  And apparently Frank had no tolerance for narcotics, which was a problem for Marilyn as she carried a pharmacy at the bottom of her purse.

According to an article in the Daily Mail:

The list of drugs she was using by 1961 was staggering. She was taking the antipsychotic Thorazine for the borderline paranoid schizophrenia diagnosed by Dr Greenson, as well as the narcotic painkiller Demerol and barbiturates Phenobarbital, HMC and Amytal, along with large quantities of Nembutal, to which she was addicted, to help her sleep.  There were 15 bottles of pills on Marilyn’s night table when she died. She’d also developed the alarming habit of giving herself injections. A source who was very close to her recalls the concoction was of Phenobarbital, Nembutal and Seconal. ‘Marilyn referred to it as a vitamin shot,’ said the source. ‘Afterwards she would be gone, no longer able to function.’

mm sinatraIt was these ‘vitamin shots’ that drove Sinatra over the edge.  The President taking on two prostitutes at a time in the hall closet, that’s one thing…to stick a pin in your pills so it will get into your blood stream faster–that’s worth firing up the chopper over.  But in fairness, Sinatra had his allies to protect, and at the end of her life Marilyn was a danger to herself and those around her.

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Of course, there’s many theories about Monroe’s death, the many powerhouse players: The Kennedy’s, the Mafia, Peter Lawford, Frank Sinatra, right down to her housekeeper Eunice, her publicist Pat Newcomb, (who went on to work for the Kennedy’s), and Dr Ralph Greenson, her psychiatrist.  Eunice called Greenson before she called the police. Another detail to fuel the conspiracy fire; Eunice had been fired once by Monroe, and Dr Greenson told her to rehire her.  Eunice had asked for holiday time for that August, and Monroe paid her for her time and asked her not to return after that holiday.  Marilyn paid her for her time, and Eunice’s  last day of employment was the last day of Monroe’s life.  Eunice tried to cash this cheque, written the day of Monroe’s passing, days after the death, but to no avail.


Greenson, arguably one of the last people to see Monroe alive, claimed to have broken a bedroom window in her Brentwood Hacienda because he saw her body through the glass.   Apparently Marilyn’s bedroom had  heavy curtains that were closed, and that the doctor couldn’t have possibly seen her past the thick fabric.  There were rumors that she died in hospital, but was brought back home by ambulance.  A former Monroe lover claimed to have spoken with her on the phone; but she put the phone down to check on a disturbance, and never came back.  This was around 9pm, and coroner’s reports claim that she died somewhere between 9 and 11pm.  On that night, there was a significant buzz of concern around Monroe; someone had called her lawyer, who then called Monroe’s house. He spoke with Eunice who claimed that Marilyn was fine without actually checking on her.


Eunice was the keeper of information who couldn’t keep a story straight if her life depended on it.  She said the door was locked, and then later said there was no lock on the door, she said she saw a light on in the middle of the night, which was also impossible as the carpeting was thick and imposing.  She first said no one was there, then later said Bobby Kennedy arrived on the scene with two mysterious men.  Then when police did show up, Marilyn was face-down in the pillow, her body straight as an arrow, as if she had been placed there. And there’s Eunice, doing a load of laundry in the middle of the night, which is the queerest thing: (Hey lady, your boss is dead, you don’t have to clean anymore).  Over the years, she changed her story a number of times, wrote a book, was interviewed for a documentary and was overheard making a remark about ‘still having to cover things up’.  Nobody followed up on that, and she died in 1994, taking the truth to her grave.

mm bedroomThere are holes in stories, dangerous affiliates, an incorrectly done autopsy, sloppy police work…there’s reason to believe that Marilyn was murdered, or that there was a cover up.  Then again, this was a woman with a history of overdoses and suicide attempts who gave herself barbiturate enemas based on advice from Mae West.  Not to say she was suicidal either.  She had just signed a multi-million dollar contract, and was rehired to complete “Something’s Got to Give”–which was a rather appropriate title, given her condition.

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Joe DiMaggio claimed her body and took great pains to exclude Sinatra and the rest of Hollywood from the funeral services.  While Sinatra took equal measures to distance himself from Monroe, he arrived at the Westwood Village Mortuary Chapel on August 8 in an $800 black suit, but was turned away by security.  In the years that followed, Sinatra was heavily criticized, that he had the means to save her life but he turned her away, as had everyone else. But the thing about Marilyn is that girlfriend couldn’t even help herself. And you can’t help someone who can’t help themselves. She was doomed long before the Lost Weekend.  Said George Jacobs, valet at Cal-Neva:

Frank Sinatra didn’t know what to think about any of it. He was upset, though. He loved Marilyn, yes. But for her to maybe die at Cal-Neva while he was there? That would have been terrible. So he said: ‘Get her out of here and get her out of here now.’ And that was it. We had to do what he said. I mean, the woman was sick. But as compassionate as Sinatra was, he had a line and she crossed it.”

Marilyn-and-Frank-Sinatra-marilyn-monroe-15189170-875-700All Images Courtesy of Google

Always the Narrator, Never the Virgin

Happy Christmas Friends,


I’m coming to you live on Christmas afternoon, lounging on my parent’s sofa and watching “The Royal Tenenbaums“.


Historically speaking, by Christmas afternoon, the blues start to creep in a little.  The holidays take so long to get there; the anticipation of the gifts under the tree, the excitement, the magic and then…it’s over. It’s never quite what you built up in your mind.  Although my relationship with the holiday season is a little more complex than the average person.

Church-SignWell…I hate to break it to you Reverend Swisher, for me, Christmas is my actual birthday.  Listen, I’m not in the business of overshadowing Jesus, but there wasn’t a calendar in my mother’s womb and I really lost track of the days in there.  Although depending on who you ask, Jesus wasn’t born on December 25th.  Once while walking off our Christmas breakfast, we were approached by a power walking, arm pumping, grinning woman, who was full of holiday greetings.  “Many Blessings to you this fine Christmas morning”, she beamed with light and love.  “Do you know who’s birthday we are celebrating today?”

Gerard_van_Honthorst_001“Jesus?” we all respond.  “That’s right!”, she smiles, breathing deeply.  “Actually”, my brother Matthew gestures towards me, “It’s also my sister’s birthday”.  Her smile drops and her neck snaps in my direction, steely eyes squinting my way.  “You know it’s not his actually birthday, right? Jesus was born sometime in October, during the harvest”. Which makes sense, the weather does look rather mild in all artist renditions. Riding round on a donkey, being turned away from hotels, giving birth outside surrounded by farm animals…well if you ask me, that’s got summer time written all over it.

pregnant-mary-on-donkey-and-joseph-travel-to-judiaMeanwhile, being that this was well before the days of the GPS, three wise men were using a star to guide them to little baby Jesus.  They meet up with the Little Drummer Boy, and they all roll up together victoriously with their gold, frankincense and myrrh.  Poor Mary. After all that wandering through the desert on a donkey and giving birth to the Son of God on a stack of hay, she probably would have liked a morphine drip and an ice pack, but myrrh is good too.


My mother has a ceramic nativity scene.  Growing up, it was my favorite decoration of the Christmas season.  The  Virgin Mary was blonde, beautiful, wrapped in a blue robe, eyes downcast modestly.  Joseph looked looking slightly perplexed, like…”How did I get roped into this?”. There was a shepherd and the wise men, a camel, a cow and some sheep.  For years I used to play out detailed soap opera scenarios with the figurines, the most popular game being “Who was the real father of Jesus?” And for whatever reason, in my head Joseph sounds like Jimmy Stewart in “It’s a Wonderful Life“.  “Mary? How did this happen?” My mother finally overheard, and that was the end of my gig at the Wildly Inappropriate Nativity Theatre.  She also gave me a quick history lesson and explained how the Shepherd could not possibly be the actual father of Jesus.


The Christmas pageant at church was always a big event, and I had secretly hoped to be the Virgin Mary.  She was so lovely in every Christmas card.  Olivia Hussey played Mary in my mother’s favorite biblical movie (the one with the “good looking Jesus”), what better role could an eight year old want?  Year after year, I was cast as the narrator. My mother said it was a compliment.  Mary never actually says anything, and it would be a shame to waste me, seeing that I was such an eloquent speaker.  Until I eventually stopped going to church, I was always the narrator, never the virgin. Just once I wanted to stand by silently and serenely, and let someone else do the talking for once.


Regardless, this woman on the street couldn’t have known my weird Freudian holiday hangups, so she was awfully surprised when I attacked her. “What? Next thing you’re going to tell me that Humphrey Bogart wasn’t actually born on Christmas Day but on January 23rd? And that with the invention of new calenders Issac Newton was actually born in early January?  Sheesh–a man loses his birth certificate and people think they can just change your birthday? If it can happen to Jesus, surely it could happen to Bogie.  As Newton always said, “What goes up must come down”.  I don’t know how that applies to this, but it’s my goddamn birthday so I’m going to jam it into context like a fat foot in a Manolo Blahik.


I wish you all a very Merry Christmas, may this day be lazy and full of love, food, forgiveness and good fortune.

pin-up-christmas-cover1 All Images Courtesy of Google

The Year of the Pet Tiger

I completed my last work task on Saturday, and I am currently on Christmas holidays.  The entire weekend was a blur of parties, travel, restaurants and shopping centers, and it didn’t properly register that on Monday, there was a holiday waiting. Then I spent all of Monday morning wandering around the house in my pink bathrobe, looking terribly confused.  The amount of available time lays before me like a vast ocean, seemingly endless and deliciously refreshing.  But the question is, do you dive in, or just dip a toe?


I guess…I could go to a matinee? …Maybe a yoga class? I haven’t used my mat in so long it looks like it was mummified in ancient Egypt.  …Maybe I’ll just sit down and crack on with a blog? Or maybe I’ll just kick back and relax.


Sitting in the office, staring out my window.  Coffee and Baileys.  Classical music on CBC 2.  Watching all the cars on the highway, the packed parking lots down below.   Nothing drains the Christmas spirit more than being in a cramped store, sweating in your puffy winter coat, weighed down with bags, feeling awfully light in the wallet.  My personal version of hell is Walmart on the last weekend before Christmas.  Any big box store really.  The crush of people, the long lines, the incompetent staff.  I recently had an experience with a basic clothing rack on wheels at an Ikea that made me feel like Dante descending into the seven circles of hell.  In a modern world, hell would be a packed Costco, bureaucracy, Honey Boo Boo, last minute holiday shopping and Black Friday/Boxing Day sales.  Listen, I like a good deal just as much as the next person, but my god, I can’t imagine anything worse than combining those stores with last minute gift shopping. The pressure of that finding perfect present forced against the insistently ticking clock.  I mean listen, there are many, many nice things out there in the stores that would dazzle anyone.  Who doesn’t love cashmere? But who can afford it?


Having had the pleasure of being called to Immigration Canada–which was a little too last minute for our tastes; we got the message on Friday to come to Vancouver the following Wednesday.  We organized ourselves rapidly, and left early Tuesday morning.  We thought we’d make it into a little holiday, get a hotel and do some Christmas shopping.  I can’t remember why I used to enjoy shopping so much, it can be anxiety inducing at best.  Standing in a packed Winners trying to get a handle on one inch of personal space to do some browsing, all I wanted to do was walk right out that door.  I don’t want to buy someone’s present in a state of panic.  And so we just walked around this city, holding hands and people watching…discussing what we’d like to give if we had the means.

vancouver-christmas-shopping We eventually made purchases and as we walked with shopping bags in hands, Benjamin and I decided that we weren’t going to buy Christmas presents for one another.  Our birthdays fall in the same week as Christmas, and we had already made a purchase for the house and so decided that would be our present. With the totally unexpected expense of Permanent Resident fee/car rental/hotel/and every other pesky little cent that goes into going away…why fool ourselves and spend additional money on things we don’t really need?


I like to get presents, and I love to give them…but where do you draw the line?  How can you get in the spirit of Christmas giving without sacrificing your savings and not having to pick up a glue gun?  How can you give of yourself?  For me, I like to be a hostess. I like to feed people, offer blankets and cups of tea.

1940s Waitress Carrying Glass Of Milk On Tray

We had a little birthday party, and days before I was going over the menu ideas. When I mention the cheese platter, Ben pipes up: “A cheese platter? What are we Rockerfellers?”  I look up from my list.  “I’m perfectly happy to trim fat, cut corners and make sacrifices, but things are not so bad that we can not afford cheese”.  No cheese? Why not just cancel Christmas? Why not just kick Santa where is counts?


Maybe this picture isn’t accurately expressing my intention.  This Santa is looking super into whatever is about to happen here. So, back to my list.


If all I can give this year is of myself, I’d like to throw a savory platter into the mix.  I’d like to give comfort, hugs, good humor and time. I want to share my home.  I wish I could lavish those I love with pet tigers, cash money, diamonds, trips to Cabo.  I’d like to walk into a store and pay off people’s layaways.  Put an actual bill in a Salvation Army box.  One-up Beyonce’s recent Walmart appearance where she paid the first $50 of everyone’s purchase, and pay everyone’s Christmas shopping. (Though I’d just linger by customer service because as previously mentioned those big box stores are terrifying black holes).


I wish I could help more. To see someone struggling and be able to support them.  To fly families to opposite ends of the world for the holidays.  But it’s not really in the budget. What I can give you is this: my words, my care, the occasional cheese platter, and vintage Ann Margaret in a catsuit, holding an actual cat, surrounded by presents in front of a roaring fire.  Meow.

Merry Christmas my friends, may 2014 be the year of the pet tiger.

vintage-pinup-studio-ann-margret-christmasImages Courtesy of Google

More Than You Could Ever Know

Last Sunday morning, the first of December, was spent doing what I prefer to do best. Cradling a cup of coffee in my fingers, wrapped up in a blanket on the sofa.  We had been dog-sitting from the night before, and I had Harriet nestled upon my lap, curled next to the fire, listening to Micheal Bublé’s Christmas album.

Michael-Buble_All-I-Want-For-Christmas-Is-You-CoverWe’re listening to “All I want for Christmas Is you”, another favorite Christmas favorite.  It never falls to choke me up a little at the end of “Love Actually“. Even when Mariah Carey goes there, I can still get behind it.


It’s an ordinarily a fast-paced jingle, (What? Mariah Carey co-wrote it? Huh, who knew?) but Bublé makes it a slow love song.  I am feeling aglow with holiday spirit.  Feeling hopeful for the month ahead.  Benjamin is checking his email and spots a message from Immigration and Citizenship Canada.  He says my name aloud in a stunned tone and reads the email to me.  His permanent residency application had been completed.  We simply had to pay a fee and we would be contacted regarding a time in which to meet an immigration official.  Benjamin joins me on the couch, Harriet still nesting near me.  We kissed and cried as Bublé crooned along.  All we want is to be a normal married couple, free to leave the country, free to make long term decisions, free to make a home. And how lovely that this news comes to us before Christmas.

kiss5 The December calendar has a lot of writing on it.  Meetings, events, parties, concerts.  It’s all so busy and exciting but unfortunately the temperature is so bone cold that it would normally take dynamite to blast me out of the house. It was -20 yesterday, and I can’t say that I love that.  There’s not even the magic of snow.  It’s that part of the snow cycle where it starts to look like cookie dough, mud and chunks of rock and debris in thick slushy slabs.  The cold is bitter and is mood transferable.  I’ve been so anxious about winter driving conditions.  My tire fell flat the other day.  There was nothing worse than standing by helplessly in the frigid night air as Benjamin set up the air compressor to fill the tire so I could take it to the shop in the morning.  In a moment of sheer anxiety, practically frothing at the mouth my husband took hold of my shoulders.  “Alicia, you have got to accept that shit happens“.  Shit happens?


I know shit happens.  Have you read a newspaper lately?  Across the world and in your very own community lives are being smashed to smithereens.  I’d need both hands to count my major “SH” moments.  Natural disasters, major accidents, violent encounters, broken hearts, I’ve seen my share.  The agony of catastrophe, the inconvenience of tragedy.  Things take forever, and them they come and go too quickly.  Things get broken and need mending.  People make mistakes and need forgiving.  Shit is happening all the time everywhere.  Sure, I could cope better with frustration, I could be gentler with myself, I could go with the flow, but I don’t.  I don’t care for surprises.  Good or bad, I’d prefer ample warning.


From that Sunday on the sofa, feeling blessed, happy and relaxed, and all that shit happens stress in between, came Friday afternoon. I arrive home for my lunch break around 1:30pm and see the light flashing on the answering machine. “Hello this is Immigration and Citizenship Canada, bring your pertinent papers and we’ll see you in Vancouver next Wednesday. I’m not going to give you my name or number so just be there or be square. So…Bye.”  Uh…what? Next Wednesday? I looked at the packed calendar…this was not on the agenda. We have work. It’s so expensive, so close to Christmas. Such a long way to go on such short notice.  We’ve waited forever for news, and now it’s on our door step and the timing is utterly inconvenient.  Not to sound ungrateful; we want nothing more than to resolve this and move forward with our lives.  But it’s a bit like the old librarian in “The Shawshank Redemption“, he had gotten used to imprisonment.  He had a good thing going at the library, had a pet crow, good friends, he was used to the conditions.  When faced with freedom it becomes his undoing.

Shawshank-Redemption-Script-Brooks I called Benjamin, who shared my reaction.  It all seems so sudden.  Not even a week’s notice to make plans.  We speak briefly, and hang up to call our respective employers.  I begin looking up flights, weather reports, all while being on hold with the immigration call center.   I am trying to connect with an actual human on the phone, but an elaborate labyrinth of options always leads to something along the lines of: “We’re super duper busy right now, we urge you to check the website”.  The lunch hour nearly over, and not a single moment spent actually lunching, I try the old trick–to just press zero, but that wily old recording, she’s just not having it. I bellowed…no, shrieked...no raged into the phone. “I JUST WANT TO SPEAK TO A REAL PERSON”.

psycho I was desperate, angry, frustrated.  How foolish were we to think we had any control in this matter.  We did not dream of being called in December, we figured sometime between January and March…maybe in the spring at the latest.  Not next week.  When I finally got on the wait list, I was told there would be at least a thirty minute wait, which was time I did not have.  Okay then…let’s drive to Vancouver in the middle of winter. Why not?

vpb0044We’ve made lists and arrangements and are warming up to this new development.  I’m nervous about the weather, Ben is nervous about the meeting.  Of course, there’s nothing to fear, our marriage is legitimate and he has every right to be here.  In an immigration office I once saw an beastly, overweight senior citizen with his young Asian bride. She wore a basketball jersey as a dress with striped knee socks and high heels. She complained endlessly about the long wait and he snapped impatiently at her.  Certainly they had more to answer to than my husband and I…but you just never know.  Benjamin has sorted through all the required documents, and already we are discussing what else to bring…just in case.  You could bring every piece of paperwork you ever received, along with your marriage certificate, love letters and photographs and they’d be like “Everything looks great, if we could just get a receipt from the coffee you purchased this morning, that would be great”.   And the color would drain from your face, blanching at the memory of telling the girl at Starbucks to go ahead and keep that golden ticket.


It’s as if we cant possibly imagine our lives without that hanging over our heads.  From the moment we met, we have lived under a bureaucratic umbrella.  Separation was a very real possibility if we didn’t cling to each other fiercely, and fill out the appropriate paperwork for three different countries.  To think that by Christmas morning my husband would be a permanent resident, that we could think seriously about our future seems too good to be true.  I can’t let myself imagine the possibilities it until I know the outcome. If you ask my husband he’d like to acquire a dog, truck and a baby.  Those things sound perfectly lovely, but you know me…I’m also excited about being able to leave the country again.  Maybe we’ll get to Paris after all.  As long as we get there together.

Benjamin: husband, friend and bear…best of luck on Wednesday.  All I want for Christmas is vous.


             Images Courtesy of Google

Festive Fromage

Basking in a quiet moment at home.  Husband snoozing in the easy chair, fire roaring, and “A Charlie Brown Christmas” playing quietly in the background.


I’m going to lay down a bit of a proclamation here.  This album is the business.  To me, for Christmas music, it doesn’t get better than this.  When going through my Christmas things, I actually came across not one, not two, but three copies of the CD.  I took one copy to the classroom.  As of late, that and the Rod Stewart Christmas album “Merry Christmas Baby” has been on repeat.


Look at him.  What a total babe fest.  He’s so cheeky; sitting in a chair the wrong way and bringing the holiday season a whole new brand of sexy.  Me-ow Rod, you bring new meaning to the phrase “ring ting a ling”. For your money, I don’t think it gets better than Rod belting out “Jingle Bells“, “Silent Night” or if you get him really drunk I hear he does one rousing version of “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer“.  But if you have a relatively sane family, and need a dose of holiday crazy, I’d recommend these two kooky kids.


Jesus Christ.  There is enough plastic here to build a fucking spaceship.  What fun they are having.  Bless Olivia and her enormous coffee mug. She’s holding that hot coffee right up against her face and she can’t even feel it.  And who does John think he’s fooling with those eyebrows? That’s Peter Gallagher‘s thing and everybody knows it.


Well hello there, who ordered the smoldering gaze with a side of piercing stare? Has anyone alerted you to John Travolta, his embarrassing Christmas album and his encroaching eyebrows?


You see, there is a rather fine line between good and bad cheese: John Travolta and Olivia Newton John following a 1978 musical classic with this…that is bad cheese.


Now if you want some proper Christmas gouda, you’d spend your Christmas nights with Boney M.


Don’t even get me started on this one.  By the time we get to the “Oh My Lord” verse of “Mary’s Boy Child” I’m clapping my hands, and riding high on the Christmas spirit.  bony m christmas songs 12

I think that a healthy dose of cheese makes such classics as “Wonderful Christmas Time” by Paul McCartney and  Wham’s “Last Christmas” possible.


But I’ll stop you right there if you’d think I’d be interested in any version of “Santa Baby”, or Harry Connick Jr’s”Parade of the Wooden Soldiers”.  That song is so agitating, it makes me want to drive my car right into the horn section just to stop all that goddamn racket.  As for “Santa Baby” I don’t like getting flirty with Santa, he’s a giver of gifts, he’s not a Sugar Daddy.


What I like most about Charlie Brown is that it’s festive but mellow.  So while I love holiday cheese, I love the soundtrack because it’s anything but.  It’s mature, slightly melancholic and sincere.  It says “Christmas makes me happy and sad all at the same time, but let’s focus on the positive, shall we?”  Sometimes I feel as though holiday happiness is an uphill battle, and Charlie totally gets that.  And year after year I’m comforted by those jazzy undertones in the backgrounds of all my Christmases.


Images Courtesy of Google

Hey Jude

As I’m about to leave for work, dreading the blustery winter morning ahead of me, I get a text from my boss asking me to wait an hour before turning up.  It’s a Pro-D day, so there’s no actual classes.  The day was to be spent organizing and preparing for tonight’s Christmas concert.  I’m never one to be late, but this is a rather irresistible invitation. The wind has sharp teeth, and the roads look slick and glassy. There is so much white, insistent and imposing, the world a snow-globe shook by an angry and energetic child.  Eventually another text follows, calling the whole morning off. As prepared as I was to brave the weather conditions and have a productive work day, something about not having to leave the house made me feel like a middle-aged divorcee on her fourth banana daiquiri at her first Mexican vacation.  Pretty bloody giddy.  Inside there is a roaring fire, a freshly decorated Christmas tree, and just enough coffee in the pot for a toasty top up.  Maybe I’ll heed the warning and bask in the glorious indoors.


Winter weather has such a magical quality.  A thick blanket of white across roof tops and sidewalks, urging you to stay indoors, to curl up in bed, in front of a fire, a warm beverage enveloped in your hands.  When Benjamin and I lived in Perth, Christmas time was blazing hot, filled with summertime activities.  We once watched “White Christmas” on a large screen in an inner city park on a piping hot day.  To a Canadian, it was a confusing physical experience.  For my husband, born in the Southern Hemisphere, Christmas dinner comes off the BBQ.  Once during our Australian Christmas season evening, we watched “The Holiday“, a personal Christmas cinematic favorite.


Yes, the writing is imperfect.  The concept ludicrous.  The acting a little terrible (ahem, Cameron Diaz I’m looking at you girlfriend).  Jack Black is wildly miscast as Kate Winslet‘s love interest.  He’s perfectly cute and funny, but he is the exact replica of that “nice guy” who single girls go to the movies with but whom they will never go to bed with.  My husband hates they way the characters talk to themselves.  Still, as far as a Christmas-themed romantic comedy goes it’s light, frothy, sexy, silly and ends happily.  I especially love the friendship between Winslet and Arthur Abbott, played by Eli Wallach.

006THD_Eli_Wallach_012He is as cute as the dickens.  Look at him. Isn’t he precious? I’d love to be on the other side of that table hearing his many stories.  (PS: Did you know that this man is still alive? He is 97 years old y’all, and he knew all of the greats. He was in Marilyn Monroe‘s last completed picture “The Misfits”).


He worked with Audrey Hepburn in “How to Steal a Million“.


With the slew of celebrity deaths this year, someone needs to go check in on him.  Wrap a blanket around his shoulders and check his pulse, and say “I really enjoyed you in “The Holiday”, what was Marilyn Monroe really like?”


Anyway, as for watching “The Holiday” on a hot and lazy evening in Australia, I was overcome with nostalgia for thick cable knit sweaters and a snowy Christmas. I also enjoyed me some Jude Law in this deliciously mindless holiday fare.  Essentially this movie makes me crave snow, sweaters, long lunches with Eli Wallach, and for Jude Law to explain how books, movies and birthday cards make him weep.


Wow, thanks Jude.  I love how last night you weren’t wearing glasses, and today you are.  It really adds to your mystique.  Last night you were a bad boy, but this morning you’re this nice guy.  But not in a Jack Black, you can make me laugh, but you’ll never bring me to orgasm kind of way.  It’s refreshing.


Jeez Jude, way to give it all away in one blog post.  But I don’t have to go to work right away…I’m willing to roll with this.  But the truth is, I’m married, and I’ve already promised my celebrity cheat card to George Clooney.


So…where do we go from here?


Yeah, you’re not the first person to tell me that.  Maybe it’s the winter blues.  Maybe it’s always wanting the opposite of what you have.  In Perth I dreamt of snow kissed landscape, and now I am fantasizing about that hot sun in that beautiful city, where Christmas decorations baked in the heat.  How is it that the things you want always seem to be on the opposite side of the fence?


Well sure…I guess.  I mean you live in a movie in England, and I may die of frost bite and homesickness in Canada.  How could we possibly be together?


None of this makes any sense.  I should of been at work an hour ago and you look so cute in a collared shirt and sweater combo, and this blog shouldn’t even be happening.  But here we are, just a woman and a fictional character falling in love on a miserable winter’s day. Ah well, whatever keeps you off the roads.

the-holidays6 2Images Courtesy of Google

Miss Mistletoe, 1939

Friends! Happy first of December! There’s so much to look forward to, so much to share!  I did dream of having time to write an entry today, but setting up a Christmas tree and watching “Love Actually” became top priority.  Still I couldn’t resist dropping by to say hello.

Miss Mistletoe

Look forward to some new blogs this month. In the meantime, please accept my highest regards from Miss Mistletoe.

La la la la la la la la love,

Alicia xx

Atwood, Oprah & Jesus

How lovely.  The writer of “Ramblings of a Mad Kat” nominated “Pin Up Picks Pen Up” for The Liebster Award.


What an uplifting moment that was.


The night before I found out about my little prize, I had written exactly one line.  The blog was a place I used to come to.  There was a period where I was cranking out daily postings, my brain was a buzz with activities and ideas. My office was the first place I’d go to in the morning, coffee cup in hand, CBC2 in the background.  I would fill my notebook with ideas for future pieces, I used to work every day…sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon, and late into the night, words tumbling out of me, fingers feverishly accosting the keyboard, pounding out phrases.


I entered a couple of writing contests, and I was never considered.  I got a little discouraged, got incredibly busy, and then…now, enough time has gone by that it’s gotten weird between us.  Like running into someone you used to be close to, there’s history there so it’s hard to be casual.   Or like when you bump into someone you know at the grocery store.  Say, you once took a class together, or worked at the same job one summer.  You like and respect them, wish them the very best.  You say, “nice to see you…we should really have coffee sometime”.


“Absolutely” they say, nodding earnestly. Boy is it a nice idea, chipping out a little time for this old friend, grabbing a latte and catching up.  But let’s be honest.


I hear you girlfriend.  That’s how I feel about the blog these days.  But I want to get back to that place.  Without the blog, without the creative outlet, I feel a little lost…a little deflated.  I’ve been through a trying couple of weeks.  I’ve gotten into a bit of a slump.  I’ve been feeling gold medal, black belt levels of the blahs.  Today I called my best friend, organized my closet, got a hair cut and bought a few new items for the winter season.  I spruced up a little; wore a dress and boots to the mall, and left feeling much lighter.  My husband and I visited with friends, and now I am at home taking the time to visit with an old friend of my own.

I’m to answer these questions about myself, so here goes…

1.       If you could be any animal, what would you be? 

My husband calls me ‘goat’, because I am stubborn, small and have been known to head butt .  I call him Bear because of his stature and magnificent beard.  In the animal kingdom we would be a goat and a bear and we would still be best friends.


2.       Invite three people to dinner, living or dead – who are they? 

I wish I could honestly answer this question more academically, Margaret Atwood  Oprah and Jesus and whatnot…but I’d have to go with Audrey Hepburn, Nora Ephron and Tina Fey. 


3.       What’s the best Christmas gift you could get?

Plane tickets with a big red bow. 

4.       What is your favorite blog entry you’ve written – please, post a link for us to read.

Oh I’m sorry…did you say my favorite five…no it was ten? Okay then!











5.       Who is your greatest inspiration? 

Nora Ephron, David Sedaris, Tina Fey, Elizabeth Gilbert, Barbra Streisand, Meryl Streep and Audrey Hepburn.

6.       Most embarrassing moment (that you are willing to share) 

Good Lord, how much time do you have?

7.       Name one thing that you wish you had done in your life thus far.  

Traveled to Europe.  To me, Paris is a necessity. 


8.       What’s your favorite food?        

I love food in general; curry, satay, pasta…I prefer vegetarian but I eat a little meat.  I’m more savory than sweet.  My death row, last meal would be various kinds of bread with lots of things to dip into. And french fries.  Yes, definitely french fries.  And then I’d have a latte.     

9.       Cheesecake or Cake?   

I can appreciate both, but wouldn’t turn down an exquisite slice of cherry cheese cake. 

10.    Favorite Olympic sport?     

Ha ha, bitch please! 

11.    If you could ask your great grandparents one thing, what would it be?

Were you happy?

I’d like to pass the award onwards to some of my favorites.

1) An Opinionated Girl VS. The World. http://lilynichol.wordpress.com/

2) Entrepreneur by Nurture. http://www.effectiveenterprise.co.nz/

3) Vinyl and Pearls vinylandpearls.wordpress.com

4) Lonely City http://lonelycityperth.wordpress.com/2013/09/02/allow-me-to-introduce-myself/

5) Vodka, Unicorns and Lincoln Logs http://dagmartully.wordpress.com/

There are so many great blogs out there, and I wish you the strength and perseverance to continue…no matter how busy life gets…cause once in a while you get a little reminder about just how fabulous you can be.

oscarpix17f-2-copyImages Courtesy of Google

Frock Fright Night

Ah, the Halloween season is upon us.  How the hell did that happen?  It’s worse than Christmas, the way it sneaks up on you.


You can’t gift card your way out of this, and you don’t want to look like one of those last minute costume kids, wearing a shitty t-shirt and cheap mask, holding a pillow case out for candy.  No thank you.  But I really feel that a good costume should be topical.  But I also feel that nothing makes a Halloween concept shine like time and money.

heidi-klum-halloween-costume-sheeva-5 Of course, Halloween is also happening at the exact same time as moving house and a theatre festival.  There’s a party tomorrow night, but I have yet to throw something together.  There’s plenty of time to sort something out.  Although not if you ask the girl behind the counter at the Halloween store, who asked about my costume as I purchased a strip of white hair and silly string.  “Oh, this is actually for work, I coordinate children’s birthday parties.  I don’t have my costume worked out yet”. “Well, you’re running out of time” she says with the shock of a college senior without a major, or urgency of my biological clock. Snooty bitch. I’ve got all kinds of time that she knows nothing about.

hollywoodhalloweenDon’t tell anyone that I have no idea what I’m doing for Halloween. 

Where most girls go for sexy “Slutty cop, slutty doctor, slutty teacher, slutty nun”, I’m assuming that this is supposed to be a slutty bee…


Personally, I like to hit of the humor angle.  Something fresh.  Something topical.


There is nothing better than a rocking costume party.  In the past I’ve prided myself on clever costumes.   You take on the persona of the character, make friendship connections with costumed strangers, bond with the person who also came as Lindsay Lohan.  The most important thing is that you never want to explain who you are trying to be.


Like these kids down below…they would have to explain themselves, because I’m not sure what look they were going for.  But they sure do look happy to be there…(some good Barbie toe as well, Tyra Banks would be proud).


As I search the internet for ideas, I am constantly struck with brilliant costumes.  Over course, if I had Ryan Seacrest‘s stylist, I could get authentic Bonnie and Clyde costumes and a little something for the dogs.


I am running through the lengthy list of costumes from the past.  A Pregnant Britney Spears with a blonde wig, truckers hat, and a white ‘wife beater” tank that I scrawled “Shoulda stuck with Timberlake” in felt pen…with a grocery bag and newspaper belly of course.  That night someone told me that I was the ‘hottest pregnant chick he’d ever met’, and then bought me a shot.  I was once pregnant prom queen.  Actual high school prom gown, more grocery bags and newspaper. I did a great Amy Winehouse, (the one and only time I used the gap in my teeth for hilarity).  With just a hair straightener, a neck tie and striped socks on my arms, I was Avril Lavinge at the height of her “Sk8r Boy” phase.

I once made a Nicole Richie costume out of a skeleton suit, a red bikini, large sunglasses and a white headband.  I did a Jennifer Lopez with the hugest ass.


My friend Megan once made me a fairy costume. I was covered in glitter, and wore delicate pink fairy wings over a pink tube top. I wore pink tasseled boots and a skirt made of thin strips of pink iridescent material that barely covered the bottom of my bottom.  It was pretty provocative, a grand departure from my usual humorous schtick.

Moulin_Rouge_0123Later that night my on again-off again boyfriend, who had gone to a separate party dressed as a Sasquatch, called me up somewhere around three in the morning.  I made the cab stop off at a convenience store before I ended up at his apartment.  He called me as I headed towards the condom rack.  “Do you need anything?” I slur, my pixie wings flapping gently. “Yeah…yeah man, get me some beef jerky”.  I shuffle over towards the till in my pink Pocahantas boots, put the Trojans on the counter.  “Where’s your beef jerky?”.  The salesclerk, pointed to the display and I grabbed the one nearest and dropped it next to the contraceptive three-pack.  When the cab pulled into the parking lot, Big Foot was already there waiting for me.  I walked up to him, shivering in the cold…which was fair as only 32% of my body was covered.  I approached him unsteadily as he eyes me up like a cartoon wolf on a leg of lamb.  “I brought the beef jerky”.  (One of the greatest opening lines ever).  But he wasn’t terribly concerned about the jerky then, and crushed my wings in his wolfish embrace.  The next morning, with a throbbing head, and no sunglasses in sight, I slunk out of the apartment, feeling wildly underdressed as I waited for the cab in the still rising sunlight.


And here I sit, all these years later, feeling perfectly spent on a good idea.


Let’s not panic.  I’m refusing to let the Halloween store clerk get into my head.  Still that uncertainty creeps in.  I’m working full time, I’m living amongst packing boxes.  I have rehearsal. I don’t have time to slap together a hilarious, fabulous, yet topical ensemble.  Oh my god, this is a nightmare.


I’m that kid with the pillow case. I’m that wearing all black with a witch hat kind of unprepared.  I’m ready to go through boxes to see what I can piece together, but I’m approximately three steps away from being these kids.  And frankly, I’d rather just stay home.


Alas, I did not publish this blog the same day I wrote it, as if finding my costume was the end of the piece.  Without a costume the thesis of this article would have been “I used to have awesome ideas, and now I don’t”.  Drag.  The piece also makes reference to drunken promiscuity, and you know…what can I say? It’s a fine line.  And the Sasquatch and the fairy mauling each other in an empty parking lot is just such a good image, it would be a crime not to share it.  I abandoned the blog, walked out of the office, the walls now bare as we are days away from moving. Tick, tick, tick. I wandered through the house.  The boxes and little piles everywhere.  Who can think under such conditions? I idly flip through a back issue of People magazine. The thought strikes like lightning.  Of course.  A costume that could be funny, but still kind of pretty.  And not slutty.   Sweet relief.  We have come to a decision! Come Saturday night I went out as a right proper lady, and Prince George had a very nice time as well.

katemiddletonImages Courtesy of Google, Ashcroft