I am off to see The Dead Weather tonight! The first time I heard this band I had a pleasant flashback to my youth, listening to Led Zeppelin in the smoking area in high school. It has that same raunchy, driving kind of sound that makes me want to kick stuff and perform rebellious acts. In reality I am getting anxious about what shoes to wear, nervous that some rock and roll hipster will accidentally stomp on my toes because it is general admission. The shoes also have to accommodate my orthotics since I will be on my feet for the evening. As well, I’m trying to decide if I should bring a cardigan in case I get cold after the concert on my way home.

I am a rock and roll rebel indeed.

It was hot yesterday. Sticky stinking hot where the humidex rose into the forties, the air was thick and everyone was moving like a zombie and sighing.

I could have languished near a fan and napped like a cat but then I thought of all the long dreary winter days when I am pining for summer and feeling miserable. With that in mind The Sweetie and I rented a canoe at Harbourfront and escaped the grumbling, the wilting and the oppressive heat. We paddled along the Toronto Islands feeling the coolish air rise from the lake, spotting herons and watching the leaves on the trees glimmering like the light from disco balls. Admiring the cityscape through a mist of smog suddenly felt romantic, like we were viewing the city through a soft focus lens. It felt like a coup to carve out some peaceful nature time from what would otherwise be a muggy, mundane day. We paddled for a few hours and then sat outside on a patio with a pitcher of beer, heavy canoe paddling arms and smug expressions on our faces.

It was glorious. Despite the fact that I was covered with yellow dye that was coming off my wet bag, like I was perspiring bright yellow alien sweat. Despite the fact that I am growing a giant pimple in the middle of my forehead so that I resembled a young developing unicorn. Despite the fact that my hair was plastered to my forehead, and my face had a weird otherworldly sheen because of my heavy-handed sunscreen slathering. I think I smelled. I never felt better. I was a sultry, steamy, summertime minx.

Summer days and stolen magical moments will do that to a person.

I was going through some shopping withdrawal this week. My new frugal lifestyle has been satisfying and I’ve had many smug moments resisting temptation and eating my thrifty lentil dinners but the treat-lover in me has been feeling a little deprived. I was experiencing a serious case of budget martyrdom.

Luckily The Sweetie and I found some delightful garage sales this morning. It was the perfect day for garage sales. There were copious amounts of charming, fluffy cats sunning themselves on the sidewalks and porches. The garage sale hosts were extra adorable and friendly everywhere we went. The Sweetie and I would whisper to each other, “Could they have been any nicer? Are you shocked that they didn’t offer to make us smoothies and bake muffins?”

I picked up an armful of delights for a mere $12:  knitting needles and yarn to add to my stash, a novel I have been wanting to read for ages, a belt since I figured I should start accessorizing more, a magazine holder (which The Sweetie is very excited about since he regularly trips over the books and magazines stacked around my side of the bed), and my most exciting find of the day, a retro bread box. I have been lusting after an old school bread box for ages. On top of that, a lovely woman threw is some heirloom tomato seedlings, just because. She was delightful, the cats were delightful, the weather was delightful, The Sweetie and I were delightful.

Sunny spring Sundays that begin with garage sales are always delightful.

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.