Memorial Weekend Part Two

Okay, back to Memorial Weekend.

After man-child's graduation ceremony, we dropped him off back home, picked up the two younger kids and beat a path out of town. We didn't officially get on the road until 12:30 pm and I was worried at how late we would be arriving in Indy.

We were set to stay with clients of mine who have become friends. Nothing says crappy house guests like arriving at midnight smelling of Cheetos and Red Bull with two cranky children in tow.

Sunday morning, we got up, showered and learned that we would be leaving for the track fairly early. I looked at Dallas and raised my eyebrows. The race didn't start until 1:00pm. I couldn't imagine what in the world we would be doing for in the four hours before the green flag was dropped.

We drove to a parking lot of some sort of gravel company located in downtown Indy. There, we met several other couples. Everyone was waiting for the police escort. Yes, you read that right. It seems that several years beforehand, our hosts had hooked up with one of Indy's finest and each year, he would escort them to the track.

"High beams on. Flashing lights on. Stick close together and keep all limbs inside the vehicle at all times."

Actually, he didn't say that last part but he should have. The officer turned on his sirens and lights and wove through the streets of downtown Indianapolis at about 50 miles an hour. Cars pulled over to the side of the road and stopped as our caravan sped by. We went through red lights and stop signs. Other police officers stationed at different points in our route stopped traffic for us. The entire ride was surreal. At one point, Olivia leaned forward and said, "Mama, are we still in America?"

As we neared the track, we could see a line of vehicles waiting to get into the parking lots. We flew by them all, bypassed the line entirely, pulled in and parked directly in front of the entrance. Dallas and I looked at each other, blinked and shook our heads in disbelief. We had never experienced anything like that before. EVER.

And it was barely 10:00 in the morning.

After having a massive pre-race tailgate brunch replete with a driver pool and absolutely the best pastry I've ever tasted, we were ready to head inside to explore. We were handed tickets and told that as newbies, we had the best seats of the bunch. Gross understatement. We were planted at the start/finish line, up in the penthouse seats, directly across from the tower, with an intimate look at pit row. UNREAL.

Nothing prepares you for the sound of thirty plus cars at full speed hitting the start line. The noise is deafening, exhilarating and the excitement that bubbles up inside raises goosepimples on your arms and leaves the hair on the nape of your neck standing straight up. I held Olivia in my arms and we both giggled and then laughed uncontrollably as the cars sped by.

Then Liv made friends with the drunk lady sitting beside us. At one point, I looked over and she was braiding said female's hair. I smiled, sipped my Coors Light and thanked God for small miracles.

There were loads of other events that made the weekend special like meeting a group of visiting Kiwis and witnessing my son at the helm of a speedboat but I suppose the best part of it all was being welcomed into the homes of our friends and treated like family.

A Gem in Disguise

Wow! It sure feels like Monday.

The weekend passed by in a blur of activity and I am positive that between now and THE BIG MOVE, the frenetic pace will become uncomfortably familiar to Dallas and me.

See, the scary thing about settling in a new place (is it just me or does the word "settle" automatically conjure up images of covered wagons and bonnets?) is that there is no guarantee that you'll get it right the first time.

Gone are the days when the bulk of my belongings could fit into a backpack. Back then, I could relocate without a second thought. When I first decided to leave Canada for San Diego, I was positively delirious with anticipation. I sold everything I owned, which wasn't much and committed fully to the idea of never having to experience a Canadian winter again. I could not wait to get on the plane.

At the time, I was working as a manager in a popular chain restaurant. One of my regular customers was this cranky, old guy who would stroll in most evenings for a few pints of draught and some hot wings before making his way home. The staff hated him. He was a big man with giant hands, a shock of white hair and fleshy features. He was bigoted, opinionated, obnoxious, demanding and generally a pain in the arse. I loved him.

Sometimes, I'd sit with him and get his advice on everything from dating (frat boys are bad news) to finances (pay yourself first). He'd lost his wife and his only child in a house fire years earlier and never really recovered. We had an odd friendship I suppose, but it worked. He was a surrogate grandfather to me and my life was richer for knowing him. When I bought my ticket to sunny California, telling him was the only thing that I dreaded about the move.

"You'll be back," he said, as if I would fail, somehow.

"No, I won't." I replied and in that moment, our relationship changed.

For the next couple of weeks, he was distant and emotionally withdrawn. The waves of disapproval that rolled off of him were palpable.

I questioned my decision to go.

Was I being impulsive? Should I stay? How would I support myself in the US? But California spoke to me and the desire to go outweighed every rational objection that I could muster.

On my last day at work, there was a mini going away party in my honour. My friend ambled in near the end of it and parked himself at the bar. He motioned for me to sit next to him, which I accepted, grateful for the apparent thaw in his attitude. We chatted for a bit about hockey and the weather.

"I bet you'll really enjoy all that hot weather in Cal-e-forn-eye-ay," he said. I was surprised.

"Yeah, I think so." I said. I felt the beginnings of a small lump forming in my throat.

He just nodded, finished his beer and called for his tab. I sat quietly beside him unsure of what to say next. He paid his bill, stood up, and put on his jacket. As he tucked his stool under the bar, he handed me an envelope. Then he hugged me, which he had never done before.

"Good luck," he said and left. I went into the staff bathroom and cried myself stupid.

When I opened the envelope, there was a corny going away card upon which he had written, "You'll do good but if you get homesick, use this to buy yourself a ticket home."

Inside were four, crisp, new, one hundred dollar bills.

It took me about eighteen months to deposit the money into my bank account in La Mesa. It took that long for me to exhale and accept my new life.

I never saw or spoke to my friend again. Email and mobile phones were non existent back then and even if they were, I'm not sure he would have divulged that information. I didn't even know his last name. If I could talk to him now, I'd tell him that part of the reason that things worked for me in the US is because I operated with the knowledge that if they didn't, I had a four hundred dollar safety net.

Thank you Frank.

The Kiwis Have Landed

On Wednesday last week, Dallas's parents and another couple they've know for ages arrived from New Zealand. And I don't think that I've had an entirely sober existence since.

Actually, that's not true. There might have been a few bad moments in the wee hours of Saturday morning but since then, things have stopped spinning steadied to a more even keel. Following along with the whole nautical theme, I'd like to relay a story we heard this past weekend.

Lloyd and his wife, Leslie, have been long time friends of Anne and Bruce's. They decided to make the trip for our wedding and it's been wonderful getting to know them a bit better. Besides being two of the kindest folks on the planet, the one thing that they do really well is spin a hilarious tale.

For instance, there is this beauty:

Lloyd's mum (Mama D) was a heavy smoker. Lloyd's dad (Papa D) was a lousy sailor. Under normal circumstances, neither one of these characteristics would be particularly noteworthy but one lovely summer morning, they came together in a South Pacific version of the perfect storm.

It all started when Mama D broke her arm after a nasty fall while retrieving mail from the letter box (all colloquialisms remain for maximum Kiwi authenticity). Her arm was casted. Then somehow (memory fails me), the other wrist or arm was compromised which resulted in a second cast. Picture this poor woman with both arms in right angle casts. Clearly, this affected her ability to get her nicotine fix as she could bring neither hand anywhere near her mouth.

Being a smart and empathetic man, Papa D employed the services of a local glass maker, who fashioned a halo with a curved tube that extended down over her nose and ended in a "T". When wearing the halo on her head, she was able to stick a cigarette in one end of the "T" and puff on the other end, thus eliminating the need for hands. Everyone was happy. Mum got her fag and dad got some peace.

Until they decided that some fresh sea air might be in order.

The day was beautiful; sunny and cloudless with a good, stiff breeze. Perfect sailing weather. Leslie, Lloyd and his parents climbed aboard the sloop and set out into the Hauraki Gulf. As previously mentioned, Papa D knew the basic mechanics of sailing but he was unable to put them all together with any proficiency. Depth perception was most definitely not his strong suit.

Early in the voyage, Papa D made a trip to the head for his morning ritual. The loo was one of those old fashioned numbers. There was a handle that had to be pumped up and down to create a vacuum. Once the business was done, a lever was pulled up and everything was sucked out of the system. It worked a bit like an airplane bathroom except the vacuum was done through manual means.

In any case, Papa D finished, pulled the lever and failed to notice that there were a few treats left behind. Mama D, on the other hand, was feeling a bit crook in the belly as she was sometimes prone to be and decided to go below deck to lay down until her seasickness passed. On her way to the forward berth, she stopped at the toilet. After maneuvering her halo encapsulated torso through the door, she sat down and lit a cigarette.

Things were quickly unraveling above deck. Papa D was having a hard time navigating. Lloyd was urgently telling him that he should bear to port as his dad appeared to be sailing directly into the path of the only other boat in the vastness of the gulf.

"Dad! You are going to run into that boat!" Lloyd exclaimed.

"Never you mind," said Papa D dismissively.

Lloyd and Leslie watched in horror as the gap between the two crafts narrowed to an uncomfortable margin. As foretold, Papa D crashed their boat into the only other vessel within twenty miles. Their sloop heaved and then listed badly to port. The anchor from the other boat was somehow lodged onto the bow of Papa D's and thus, they found themselves dragged along, unable to right the mast.

And then they heard it. A strident, high pitched keening from below deck.

"MUM!" Lloyd called.

"Mama D!" Papa D lamented.

They all three scrambled down the hatch to find Mama D, pants around her ankles lying on the floor below. Apparently during the crash, she had been pitched off the loo, along with its contents.

She was covered in a thin film of shit.

But her halo and cigarette survived and she was puffing furiously, blowing smoke out of her mouth between four lettered epitaphs.

I believe that Papa D gave up sailing that day for a less demanding pastime, like lion taming.

And now, I pronounce you ENGAGED

Saturday night, Dallas and I attended our engagement party which was hosted by the CEO, the president and their wives. I'd never been to an engagement party before so I had no idea what to expect. It probably wouldn't have mattered. Dallas and I were blown away. We walked in and the piano player launched into the opening notes of "Here Comes The Bride". And that hit me square in the solar plexus. I turned to Dallas and whispered, "Hey. We're getting married!"

I have discovered that you can go through several months living your life like a spectator. This is not to say that I wasn't in touch with reality because I can still taste the salt of the New Zealand air and smell the orange groves of Florida but I have not allowed my mind to ponder the actual wedding day. Dallas and I have certainly discussed the details at length but I guess I was approaching the whole thing in a clinical, businesslike way. When I heard, "Da, da, dada. Da, da, dada", I could immediately imagine myself walking down the aisle and THAT took my breath away.

I've been with my company for five years and my colleagues have become my surrogate family. I know without a shadow of a doubt that if I needed to, I could call any one of them for help. Dallas is in the same boat. New Zealand is so far away but he too, is fortunate enough to be surrounded by friends who are now his brothers. These are the people who were at our party. It was very humbling.

After we had mingled for a bit, Dallas and I were called to the center of the room for the toasts. My boss started things off and I felt my eyes sting. Following that, my CEO took his turn. My eyes started to leak. Then, one of the girls at work had her say and I struggled for composure. Finally, Dallas's best man gave a short, beautiful speech and I dabbed away tears. Then it was my turn to say something. I tried to articulate to everyone there how much the party meant to us and how grateful we were and I struggled with the words. I am emotional by nature so fighting back tears is second nature for me but to bathe in the love and heartfelt good wishes from everyone just rocked my world. Thankfully, Dallas stepped in and spoke eloquently for both of us.

I find myself overwhelmed a lot lately. Yes, there is a modicum of stress involved in planning a wedding and sometimes, the mechanics of my career can cause me to chew Tums like candy but when I look at the big picture, I can't possibly complain. My life, our life, is pretty damn great.

The truth is, it always has been but it's only lately that I've recognized that.

A Very Brady Weekend

We had another busy weekend.

Friday, we met Brandon and Erin down in the big city for dinner and again, at several points, I had tears of laughter rolling down my face.

First, my eldest daughter text me asking for some advice in regard to how long she should wait before resuming sexual activity. She was quite matter of fact about the state of her va-jay-jay and included information regarding a lone, rogue, stitch. I marveled at how my daughter and I had landed in this place where we could discuss her bedroom activity but however special that was, thinking about her as a sexual being was as uncomfortable for me as picturing my parents getting their groove on. (Shudder) Anyway, I decided to share this very special realization with Brandon and Erin by handing over my phone so they could read the text messages themselves and see what a fabulous, liberal mum I was.

Brandon didn't get beyond the stitch. He froze, somewhat catatonic, paled to a pasty gray and was unable to speak for several minutes. You just know that the words in the text were forever seared in his brain and he just kept swallowing, staring sightlessly, unable to form words. He shook his head slightly from side to side as if to dislodge whatever image was planted there. Dallas and I were doubled over with laughter. Erin cautioned us that we should probably stop because from her experienced viewpoint, Brandon was thisclose to fainting. We found this hysterical. Brandon is most definitely NOT one of those people on the freeway that slow to get a look at a crash site and this is why we love him.

The second occurrence happened when Dallas decided to share his opinion on the difference between making love and shagging. Brandon had a huge issue with the term, "making love". He snorted, cut Dallas short and sarcastically created a scenario with Barry White, candles, massage oil and other stereotypical aphrodisiac accoutrements. It doesn't look nearly as funny in print but I had wine shooting out my nose and tears running down my face. My abs hurt.

I wish we could bottle up five minutes with Brandon and Erin and give it to all of the miserable people in the world.

_____________________________________________________

Saturday, Dallas and I CASUALLY began looking at houses. Now internet, before you send me emails full of "oh-my-god-are-you-nuts" advice, remember a couple of things:

1. We've been dating each other for six months and although we had a few bumps at the beginning, we're in this for the long haul.

2. I wear bi-focals. Dallas should. Feel free to translate this as, WE ARE NOT GETTING ANY YOUNGER.

3. Commitment to a successful relationship is a choice that we make every day. Could Dallas find someone with better boobs and smaller feet? Absolutely. Could I date someone who remembers to take their shoes off at the front door? Well, sure but I've learned that when so many of my bigger needs (kindness, respect, laughter)are being met, the small stuff becomes pretty insignificant. I believe the ocean is teeming with fish and that when we are fortunate enough to find one that we don't want to throw back, we ought to say thank you.

4. I love him. He loves me.

5. Dallas has drawers, closet space and SLIPPERS at my house.

6. "Our" has replaced "yours" and "mine" without either of us giving it much thought.

7. We just can't seem to get this damn song out of our heads...

Wine: All Purpose Truth Serum

I'm just heading out the door so this will have to be brief but last night was loads of fun. I was somewhat worried early on because the conversation was very "Leave It To Beaver". I had shared with Stephanie how much fun we usually had but the night didn't seem to be moving in that direction.

And then we had that second glass of wine. And then a third.

It never ceases to amaze me how open women are with each other. The discussion moved fluidly between dating, personal grooming techniques, sex and toys for mum. I find myself coming away from these chats shaking my head and asking myself how it is that I could go forty years on this planet without knowing some of this stuff. It's not like I've lived under a rock.

In any case, it was fun. We have even begun planning "Girls's Night Out- The Road Trip". If by any chance that comes to fruition, I most certainly will never be able to run for political office.

Hurray for Friday

Tonight, I will be participating in the second "girl's night out" soiree. I learned my lesson well the last time and I have vowed to drink two glasses of wine, MAX, because I have to be a functioning member of society on Saturday. And if the truth were to be told, there is nothing quite like that first glance in the mirror on a rough morning after to send one flying into the plastic surgeon's office. It's the one time that I am grateful things are blurry close up.

I'm most excited about the fact that Stephanie will be joining us. I think the conversation could make that turn, you know? Stephanie appears to be that perfect suburban mum who sews costumes for the school play and actually cooks from scratch. She is all that but I suspect she may also have some scandalous college stories. In any case, I'm sure it will be fun.

I apologize but i just don't have anything left for you today. I had a crappy encounter last night with a person that I briefly dated and for the first time, I felt head shaking anger. So to make myself feel better, I contemplated making a booty call but I went to the bookstore instead. Safer choice. I picked up a book called "Dating Sucks". I'll let you know if it turns out to be any good was but I'm betting that I could have written it myself.

The weatherman says we might have some real winter weather just in time for Thanksgiving so this may be one of the last few weekends that I get to ride. It's going to be cold but I'm determined to get out and soak up the last few moments of fall. Did I mention that I'll be riding a horse on Saturday, as well?

Blog material, people.

Goodbye Bread. So Long Pasta.

I'm cranky.

I haven't had a decent carbohydrate in over a week. Even milk chocolate is starting to look good. I eyeballed my kids' Hallowe'en buckets this morning and seriously contemplated some sticky finger action. My son picked up on the desperation because I overheard him tell Olivia, "You should hide your candy." It's not like they couldn't spare a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup or ten.

Most of the women in my office are on some sort of diet. When you combine the food restriction with monthly hormonal fluctuations, you can imagine the atmosphere. Four of us have lost significant weight and while we rejoice about it every day, there is an edgy undercurrent. Although the men have said nothing (so, so smart), they seem to sense that the jovial mood is a mere baguette away from lunacy. They're like deer. They stop, sniff the air and get a hint of danger but too often, they're standing upwind and can't tell they're in the cross hairs until it's too late.

One of the girls is restricting herself to 500 calories a day and a supplement from her ND. Five hundred calories. You know what that looks like? 6 eggs. 5 slices of dry toast. A Big Mac. She claims the supplement staves off the hunger and she is down about 12 pounds in 10 days but 500 calories? I'm not sure my body would continue to breathe or pump blood and I definitely know that I'd be dangerous in a manic, for-Christsakes-feed-me sort of way.

Skinny Steph the Magnificent refuses to weigh herself but the pounds have obviously melted off of her. I suppose the extra weight she was carrying on her left earlobe was bothersome. She's been watching her carbs and after witnessing her shed a pant size in a week, I jumped on the low carb wagon. I hate my scale but today, I succumbed.

I am down a total of 10.6 pounds in 10 days. I have lost a pant size.

Rah, rah. I am pleased with the results but why does everything really good in life have to be illegal, immoral or fattening?

There is some motivation, however. I was speaking with sistah cousin the other day about our spring break plans. Originally, we were to go to Vermont skiing. As you know, I was slightly apprehensive at the thought of barrelling down the side of a mountain so when she told me that they were having a hard time booking my accommodations for that particular week, I wasn't too upset. Instead, of skiing, we have tentatively decided to meet back at Disney. I'm thrilled except for the prospect of spending a day at one of the water parks stuffed into a Miracle Suit.

NOT THIS TIME!

I have made myself a promise that my next trip to Blizzard Beach will see me in a cute little two piece. Period.

How's that mid-life crisis coming along, you ask? Just bloody dandy. Now bugger off unless you've got carb-free dark chocolate that doesn't taste like a laxative.

Girls Night Out

A week ago Friday night, I went out with the girls and drank entirely too much wine. We all did. When you get a group of women together, mix in liberal amounts of alcohol and remove the testosterone element (men), you create the perfect atmosphere for seriously wicked conversation. I would be forever shunned from the Sisterhood if I revealed too much of that evening but here are a few of the tame tidbits:

"My husband is eye candy."
This is from a woman who has been married for eleven years. She gushed like a newlywed. I was in awe and I badly wanted into her medicine cabinet.

"You must commit to being functional in your relationship. Understand that happiness is a choice. So is compromise."
This came from a woman in her late fifties who has been married forever. She enjoys a romantic, healthy marriage with her husband. I thought about her statement for days.

"I would love to quit my job and stay at home. I think I might want to have another baby."
This one was uttered by a thirty eight year old woman who deals with insurance issues, patients and bureaucracy all day. It's no wonder she feels this way but I just couldn't relate. For a fleeting second, I let myself contemplate the idea of pregnancy and the domestic hell that is stay at home motherhood. Those women are saints. They should be anointed with expensive oils and fed grapes by well-muscled pool boys. I would need a keg of purple Koolaid or a black American Express card to make this work for me.

"Men think that they are the only ones with a sex drive. Would they find it threatening or distasteful to know that we think about it constantly, too?"
Ummm, (cough, cough), I have no comment.

This is just a tiny peek into the conversation that took place that night but the best thing to come of it was that we decided to make it a monthly event. I had almost forgotten how great it was to spend a few hours with smart, articulate women. Next time, though, I think I'll be more careful with the vino. I need for my sensor switch to be working.

Uncle Sam Wants Michael

Yesterday, I walked into work like it was any other day. I dropped the kids off with Laura (we carpool) and had the music jacked on my way in. There is nothing like a little "Jet" to start the day off right and after the heavy breather at the crack of dawn, I needed music that didn't require effort to appreciate.

I usually arrive to work somewhere around 7:15 am and I absolutely love this time to myself. I plunk down at my desk, plug in my laptop, plug in my iPod, answer email and plan my day for the next thirty minutes. I have a travel mug full of hot, perfectly brewed, Tim Horton's coffee and sometimes, if email is light, I get the chance to skim my blogroll. It is the most peace one can get outside of the bathroom.

Today, Michael came in early, which was out of the ordinary. This was his first day back from a week long holiday at the beach. He and his wife, Laura are close friends of mine and they generously took my son on vacation with them. Our boys are very tight and our daughters have been best friends since they were in diapers. I love these people.

I started to give Michael a hard time about something and he ambled down the hallway telling me to come to his office to discuss. I walked in and he was clearly preoccupied. I started teasing him about how his office looks like crap and how he ought to get a lamp or a plant or a PULSE to warm it up. He replied,

"It doesn't matter, now. I got called up this weekend." I looked at him, not comprehending what he was telling me.

"Wha...what?"

"I got my orders. I have to report for duty October 1st."

Michael is National Guard Reserve. We've all been dodging the inevitability of this day for the past five years. The shock of hearing him say it out loud surprised me. I felt my eyes start to fill and I excused myself so I wouldn't embarrass either one of us. I also recognized the first, unconscious stirrings of unadulterated, it's-not-fair rage and decided that expressing those emotions wouldn't do anyone any good.

When I got myself composed, we talked through it. Later, I watched as he walked to the president's office to break the news. He was remarkably stoic. I couldn't seem to shake the sick feeling I had in the pit of my stomach. It wasn't fear or apprehension though. It was this mismash of non specific ick.

Just before leaving for the day, I walked out into our hallway and I could hear Michael tap, tap, tapping his pencil on his desk. He was on the phone when suddenly, he broke out into his trademark laugh which is infectious, loud and genuine. It was then that I finally understood. That unidentified thing I was feeling was sadness.

I'm going to miss him.

Terribly.

Accessorize this!

I have never been able to accessorize. Don't misunderstand me. I have a walk in closet devoted to shoes and handbags and I am disturbingly comfortable spending gobs of money on yet another pair of black shoes but talk to me about make up, jewelry or accent pillows and you'll see my eyes glaze over.

Take make up. I wear it but my collection of cosmetics could fit into a thimble. I see women open their bags and out spill foundation, concealer, powder to set, blusher, brow wax, eye liner, lip liner, at least three different shades of shadow, lipstick, gloss and bronzer. Oh yes, I forgot those fake eyelashes which come in individual (are you freaking kidding me?!!) or row pieces. I can barely see to get the sleep jam out of my eyes and someone thinks glue-the-lash-on-the-bifocal-babe is realistic? I now fully understand what happened to Tammy Faye.

So today, my friend Steph shows up to work in white pants with tiny, pink polka dot accents. Hot pink. Her shirt perfectly matched the pink polka dots. She had on a fabulous necklace and a bracelet that might have been a set but probably wasn't because Steph effortlessly throws this stuff together. Her pointed kitten heel slides finished the look. She was the picture of breezy, summer elegance and I wanted to hurt her. She buys jewelry like one might pick up evaporated milk...hmmm, don't need it now but I just know it will come in handy in the future.

Jewelry intimidates me. It's hard to spell. It's hard to say. Let's face it, you could weally, weally sound like Elmer Fudd the Nazi if you say it too qwickwee.
I have managed a pair of simple gold hoops and a gold necklace for many years, convincing myself that this look was "classic" and not just hopelessly dated. My office mates, led by Steph the Sophisticate have helped to broaden those horizons for me and just recently, I had to purchase a real jewelry box!

Home decoration is the final frontier and I am paralyzed with fear. All of my walls are painted the same colour. The builder called it Crisp Khaki Satin. Whatever. It's a warm beige and it looks really clean with the blinding white trim but it is on EVERY wall of my house. Hello. Welcome to Vanilla land. Would you like to come into my monochromatic nightmare and have a glass of homogenized milk?

My sister tells me to stop stressing and hire a decorator but the last time I checked, my last name was not Rockefeller. So, I will be forced to go to Lowes or Home Depot and look at paint chips. Would somebody please kill me now? The last time I had to make major decisions of this nature was when I bought the house.

"Hurry and buy! You can pick your colours!" Oh goody. It was awful. I had to choose fixtures, appliances, granite, tile and carpet, oh my. I chewed Tums like Lifesavers for two months because I DID NOT GET THE GIRLIE GIRL GENE!!!

Anyway, I know that I have to start somewhere. Perhaps the upstairs bathroom that nobody sees would be a good test spot. You know, it is times like this that I wish I had paid more attention to my first husband when he decorated wedding cakes and nattered on about complimentary colours. A gay man would be a handy accessory right about now.