At midnight she turned into Gene Simmons

I yawned as we pulled out of the rink parking lot Saturday evening. B and I had just played hockey, changed into demure party clothes in the locker rooms, and were on our way to his company Christmas party at a swank golf club.

"Don't worry Sweetie, we don't have to stay long. We'll just make a little small talk to my bosses, compliment their spouses' outfits, eat dinner and get outta there by 9:30."

"I hate it when when I can't remember their names. When I give you that pained look, it's your signal to say, 'So-and-so, have you met my wife?'"

"Sure. Thanks for being a trooper, I realize my company party is an ordeal. You only meet these folks once a year, they'll talk shop, and you have to sit through speeches and the President's report on our yearly corporate profits. I promise we'll leave as soon as we decently can."

Later, at about 12:00:





That's me on the left.

As I sat down, sweating from my Kiss performance, B said: "O.K. Sweetie, it's really time to go home now."

Then the D.J. cued up the song "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy." I dragged B to the dance floor as his eyes rolled.



We closed down the party. Yippie Yi Yay.

Airplane crash and gun shots. A perfect hike.

I've been given a dummy award! And I am delighted. Thanks Dumdad. I always enjoy a trip over to Dumdad's posts from Paris.

Dumdad's tribute was a nice surprise upon arrival home from a long weekend away. We took advantage of a brief break in the November rains to head up to the cabin and hike in the mountains. We chose the Mount Slesse area, and gave our city slicker SUV a lesson in real four wheelin' to reach the trail head up a labyrinth of logging roads.

It was lovely. There was a dusting of new snow on the peaks.







The dogs were in heaven, chasing scents and each other down the trail. We hiked in peaceful silence, perhaps feeling a bit eerie knowing that in 1956 a Trans Canada Airline plane crashed into the side of Mount Slesse, killing all on board.



Then: Bang! Bang! Bang! Oh shit. Hunting season. Nothing ruins a good hike like the thought of stray bullets from beer guzzling, animal murdering red necks. "Fucking hunters" I mumbled to B. " Hey!!!" I shouted. "Don't shoot this way!!

Around the next corner ran a young man dressed completely in camouflage, carrying a rifle. "Hi" he said. "Are you guys O.K.? I thought I heard an S.O.S blast on an air horn, so I fired three rounds in the air in answer, and I was heading that way to help." We had heard the air horn too, but knew it was just a choker chain warning from a small logging operation we had seen down the mountain. We explained, and with a cheerful "Have a great hike guys!" helpful hunter dude went on his way. Damn, another cherished stereotype ruined.

It was a great hike.

Today's dream travel destination: One of my favourite hikes, that I did with an old friend about 10 years ago. A warmer one than any trails here right now. The Kalalau trail in Kauai, Hawaii.

To you

Angela has given me a "Best Kept Secret" award. (For some reason, I can't download the icon.) Thank you Angela, I appreciate the fact that you think my blog deserves a bigger readership. But the truth is, I am happy to have a handful of readers who keep coming back, and leaving comments. Thank you my cyber friends. I never expected that more people than my Mom and a few old friends would be interested in what I have to say. Best of all, by you stopping by here, I have found my way to your blogs, which make me laugh, and think, and learn. You brighten my day and expand my world.

When I first started this little blog, just over a year ago (a year! wow) I figured it would be a good way to keep my friends and family informed about my travels. I was about to head to Tanzania for an amazing journey. But after the last post about my trip was finished, I just kept on writing. I looked forward to my time with the keyboard. I missed it if I got too busy to write a post. And I love the connections I've made with all of you.

So, I dedicate this post to you, all of you readers who keep coming by. You may not be a huge number, but I treasure each one of your comments. I still get a thrill when someone finds that something I write resonates. And you astound me with the insights, lovely turns of phrase, and honesty that you put in your blogs.

Today's dream travel destination: A tropical island, one I could invite you all to for a week, and we would get to meet in person, and talk, and laugh together. It would have wireless Internet connections under the palm trees on the beach, where we could write whenever we want. Wanna come?

Trick or Panang curry

I rushed out of work Wednesday to be home before dusk. I love Halloween. I didn't want to miss a single witch, princess or bumble bee. Walking home from the skytrain, I admired the haunted yards and spooky jack-o-lanterns in my 'hood.






When I got home I kissed B hello, then got ORGANISED for trick or treat night. I lit the candles in the pumpkins and put the treats in a big bowl. There seemed to be a lot less than the number I bought. I made a note to cross examine B and my son on the disappearing chocolate bars. As I hurried to the storage room to grab the laughing skeleton, I vaguely heard B say, "I ordered in Thai food for dinner."

The first adorable little bunnies and lions in their daddies' arms came by. Then a couple of preschooler Ninja Turtles (they're still around?). Every time kids rang the door bell, Henry ran to the door wagging his tail. KIDS ARE HERE!! Then he watched forlornly as they walked down the steps instead of coming in to play.

The door bell rang again. B called out "I'll get it this time". I heard two girls' voices sing out "Trick or Treat". Then, silence. I looked toward B and he was frozen, staring at the trick-or-treaters, not reaching for the candy bowl or asking the kids to shake the hand of the hanging skeleton, our usual schtick. I came up to the door and saw why B was paralysed. On the porch were two pubescent girls dressed as cops. Not real cops, pole dancing cops. Short skirts, red lips, tight barely buttoned shirts, aviator-style sun glasses tucked into high young cleavage, shiny black boots. B was speechless.

The next time the door bell rang I answered it, since the blood was barely returning to B's brain. I opened the door to a lone Asian young man, holding a bag. He was dressed in a white jacket and white pants, but I couldn't figure out what his costume was. "He's a bit old for trick-or-treating" I thought. But, whatever.

(Y'all know where this is going, don't you?)

"What are you dressed up as?" I asked. He looked at me blankly, and just held out the bag. I offered him the bowl of treats.

"I have Thai Palace delivery."

B, who had recovered now, was peeing his pants laughing.

Oh please earth, just open up and swallow me now.