I have a love hate relationship with The Canadian National Exhibition. The CNE is the death knell of summer, a cotton candy scented harbinger of doom, reminding us that the party is over and the dreariness of autumn is approaching.

At the same time, there is a lot to love about a chaotic mishmash of lights, noise and rickety rides that look like they are about to fall apart. I feel a mounting giddiness as I get closer to the entrance gates and smell the heady aroma of vomit mixed with candy apples. I love seeing the tattooed carnies, the teenagers looking for romance on the midway and the children hopped up on sugar.

Despite the association with back to school time, I adored the CNE when I was a kid. In the seventies it was teeming with long haired rocker guys with combs wedged in the back pockets of their impossibly tight jeans. I was fascinated by their sexy, tough girlfriends who had magnificent Farrah Fawcett hair and feather roach clips dangling from their purses. I’d spend hours in the Food Building stuffing myself on Tiny Tom donuts that would travel along a conveyor belt like a parade of sugary supermodels. I‘d eat Sno Cones until my lips were blue and ride the roller coasters, disembarking with shaky legs and lining up to do it all over again.

As I got older some of the magic faded. The Food Building is no longer a mecca of cheap eats and free samples. If I go on more than one ride I tend to feel queasy and worry about my joints being jostled. I never win at the whack-a-mole game. My feet start to hurt from all the walking, I get irritated by the crowds and I inevitably step in gum. I end up feeling like a cranky old codger in need of a cool shower and a hot cup of tea.

I had almost decided to skip it this year until I found out that there are new delicacies to be had, like fried macaroni and cheese balls. And how can I not try the deep fried butter. Who is the culinary mastermind who decided that butter should be deep fried and transformed into a snack? How can I resist that kind of diabolical alchemy?

Obviously the CNE is beckoning and I must answer it’s greasy, smelly call.

I am waiting for my dog. I’d love a dog like this magical creature so that we could watch television together, share snacks and give each other the stink eye for hogging the converter.

I saw this sweet necklace by a Toronto artisan and instantly and conveniently forgot about the August shopping ban I had imposed on myself.

I rationalized that much of the ban had to do with my avoidance of anything pertaining to autumn. I do not want to see itchy wool sweaters or heavy clothing so a shopping ban felt timely. This necklace, though, looks light as air, positively spring-like in fact.

Besides being local, light and lovely, the necklace also features rose quartz. I have been a big fan of rose quartz ever since I learned that it’s the love crystal. It is the feel-good-unconditional-love-vibes-for-all talisman.

I already have a fabulous rose quartz necklace that makes me feel like a new age Wilma Flintstone.

Sometimes, however, it feels too heavy and clunky around my neck. I don’t want to feel burdened and weighed down by too much unconditional love, now do I? This new necklace will be light and easy to manage and will still send out the love vibes.

Of course, I recognize that all of this is a cheap rationalization to justify my uncontrollable consumption and impulsiveness. I don’t really need a new necklace. I certainly don’t need an amulet for protection against critics but considering my recent defending my life rampage, it couldn’t hurt. Perhaps this is why athletes wear the same underwear for an important game and business executives have their power suits. Sometimes we need a physical representation of our inner desires or something tangible to cling to when things feel chaotic. We all need a life preserver now and then, a set of water wings in a prettier and less bulky package. I shouldn’t need to depend on a crystal for some gentle loving compassion but sometimes the days can be dark, the critics can be loud, and a sweet necklace may be just the touchstone I need.

I have always wanted to be an intimidating bad-ass so that people would think twice before messing with me. So far I haven’t mastered a tough girl persona. Instead of puffing out my chest and raising my voice, I retreat, slinking away with drooping shoulders. My tendency is to swallow potential tirades, mealy-mouthed girl that I am. Instead of letting it go, however, I fight in my mind, preparing my script for a future throw down.

I have been having a fight to the death in the arena of my mind for over a week now. A meddling acquaintance feels compelled to inform me on a regular basis that I am not living my life properly and I don’t know what is best for me. She apparently has all the answers to my unasked questions. My happiness is delusion, my contentment is apathy, my protests that I am satisfied with my life are denial. It’s funny how those who’s opinions I don’t care about are often the quickest to dole it out. It also seems that those who are miserable themselves have solutions for everyone else. It has become a bit of a theme this year where I feel judgment, spoken or unspoken, about my life and choices. I don’t consider myself a rebel or someone living a particularly unconventional life, but somehow my path seems to disturb some people. I have my health, I have love and I have connections that are meaningful. I have been eating delicious sandwiches with tomatoes right from our garden. One day I will have a dog. What more could I ask for? If I had a house or a more secure job or money would my life be better? Not to me. Yet there are those who are eager to act as pricks to my sunny balloon.

I was complaining about this latest installment of unsolicited advice over martinis with a couple of girlfriends.

“So maybe I am neurotic and a little flaky, but if I am happy and not complaining about my life, why should I have to defend it?”

There was silence from my girlfriend who has already admitted that she fears that I will end up sleeping on her couch in retirement. I have tried to assure her that her home will not be one of my destinations on my bag lady walkabouts, but I suspect she remains unconvinced.

My other girlfriend interjected, “But that is what makes you, you! If you weren’t all of those things you wouldn’t be you anymore.”

Bless her. Bless friends who love me for, and in spite of, my foibles. Bless those who don’t expect everyone to have the same values and goals and don’t feel the compulsion to enlighten me on a regular basis. Bless tomato sandwiches and refreshing lemon drop martinis. Bless the bad-ass mouthy chick within who always has a pithy retort to asinine comments, is a master of the stink-eye and can stop judgers in their tracks. One day she will be unleashed and the meddlers of the world will crumble.

This weekend was the second annual cousin’s cottage weekend extravaganza. Despite having had a wonderful boozy weekend last year, I was still somewhat anxious about this year’s installment. Social gatherings that don’t allow for quiet recharging time can leave me feeling drained. It is difficult being wired as an introvert in an extroverted world.

Luckily the sun was shining, the lake was sparkling, everyone was lovely and the alcohol was flowing. There was midnight skinny dipping, S’mores, commemorative t-shirts and food galore. The weekend took on that magical cottage schedule of eating, lounging, drinking, swimming, then eating again. I shared my towel with a great big goofy dog and we spooned on the dock. It left me covered with tufts of dog hair so that I resembled a cottaging Yeti but it was delightful.

It is quite a coup when I can step outside of my shrinking violet self and bask in the glow of sunshine and family. That is summer for you.

I hadn’t been camping in over ten years. After a couple of harrowing experiences involving grueling portages, canoeing through bogs and waiting for bears to eat me, I concluded that I wasn’t cut out for outdoorsy adventures. Time heals all wounds, however, and the past couple of years have worn down my anti-camping resolve.

The Sweetie and I decided to take baby steps and start with car camping. I had a cute camping outfit packed, jangly silver bangles, marshmallows and wine. I was ready for my new incarnation as a camping goddess.

My excitement turned to trepidation when I discovered a large tooth where we were about to pitch our tent. Suddenly things took on a Blair Witch overtone. Our lovely campsite immediately felt sinister.

“Is it human?”, I asked.

” I don’t know. That is totally bizarre.”

“Who would pull out a tooth on a camping trip?”

Who indeed. Perhaps it hadn’t been voluntary. I began to envision human sacrifices. Or zombies with rotting teeth roaming around the camping grounds, waiting for some fresh human flesh.

The way The Sweetie was examining the tooth and trying to sound nonchalant worried me.

“How would a tooth get here?” he mumbled to himself.

How and why? That is the question. Did it fall out of a skull? Was it brought here for some ritual, was it pulled out? Did it fall out while gnawing on something, like a human leg perhaps?

“Maybe it isn’t human. It’s pretty big.“

I could only wish that it was a bear. A bear was the least of my worries at this point.

“Forget it“, The Sweetie said, kicking the tooth aside and cracking open a beer. I could tell he was still disturbed.

I began combing the campsite, searching for more teeth or a jawbone. It wasn’t long before I discovered a tiny bone near the fire.

“What the hell is this?” I shrieked.

“That’s a chicken bone for God’s sake. Relax.”

Was it really? To me it looked like a tiny femur. Who eats chicken wings when camping? That would be so messy.  I began to imagine pocket-sized teeth-pulling, plier-wielding pygmies running about, circling the campfire at nightfall.

It started to rain around the time we were making dinner. Waiting out the torrential rains in the car, holding a camping fork with dripping sausages on my lap, I reminisced about our conversation as we were packing and I was carefully placing my berry crisp in the cooler. The Sweetie had suggested rain gear. “Rain gear?” I scoffed. “It’s only one night. We’re car camping, we’ll be fine!”

I began to wonder if the rain was a warning, telling us to leave the campsite while there was still a chance to high tail it back to civilization with all of our teeth intact. I sat under a damp towel stoically eating roasted marshmallows while The Sweetie valiantly kept the fire alive. We finally tucked ourselves into our tent and I dozed briefly, only to wake up from a nightmare about a serial killer in the woods. After that my chances at sleep were shot. I was on high alert, listening for snapping branches and other ominous night sounds. The incessant rain and thunder sounded like a combination of a drum kit and a million little tap dancers on the roof of our tent.The Sweetie had instructed me not to touch the edges of the tent to avoid having rain leak in. My hips dug into the ground and felt like they belonged to a ninety year old woman as I curled carefully into the fetal position. I was scared to move for fear of flooding, and afraid to shut my eyes. It was a long night.

As soon as it was light enough The Sweetie crawled out of the tent and announced, ”I am lighting a fire, making some coffee and then we are getting out of this god forsaken place.” Those may be the sweetest words I’ve ever heard.

Maybe I am fighting my true nature. I love the idea of being a wilderness girl, communing with nature, building fires and being at one with the great outdoors. I dream of having a posse of woodland creatures. I still have hope that one day I will own a backpack and a pair of hiking shoes. In reality though, I have a fondness for soft beds, ice cubes in my drinks, scented body lotions and dry clothing.  My personality is plagued with an over active imagination and a fear of spiders, bears, snakes and serial killers. I may be too prissy and neurotic for true wilderness adventures. I may be better suited for swank zombie-free resorts with well manicured hiking trails and a Sherpa to carry my urban snacks.