Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Music and Lyrics

It was a stupid movie that featured Hugh Grant.


My mother once mailed Hugh Grant pictures of me, advising that I was perfect for him. 
Now all the Hot shots of me in my 20's are gone.  But it's a funny story.  The fact that my mother believed what she saw on TV.

Below is "the song".  The best woman in the world, Charlotte Vale Allen sent me her recipe for Chicken Divan and I'm gonna cook it for my nephews.  All is not lost.  Oh yea, I forgot to mention...The King dumped me. 

You don't know who your real friends are...until you need them.


That's him.  Just a playboy I'm thinking now. 

Saturday, December 26, 2009

A Christmas Story

"Simba...Remember who you are."

Sometimes you need family to remind you. 

After a last minute change, heart broken, I spent Christmas with my local family:  My Aunt and cousins.

Christmas is about family.

It was the best Christmas eva!  Moments after arriving at the Brentwood style mansion owned by my cousin Dara (nuclear scientist) and her husband Tom (attorney) I was brought to the backyard to meet Molly (age two.)  She was squatted, like a dog, on the backyard patio, having removed her diaper and pants, she pooped on the ground.  Yep, right there on the Mexican Tiles.

"At least she didn't do it in her diaper.  We're trying to potty train her", my cousin said.

"When Molly turns twenty one (21) I'm going to tell her what she was doing the first time I met her." I said.

An hour later the little cherub wrapped her arms and legs around me and it was love. I carried her around in my arms until they hurt.

Her twin sister, Clair, had white-blond hair twisted into curls and airy whisps like a fairy sprite from A Midsummers Night Dream.  If she'd had gossamer wings you'd be hard pressed to imagine they weren't meant to be there.  No two (2) twins could have been more dissimilar. One born with a clenched fist, the other with dreamy stars in her eyes. (It was the little hell-raising adorable devil child most drawn my way.)

I haven't seen my cousins or Aunt in years.  I was busy. I made up excuses.

My Aunt couldn't believe I showed up.  She is the woman that emmigrated to America with my mother when they were 23 years old. She married my mother's eldest brother.  She cooked a delicious rack of pork marinated in garlic, Rosemary and Thyme with roasted vegetables, Au Gratin Potatoes, Butternut Squash, Sauteed Kale and Homemade rolls slathered in butter, parsley and garlic.

Everyone had a story to tell about the first time they met me, as if they knew I felt disconnected.  Andrea (cousin Gavin's wife) recalled meeting me when I was 19.  She said I was cooking in Aunt Mary's kitchen.  I exclaimed, "I don't know what to do!  What does Saute mean?  I don't know what Saute MEANS!"  (Funny because my mother and I started a catering company a year later.)

The kids opened presents, jumped and screamed.

The house was perfumed with delicious aromas, kids squeeling and running wild with dogs poking their noses into this or that.  I was feeling the love.  For the first time, I needed it.

We watched a video on a TV screen larger then my apartment, of the girls singing in a Church Christmas Pageant.  It was hilarious.

I called my little sister Briana. My phone was passed from person to person. "God I just love her," my cousins chanted.  Cousin Thurlow called in on speaker phone, "Merry Christmas Molly.  Merry Christmas Clair."  The girls gravitated to the sound of his voice, touching the phone like it was magic.

There was Prosecco, dessert and conversation.  Tales from our mutual pasts and present day updates.  It was with this family I spent many childhood holidays.  We played in the mud.  My father sprayed us with a garden hose as we ran in circles...shrieking with delight. Later, after our father's died in close proximity...we lost touch.  Their father was my Godfather.  He had a heart attack while cycling with my cousin Thurlow. Thurlow tried to revive him. He died in his arms. His mother, like mine, never re-married.  Maybe real love ruins you.

Life and sorrow got in the way.  I stayed away for 20 years.

My sweet cousin Elva sat me at "the kids table" and read a story aloud from a childrens book.  A 45 year old woman read a 48 year old woman a book called, Gerald the Giraffe Can't Dance. See, Gerald was "different".  He needed a "different" song to dance to.  My cousin paused and gazed at me.  We giggled. Time seemed never to have passed.

Except certain people were now bald.

My Aunt Mary (Mary is my middle name) and Cousin Dara begged me to stay the night. "Don't go Charmaine" they trained one of the two-year olds to say.  (The air mattress was already on the living room floor and Molly, naked, was jumping up and down on it.)  

On my drive home Elva called:  "I love you," she said.  "Thank you for making Christmas special this year. You changed things. We've never had so much fun. You're such a bright light," she said.

How lucky am I?  I'm broke...but I feel rich.

Friday, December 25, 2009

Balancing Eggs...even when you don't have them anymore.

 I have a scientific obligation to inform you that the whole "can-only-balance-an-egg-on-its-end-on-the-day-of-the-Winter-Soltice...is a lie.

There is no abject gravitational pull.  Of course, I already knew that. but, ahem, I wasn't sure...so I tested the theory because I will go to unknown lengths to...um, help you.

So I balanced the egg the next day.  It took me 30 seconds.  It had nothing to do with gravity...it was just a good egg. Alone in my kitchen, I could do it.

I tried it with other eggs.  It didn't work. The point is, it's important to know when you are being lied to.  There is only one way to find out.  Test. Use your mind, not your heart.  Of course this is a metaphore for my life.

Don't people understand metaphores anymore?  Have we all become lazy and literal?

Monday, December 21, 2009


The man I date teaches me new and amazing things every day. In fact, as the months pass, I can literally feel my I.Q. rising.

Todays lesson was: "Did you know that you can only balance an egg on its end during the Winter Soltice."

"Really?" I said sarcastically.

"Yep.  My Aunt Polly used to do it every year.  Google it." he said.

It took 3 seconds to debunk poor Aunt Polly. 

After ending the call, my scientific curiousity got the best of me.  Hey man, if Aunt Polly could do it.... I snuck into my own kitchen and...er...pulled out an egg.

I checked the glass doors and windows...(I didn't want to be caught in this absurd excercise.)

Hot Damn.  I did it.  It's been upright for 5 hours.  I swear to God, no tricks.

Have I channeled Aunt Polly?  Is the theory true? 

Tommorrow we will put Aunt Polly to the test.

You can't get this kind of hard-hitting news reporting on Channel Four (4).

This is Charmaine reporting from the kitchen, debunking myths as a public service to you, my gentle reader.  Tune in tomorrow, won't you?

Monday, December 14, 2009

A New Reserve

I won't be weak like I've been before.

I won't walk away from things or people I fear.

I won't walk away from love.  But I think, with regard to love, it may be too late. 

Such horrible pain I feel, but wondrously happy to know that I can indeed feel love.  I can.  And I can fight for it too. 

I don't think I'll win.  But I WILL die trying.

I guess it's all normal for you.  Love is just a consequence of living for most people.  Not for me. My heart has been dead for 28 years.  The day my father died, I was done.  All the battles I fought  and won afterward...the lawyers, the doctors, trying to finish college, starting a business...my life was not my own.  There where other people to think of. My family.  It was alot for a 20 year old to deal with.  But I did it. Something in me died. 

I've made a mess of things.  Love.  The minute I saw it...I pretty much wanted to slit it's throat.

Love can hurt you.  Love can destroy all of your dreams, your entire life really.  So I've spent my life...fighting against it. 

SSP (fellow blogger) asked me if I'm okay.  People are always asking me if I'm okay these days.  It fascinates me. 

But somehow...in my current weakness...I know there is strenght.  Admitting weakness is a form of strenght. 

But then you have to get up and fight again.  Fight for your life..


Sunday, December 13, 2009

Jesus Christ, Superstar!

I made a mistake.

I don't know why I did it..   Let this post erase the former.

I was on the ground, literally face down on the carpet.

Then he arrived... then her...and countless others.  Like they knew.  My nieghbors.

They all asked about Dan. I'm nothing more then a conduit to him. I'll deliver the goods.

That  is...if we ever speak again.

I just want to know...when did he become Jesus Christ and when did I turn into Mary Magdalene?

Friday, December 11, 2009

Crimes of the Heart

There weren't any.  He had no interest in the woman.

Nobody will convince me the blond at Thanksgiving was not flirting with my boyfriend. But flirting is not a crime.

The minute The King read my blog detailing my suspicians about her, he came over, climbed my stairs and declared, "Don't you know you're the only one?"

"No," I retorted. 

"I love you," he said. 

"Yea well," I replied... (I make intellectual remarks like that.) . 

I've been loved by men that never gave me a minutes cause to wonder...where are they now?  Because they thought they loved me, they let me run over them.  I'm not proud of this, I'm just saying I've done it.  I always knew I needed someone stronger.

You never know if you're "the only one" unless there's a ring on your finger.  And even then, you don't know. 

There is a time limit.  Mine is one (1) year.  At my age, years accumulate like dog years.

I don't waste time. One year is reasonable in order to discern character.

We laugh so loud I need to close the windows.

Oh crap...it's raining.  I live in a bungalow with no insulation.  The rain falls on the roof like pebbles crashing upon a tin roof.  Impossible to sleep so...I'll keep talking.

1.  He calls my mother when she is lonely.  He talks to her because I don't want to.  He takes the time.  She adores him. (She doesn't adore anyone.) She is the Patron Saint of irrascible bitches.

2.  He calls my little sister too.  Just to say, "hi".

3.  He fixes my computer and installs my christmas lights.  When I cook, he pays for the ingredients. He washes my dishes (he LOVES washing dishes). He fixes my light fixtures. He can, literally, fix anything.  It's miraculous. He even helps my neighbours.  It makes me proud.

Like I'm gonna let a guy that loves to wash dishes get away? 

4.  When we go to a neighbours house for a party he is charming and jovial.  He makes comments about my beauty, jokingly.  He always holds my hand where ever we go.  He kisses my hand.  As a duo, my neighbours are endlessly fascinated.

5.  He'll watch Gone with the Wind with you.  He cries at films depicting families experiencing heart break.  He's impressed by the fact my father was an Eagle Scout. (Of course I love that about him.)

6. His father calls him every night.  His Uncle calls him every day.  He is present and available to his family. 

7.  He does NOT take any of my shit.  And people, you don't know, I can be irrational and attacking. He doesn't retaliate...he simply walks away. He arrives at the doorstep with a handfull of band-aids.  He drops them into my hand and says, "I knew we could patch things up."

He goes for the laugh, perhaps to hide the pain and fear, like I do.  I understand this.  It's who I am.

I haven't had an easy life. I tend to look for the worst, expect the worst...see the worst.

This strategy has worked well.  It's helped me maintain ambivalence in every relationship.

It's not a good thing. 

I have to challenge my misconceptions, see the worst and move past the negatives I invent in my mind.  That is, if I am ever to experience happiness.  I can't run away.

Don't try to protect me. I'm no shrinking violet. 

Whenever I differentiate myself from a doormat, people call me a "bitch".  When I fail to judge, people call me a "doormat". 

If I cared what people thought...I'd be in trouble.


Monday, December 7, 2009

Tuesday, December 1, 2009


It wasn't a guy knocking.  It was my neighbour.  She was worried about me. 

I mean, seriously...

I'm not the type to be a victim of love.  I'm ambivalent, remote and aloof.

The book I'm reading, Blink, purports that peoples' understanding of themselves is often so wrong as to be laughable.  Our self-definition(s) are so manufactured they border on the hilarious.

It means the reverse is true.  I'm vulnerable, I care what people think and I'm plugged into you.

You should have seen me with The King.  My eyes scanned him, up and down, like a lecherous old lady.  I'd start at the top of his bald head then scan down to his calves. I thought he was perfect. Arms, legs, hands...personality, lips and wit.

I hope someone loves me like that someday.  See's me like that.  Head to toe, perfect. They may have, I didn't notice.

It's not healthy to want someone...

It won't happen again.  From now on I'll just pretend to be vulnerable. Like her (the one from Thanksgiving).  She obtained it all, the mansion, someone elses husband...the brass ring.  But still, her house was cold. Trying too hard to be "cool" cold.  Mexican tiles with brown leather sofas cold.  A fireplace with no fire cold.  Ever-Ready fake wood cold. Adultress cold.  No boundaries cold. Looks innocent but isn't cold.

I'm not as intimidated as all that.  I wouldn't want to be her.  I'm not the adultress type.  Plus, I'm more interesting...better read and when I'm not lying, I'm honest.  I'm just not streetwise...like her. And I would never steal your husband.

I'm a Janis Ian song right now.

I may not be happy, but I'm respectable.

The plants are all dying and the house is a wreck.  My cell phone is dead...I'd better do something.