I am dusting off my mouth guard and getting ready to rumble. My friend is hosting a mega clothing swap in Leslieville tomorrow and I am sure the clothing sharks are already smelling the blood in the water. I am thrilled and terrified at the same time. I love a good clothing swap. I am always in the market for free goodies and now in the dead of winter I am really feeling the need for free pick me ups. I have enjoyed many a clothing swap with my girlfriends, but they have always been civilized affairs involving lots of wine, snacks and the ability to openly shame anyone who becomes too aggressive and greedy. I am apprehensive about dealing with crazed strangers in a fashion frenzy. I am a shy and retiring sort, definitely more of a lover than a fighter. Nonetheless, a girl has to pick her battles, and this is a noble fight. I will have to channel my winter angst and aggression to ensure that I walk away with an armful of free goodies and minimal bruises.

It is easy to get over-saturated with the sugary sweetness of Christmas. Sappy Christmas carols and twinkly lights are everywhere. I overload on shortbread and fudge and think nothing of accompanying my morning coffee with a plate of cookies. Everyone seems to be on cheery overdrive. Lovely and festive as it all is,  every now and then I feel like I am drowning in a sea of saccharin goo. There are times I feel the need to balance out all the sparkles with a little darkness.

A couple of years ago The Sweetie and I went to hear John Waters’ reminiscences about Christmas and his fond memories of hanging out with delinquents and setting trees on fire. I enjoy reading David Sedaris’ memories of being a Macy’s department store elf and hating all the customers. This year’s antidote was powerhouse maniac musician Peaches, who performed her one woman rendition of Jesus Christ Superstar. I was in awe. It was refreshingly twisted and creative and served as a perfect foil for sugary Christmas pageants and sing-along Messiahs. It was a brilliant palette cleanser and has given me the strength to skip merrily through the rest of the season.

Nice going Mutha Uckers.

“There is only one step from the sublime to the ridiculous.” – Napoleon Bonaparte

I am stepping from the sublime to the ridiculous today and plan to enjoy every minute of it. This afternoon I will be hearing the Dalai Lama speak about human approaches to world peace at the Rogers Centre. Considering he smacked me on the head in a dream last year and inspired me to take up meditation, the least I can do is attend his lecture.

I will follow his message of peace and love by attending a reading by John Waters, king of filth, at Harbourfront as part of their International Festival of Authors. I believe that I am still harbouring some low level trauma from seeing Polyester, when I was twelve, with my dad. It was a spontaneous father daughter outing to the local multiplex theatre at the mall. We were a Sound of Music, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, musical watching kind of family and had no idea what we were getting into. The film left my sheltered, unicorn-loving, twelve year old brain spinning. Over the years my love for John Waters’ films hasn’t developed, but my adoration for his outrageous, quirky personality, is through the roof.

I love the yin and yang of my day. It is all about balance after all.

I had a beautiful weekend in spite of  my autumnal hating ways. Every now and then I have to grudgingly admit that fall has some redeeming qualities, and it did its best to win me over this weekend.

I know a lot of fall babies and they are a wonderful bunch. The flirty and charming Libra’s are delightful and the deep as the ocean Scorpios intrigue me to no end. We celebrated my lovely Libra friend’s birthday this weekend by watching an amazingly creative puppet show at the Factory Theatre. On my list of horrifying things, puppets rank pretty high. My expectation, of course, is that they will come to life and pursue me with their clicking wooden feet and clumsily waving arms. Awful. Despite my anxiety, however, it was a creative and surprisingly moving show. We followed it up with a backyard bonfire with sparkling gin and tonics, and cheese drizzled with molasses, which was unexpectedly scrumptious. It made for a cozy and lovely gathering, just as a birthday celebration should be.

The following day The Sweetie and I went for a hike along the Bruce Trail among crisp technicolour leaves. Not being blessed with coordination, balance or hiking skills, I managed to leap feet first into a river as The Sweetie hopped nimbly from rock to rock, staying dry as a bone. I felt like a rosy cheeked wilderness adventurer, albeit a wet, cold-footed one.

The weekend was a fine one, even for a fall hating curmudgeon.

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.