My favourite aphrodisiac

My husband and I have been married for 4 years, but we've been together about 13 years--most of our adult lives.

When you've been with someone for that long, certain civilities tend to fall to the wayside. Digestive cumulus are openly expelled. Zits are popped in the cold light of day. Teeth are picked, crotches are rearranged. Etcetera.

The thing is, I have this...fetish.

It's kind of wild, but I go crazy for it.

It's politeness.

Seriously. I'm a politeisist. That's my totally made-up word for someone who gets turned on by politeness. When a man is polite and pleasant and debonnair in a genuine and non-slimy way (ooooo baby), I don't just think to myself, "aww...what a nice guy." I get a little...well, turned on actually. Not that I'd ever act on it, you understand. I'm married. Also, someone with manners would politely decline a married woman. Mmmm....sexy.

It's a hard fetish to indulge, though. Politeness porn is virtually nonexistent (oh for amateur video of a man opening a door and then tipping his hat to a lady...rowwwrrrrrr....). There are no chat rooms where we can talk "clean" to each other. There is no such publication as "Niceboy" or "Genthouse". Sigh.

Not that my husband isn't polite, of course. In fact, that's a big part of why I fell in love with him. He is a gentleman and he is honest and he wears his heart on his sleeve. And he is quite pleasant and easy to speak with. And he holds the door for me. And...oh my. What was I saying?

There's definitely not enough politeness anymore. --If there ever really was. It's sort of a gentle glue that lovingly binds people to one another. Or maybe it's more like a helpful virus that you catch when some stranger is nice to you and pass on to the next person you meet. I know this is starting to read like a Christian Science billboard, but you know what I mean.

And I'm not talking about basic non-rudeness. I'm talking about manners and genuine courtesy and a willingness to smile at and chat with a complete stranger. There's a fundamental openness and approachability to the politeness I'm talking about, but more importantly, there's a self-confidence to it that is...highly...attractive. It's like you're saying, "I know who I am and what I feel is the right thing to do, and that's what I'm going to live by..." Sigh.

I was at a parking lot pay meter the other night and it kept rejecting my $5 bill. There were these two guys standing behind me, checking me out but everytime I'd turn around to smile and roll my eyes at the stupid machine and crack jokes in pleasant comeraderie, they'd turn away from me and mumble or make a phone call or something. That's when it hit me: basic politeness is such a turn-on and basic...whatever they were doing...is such a turn-off. It's like they put up this wall where they stood on one side, checking me out like a piece of meat, and when I tried to relate to them as another person, they rejected my attempts.

How rude.

How unattractive.

Gonna take you on a nature walk...

This post is dedicated to Fat Sparrow.

I'm taking her on a walk with me in the woods because I think it's unacceptable that her wildlife contact consists of bugs, roadkill, and that one mangey catfish at Mexi Mart (what the hellfire and damnation is Mexi Mart, anyways? Don't answer that.)

So, FS, here is your first hike in the Canadian woods with me and my canine boy-child.

This is your host for the day: Chico. Chico is a very, very large Chihuahua. (Well, he could be...look at those ears.) Chico say: Hola Fat Esparrow. Que tal? No te apuras...I am going to take you on a very especial nature walk today. You are rrrrready?

First, though, you'll need to get yourself a pair of these bad boys. $15.00 cash and $4.99 in Canadian Tire money buys you the SUV of boots. They'll get you through your mud holes, your bogs, your slimy mossy areas, your flooded lowlands, your wet farmers' fields, and your rock piles.

One of the best things about early spring in the woods up here: no bugs yet, but lots of beautiful budding things.

This is a trillium...not sure if you have those down in Cali4neye-ay. This whole place is crawling with 'em. Aren't they lovely? You may be interested to learn that a trillium plant has to live for many years before it will produce a flower.


The purposefully arranged pile of rocks in the middle of this photo is an inukshuk. Although it's an Inu (Inuit) tradition, you see these all across Canada. They're used as markers, to give directions, mark a path, indicate a great blueberry-picking area, etc.


I don't know what these little purple flowers are called, but they smell like a mix of lilac and rose...very pretty. They cover the forest floor in early spring.

Okay, now we're moving from the deciduous (leafy-tree) forest into a cedar (evergreen) forest. It gets messy in here, but it's always dark and damp and that breeds all kinds of interesting things...

...you'll definitely need these in here...


These plants grow like little vases, directing water down to their roots until they're strong enough to spread their leaves. Cool eh?


These mushrooms are whack.


Here's what you see when you look up.


And when you look down. Here's a feather for you, FS.















Chico say: Fat esparrow, we're going to cut through this farmer's field. I hope you no mind...errr....I may have to take a leetle dip to cool off first .


Phew. It's getting hot. Let's cut through the old quarry.


The trees are in bloom.


The birds are singing.


And Chico is making friends with the locals. Canada Geese are notoriously mean. Chico may need an eye-patch when this is all over.


















A little more walking...







...And we're home. Have a seat.



I'll get us some refreshments. Hope you enjoyed yourself!

New! Nature tally feature

When you have nothing new to say, just haul out a new blog feature. Today I'm introducing my Nature Tally feature, over there on the right, wherein I'll faithfully report to you all of the cool wildlife I've seen on that day's walk in the woods with Chico, my canine boy-child.

I like counting things. It's just a thing I do...counting...seconds, minutes, pairs of shoes, animals, blades of grass, birch trees, street lamps...Okay maybe it's more of a sickness.

What'll be interesting about the nature tally is that I don't see nearly as many animals in summer as in fall/winter, so...Okay, maybe that's not that interesting.

Anyhow, hopefully the otter family will move back in at the quarry down the road. They're always good for a laugh and they'll boost my tally numbers.

Have a great weekend.

More boobies than you can shake a stick at before stabbing yourself in the eyes with that stick and then stabbing out the memory part of your brain...

It's been a crappy, shite-strewn, poop-laden, besuckified, terrible two weeks. I'll spare you the sob story(ies), but there were tragedies real and imagined, and I'm praying for the sweet oblivion of Friday night inebriation.

Making the shittiness even shittier was the self-loathing that drove me to watch two of the worst movies I've ever had the bad luck to scratch my eyes across: Click and Showgirls.

Yes, I had never seen Showgirls/meyourtits.

Worst movie ever. Even worse than this, this, this, and, yes, even this. Not even endless, dizzying exposure to hundreds of deliriously funny naked jiggling boobies could mitigate the eggy fart that is the Showgirls script. I can't believe Charlotte's husband Trey was in that. And that he had fake bad-acting sex with that terrible blonde booby life support system. The sex scene in the pool reminded me of a seal hunt video I recently saw on the World Wildlife Federation site. It amazed me that a graphic sex scene could have the effect of actually sucking all the moisture out of my reproductive system. It's so bad that there aren't enough words in all languages combined to describe its badness, so I'm not even going to try.

And then the boobish badness reproduced. Click. There's a reason this movie shares its name with canned abattoir leavings that taste of ass. Chris Walken, I weep for you. You are dead to me. Adam Sandler. Shame! Shaaaaaame! At what point did you say to yourself, "you know what this movie really needs? In addition to a rancidly twee premise, a cloying, sanctimonious plot, the expulsion of Christopher Walken' soul to the lower rings of hell, and that inexplicable 8-minute scene where I colour-adjust my own face with the universal remote? Gratuitous slow-mo bouncing boobies!!! YEAH!!! SOMEBODY CALL THE ACADEMY!!!!"

I have nothing more to say of this.

Except: hurry up and be Friday!