Paul’s “G”odiva Spot

Ever since coming to North America, I have learnt a lot about Halloween. It is linked to a pagan cultural belief in the releasing of all the evil spirits and goblins the night before All Saint’s Day, or something of the sort. Anyway, I always thought that this was a holiday for children, but I guess I was wrong! Since last week, I have seen a number of grown people (even grandmother types) zwobbling about the city (Torontonians do not zwiddle!) dressed up as ghosts, goblins, skeletons, witches, Harry Potter wanna-bees, foods and other such assorted creatures.

Never mind that the weather being cold, I have been noticing that people take this holiday so seriously so as to shiver their way to wherever they are going in those costumes that provide no warmth.

Today on the metro, I saw a number of different ambulating decorations. First, I saw someone who was covered from head to foot in what looked like a mountain of plaster. I think they were trying to be a volcano, indicated by the orange paint coming down their side. It looked more like a bad attempt at paper mache! I wonder how he got let in to the metro station like that!

Another one was someone who seems fully convinced that she looks like Hermainie from Harry Potter! She kept waving her wand as if trying to cast a spell. It got a lot of looks of people thinking she was nuts.  She did seem a little off kilter to me.

Then there were a HOST of Elviras, Hermann Munsters, Cousin Its, Princesses, and, now my favourite, FRUIT!!! Well, I never have seen someone dress up as fruit up until this point, but I am sure it is quite unique. I remember one year when I was in the states studying, there as a big Halloween party on campus and one guy on my floor decided that he was going as a high society woman. He squeezed into a corset, put on perfect makeup (even better than some of the girls) high heels, shaved his legs, and put on a stunning green evening gown complete with faux bosom! I was actually disturbed by that, but I guess one has to be committed to something, so you cannot blame a guy for going all out. I think he won too!

So then, seeing that this is not a holiday we celebrate in the Caribbean, it is still a foreign concept to me. I guess now that today is the day for people to be a little ‘off’ it seems to be a good therapy for them. Just don’t try to get chocolate out of me, because I am not giving it up! And also, for the last time, you cannot eat me!!!

Moi

Cleopas, you know that there is NO WAY I can zwiddle desperately by and NOT jump on that one! This phrase, which was so desperately carved by my good old friend, Cleopas, has given me such inspiration to write about, that I just cannot help myself!!! So here goes.

I think it should be considered illegal for anyone to be zwiddling (or zwobbling) desperately about Canada (or any other part of the world) with crusty elbows knees, lips, and any other reasonable SONY 300XP Laserfax thereof. I know what you are thinking. You are going to ask (in whiny voice of course), “but whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?” Why should it be considered illegal for men (who are the primary offenders) and women (who are most likely never to be caught dead with dry skin) to be flitting away on point with desperately crusty extremities?

Reason number one. It is excessively and desperately unattractive! PERIOD!!

Reason number two. You could injure someone with those crusty parts of your body. Picture this! You are a guy on a date with your girlfriend, who is very beautiful, and just the apple of your eye. You take her home (by 10:00PM…this is a G-rated blog site, let me remind all of you!), and while you are kissing her goodnight, you hear scraping noises, like the sound of steel on steel, with sparks flying. Do not worry. You are not in a metro station and the sparks flying are not the signs of passionate love. It is most likely to be your lips grinding away hers. Needless to say, when it is all over, you will always have a part of her with you…her lips as they are now ground into yours!!! So now, she has no lips left!

Reason number three. Parmesan Cheese! No I am not crazy. When one has dry, crusty arms and elbows, everything you rub against will leave your chalky residue. Picture this! You are at dinner with same said girlfriend (she still has her lips at this point because you are in the middle of the date) and you have ordered the Veal Parmesan for her, which she loves. The food arrives, but they forgot the Parmesan cheese. You are enraged! You start clapping your hands together to get the waiter’s attention so that you can give him a good telling off, and all that flailing about has produced enough of your own crust to look like the said cheese on her dish. When the waiter does come, he points out that there is Parmesan cheese on the veal, you look down and see that, apologize for being a complete idiot, and your date ends up with a part of you always with her. Your crustiness!

***WARNING!***

This is one sure way to lose a date and to jeopardize any future endeavours of getting another. Girls talk you see, and when they do, news about you will spread like wildfire.

So my advice to all of us men…MOISTURIZE!!!!!!!! The world will be grateful, and so will your girlfriends’ lips! I will also have less work to do. Remember when I said that I have no shame? Well, I don’t! Some of you have been tricked (and/or ordered/coerced) into moisturizing by yours’ truly, and I am far from being at the end of my schemings! Someday, after you are all happily married, thanks to being moisturized, you will look back and thank me for this.

Moi

I have told you all that I have a new work-out routine. In lieu of elevators and escalators, I am running up and down the stairs. Instead of taking the metro to choir practice, I hoof it! And of course, it helps that the church is up the hill, so I get a good solid, sweat-through-your-clothes and gross-out-your-colleagues workout!

However, adding to the fact that I am really starting to trim the salo (pork fat), I still see the need for a personal trainer. I have seen those who take such good care of their clients. They make sure that they keep coming back!!! “Take your time, Betty-Lou. We are going to build your cardio bit by bit…” Translation: You do have all day Betty-Lou! I know you cannot stay away from them twinkies, which means you will keep paying to come see me, so that you can whine about your weight and I can tell you the same things over again…kah-TCHING!!!

I am not looking for all of that fluff, and neither can I afford it! I need someone who is more akin to saying, “Alright! LISTEN UP Butterball!!! MOVE THOSE HAM HOCKS!!! I mean it! And if I have to chase you several times around the block with a cattle prod, with you squealing BLOODY MURDER, then SO BE IT!!!!!!” That is the kind of motivation that will get me results even faster than what I am doing. The days of the fat opera singer are OVER!!! I do not want to be slithering around the stage with a supposedly great voice and have the opera dancing around me, or planted in one doing to old ‘park and bark’ routine. I am actually enjoying the dancing part of it. At least, I can have an excuse to look elegant and to pretend I am Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire for at least a little while.  I want to be graceful, not ungainly; like Barishnykov with Makarova, not like a hippo in a tu-tu!

And speaking of personal trainers, I have noticed that few of you have visited my site. I am beginning to see the writing on the walls. It seems like my blogging days will come to an end. I want my blog to be read and for you to all tell me you have read it, but if you do not, then, there is no point to this. I do not want to stop writing, SO COME ON NOW!!!! I have absolutely NO SHAME!!!! I will do things to MAKE you read my blog!!! There are no limits to what I will do. Besides, think of it as your public service. You are serving the public by keeping me happy. How’s that?

Moi

Adding to my previous entry about my affairs with Mildred and Blossom (two cars - one playing hard to get and one who is quite the trollop!), one of the reasons why I have been driven to inanimate objects for affection (i.e. washing machines, dryers, dishwashers, automobiles, bread makers, microwave ovens, cuisinarts and now an old fridge named Bruno!) is that I cannot seem to get the attention I need on a constant basis from people who have pulses. Why is that I wonder? The scary part about all of this is that I have been caught thrice having conversations with these said electronic and otherwise vibrating devices by people who look like they are more inclined to call for the little white bus to drag me screaming to the loony farm!

Now this is not supposed to be a guilt-ridden bloggie entry. I am just stating that this is what I have been driven to. To be truthful, these devices have all become my friends. Well, all except the cuisinart.  She is quite a diva and does not want to be associated anymore with so-called ‘lower name brand products’. They do not gossip, they do not get tired of listening to me whine away, and tell me things like, “would you like some cheese with that?” They never get too busy to lend a listening door, button or plug, and they certainly are always where I need them to be. In other words, they do not move about and need space. Well, the cars are fickle and tend to move around a lot, but it is not their fault.

Last night, I had a late night talk with Bruno while I was having a bowl of cereal. I told him about all of my problems, and he just sat there, vibrating away, taking notes on his door while listening to my myriad diatribes. I felt so…safe and there was no judging or “look at that…I have to go check on a bundt I have in the oven!” he just sat there. When I was done, he hummed his approval and validation, and I went to bed feeling as if I got some things off my bosom.

Where I live, there is a small sized collie by the name of Taz. He is so named because he has a tendency to run around in circles when he is barking away at someone, or something…like the Tasmanian Devil on Looney Tunes. He sometimes listens to me, but always seems to have that look on his face…the look that says, “please feed me..OR I’LL EAT YOU!!!”, which confuses me. It is especially disconcerting when he keeps licking his chops incessantly while glowering at me. He could sit there and stare at me for hours without moving. See? Even the dog wants to eat me!!!

So now, don’t you think it is high time you all did something about this on a consistent basis, hmmm?

Moi

OK! I need to clear the air about some things!

First of all, I do NOT have a pigtail fettish! For that is just silly!

Secondly, I do not have a birthday date. You see (and I am saying this for the umpteenth time!) I was delivered by a stork with a drinking problem. He was drunk the day he delivered me and hence, could not remember my date of delivery! I cannot even contact said creature because he has been eaten! Yes. He was flying drunk (again) one night while returning from a delivery, and was caught in a tailwind which sent him into a tailspin. Just then, a lion who was just waking from a nap, was yawning and stretching, and the stork landed right in his mouth! I am sure the lion was wondering how come he ended up with such a willing between-meal snack without having to hunt it down, or even more accurate…to get the lioness to do it for him. Talk about a death wish and a dream-come-true, all bundled into one moment. I am just lucky that I was not in his beak when that happened, otherwise, you all would have been talking to my apparition, which I would not consider could be healthy for any of you.

Thirdly, Mildred is not a person, but a CAR! You see, where I am currently living, I live near to a Mercedes-Benz dealership, and I have fallen for a black B200 5-Speed Turbo named Mildred, but who has a “SOLD” sticker right on her rump-roast. She is already taken, but my yearnings for her burn deep within my bosoms! Hence, it could be considered an affair. And you all thought I was so straight-laced and pure. Well, I try to be, but even I have a naughty side to me too you know. And that is as naughty as I dare get! So for those of you who were beginning to pick out my wedding gifts and curtains for my car-port of bliss, I am sorry to crush your efforts. But I can still accept the gifts though. Better yet, I’ll take the money and run!!!! So now that Mildred has made up her mind and has gone to be with her man, I am looking into her younger sand-coloured sister, Blossom. But she is a bit of a strumpet though, as she is automatic, which means she is easy!  Plus, she has men oogling over her all day, which she seems to enjoy (sort of a Blanch Devereux type of personality),  so I do not see this going anywhere! Hey!  I have my standards afterall. 

So, are we clear? Hmmm??

Moi

Here are 7 factoids I just learnt in the last 15 minutes:

1. Torontonians are the most desperately oblivious set of people alive!

2. I like sitting next to washing machines and dishwashers in cycle.  They feel good!!!

3. My spare tires are shrinking, one micrometre at a time.

4. I am obssessed with clean, healthy hair, NOT PIGTAILS!!!

5. I am having an affair with a mercedes-benz named Mildred!

6. Asking for a needle and thread is liable to get you laughed at.

7. Pianists/coach accompanists really do enjoy torturing singers!!!

Right, Beryll???

Moi

You all know the poem about the “Little Pigs”, right? Well, in case you do not know it, I will recite it for you:

This little piggie went to market

This little piggie stayed home

This little piggie had roast beef

This little piggie had none

And this little piggie cried “wee, wee, wee” all the way home…

Sounds harmless, dud’nit? Well, I have done a desperate analysis of this poem and this is what I have come up with (and I shall analyse one line at a time):

This little piggie went to market… This pig was deprived as a piglet. He was not nursed at the teet (and now has issues with sow), was told that he ate too much, and thus was starved, and grew up with feelings of neglect, and frustration. The ’system’ failed him to the point that he was driven to ‘parade his pork in public’ for prying eyes to peruse in order to make ends meet. He, in effect, had to sell himself to survive. See the catch-22 he’s in?

This little piggie stayed home…This pig developed self hatred issues when he was told that he was a pig. That is all he heard, day in, day out! “You’re a pig! You’re a pig!! Here piggie piggie piggie!!!” It affected him so much that he refuses to be seen, and thus, stays at home all day and all night curled up in the foetal position, oinking quietly to himself and rocking back and forth.

This little piggie had roast beef…There is something very disturbing about a pig eating beef! This pig got it into his head that swine should rule the earth. So he became a dictator, and ordered all members of the bovine family be slaughtered, roasted, and served to him on a plate with gourmet swill dressing, and fermented corn. The servers had to be female pigs dressed in tu-tus, curled pigtails (real ones) and midrifs, and they had to belly-dance the meals to him in procession, to appease him. He must have read “Animal Farm” one too many times!

This little piggie had none…This pig was the twin brother of the one before (the one who ate beef). His brother felt that he was a threat to his power, so he had him locked away in a dungeon, and made him undergo the most ruthless and the most cruel of all tortures; the most UNTHINKABLE thing to any pig…DIET!!!

This little piggie cried “wee, wee, wee” all the way home…If the truth be told, this could be re-written as follows: This little piggie cried (*insert blood-curdling, desperately unceasing squeals*) while being dragged off by his owner to an undercover bacon-making operation in the back yard. Pig was seen, tied up, and placed on a conveyor belt. Once said pig disappeared through entrance point A, squealing stopped instantly. After five minutes, little vacuum-packed, neatly-labelled packages of hickory-smoked bacon exited through exit point B.

I think I have proven my point.

DISCLAIMER: This poem is no longer recommended for children, because these same children grow up to become adults who desperately need therapy!

Moi

Someone commented that maybe the fifth little piggie cried “wee, wee, wee” all the way home because he wanted to wee-wee so badly. Well, that could also be a possibility. Let’s say that that is the case…why was he not allowed to use the latrine at his school, the P.S. Pigpen?? Does this mean that he was furiously hopping up and down on one trotter, turning red, while being told, “No, you cannot go potty!” Either way, it is still torture. Personally, if I had to pee that badly, I would have found a bush somewhere to relieve myself. So that little piggie had little to no intelligence…*GASP!* Maybe his little brain was overloaded with messages that it could not figure out how to tell the little piggie to go behind the tree and take care of things…the world will never know!

As so it was on the sixth day of the month of Octoberest, when Rossweisse desperately and gleefully zwiddled (am Punkte) upon an unsuspecting birthing stool, and brought a desperately cute little Siegfried into the world. Desperately accoutred in metal skirt, pigtails, viking helmet and brass bra, she, with endless breath support and desperate joy squealed one high C after another and brought forth this beautiful little picnic ham of a bundle of joy!

I remember when he was floating around in there, listening to his mom and I as we were RACHIN’ with Spring Waters, and Dreams. It would not surprise me if Siggy develops a taste for Rachmaninoff, or even Wagner! I can see it now! Siegfried, perched upon some high rock (i.e. railing of crib), wailing away something like, “Mother, oh MOOOOOMMY!!!! I want by bottle!!!! I must conquer the Dwarves (a.k.a. daddy) to get it!” All of this is being sung, not spoken.

So what could possibly be in his future? Well, I have given this some thought, and I have a possible scenario. I can see him being normal, as in, being a lawyer, or doctor, or even a teacher. OR, he could be just as nutty like I am, and be an OPERASINGER! Personally, I think he will become an operasinger just to spite his daddy! Of course, I have to be around if that should happen.

Now, as Rossweisse basks in the afterglow of new motherhood, I know that as soon as she is able to, she will mount upon her horse, plait new pigtails, and head off into the night of wonderful music making. I am happy that she is now a mommy. Now all she needs is to get a minivan, have seven more, plant an outside garden, buy a cow, tie Otis (daddy) up somewhere, and get an after school schedule for all of them that will go something like this:

Siegfried: Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays - piano.

Helmwige: Tuesdays, Thursdays - paper route, ballet practise, walking the dog.

Hans-Peter: Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays - tuba lessons, tap-dancing.

Sieglinde: Mondays and Fridays - the dishes.

Gretel: Every evening - water the carrot patch outside, stop beating up Hans-Peter.

Hansel: Every evening - water the strawberry patch, stop eating the strawberries, keep an eye of Gretel.

Brunnhilde: Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays - French emersion, German lessons, singing lessons (to give daddy a big headache) and viking helmet making classes.

So now that they all will be kept busy, and Rossweisse will only make them wholesome foods to eat, they will all be well-fed, healthy, rosey, plump and juicy children, just bursting with glee and energy!  And then, they will all live happily ever after in a house that looks like a shoe!

Moi

I have given some thought to the meaning of Thanksgiving.  Thanksgiving is not a holiday we have in the Caribbean, and thus it is something I have had to get used to, both living here and when I lived in the U.S. as a student.  It is indeed a time for families to get together and think about their blessings, and how God has provided over the years.  It is a time of good eating, and sharing, and definitely, PIE!!!  And CHEESECAKE!!!!  And PUMPKIN CHEESECAKE!!!! And BUTTERNUT SQUASH!!!!!! (*slap*).  OK.  I got a grip now.

However, there is a downside to Thanksgiving.  Though, for us, it is a time of blessing and good food, it is also a time when certain members of our fine feathered foods flap about and flounder around desperately, trying to save their mundane little lives.  Chickens at this time usually rest easy as they sit in their coops, listening to “BACH” all day, knowing that it is their bigger and meatier cousins who are the focus of this craven holiday!

Being someone who is affraid of being eaten, I know first hand that if there was ever such a thing as a turkey having high blood pressure, it would be at this time.  Somehow, they seem to know and dread this holiday, and can be heard gobbling away desperately in neighbouring farms and coops in the area.

So, if I were a turkey, this is what I would do.  First, I would get it into my head that the people feeding me are not just dumb humans who mindlessly bring grain, and do such crazy things as mumble to themselves and wear clothes, but actual calculating creatures whose objective is to fatten up the old drumsticks and plump up the old bosoms for later use.  I would start working out, and get BUFF!  That way, if they ever do manage to cook me, I will go down with a fight, and they would all break their teeth on rubbery muscle, and not meat.  Secondly, (can you tell that I have watched the movie “Chicken Run” too many times???), I would make a plan.  I would rally the troops and discuss an escape route where we could all, one by one, sneak out and head to the hills and fields!  Next, I would engage all the rebels in learning to fly.  Wild turkeys can fly quite far, but those do not make for a good thanksgiving dinner!  I am talking about the turkeys whose bosoms are so big that their wings cannot stay folded.  They just kind of…hang there.  Now I have seen these kinds of domestic (overweight) turkeys attempt to fly.  Usually it happens when they are being chased by a dog, or some other foul beast who is giving them unwanted attention.  They usually wait until the very last minute and then, aim for tree limb or fence or something.  Then they just…sit there.  I guess in order to catch their breaths!!!  So, my task would be to whip them into shape, and get them marathon-ready, so that they can join the ducks and geese in their migration south for the winter!

But alas, all is not said and done.  For the other delicacy that people like to dine on during this time is HAM!!!  I have been told on a number of ocassions that I am a piece of pork!  Plus, I have hamhocks for legs, and right now, I am zwiddling them as fast and as frequently as I can to work them into shape.  So, I have been having a tough enough time keeping out of sight and scent so as not to be eaten! 

So finally, I give thanks for many things, one of them being that I have made it through another thanksgiving celebration INTACT!!!

Moi

Now you all know that I am not one for dropping hints anywhere…so I will just come out with it! I AM OFFICIALLY BUNDTLESS and I need BUNDT (HELGA)!!! Now I am not calling any names here (HELGA) but I am feeling as if all my lifeforce is slowly dribbling out of me. My zwiddles have become less frequent (and I want one with chocolate chunks, not chips in it please!), and so have my tendencies to jump up and down in one spot, bursting with glee! My glee engines need a boost, and what can give them that???

Let’s say it all together now…BUNDT!!!!

I am also not one for guilt, and I would NEVER make anyone feel guilty (HELGA), so I will zwobble along my little way (zwobbling is unlike zwiddling. Zwiddling involves legs in a blur and being suspended from terra firma in a bouncy fashion, whereas zwobbling is being attached to the ground and your legs going in an incomprehensibly fast fashion, kicking up dust along the way, making you wonder how in the world can one ambulate thus!).

Moi