All Dressed Up

The first Halloween I remember was the one when I was 6 years old. This doesn’t include borrowed memories, like the ones you get from looking at old family albums, or hearing old family stories. This is the first memory that I authentically pull from my memory banks of a specific Halloween. And even more specifically, the first memorable Halloween costume.

Mine was the year I dressed up as Cinderella. I had the sparkly skirt, a real live diamond tiara (that my Mom made out of tinfoil and cut up cardboard) and shiny blue ballet slippers.   And since I lived in Southern California at the time, I could wear the costume without even a sweater or pair of tights to keep warm. That’s right. As foreign as this may seem to my fellow Canadians, in Southern California we just wore the costume. No jacket over top. No clunky snow boots. No mittens. No toque.

Can you even imagine?  It was just like a movie. (That is a good, fun, family movie. Not the Jamie Lee Curtis kind of Halloween movie). I skipped and danced happily from house to house, enjoying the balmy evening air and the feel of green grass beneath my scantily clad feet.

Fast forward one year. It is the night of Halloween. My family has relocated…. To Prince George. Yeah. I know.

That year I had one wish for Halloween. I wanted to be I Dream Of Jeannie. I imagined myself draped in the gauze and silk, bare midriff, hair all fancy in an elaborate up do. And lots of make up. Maybe even false eye lashes. I imagined myself crossing my arms and nodding my head, just like I Dream of Jeannie, at every house I came to. I even considered converting my bedroom to look like the inside of her bottle, just to stay true to the theme. I had it all figured out.

So imagine my chagrin when my ever practical mother determined that there was no way in H E double hockey sticks that I was going trick or treating wearing next to nothing, outside, at night, in Prince Freezing George. (I am pretty sure the word she used was “freezing”).

Instead, my innovative and super creative mother had saved the Styrofoam packing unit from the amber glass lamps she had bought when we moved in. (yes this was the 70s). This unit was perfectly round, hollow and once she cut a hole for my face and stuck in two pipe cleaners for antenna, it transformed me into a Martian. Plus, she excitedly explained, I could just wear it with my snow suit and boots!

Shocked! Horrified! I railed against the new costume. I whined. I cried. I cajoled even, but to no avail. A grudging compromise was finally reached. I would wear the rotten Martian outfit, but with I Dream of Jeannie make-up. My poor, harried mother agreed, slapped on the blue eyeshadow, rosy blush and pink lipstick, stuck the Martian hat on my head, then hustled me out the door.

The tricking and treating went well for the first little while. But then it began to rain. Soon the rain turned to sleet. Tiny stinging pellets of ice began to hammer down on my Styrofoam head, echoing like ricocheting bullets into the face hole, smashing against my skin and making I Dream of Jeannie run in an oozing mess down my cheeks. The Styrofoam worked just like it does when formed into a nice fat beer cooler, and my ears, cheeks and forehead were soon developing some sort of permafrost. I broke away from the gang I was touring with and began to run toward home, one arm up to shield me from the onslaught of ice bullets. My pillowcase dragged behind me, getting soaked in the muddy ice and a hole was soon formed. By the time I reached home, frozen and in shock, I had about a ½ dozen soggy pieces of candy and 3 very bruised Macintosh apples left in the tattered sack.

Happy Freezing Halloween.

I bet this stuff never happened to I Dream of Jeannie.


Originally published by e-Know


Mastering Manifestation – Or – Stuff My Dogs Have Taught Me

I learn a lot of stuff from my dogs.  I have two.  Big dog and Little dog.  They are wise little guru’s who constantly amaze and amuse me.  Their lessons are sometimes subtle and sometimes not.

For instance, they have taught me to take a break when I get too busy with my writing.  Usually they do that by nudging my hand off the key board or jumping onto my laptop to remind me they need my undivided love and attention.  Subtle.

If that doesn’t work, they’ll knock something over or puke on the rug.  Not so subtle.

They have taught me about unconditional love.  I can scold them and send them to a time out over some infraction and mere seconds later they will greet me as if I am the Sun itself, come to bring light and warmth into their day.

And just the other night they taught me all about the power of instant manifestation.

I have been a student of the law of attraction for many years and understand the importance of getting clear and staying focused on the end result in order to bring about whatever it is you are hoping to manifest.  What you think about your bring about, right?  All the books say so.

So I was cuddled on the couch watching the latest season of Grey’s Anatomy (all pleasure, no guilt) .  I’d made a big bowl of popcorn and had been sharing a few pieces with Big and Little.    After some time (which may or may not have involved the binge watching of 3 consecutive episodes) I heard something strange coming from the kitchen. Pausing the TV I listened.  Sure enough, there is was again.  A soft and persistent growling sound.  Big dog was sleeping at my feet so I knew it must be the Little one.

I found him in the kitchen.  He was laying on the floor, chin on the ground, staring unblinkingly at his water dish.  It was bone dry.  He growled as he stared, never moving his gaze away from the offending dish.  And like the master manifestor that he is, that dish was filled nearly instantly (or as quickly as I could get it done).

Brilliant, I thought!  What a great metaphor for my own manifesting efforts.  Little dog knew what he wanted.  He focused completely on what he hoped the outcome to be.  Never blinking, and growling softly, he was able to get that bowl filled as if by magic.  Good puppy.  Smart puppy.

I watched as he drank his fill, then, chin dribbling, made his way back to the living room.  Big dog was sitting there waiting.  He was looking mighty guilty about something.

Then I saw the empty popcorn bowl.

Turns out Big Dog is a pretty great manifestor himself.  As I stared at the dog drool on the bowl, he skirted around me and a moment later I heard his big, loud drinky sounds.  All of that popcorn had apparently made him pretty thirsty.

Another lesson learned.  Teamwork makes everything easier.

Good Dogs.

Smart Dogs.


I’ll Be There For You


 Is there anything more fun and, let’s face it, accurate than a Facebook quiz?

Wait a sec… yeah you’re right.  There are lots of things more fun and accurate.  From predicting the time of our death (April 17, 2048) to letting us know who we were in a past life (Cleopatra) to telling us what kind of tree we are (Pink Dogwood) Facebook quizzes are typically a colossal waste of time and energy.

And yet… sometimes… I just can’t stop myself.

So when I see this quiz that will tell me which character from Friends I am I can’t resist.  I begin the quiz in earnest, answering each new question with as much insight and honesty as I can.  For years I have been convinced that I am Rachel. Carefree career gal who knows her own mind and can make it on her own, Rachel is Mary Tyler Moore for a new generation and I adore her.

I sure hope I’m Rachel!

But then I have to be honest with myself.  There is a whole lot of Monica in me.  A bit OCD with an insecure, awkward and overweight teenage girl living inside, I admit to liking things “just so” and will have trouble falling asleep if they are askew.   Also, I love to cook and get a bit obsessive with the preparation of feasts and such.

I bet I’m Monica.

And then there’s Phoebe.  Who am I kidding?  I channel dead people and believe that cats can communicate with me.  Plus I tend to make up weird song lyrics, mostly about bodily functions.  (I would expand on this, but might lose my PG rating. But seriously, I wrote one that is eerily similar to her classic “Little Black Curly Hair”).

So yeah, for sure.  I must be Phoebe.

When it comes down to it I can tell that I am a mix of all three.  The confidence that I lack as Monica I gain from my inner Rachel who knows I can do anything I set my mind to.  And the Monica in me keeps me organized and cleans my house, taming my inner control freak that really wants to be in charge of everything. Phoebe swoops in and my career path becomes all about Angels and Past Lives and crazy Woo Woo stuff.  Suddenly I am that crazy hippy chick who doesn’t seem so crazy anymore.

Yeah.  I’m Phoebe.

Or Monica.

Maybe Rachel?

I push the button that will finally, inexorably settle the dilemma once and for all: Click here for your results…..


Yeah.  I’m Joey.

Apparently, Brenda doesn’t share food.

 How YOU doin’?