Sue Johanson is leaving the airwaves. Discovered her watching hotel boobage tube after work when in Canuckland on bidness. Never have caught her show on Oxygen, where she has a show on Sunday nights. This Sunday will be her last. Check it!
Nothing like hearing about good ol' fashioned - and new fangled - sex stuff from a happily raunchy and guilt-free 77 year old chick. In a CNN article, Sue lamented, "I'm going to miss playing with sex toys." Sue, we're going to miss you playing with sex toys! Say it ain't so!
Summer’s sultry heat has me languishing. No mint julep sipping on front porches here (Sheena, where are your rosemary mojitos when I need ‘em?). I’m a coward to the heat, running for cover in the shade and the sweet serenity of air conditioning.
The worst summers were those I worked at Kennedy Space Center. Out the door each morning at 6:30 AM, gingerly stepping the twenty feet from the front door to the car in the useless attempt to avoid breaking a sweat.
Dwelling on the negative ain’t my style. So I’ve been pondering the goodness of summer. And what’s come to mind the most are two things: the 4th of July, and fireworks.
FloridaDad is a Yankee Doodle Dandee. Most summers find me in his company to acknowledge and raise a glass for the occasion. I think he’s just about forgiven me for getting a permit from the Cape Canaveral fire department to light the candles for his 50th. Good times. Made gooder with the tradition addition in recent years of singing patriotic songs with PJamaMama at Grandma Beach’s as the Ron Jon’s barge launched their sparkly offerings into the sky.
This summer’s sparks came from different sources. Canada Day – oops, sorry, Sheenada Weekend – was my first serving of fireworks, as shown in Sheena’s vid capture:
From what I could see, they trumped the Ron Jon’s offerings. But they paled in comparison to Kimplicated’s faves at Lenox Square in Atlanta. She’d long championed them, but this year was my virgin attendance, up front and in the ash-ridden fallout zone.
Spanks to Kimplicated for this snap.
Big. Bang. Boom. Sparkly goodness and chest reverb. They took my breath away. They do that. Fireworks surprise. You don’t know what’s coming, exactly. You hear the “whomph” of their release, perhaps a trailing light as they catch fire streaking up the sky when you first notice their path. They’re intense. They burn and shine, lighting up the dark where you could hardly see before. The blues are always my favorites.
My last offering was the aforementioned Gatineau competition spied from an Ottawa balcony. Distanced fiery jewels in the setting sun sky, with the launch release again heralding performance. Reminded me of dashing outside after the Shuttle’s sonic boom to watch the ascent’s remainder. Fireworks’ sparks and the Shuttle’s launch: both steal your breath for an amazing few minutes, and then they’re gone. Over. Only smoke ghosts hint of their scene-stealing performance moments before.
I enjoyed these sparks and their passionate colors, but they were too brief. You can’t have fireworks e'yday, after all. Unless you’re on vacation at Disney World. So while I enjoyed them, they have me missing the longer lasting sparkly colors found in a wood burning fire.
I yearn for the cooler weather. For PJamaMama and her squire to once again play WoodFairies and set me up with oak and hickory. To enjoy the strangely satisfying sound of shoveling ash to make way for the next long, slow burn. To carefully layer fire’s trappings: newspaper, kindling, and wood (and ok, some of the “cheater” fire starter dupers). To tend the nascent flames as they inexorably build, their snap-crackle-hiss-pop cadence a soothing, perfect fall evening’s soundtrack. At the apex of intensity, the blue flame is my favorite. Continued tending as the flames take their time to wane, re-sparking as logs shift through the grate into hot red embers, slowly gasping into ash soon again satisfyingly shoveled.
So perhaps I’m not a coward to the heat after all. Mayhap I’m just particular about its form. Fires are more of an investment in time. Summer's fireworks have their place, but I’d rather lose myself in the heat of sultry, slow-made fire sparks in cooler seasons. It’s not a bad thing, being particular. After all, I *am* the Concubine of the Mountain Ash.
Had my first Canadian rail experience last week in making my mosey from Toronto to Ottawa. Bidness delayed my intended departure, so I copped a free wired internet phone booth squat in Royal York hotel's business centre at Sheena's suggestion. Later upgraded my journey's accommodations, and didn't regret it. Nice ride. Nice meal.
Arrived in Ottawa and needed a place to lurk whilst waiting for my host's availability. Sheena to the rescue again, recommending the bar at the Westin. Last visit during Canada Day found me surrounded in the glow of many fireworks. Strange that my return should be heralded by them again. In the form of newly installed lobby light fixtures that look like fireworks. Spied 'em as I sipped what purported to be a mai tai, but failed.
Became a Repeat Offender at The Laff on the requisite Saturday afternoon to catch the Lucky Ron show. He didn't disappoint - and is an unsuck listen.
Fireworks as an Ottawa theme continued Saturday night spying Spain's efforts in the Casino du Lac-Leamy's Sound of Light competition from Gatineau / Hull. My last night in Ottawa found the sky with its own natural fireworks.
The Sheenada Day host was my chariot to the airport and return to things domestic, but not before a lovely repast at Mexicali Rosa's at Dow's Lake. Lovely sunshine and water, but the windy ass-day got interesting when an "I Am Canadian" umbrella took off flying across the patio, narrowly missing impaling fellow diners.
Stayed too long away. While the respite from Atlanta's heat was much enjoyed, it's good to be home. Now if I can just get these Canadians from haunting me everywhere I turn, I'd be set.
10. Sleeping quarters have more than a touch of her new home, but of Sheena's history, too. The quilt includes scraps of clothing from her family when Sheena was little. Who couldn't sleep comfyly ensconced in that kind of love and history?
9. Sheena has a fabulous snap of her courtyard, but I can personally attest that having a yumfest breafkast catered by the Jungle Queen herself on that same courtyard, basking in the warm summer sun is nothing less than luxurious.
8. Moseying to the many Mennonite-carriaged town of St. Jacobs yielded a bit o' Cheek's own history, in the form of Tavener's Fruit Drops. My maternal Grandma always had 'em in her parlor. Remember parlors? The town also led me to question - how is it that you can't get an ice cream float that's made with beer? Surely someone in this universe makes a Guinness float?
7. Excellent silver jewelry finds at Casa Latina. Sheena thought hard about the spiral necklace, but I'm glad it went home with me. Dunno what's up with me and basic shapes lately, but they're callin' my name.
6. Sheena's sunporch is the best room inside the house. I think I'd replace her chairs (albeit comfy) and table with a daybed and prop myself up to work, people watch, and snooze when time affords. No pic snapped, but watch Sheena's space - I'm sure she'll indulge us soon.
5. Libations - making and quaffing - are one of Sheena's specialties. Granted, she has many. But as her guests arrived she plied them with offerings of homemade sangria and her signature rosemary mojito. Yummilicious! As we segued from indoors to the Jungle Queen's Courtyard, she kept us wet with local juice: Flat Rock Cellars' 2004 Pinot Noir and their 2006 Riesling. (Bonus! Sheena's gams in the back as she tended the BBQ.)
4. Sheena's box is *so* fine. She tried to discount her box, saying it was old, used, and had none of the new fangled features of today's boxes. But her vintage box was just the trick, I tell you. For I didn't mind it missing the slender opening to receive last season's (century's?) input. What I grooved on was her box's ability to take digital stimulation and share it with our whole party. You know - RCA jacks so I could hook up my cable and play my iPod for party tunage? What were *you* thinking I meant?
3. Reading Sheena's blog about her cooking chops *so* pales to receiving her bounty in person. Yellow corn. Veggies seasoned with rosemary and olive oil. Chicken. Simple, and sumptuous. Summer never looked or tasted so good.
2. I'd have never thunk of grilling peaches, much less peaches kissed with rosemary and served with vanilla ice cream. But we know my food universe is small. Thank goodness I've a peep like Sheena to expand it, with rosemary was her unifying theme of the evening. Grilled fruit is so on my list o' thangs to repeat offend.
1. My stay was too brief. Sheena's gravity wraps you up in quilted, relaxed, tasty revelry. I hope I'm invited back soon.
Yeah. Ok. So the American dollar is sucking lately. Can't seem to escape that fact in sharp relief, being in Canada 'n' stuff this week. And, what with Canuckian peeps shoving that fact in my face relentlessly.
Comics in this post are from Get Fuzzy by Darby Conley
Yes, contrary to Bucky’s protestations, they both exist.
Forces are at work, bringing Canadians to constant recall. Scott Adam’s post today in the Dilbert Blog, for example, on imagining how reduced U.S. military resources could possibly make U.S. citizens less safe (they don’t). He imagines the totally plausible scenario where "Beer-soaked Canadians start throwing snowballs over the border and won’t listen to reason.".
Like that doesn’t happen all the time? And we never do anything about it. Beer soaked U.S. border citizens are just as drunk, just as deep in their snowball arsenal, and end the day inviting the Canucks by the fire if they’ll just share their better cheap beer.
American dreams, Canadian dreams, human dreams; they aren’t that different, really.
Recent conversation included reference to the SouthPark movie and the "Blame Canada" fake diatribe. I’ve a sticker saying such hiding in a box somewhere that used to have proud purchase on my desk, but since leaving Canadian employ there are fewer reasons to spy it and sigh in agreement. BioAsh’s recent "Enough Already" post certainly blames Canada a’plenty – sick stuff, man. Guess Greenpeace should update their Blame Canada vid accordingly until that policy changes as well:
And oh! my! gawd! The guffaws yielded from sharing this particularly swell xkcd offering with Mr. Pid yesterday produced much needed chortles. I lurve this web comic - it's so damn vivid!
Rumour has it my favourite Canadian will be in the Southeast in the coming weeks (no, those aren't misspellings of "rumor" and "favorite" – those are wacky Canuckian spellings). Sheena may have to be kidnapped for Atlanta revel rousing – her seasoned experience in things music and foodgasmic eats always packs cherry popping promise. And perhaps some cash exchange on the side?
