That Caps It

Men who wear baseball caps, be they bald or not, should know that women regard the wearing of them, other than at games or picnics, in about the same esteem as men enjoy seeing their ladies in hot hair rollers. Nothing turns women off so much as a well worn cap on a male head entering a restaurant. And never mind the lines about  how long he has supported the team or that it is his "lucky" cap or that ha ha, it is the only thing that holds his brain in,  it stays wrong.  Meeting a guy for the first time, coffee date all arranged, and what does he turn up in? A baseball cap. No matter how nice the cashmere sweater and the Gucci loafers, the cap kills it.  It doesn't matter if you are George or Brad or Bieber, caps must go. And turning them back to front other than doing a moon walk on the side walk, doesn't work either. Not cool.  Real woman like real men, not little boys with beanies.

Shop Sty-lishly?

The whole post-holiday shopping idiocy is like being in the sty with the oinkers. What I found today wasn't hand to hand rudeness but the evidence of a lack of integrity. In change rooms, there were hangers on the floors and piles of clothing strewn about randomly in every cubicle. I had to dodge drink cartons among the handbags and shoes thrown under display cases. A young couple ahead of me was discussing how they could rip off the store and get away with it. The alarms at the doors rang constantly.  What is that? Is the media showing NYC idiots with their shopper mustard gas and grabber claws, setting  the low bar here? This is Canada folks. We're the nice guys. Sure, it's fine to get in on the bargains but it isn't an opportunity to grunge out. Mind your manners. Puhleese. Mommy isn't going to pick up after you - some tired clerk has to do that and from what I saw today, they are exhausted.

Keeper Men

Some of us are lucky and find the guy that is a keeper. He isn't ideal but then who is? Not even George Clooney. This sort of man is the kind you can cook beside in your kitchen, go shopping with and he doesn't complain, do nothing in particular together and still, you love being beside him. Of course there are times when you could cheerfully add him to the stew but  you miss him if he isn't there. He doesn't have to be a clinger or even romantic but he has some inexplicable quality you can't deny. He's your guy. He has a hard time with the L word and certainly the M word, but his actions speak louder and this means more to you than mere words. He comes with baggage dragging but his appeal blinds you to it.  It doesn't matter if his mother hates you or his kids are crabby or his style doesn't fit yours or his looks aren't Brad Pitt. To you, he is Mr. Perfect.  This is the man you want to keep and love forever. Merry Christmas Mr. Perfect.

Widow's Warning

Widowhood, and I dislike the term "widow" has its downside other than the obvious. More often than not, shortly after the funeral,  a man appears out of the woodwork to offer his condolences and stay for more than coffee. Usually it is short term misery but some of these relationships do become a very successful marriage. The bad ones are those that go on a continuous, downhill slide that lasts about a year from start to finish. I have heard widows say about this: he was bi-polar, he took me for my money, he lied about everything, he wanted me to be his nurse. Their descriptions are legion.  But it's not all bad. There is a learning curve. The widow toughens herself up and the next coffee drinker is more closely scruitinized before any hanky panky occurs. In the mean time before the next chap does come along, a widow has time to re-discover herself and enjoy the freedoms of being single. She has the knowledge to filter out the fakers, the liars, the users and the ones who simply can't forget their old flames and finally, miraculously, there is the best man. He is a real man who will give her love, the true kind, and make her feel secure in his strong character. But what she is really looking for is someone to travel alongside to the ends of their lives. The prize is worth the wait.

The New Year Party Dress

Every lass wants her New Year party dress to be the dress of the year. It has to sparkle and glow. It must be a bit provocative. The fit should be loose enough to flow while dancing, and modest when dining. The colour should reflect the you that is you. You will dazzle your date. But where is this  magical man-magnet, fountain of youth and mirror of the soul garment? Pounding the pavement prior to the day, you find six or seven of the bargain design shop's array to try on. The colour is right but the fit is wrong, the line is lovely but the skirt, too short, the neckline is too low or the sleeves too long. Where oh where is the dress of your dreams. Aha! At last you see the very one - a midnight blue sheer with bands of sequins at the wrists and hem. Next problem. This dress is so short that when you drop your mini bag or table napkin on that special night, it will stay where it fell. Unless, of course, you want to become the evening's comedy show. But you buy it anyway, hoping. Where do you find the matching tights? On the moon, apparently. But the fates are kind and you find some that miraculously satisfy. Now shoes. Only the best French Leather will do. And lo and behold, the colour is perfect although the left side pinches a bit. Stretch them a mite? Yes, the shop will stretch the left one bit but you have to shop some more because it takes twenty minutes to do. Off you go and there it is the perfect lingerie and the cutest costume jewelry. You haul the bags home, toss them on the bed and head for the coffee maker. Later that evening when taking all the tags off and stacking up the receipts, you try on the whole shebang. And love what you see in the mirror. He calls and you rave about your haul. "Yeah, but did you see that try? And what about the final kick into the goal? Some rugby game, eh?"

Blog Blockers

Blog Blockers are those who read blogs and take everything as personal insults and rage about them and make them their personal complaints. One wonders why. Have these folks nothing else better  to do?  Their solution to their problem is to not read the blog. Simple. I understand that are some who read my blog and use it as personal weaponry. It is not my intention to write and attempt to further childish angst.  I write  fiction taken from life that I see happening around me.  I will not be censored by pettiness. I will write as I feel and as I please. My message to those sad individuals who have nothing better to do than examine every minute passage and report it to the waiting sty, is go and find some chicken soup to wallow in. You would be much happier among the noodles. Get out of my blog and get your own. Writing is free.

One Small Light

I have a lot of Christmas lights. All in boxes in storage. Something prevents me from going to that place. Too many reminders of times past, too much ''stuff" to deal with, too cold at this time of year and too hot in the summer. But this year I decided to buy some small evergreens and red berried shrubs and plant them with winter pansies. In the middle, I placed an antique metal lantern that would house a candle. My deck is high up but seen by those below and I feel that somehow a "living light" might inspire someone else  as well as me. I light my candle every night when the darkness falls and as the night goes on, look at its tiny flickering light and feel hope. Things in the world can't be that bad. This small light is out there in the cold protected only by  a sheet of glass and metal bracing but it shines on even though no one may notice it. I think the moon last night as it came up yellow/gray behind the far mountains to the east  saw my single light. The two had something  in common moreso than the LEDs and the sparkling, plying lights of all the decks bedecked vieing around the townhouse circle. Their shinings were a gentle promise of something human and mysterious and very old.  The moon and the small candle smiled at each other- at least I thought I caught them at it. I remembered a Christmas long ago in New Mexico, where houses in and of the desert were surrounded by brown paper bags, candles glowing inside, their flames dancing in the warm winds while desert sand in the bottoms of the bags kept them steady. These lights were alive and well and spoke of  a season that heals. All it takes is one small light.

Christmas Cards

There are Christmas cards of course, but I don't mean the ones displayed on store walls that have price values on them, the ones that people receive and often don't cash in. Nor do I mean the one that is so well-exercised over the holiday season, the one whose reminders come in the mail later telling you how much you owe. No. I am speaking of the picture greeting cards that you used to get in the mail before stamps became too expensive. Card-sending is  becoming rarer these days. Few seem to take time to send out. Cards. Long ago they were treasures and when they arrived, there were shrieks of joy and calls for everyone to come and see who sent the card with the news inside. It was a practical way to spread news in those days. These cards were strung up in the most unlikely but proud places and often counted  to become bragging subjects during seasonal social events. When they were taken down after Christmas, they were  boxed and labelled tenderly and a last look  given before  putting them away for the grandchildren to play with.  I remember as a very small child with my sister, laying out on the floor, an array of Gramma's special  cards from years past and sorting them according to colour or decoration or theme. Later, when we were older and could read, we tried to understand the cursive writing inside.   Minimalist decor sees few people displaying their cards - not that they get many or even bother sending  them any more. I am no minimalist and mine are collected in a pile along with their envelopes. Messy? Yes and most of the cards I receive have letters inside. The only ones that make me sad are those with computer generated messages, addresses and signatures. I think, why do they bother to send them at all? They must have  time to write something personal inside, even to pen their names.  There are those who send a newsletter to "all" and I love them, too, in spite of their reputation as being bragging tools. I am happy to know the news in any form. One of my friends sends a sheet of photos, with first names of family. I have never met these smiling faces and am not likely to but I like these as well. I see happy faces that look very much like my friend who lives far off and  I think she is trying to share her joy with me. Sending cards is costly but I miss this disappearing tradition.   

Cynical Christmas

Nothing is more choking than Christmas tradition. The wreath of it begins to tighten on the neck of the season as we circle the coming table with Ws hoping what we did will continue even though Time creates gaps that are big enough to waltz through. The who, what, where and why become the menu. At table, we ignore the intervening deaths, divorces. divisions as we struggle to carry on. We permit the ghosts to sit between us, the gritty living and alive-still and pretend the Unwelcome isn't there. But throughout, The Gathered smile when their eyes glaze momentarily, their tongues freeze in their mouths to remind us with those small silences during the feast and fetish that we are  feigning the day as required and will allow the red and green and sparkling to win over yet another endured Christmas dinner.

The Meet Market

Going on line to "find" someone is the new singles bar. Tried it. For research purposes only, of course. Don't we all?  The process is rather flattering and exciting, sort of sitting beside the pool but not getting wet. The dating service prospect's location starts the process of elimination. Going for coffee doesn't work from another continent, another city, on an island or in a trailer park. Appearances are important. If they don't post a picture, go no further. Those who are way too young want to be kept and those too old, same. Nurses excepted. The ones who show pictures of their three former wives? Gone. Those who send 30 favorite camera shots prove that they are confirmed bores. Spelling counts unless you are a do-gooder teacher or desperate. The separated are a no go for obvious reasons. What does the guy do for fun? Down hill skiers, white water kayakers, tent campers and muscle builders want Wonder Woman, not you. The man who loves short walks, eating in and taking the bus: out. So who is worth that phone call and the coffee with the lapel rose? The answer? Almost no one. I'll take my chances at Tim H's and the Supermarket.

Clutter Up

Went into a media woman's upscale mini condo the other day. It's new: city scape, granite, dark woods, deck, window walls - the usual. All new furniture, the latest. Mininalist's dream.  Couple months later, dining table/ desk: assorted papers strewn,  cooking area a boxed food array, island stools draped with flotsam, bed atangle, bathroom badly dried towels mixed with drying underthings, marble counters with cosmetic overkill, lounge area a vision of askew randomness  according to use not The Rules, unhinged mantel memorabilia. In short, one of those seek-and-find scenes. I loved it. It was  an old slipper whose left you finally found amongst the dust bunnies under the bed. You could put this apartment on, flop down and eat ice-cream  out of the box and drink orange juice from the container. A home!