I am ready to retire and become a snow bird. Why I still live in this godforsaken climate I don’t know, but I can safely say that I was meant to live somewhere warm. Four seasons are so overrated. I would never get tired of summer. I would still appreciate spring’s arrival without a harsh winter preceding it. If I want to see fall colours I could take a trip and hike in a forest for a week. I wouldn’t miss winter for a second.

Until I figure out how to escape winter forever, tropical escapes will have to tie me over. Blues skies, sunshine, drinks with little umbrellas and hanging out with a delightful friend works wonders for one’s mental state. I stuffed myself at buffets, had ice cream and spaghetti as a snack every afternoon, slept, read and had a gloriously lazy time.

“Isn’t it great that we are so in sync as travel buddies?” I asked at one point.

“You mean, isn’t is great that we want to do nothing?” My friend answered.

It was lovely to not have an agenda. I have returned from my beach vacation with renewed vigour and the belief that I will make it through the rest of the winter without a complete collapse. Doing nothing is glorious. Doing nothing in warm sunshine with a full belly and a Pina Colada is heaven.

Remember what I said about abundance and how I seemed to be surrounded by it? It has continued in spades.

My contest-addicted girlfriend won an all expense paid trip to Punta Cana and is taking me as her guest! The timing couldn’t be more perfect for this Seasonal Affective Disorder suffering sad sack. Despite a campaign of vitamins, acupuncture, morning walks and my light box, I am slipping into a wintery pit of despair. It is hard to sink too deeply, however, when there are flip flops and fruity drinks to look forward to. Naturally I am fully prepared to be my friend’s lady servant. The sand is too hot for her delicate toes? I will piggy back her to her beach chair. Her drink needs refreshing? I will happily fetch her a fresh one. She is feeling too hot and needs to be fanned with palm fronds? I am her personal fanner.

Regrettably, all this good fortune cannot come without a dash of neurosis on my part. I have just recently emerged from a shortbread stupor and have spent the past few dark months self medicating through carbs. I am now in a panic. In a week’s time I will be in a bathing suit, leaving me little time to deflate my carb bloat. I went to the gym this week to see if I could cardio away my gut, only to have the snotty girl at the front desk confiscate my gym card.

“Your membership expired in December,” she informed me. “When was the last time you were here?”

“Not in December I guess,” I answered.

I was too busy eating chocolate and pasta in December to go to the gym. Obviously I need to take desperate measures.  I tried the Master Cleanse a few years ago where all you consume is lemon water with maple syrup and cayenne pepper. I have never been so close to eating my own arm just to have something to chew. I tried it again last year, thinking that perhaps it would be easier the second time around and gave up after three days. I am now considering something gentler called the Kitchari fast that my yogi friend’s Ayurvedic doctor recommended. It is a mono cleanse where you eat a porridge-like gloopy concoction of mung beans and brown rice in order to centre your doshas, give your digestive system a break and get balanced.

“Balance shmalance!” I cried to my girlfriend, “I’m not worried about my doshas. How much weight can I lose on this thing, and how fast? ”

There will be chances to balance my energy another time. For now vanity takes precedence over the state of my well being. Enlightenment can wait. I need to squeeze into a bathing suit soon.

The Sweetie is regarding my latest cleansing plans with some trepidation. His memories of my sniffing his food like a dog, the glares, the whining and suggestions that he eat his meals in the car are still too fresh and painful.

“Don’t you think you are setting yourself up for failure? Can’t it be a moderate plan?” he asked.

“No time!” I snarl, thumbing through dusty workout DVD’s and measuring out my mung beans.

“What’s going to happen when you get to the resort and you are faced with the buffet?”

I know what he is getting at. My gluttony at buffets is a terrifying sight to witness. In fact, The Sweetie has admitted that he fears that one day I will die at a buffet.

“So you’re going to starve yourself for a week and then you’ll get to this resort and gorge at the buffet and drink tonnes of alcohol. Anything you lose will come right back on.”

“Not right away“, I reason. “I’ll have a day or two before I suddenly explode out of my bathing suit on my beach chair and hopefully by that time I will be so blissfully happy and delighted by life again that I won’t care.”

By the time I get on the beach I will realize that I am surrounded by strangers I will never see again who are probably either as neurotic, or as drunk as I am. I will be warm. I will have ice cream and fancy drinks with umbrellas.

I really should tone down the atonement, eat a few mung beans just for fun and revel in my good fortune.

I am seeing my fake knitting group tonight.  So far we have yet to knit anything but our intentions are good and it is always a night of great food, camaraderie and future plans of crafting superstardom.

Tonight we will be meeting our friend’s new baby, eating middle eastern food and watching Spinal Tap. I am bringing peanut butter brownies, or at least the half remaining after The Sweetie and I “tested” them. I would probably be a little more smug about my tasty offering if I hadn’t stumbled across this: cupcakes topped with marzipan balls of wool. Then again, if I am not finding the time and wherewithal to knit, I can’t really expect myself to be making miniature scarves and balls of wool from marzipan, now can I?

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.

The time has come for desperate measures. I have been getting more and more alarmed by my expanding girth but my fourteen year old boy appetite cannot be tamed. I am not a woman who craves salads, light healthy meals and clean eating. I have the palette of a truck driver and unfortunately I am starting to resemble one.

When planning my recent trip to Newfoundland I was looking forward to eating fish and chips. I ate a form of fried fish and chips every day, sometimes accompanied by a small plastic cup of coleslaw as a token vegetable. Not everyone has the chops for such feats of oil and batter but for my mighty iron stomach it was pure grease induced bliss. My feasts induced a dreamlike trance, akin to what opium den dwellers must experience, with glassy half-lidded eyes and an overwhelming need to recline on silky pillows. I half expected to die of a french fry induced stroke but I would have gone happily, requesting that my greasy ashes be scattered over the crashing waves of the Atlantic. It was a glorious greasy time.

It has to stop. I was at a Dancing With Parkinson’s event last night at a salsa club surrounded by shimmying supermodels in tiny dresses. I chugged gin and tonics in my frumpy sensible skirt, felt the sweat running down the back of my legs, my fried fish barrel gut straining against my Spanx. I capped off the evening by convincing The Sweetie that I needed an eggplant parmesan sandwich to soak up the gin. Obviously the sight of skinny models wasn’t enough motivation to change my fried food proclivities. Nevertheless I woke up this morning with a slight hangover and new resolve. I will reintroduce fruits and vegetables into my life and work towards doing my pants up again.

The temperature has dropped over the past few days, offering up a bit of respite from the humidity and allowing me a break from lamenting my regretful winter of eating nothing but carbs and avoiding the gym. When the thermometer rises I am thrown into a panic knowing that I can no longer hide under layers of clothing, attributing the extra bulk to my sweaters and puffy coat. I begin to worry that I will have to resort to wearing Mrs.Roper inspired caftans and send myself into a tailspin of carb bloated remorse. The cooler temperatures put a temporary halt to my panic so naturally, I decided to bake chocolate chip cookies.

I was intrigued by these chocolate chip cookies I saw on Smitten Kitchen that were described as the ever elusive crispy on the outside chewy on the inside cookie. I think these may indeed be the ones, although I can’t say for sure because I ate half of the cookie dough before they went in the oven, and I managed to overcook the remainder because I got distracted looking at arm exercises on the internet. The irony of watching exercises while eating cookie dough is not lost on me. I will try these again during the next cool spell, perhaps while sporting a new summer caftan.