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 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.