Only on The Island

Oh there are LOTS of things I could write about with a headline like that...such as ONLY on The Island do you sell your vehicle from your front lawn instead of trading it in for a new one. ONLY on The Island is the busiest restaurant on a Sunday night your mother-in-law's kitchen table. ONLY on The Island is the healthcare for animals superior to that available for people.

But, it's Monday and that seems like such a negative way to start the week, so instead I'll tell you about what happened here yesterday.

Yesterday was a cloudy threatening-to-but-never-really-did-rain Sunday so Buzz decided to run to town to rent a carpet cleaner to steam clean our basement carpet which recently took a brutal beating as a direct result of too much 'shine and not enough common sense. Anyway...so I was sitting at my computer, face unwashed, hair all astray, stains from breakfast smeared across my white tee-shirt when the doorbell rang.

Now, I don't know what happens in your house when the doorbell rings, but here in the OBB a ringing doorbell results in the following dialogue from Snickers and Gidget:

THE DOORBELLLLLLLLL! THE DOORBELLLLLL! SOMEONE IS RINGING THE DOORBELLLLL! PEOPLE!!!! PEOPLE!!!! PAY ATTENTION!!!! INTRUDERS ON OUR PORCH!!!!! THEY ARE RINGING THE DOORBELL!!!!!! ANSWER THE DOOR!!!!! THERE ARE PEOPLE HERE!!!! HERE!!! RIGHT HERE!!!!! AT THE DOOR!!!! RINGING THE BELL!!!!!

All said at the top of their very barky lungs. You'd think they were killer watch dogs instead of two lazy ass pooches who spend their day rotating from one bed to the next.

Once I finally wrangled the beasts back into the kitchen I opened the door to a bright eyed and shiney faced young lady and her boyfriend. Now you know we've had people die in our house (you can read all about Frieda here), but this young gal...she was BORN in our house!

She and her boyfriend were vacationing from Nova Scotia and were driving past our house when she convinced him to pull in and knock on our door. She said to him "Hey, it's PEI, of COURSE if someone's home they'll let us in." And she was right. It didn't matter that I looked like the wreck of the Hesperas, of course I let her in.

She was so excited to tour the house, reliving flashbacks from her childhood - like the time her mom got locked out in the middle of the night so climbed the roof of our porch and knocked on her sister's bedroom window in order to be let in. Or, the time she smashed a porcelain baby-doll by accident and her grandmother sat her on our kitchen counter and comforted her with raw cookie dough. Or, the fact that what is my office used to be her bedroom and in our bedroom was where she and her two sisters would climb into their parents bed to watch the Care Bears.

She was surprised to see hardwood floors in our living room - when it was her living room it was covered in wall-to-wall carpet. When she was having a bad day she used to play hide-out in the crawl space under our staircase. She used to climb in our apple trees and the one tree that we thought was a pear tree is actually a hybrid of some sort with pears growing on one side and apples on the other...at least that's what she recollected.

It was nice to see someone so excited to visit their childhood home. It was her parents that bought our house and restored it after years of neglect and abandonment. They put in the basement, added the mud room, installed the wrap-around porch. They renovated every square inch of the place. They started before she was born and finished when she was about five...just before they sold it and moved away.

We will always have great memories of our time in this house - the first house we owned together, the first place we've knowingly lived with a ghost, the house where we were married. But it was nice to see the light in someone else's eye who lived her life here too. Only on PEI would a perfect stranger knock on your door like that.

Brad vs Julia

Last night was Date Night in the Cameron-Donnelly household. You know, just to keep the sparks lit, now that we've passed the one year point on our marital calendar, we like to keep things fresh and spend quality time doing things that we enjoy. So every couple of weeks or so, we find some activity to do. It need not be a big fancy deal, it can be something as simple as an after-dinner walk along the beach, a nice dinner out or in, or just a Sunday afternoon drive to the other side of the island.

Last night it was decided our Date Night would be a trip to our local multi-plex. Just like a real date, I got all gussied up...I even put on some perfume and right on the dot of after work o'clock I picked up my man and off we headed to the theatre. I had pre-purchased our tickets so we could bypass the lines and head right to the concession stand where Buzz filled up on an all you can eat bucket of corn with free! refills. I tell you, that man has an endless capacity for popcorn! A couple of squirts of artificial butter flavouring (on his) later, handing our tickets to the thug at the door, we quickly smooched as he went to Theatre 4 to see Inglorious Basterds and I headed to Theatre 5 for a date with Julie & Julia.

Hard to tell we're an old married couple now, isn't it?

'mmmm-mmmm 'Maters!

I could have titled this Ode to the Simple Tomato such is my love for this sweet, succulent fruit.

It's Tomato Season here on the Island. We returned from vacation to a garden bursting with Mother Nature's perfect food. Roma, Beefsteak, Scotias, Yellow, Cherry, Grape, you name it, I have it growing in my garden right now.

They'd just started to ripen, so I quickly whipped through the rows and extracted every single one that was ready to be eaten and then I set about gorging myself on the candy-like grape tomatoes.

Last year, our first year in the OBB, I spent September making endless batches of applesauce with apples from our orchard. This year, if I don't eat the tomatoes all right out of the garden I'm going to be making stewed tomatoes, spaghetti sauce, chili sauce and salsa.

And I can't wait.

It All Makes Sense Now...

Have you ever wondered how or why your life turned out the way it has?

I do. A lot.

What I wonder most about is why the fates conspired against my having any children.

I now know the answer to this question that has been burning in the back of my mind for almost 30 years.

It's because I would have SUCKED AT IT!

Oh sure, you've all seen me with kids and generally speaking, I'm very good with them. I can get right down to their level, play their games, colour in between the lines, make a mess and park myself in front of a Scooby Doo marathon 'til the cows come home... you bet. In fact, I'm "Auntie" Kim to so many children (some of whom are now adults) you'd think I come from a large Mormon family. Which I don't.

It's the other stuff of parenting that apparently I'm not so good at.

Things like medical care.

I guess it's a basic right to expect that if one is in charge of another being's health and welfare that you would, you know, have a clear understanding of what to expect.

My case in point?

Last month I took The Beast and The Barker to the vet for their annual physical...both came out with a bill of clean health, except that each has tartar build-up on their teeth and so needed to return for a cleaning. Gidget (The Barker) has one tooth that has severe decay, so her appointment was made first and so yesterday off we toddled to the AVC for the procedure.

Knowing that she'd be under anesthetic I held back any food from her, so by our 11am appointment I know she was a hungry puppy as she had not been eating regularly since we left on vacation two weeks ago. Side note, due to her picky-ness of what she would and would not eat while on vacation she dropped the 4 lbs she picked up last year - so now she's back to her fighting weight. I should be so lucky to drop all of my excess weight so easily!

Anyhoo....So, no food for Gidge and off we go to the AVC where, while chatting with some former Vancouverites in the AVC lobby Gidget snuck off to the corner and had a GINORMOUS crap right on the floor - this dog has no shame and me? Well, I apparently am full of shame for being the type of animal parent that lets their pet shit wherever they happen to hike it up. Side-side note: she probably lost 2 of the 4 pounds right there in the lobby of the AVC...her crap was almost as big as she is. Sadly, I am not making this up.

Finally the vet is ready to see us, and after scooping said poop and scrubbing the floor we joined the vet for our consult, where we learned that Gidget would not be having her teeth cleaned that day. No, day one of teeth cleaning involves her hanging out at the AVC and having blood work done, dining on vet-approved wet dog food and basically playing with all the other dogs. If the blood work comes back okay (which it did) , she'll have her dentistry done today. And if that all works out okay she can come home tomorrow.

For those that are counting that's 3 days and 2 nights later.

And I had no clue that it wouldn't be done as an out-patient in one day.

See why I wasn't allowed to raise children?

They Came From Away

Freshly back from vacation, I was going to regale you all with stories of our trip to Ontario and the fun we had, the food we ate, the parties we attended and the storms we outran. That was my plan before I read yesterday's newspapers where I came across this little article:

http://www.theguardian.pe.ca/index.cfm?sid=280172&sc=98

Click on the link when you have a moment and read all the way through the comments section.

We spent a lot of time on vacation in Upper Canada (an islander term!) trying to explain to our friends and family why we occasionally feel like we're living in the twilight zone here on the island. For a long time, I thought it was just us. But you know, Buzz and I have lived in a lot of different places in the last 20+ years and in each and every place have managed to assimilate into the local population, put down roots, make great, long-lasting friendships and really enjoy ourselves.

Anyway...not to get all soap-box-ey, or anything...just thought the article was an interesting illustration of the ying and yang of living here.

I'll be back with a more entertaining blog tomorrow!

The Things I've Learned on This Vacation

It's funny the things you learn if you take the time to get off the island and actually interact with others. For example:

1. No matter how many different ways Buzz said "no really, we'd just like a burger when we get in" his mom still prepared and served an eight-course meal twice in the 10 hours we were there.
2. You can indeed have burgers 4 days out of 10 and live to tell about it. Although your belly will be so bloated someone will ask "when are you due?"
3. The Gravenhurst Chip Truck beats all others
4. My three cousins are the funniest women I know. Seriously. Pity anyone trying to get a word in edgewise with those broads.
5. I have finally reached the point where getting into a bathing suit in front of others doesn't intimidate me. Mostly because I'm so fat no one would actually look at me in the bathing suit, so if they don't notice why should I?
6. Having your camera crap out on the 4th day of the 15 day trip is a huge drag. Now there's no way to torture my camera-shy nephew.
7. Back roads beat the Trans-Canada hands down every time.
8. Despite having some slightly addictive personality traits I will never be an alcoholic because after drinking every day for the last 10 I can now "just say no".
9. Water-softener is slippery as is evidenced by the ginormous bruise on my shin from slipping out of the bathtub.
10. I was a really bad babysitter as is evidenced by a story I had no recollection of that involved babysitting my 13 & 15 year old cousins whom I provided each with a pack of smokes and let them go "streaking" through the neighborhood while I was upstairs fast asleep. Note to parents who read my blog: I am a very bad babysitter. Do not hire me.

Next stop: Jingle City where we will alternate riding in the bro-in-law's boat on the Mighty St. Lawrence with tracking Hurricane Bill, a Category 4 storm making tracks directly for the OBB.

Burger Meister, Meister Burger

It occurred to me this morning that if I have a stroke it would really mess up my smile. And I'm pretty sure, if I continue to eat red meat at the alarming rate I have this vacation that a stroke or maybe even a heart attack is imminent.

In the 8 days we've been on vacation we have eaten 11 burgers between us. It is important to note that I have only eaten 3 of those 11, but still, for someone that doesn't eat red meat but maybe once every 5 or 6 months, the burgers are taking their toll. I am perpetually stuffed. My belly is distended, like those little African kids on the Plan Canada commercials. I've begun dreaming of chicken...and pork...or simple things like a toasted tomato sandwich. Anything but another hunk of red meat.

I'm not complaining that we've had the great good fortune to be invited to a number of parties on this vacation. Parties that featured grilled items. Like hamburgers. But last night, when we headed to a pool party with a fresh vegetable platter and red potato salad in hand, you can only imagine the look on my face when our hostess hollered "Honey, will you start the BBQ for the burgers?!"

I felt the pit of my stomach drop four inches and immediately started preying for a hot dog.

A Point or Two of Clarification...

For those eagle-eyed readers who read my blog posting about Snickers and the great accident of our 2009 Vacation Season - you were right! Congratulations! I DID indeed forget to specifically mention what had happened to the Beast that had him knocked out and had me on all fours screaming bloody murder for assistance from my otherwise engaged husband to resusitate the animal.

Oops.

I don't know why after all this time reading my blog you're not pyschic enough to realise that the dog had tried to leap through a door that was so sparkling clean (and closed) that when he flung his considerable heft in my direction, he was more stunned than anyone to realize there was a door there and he couldn't go through it. I guess when I wrote the blog I was still traumatized by the memory of my beloved beastly boy lying in a heap on the floor unable to move. That, or the sight of the emergency vet bill, but admittedly I wasn't thinking clearly enough when I wrote about it to give my readers the full picture. Many of you were wondering - was it heat stroke? Did the dog have a heart attack? How did he break his neck and dislocate his shoulder? Well the truth of the matter is that he didn't.

Whatever.

He tried to follow me out to the deck and instead launched himself into a screen door that fought back so hard it knocked the dog inoperable for a while.

He's fine now.

He lived to see another day, eat copious amounts of hot dog and to chase chipmunks all around Loon Lake for 5 days. So yeah, he's well on the road to recovery.

In other news, do you know what today is?

365 days ago today, the one whom I adore (also known here affectionately as "Buzz") and I swore to take each other for better or for worse, through richer or poorer and in sickness and in health. Who'd of thunk it, but in the 365 since that fateful day on the beach that we've lived our vows with such complete and utter commitment? We've both been pretty sick (and without a doctor) and we've had moments of robust health - like the 2 months last January when we were dedicated to hitting the gym 5 days out of 7. Sadly, March came around and neither of us has been too worried about the "and in health" part of our vows enough to continue our gym vigilence.

Ahem.

In the last 365 days we have definitely been better and one more than one occassion (can you say Moonshine) one of us has been "worse."

And because we're on PEI where I am decidedly "under" (but not "un") employed, we have definitely been "poorer".

But we're optimists! We have the first year under our belt. We are now officially no longer "honeymooners".

But we are happy.

We are healthy.

We are rich in life's experiences and great friendships and family ties.

He's the one I want to spend my time with when I don't want to spend time with anyone.

He's one lucky son of a gun because I'm the one that cooks him gourmet meals 5 nights out of 7. I'm lucky because no matter what, he takes me as I am, with all that that means. Plus he buys the groceries.

Happy Anniversay Buzz! Here's to 37 more.

A Wrinkle in Time

It's about to happen. The thing I've been dreading for some time now, but inevitably, I knew whose day would come.

I'm down-grading my moisturizer.

For YEARS now I have been worshipping at the alter of Estee Lauder. I have faithfully slathered Estee's bag-reducing eye cream under my eyes ever since I first discovered the joys of wrinkle-reducing minimalist creme way back in my Maui days. As a result, here I am, pushing 50 (okay, not for another 3 years, but you know I'm trying to make a point here) and I have fewer wrinkles then some woman 3/4 of my age.

Last year I gave up my morning dose of pore minimizer. When I last went to the Estee Lauder counter and unable to afford to buy both pore minimizer and moisturizer I asked what the difference was. Given that I've been wearing both pore minimizer and moisturizer for about 11 years now, you'd think I would have asked that question sooner, but, whatever, better late then never.

So, the difference? Well, the pore minimizer is a treatment while the moisturizer is, well, a moisturizer. You can see why I had to give one up? If the drone behind the counter who gets paid to know all the intricacies of their various products cannot adequately define the difference between a pore minimizer and moisturizer, she shouldn't be surprised that I chose to drop the treatment whose benefits she could not define. By the way, 8 months without using my pore minimizer and guess what? My pores look exactly the same.

So, about the moisturizer. I've come to the point in my life where consumption of expensive products just for their brand relevance is no longer a good enough reason for me to pay $120 for a little cup of creamy moisturizer when, for about $25 I could buy something that would provide the same experience.

So here I am. Ready to take the plunge.

I'll let you know if Oil of Olay will keep my youthful glow and wrinkles at bay. If it doesn't, then bring on the pore minimizer, creme de mer and eye bag cream because by then, we could be talking face-lift

Hillbillies on the Highway

The great thing about having opposable thumbs is that along with dexterity you also have a brain capable of learning lessons based on past experience.

Which leads us to the great gasoline hunt of Winchester, Ontario last Saturday night as we were racing toward the Emergency Veterinary Hospital.

Details to follow.

JUST KIDDING!

So, after a 13-hour drive, almost running out of gas once, backtracking 30-km to fuel up, battling the ridiculous traffic that is downtown Montreal, we finally arrived, tired and hungry in Ingleside about 8 o'clock Saturday night. Everyone was very happy to see us, including Dexter a 120-lb chocolate lab belonging to Buzz's brother Mark, at whose house we were staying. Dexter is Snickers' arch-nemesis.

Dexter, the big boy that he is, will happily chase Snickers round and round and round the yard until he collapses in a gob-slobbery heap on the deck, completely spent, or so you think. After a half hour of letting the two run and chase and hump and sniff and lick each other's whizzers we thought we'd give our beastly boy a break and so shut him off in the mud room to enjoy a dish full of diet dog food.

Well.

Snicks would have none of it.

After locking him in the mud-room I continued on my way through the kitchen to the living room and out the sliding screen door to the deck. As I swung the screen door behind me and began to inspect Mark's rain barrel I heard a blood-curdling YELP from behind me.

I turned to look and there he was, my beastly boy, flat on the ground, with both front legs contorted underneath him and looking dazed and confused.

I dropped to my knees and pleaded with him to get up.

He couldn't.

That's when I let out a blood curdling scream of my own "BUZZ - HE CAN'T GET UP, HE CAN'T GET UP!!!!!!!"

Poor Buzz. He had just settled into the bathroom upstairs for a post-roadtrip meditation session.

Dropping his reading material and grabbing his pants from his ankles he raced downstairs to see me collapsed on the floor with Snickers' head in my lap, trying to coax him to stand up.

He tried valiantly, but all he could manage was a belly crawl to me. His front legs were curled up from his "wrists," inverted in an odd shape, completely unable to put any pressure or weight on his limbs. I didn't know if he had broken his legs, dislocated a shoulder or something more sinister like broken his neck.

What a great start to the two week vacation.

Having a former nurse for a mother-in-law paid off as she was on the phone immediately to the On-call Vet at the Emergency Animal Hospital who said to load the dog in the car and meet her at the clinic.

Buzz gathered up all 63-lbs of the beast and put him in the back of the truck and we headed off to Winchester. As we entered the 401 Buzz looked down at the dash board and says, quietly, calmly, "Um, we better keep an eye out for a gas station, we're almost empty."

AS IF I NEED THAT SHIT AT THIS POINT OF THE DAY!

As we made our way to Winchester, a quiet burg about 45 minutes away we encountered endless gas stations. None of which were open.

We couldn't find the vet clinic. We were dangerously low on fuel. I think my dog is dying in the back of the car.

And so, it's just another Saturday night in the life of Buzz and Kim.

One frantic call home and we were pointed in the right direction to the Vet Clinic where Buzz carried Snickers in for an emergency consult. My poor boy could not even stand on the exam table. The vet thought their might be some neurological damage.

With Snicks in the hands of a vet and with me shaking in my boots, Buzz left us in search of a gas station open at 10 o'clock on a Saturday night in the countryside. No easy feat, but he found one and so, a half-hour later when he returned he could not have been more surprised to see the Snicks had made a miraculous recovery and was up on all fours, parading about the clinic, tail wagging, seemingly none the worse for wear.

And so, after one big dose of anti-inflammatory and pain killers and an emergency vet bill in greatly exceeding my discretionary spending for the trip, we loaded the dog back in the truck and headed back to Mark's place for dinner.

So what if it shaved 5 years off my life. Who cares if I'm still suffering heart palpitations from the heart attack I suffered at the hands of my dog. It's no big deal that we almost ran out of gas twice in one day.

Snicks is fine.

We got to the cottage. We even showed up with a full tank of gas.

We've been drinking non-stop ever since.

OBB Hillbillies Ride Again

Time for another installment of the Hillbillies Ride Again, also known as Kim & Buzz take a vacation.

Leaving for vacation is never easy, especially when you're a big muckety-muck financial wizard for a big hotel company and you're leaving for vacation the same week as month-end is due. But Buzz got 3 weeks worth of work done in one week, with enough time left over to be home Friday night in plenty of time to pack, organize the loading of the Cranberry Cruiser and to join me and the neighbors in a pre-vacation beer as we instructed them on how and when to water our flower baskets. Saturday morning we were up bright and early final packing complete, truck loaded up, lunches & lobster in the cooler and we were westward-ho! with a ticket to ride off the island.

It was a beautiful day, bright blue sky, big yellow sun and with the two dogs power-lounging on their bed in the way back of the truck, we were rocking out to our summer playlist on the I-pod and taking it all in. As we crossed over the Confederation Bridge, it started to actually feel like we were on vacation. Ahhh, vacation...

About 4 hours into the trip I glanced over to the dashboard and asked Buzz how much fuel was left in the car. "About a quarter of a tank" he replied.

"There's a PetroCan at the next exit, maybe we should stop and fill up." I suggested.

"Nah. It's on the other side of the highway." he shrugged.

"Are you kidding me? We've only got a quarter of a tank of gas and you don't want to stop because you'd have to cross over the highway to get to the station?" I asked incredulously.

"That's right" he said. "It's not that efficient. We'll get gas at the next exit."

"But I know my car, and I think you should stop now" I whined as we whipped past the PetroCan exit.

"That's okay, we have plenty of gas to get us to Hartford or Woodstock".

And folks, here is where it happened. That thing that is so sweet I will savour it all my live-long-days. It was here, traveling along the TransCanada Highway through the boonies of New Brunswick when Buzz first realized that every once in a while, and although it doesn't happen often, I WAS RIGHT. We were about to run out of gas.

There was no gas station at the next exit. The next station was some 40-km ahead of us and now our gas guage was sitting right on the red line.

So we had to back-track 30-km to go to the PetroCanada station we had passed 20 minutes earlier.

The only difference is now it was on the right side of the road, and therefore, the perfect place to fuel up.

My friends, this is only leg one of the ridiculousness that was our day of travel to Ontario. There was also that thing that happened in Ingleside on Saturday night. But I won't get into it yet - I'm still processing.

Suffice it to say, we did make it to the cottage and this morning, woke up to this beautiful vista:

The Secret of a Happy Marriage

Yesterday I decided that since Buzz works so hard and such very long hours that the least I could do was give him a treat when he got home. So I shaved my legs and put on make-up for the first time in two weeks.

Hey, at least I shower regularly!

This is the problem when one “works” from home. And by “works” you know damn well I mean watches the Y&R, bakes way too many sweet treats, reads the blog-o-sphere, and surfs PEI websites looking for a full-time job in my area of expertise. So, yeah, sometimes[1] it’s like right-before-he-walks-in-the-door o’clock before I realize I’m still in my PJs and I haven’t yet washed my face.

Sadly, this is not a new phenomenon for me. When I lived on Maui and worked for an Atlanta-based company, working from my home office[2] I started work at 4 a.m. You read that correctly people – 4 o’clock in the I cannot believe I am up at this hour! morning. It was to make my leaving corporate HQ easier on my team – in order to convince my boss I could work remotely from 4 time-zones away I agreed to begin my work day at 10am Eastern. In the winter, that’s six hours ahead of Hawaiian Standard Time. So that meant I had to roll out of bed at 3:45am, brush my teeth and make it at least “sound” like I’d been up for hours before starting my day off. What that also meant, of course was that 8 hours later, when my work day was officially “done” it was only 12 noon and I could go to hang on the beach[3] for the rest of the day.

But, back in those days, if I say “forgot” to shower for a couple of days, no-one noticed. If, say, my shaving razor was broken, no-one was there to worry about the stubble stabbing them in the shins as we spooned. Back then, if my hair had extra “texture[4]” from not being washed every single day, well, that was a look that was generally accepted on Maui as “the beach head look” so I was jiggy with it.

But, now that I’m an old married lady and what I look like matters to more than just me[5], and to ensure I have a happy marriage I must remember to pay special attention to taking care of the finer details of grooming. Like remembering to get dressed at least a few times a week. Just so he understands that if I needed to go on a job interview at a moment’s notice I’d remember how to walk in high-heels.

---

[1] Most times

[2] My sunny lanai

[3] Sleep

[4] Grease

[5] Or Snickers

Thankful Thursday

Being an under-employed, former marketing executive, I have had plenty of time to perfect the art of domesticity. Being a housewife and all.

There are no raises or promotions for ambitiously perfecting the art of house-wife-ry, but I like to think that the satisfaction I glean from having a sparkling kitchen floor is compensation enough.

Ahem.

Are you kidding me? I just read an article in The Bible - er, I mean, the September edition of Oprah Magazine about whether or not you're addicted to praise? The article opened with "Are you a praise junky? Do you jones for a little recognition? Does someone saying "Hey baby, thanks for getting the dog barf stains out of the carpet and our refrigerator has never smelled so lemony fresh...you're the best wife ever." Does that get your socks off?"

Sadly I am here to report that indeed, I do need to have a little validation that all my hard work has meaning, is noticed and is appreciated. By someone other than myself.

Ahe-he-he-hem!

Which leads me to the whole point of this blog. You were wondering when I was going to get around to it, weren't you? Me too.

Here's the thing. I'm guessing if this is a cover story article in the Oprah Magazine then it stands to reason she didn't have Martha Beck write it just for me to read. I'm guessing there are a few others out there that need a little pat on the back every once in a while too.

I'm talking to you, people!

So to all of you that check here on a regular basis to see what nut-job thing I've been up to lately: Thank you.

To those of you who carefully read my sometimes whiney posts about being under-employed: Thank you for hanging in there - I promise to quit my bitchin' just as soon as I get a job or a book contract, whichever comes first.

To those of you that take the time to provide comments: Thank you too. Even for the snarky comments. It helps me retain some thick skin which I think I'll probably need when I re-enter the workforce or when I have a professional editor critiquing my work.

To those of you that take what I post and forward its link to other people: Thank you! Who knew growing readership would be so hard? I have a small, faithful following, but more readers are always a good thing.

To those that come back, even when I write something you think is completely stupid: thank you too. We can't always agree on whether or not Gordon Ramsey is a sexy bastard (which he most definitely IS), potty-mouth or not. But the fact you came back to see if I'd written anything worthy of you reading after that, made me happy.

And for my international peeps: Gracias, merci beaucoup, cheers, ta, vinaka, mamnoon, dankeschen, arigato, spasibo.

And now, dear internets, I must go polish my mirrors!

Miss Manners and the Art of Crumb Removal

I reallly, really don't mean to brag or anything, but once upon a time, waaaaayyyy back in my former life, when I used to plan big-ass recognition events for Corporate America, I used to eat in some pretty swanky places. I’ve planned dinner parties aboard The Britannia, Queen Elizabeth’s former yacht. I’ve carefully tasted Haggis at an ancient Scottish castle amidst antiques from the Elizabethan age.

I’ve licked sorbet from little, bitty, silver spoons, aboard The Concorde, jetting my way to London. I discovered the joys of goat cheese alongside the Mayor of Monaco at the Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo. I’ve sipped vodka and noshed on potato blinis overlooking Moscow’s Red Square.

Dinner on-stage with the cast of “Phantom of the Opera”? Been there. Champagne and strawberries on the summit of a glacier, only accessible by helicopter? Done that. A moonlit bbq on a private Caribbean island, surrounded by nothing but coconut trees and stars – well I’ve done that too.

Through all these adventures in fine dining I’ve had to learn my way around a dinner service. I no longer use the fish fork for my salad. I know the spoon at the top of my plate is for dessert, not for stirring my coffee. I know that the dinner roll is placed on my left and I also know that proper service is always done from the left, and so, always obligingly, I shift right when a server approaches. If you’re having a luau, I know the only way to eat is traditional style, on the ground, using your hands, licking poi off your fingers. I always put my napkin directly in my lap when I’m seated and if I ever drink from the water glass on my left, it is simply because I have lost both my mind and my manners.

So imagine my chagrin yesterday when, for lunch, I was eating a toasted tomato sandwich made with bread so fresh and flaky it disintegrated into a cloud of crumbs with every bite. Imagine my mortification when I had to stand up, and in order to achieve the best position for the task was bent over with my head below my knees, t-shirt over my head and boobs hanging in the wind to dust the crumbs out of my bra’s cups because I was wearing more of the sandwich than I had actually consumed.

Betcha can’t wait to have me at your next dinner party, huh?

Vacation all I ever wanted!

With a slight nod to Belinda Carlisle, the Go-Gos and their classic 1982 song, vacation is all I ever wanted... sing along with me! Vacation have to get away!

There are only 4 sleeps until Buzz (formerly known as the one whom I adore) and I hit the highway, road-trippin' and we cannot wait. 4 more sleeps until we pack up Big Red, some lobsters, a couple of dogs and our I-pod and make the trek to Upper Canada. That's a term I've picked up since living here - apparently, we're still stuck in 1865 here on the island where, in days before Confederation, anything west of Charlottetown was referred to as Upper Canada.

I know, I know. Right now my life seems like I'm permanently on vacation what with being under-employed and all, but really, it's not. Because when you're on vacation you don't spend days looking for work. And it's never a vacation when your most favourite travel partner gets up everyday and goes to the office leaving you at home, alone, without him, by yourself.

So yes. V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N!

We're heading to cottage country, to Loon Lake and the cottage of my life-long friends, the Goodspeeds, where we'll sit on the deck and listen to loons every night, after spending our day lounging on the dock, slipping into the lake for a refreshing swim, reading books, taking naps, mixing cocktails and cooking some great dinners. We're celebrating their 38th and our 1st wedding anniversary with a cruise on Lake Muskoka aboard the Segwun. The weather forecast is showing blue skies and yellow suns for our time in cottage country, so who says we aren't two of the luckiest people on the planet?

After our tour of cottage country we'll head back down to the GTA for a visit with my family and then on to Jingle City for a visit with Buzz's people. Fingers and toes are crossed for bright, sunny days in Kraft Dinner Town because Buzz's brother has a boat(!) and we plan on being on it, touring the Mighty St. Lawrence for at least a couple days.

So if you're in the vicinity of any of our vacation spots and want to get together, let us know! We'll be the two people totally chillaxed because we'll be the ones on VACATION!

Major Announcement

STARBUCKS IS COMING TO CHARLOTTETOWN!

So screamed the headline on the front page of today's newspaper. Well, thank God. Because how can a population of less then 40,000 people continue to survive with only 4 Tim Hortons, 2 Second Cups and countless independent coffee houses within the 20 block radius that is Charlottetown?

In other news from our crimson shores...with August's arrival, we've welcomed a unique visitor here on the island. Can you guess what it is?

It's the debut of the one whom I adore's summer haircut. From this point forward he will no longer be referred to here as the one whom I adore, but instead will be called by his new name: Buzz.

The View from Here

Who out there has a better office than I do?

Answer - NO - ONE!

Okay, maybe the Goodspeeds what with their high-speed internet and lakeside location in the heart of cottage country. But really? Mine's not so bad!

I mean, the wireless connection works perfectly on the porch, and with my Muskoka rockers, Coke Zero, a book or two to read between imaginary assignments, really, I think it's a perfect place to work from.

And by "work" I mean blogging, sending emails, cruising Facebook and let's don't forget - keeping a vigilant eye out for those fucking pigeons!

They're back. The dynamic duo who keep trying to summer here on our porch, right across from their year 'round residence in the car suspended atop a 30-foot pole at the Oyster Bed Bridge Raceway.

I think I might have just scared the loving bejesus out of them though - what with running after them like a crazy woman, swinging my broom and all. They took off to parts unknown and that's just fine by me. I can now get back to more pressing things...like reading the Y&R update on Soaps.com.

In Conversation with...Myself

Where once my days were filled with countless meetings about strategy and market segmentation and revenue projections and yield management, forecasts, executive commentary, ROIs, package inclusions, SWOT analysis and marketing plans, here on the island my days are filled with

• Writing a (almost) daily blog
• Uploading it to Facebook so my friends and family can read it
• Checking my blog traffic stats a billion times a day
• Checking my email a billion and one times a day
• Surfing the "jobs available on PEI" website
• making the bed
• emptying the dishwasher
• daydreaming about the day when the recession ends and freelance marketing is once again a viable, sought-after career
• weeding the gardens
• and wondering now that it's 8:30am what will I do until dinner?

What follows is the Q&A I had with myself after I hit the "send" button on an on-line application for a job that I am infinitely over-qualified for, but likely won't get because of lack of direct experience.

What the hell will I do if I ever get a serious job offer ever again? Panic? Celebrate? All of the above? None?

Will I be able to make the transition back into the world of the working? Not without some new clothes, because, honestly, your wardrobe is so 2007!

Will I resent not being able to sit on my sofa, in my PJs at 3 in the afternoon with the Young & the Reckless on the TV while I do serious research and writing? Count on it.

Will I still find the time to write? Questionable.

Will I still be able to put a gourmet meal on the table 6 nights out of 7? More like 4 nights out of 7, but who's counting? But isn't that what left-0vers are for?

How will the dogs cope? What will they do without me by their side all day long? Um, I'm thinking they'll continue to sleep 23 out of 24 hours like they do now!

And will I be able to shirk the laundry off on the one whom I adore? Sweet Mother of Pearl, I hope so.

But a girl's got to keep trying, right? Duh, yeah?

Because if I didn't keep trying to find work on this island in the Strait then the islanders win, right? Do NOT let those mo-fo's win!

Because if the islanders win, it means that this move was the worst career decision I've ever made, right? Bad for career, but an absolutely brilliant move for your life and love.

And if it's the worst career decision I've ever made, how will I ever recover from it? I'm thinking slowly, and with deep breaths and baby steps.

How will I get back "on track?" Possibly with a book offer so you don't actually have to get back "on track" at all, but forge a new path altogether.

Or is it just the thing I needed to focus my talents in an area I've longed to play in? You betcha sista!

If only I knew how to get a lit agent. Jeeze - it's always something with you, isn't it?

Good thing I'm a excellent researcher - I must be able to figure this out somehow - at a girl...