My powerhouse uber organizer friend of Nathalie-Roze and Co. is organizing a fund raising rummage and bake sale to raise money for Haiti relief. It has motivated me to continue with my Peter Walsh de-cluttering efforts in order to find items I can donate. I have also offered to bake for the cause. Despite my vows to avoid sugar I had to sample my cookie dough… a few times… for quality control.

What I can’t do with my cheque book, I can do with my time and a small contribution. In the face of so much suffering it is easy to feel completely ineffectual and helpless. My cookies and my clutter won’t change the world, but together, small acts can add up to something significant.

One extremely positive thing about autumn in Toronto is that it signifies the arrival of Doc Soup. I love my monthly documentary dates at the Bloor Cinema and adore their popcorn, best in the city by far.

This month’s documentary offering was The September Issue, about Vogue magazine’s telephone book sized tome that is the most anticipated glossy of the year. The film is a behind the scenes look at what goes into developing the magazine, offering a glimpse of terrifying ice queen Anna Wintour in action.

Clad in a grubby old t-shirt, I dug into my extra buttered large popcorn, prepared to roll my eyes and guffaw at pin-thin models. I expected to do a lot of smirking at self important fashionistas pontificating about the importance of fashion, how it is high art and is changing the world.

I have to grudgingly admit that I have a new regard for the hard work and artistry that goes into Vogue magazine. The photo shoots looked beautiful and every detail is examined with a  fine toothed comb. I was in awe of creative director and genius Grace Coddington, a feisty redhead who refuses to tremble before the force that is Anna Wintour. It was intriguing to witness the power struggles between these two strong women which stood in sharp contrast to the other minions too afraid to voice any opinion not already sanctioned by the mighty Anna herself. Grace also seemed to be the only one wearing comfortable footwear. She was like a cool hippy grandma among a sea of uptight, coiffed sycophants.

Anna Wintour’s reputation as a frosty figure remains intact. Meryl Streep’s portrayal of her as a terrifying ice queen in The Devil Wears Prada seems to be accurate. She has intimidation down to an art with her stony silence and withering stare. I am certain I would turn into a pillar of salt if I came within a two block radius of her, but I came away from the film with a lot of respect for her as a decisive editor. Maybe our focus should be on Anna Wintour the brilliant editor rather than her icy persona. An arrogant blowhard male mogul would be judged first by his accomplishments. His personality would not be scrutinized or derided to the same extent that it is with powerful women like Anna Wintour or Martha Stewart. I may not want to go shopping at Goodwill with Anna, nor would I want Martha to come over for dinner, but they are certainly worthy of respect and admiration for thriving in male dominated industries.

Overall the first Doc Soup offering was a success. The popcorn was stellar, the movie was fantastic and I came away with a new found respect for scary Anna Wintour and acceptance that fashion can be art after all.

This invitation arrived at my door the other day.

It is an invitation to party with the whole family at Mount Pleasant Cemetery to celebrate the opening of their new Visitation Centre. It is promising ice cream and cotton candy, along with many other family delights.

I don’t want to sound like a cemetery party pooper. Mount Pleasant Cemetery is gorgeous, filled with spectacular gravestones of wealthy families, rare trees, and is the final resting place for high profile Canadians such as the co-discoverers of insulin Banting and Best and pianist extraordinaire Glenn Gould. It was one of my favourite places to go running back in the day when I used to run. It is lovely.

I am not against the idea of melding life with death, it’s unavoidable after all. I have always admired other cultures that make death more a part of their lives. I love that some cultures set a place at the table or leave offerings for their passed on loved ones. I would love to go to Mexico to celebrate the Day of the Dead.

But henna tattoos for the kids? Balloons? “Fun for kids of all ages’? It kind of throws me. It feels a little macabre. It’s not the first destination that springs to mind when I think of a fun family outing.

I had the same feeling when I saw a sign outside Hooters advertising Family Day. It just seemed out of place somehow. Hooters, synonymous with bountiful chested girls in satin shorts and tank tops, doesn’t strike me as the first place to go for a family meal. “Come on grandma, grandpa, kids! We’re going to have lunch where daddy likes to stare at boobies!”

Perhaps I am a cemetery and big boob chicken wing eatery prude. Breasts, death, chicken wings, it’s all natural, right? Shouldn’t everyone be entitled to find their fun where they can? Maybe I am old fashioned killjoy.

As much as I am a tad curious I will have to miss the cemetery party this weekend. My nephew is turning one and I will be attending his party instead. I can only hope that there will be ice cream and cotton candy.

I finally saw 500 Days of Summer with my girlie movie girlfriends. Then I saw it again with The Sweetie.

I adored it’s quirky charm and the soundtrack and Zooey Deschanel’s vintage-y outfits. I was smitten with the sweet lovelorn hero. In fact, the hero reminded me of The Sweetie, which made me love the movie all the more. His sincerity and how he wore his heart on his sleeve melted my heart and made me swoon. Aloof cool guy hipsters are so tiresome. Earnestness should be celebrated and embraced yet remains so underrated. Give me sweetness any day.

One friend shocked me by merely feeling lukewarm about the movie. A self admitted sucker for a six pack and cockiness, perhaps she was immune to the sweet non-arrogant charms of the protagonist. She managed to redeem herself, however, by presenting me with adorable owl soaps.

I am easily bought. Owl soaps allow me to agree to disagree with my friend about 500 Days of Summer, even if her taste in men is questionable and her movie opinions are wrong. At least we won’t have to fight over my new imaginary boyfriend.

If only we had 500 days of summer this year. Toronto has only had 17 days, tops.

Oh Neko, you titian haired fiery booming voiced colossally talented goddess you. You were spectacular at Massey Hall last night. It was one of those concerts where I felt ecstatic and kept catching myself grinning and clasping my hands with glee. Perhaps the pre-concert gin and tonics helped. Perhaps it was the amazing cranial sacral treatment I had on my neck (damn you Cameron Diaz!) earlier that day. But mainly it was you, Neko. I was dazzled from beginning to end. I wish that I too could be a red haired vixen with shiny red shoes and rescue dogs waiting for me at my home in the country.

Instead I have to be satisfied with a concert t-shirt. This is what you have done to me Neko. I am a forty year old reduced to acting like a giddy high school girl buying a concert t-shirt to advertise my cool quotient and show the world that I experienced your magic. I will toss my brown hair and warble to my cat. A sad substitute but at least I have lovely memories and a cool shirt.

At last this week feels like summer should: hot, sunny and glorious. The Sweetie and I decided to frolic at Centre Island for the day. We traipsed to the ferry docks, slathered with sunscreen and dreaming of riding the giant plastic swan that swims through the pond on rails.

The ferry was closed due to the Toronto City worker’s strike. Gahh!

I never expected to be a reverse Norma Rae, but I have little sympathy for the city worker’s strike.  When people are losing their jobs or hanging on to them by a thread, it feels wrong for employees of the city who are being paid taxpayer’s money to strike just because they want to bank their sick days for retirement. The Sweetie and I have already had a few heated debates where he is trying to defend their right to strike but as someone who is self employed, I have zero job security, zero benefits and zero sick days, let alone sick days I can bank for my retirement, so I am not overwhelmed with sympathy. I was even less sympathetic when my dreams of a tacky swan ride and soft serve ice cream were thwarted.

Luckily it is summer and the sun was shining and it is hard to remain cranky when the weather is so beautiful. We strolled around Harbourfront like tourists and had a wonderful day despite the city strike. Furthermore, if we had made it to the island I never would have met Bill. He was sitting on the boardwalk surrounded by pigeons eating bread straight from his hands. Bill was kind enough to teach me his special bird feeding method- start by scattering crumbs to whip them into a bit of a frenzy, then hold a piece of bread (crusty Italian is their favourite apparently) in your palms and wait, quietly. Eventually I too was a pigeon whisperer and had birds landing and pecking from my hand. There will be other opportunities to go to the island but a lovely interlude with a gentle, generous man felt like a surprise gift and far outweighed a swan ride.

Sometimes the best moments are accidental ones, although if it had been a cold and miserable winter’s day there would have been nothing but cursing at the city workers and a surly subway ride home. Thank you summer, thank you Bill the bird whisperer and a back handed thank you to the striking city workers.