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Ten Traits Your Autumn Man Should Have

Autumn Stroll
Autumn Stroll (Photo credit: MTSOfan)

It is a proven fact that men and women start to settle down into warm, cozy relationships as the weather cools off. Known as cuffing season to the more cynical, autumn is also the time for settling down and getting your snuggle on with your true love.

Often, my darling gal-pals and I discuss the wonders and horrors of our manscapades. The things we love, and love-not-so-much about our deliciously delightful menfolk.

For all of you ladies out there deciding upon which man to snug in with this winter, which man you will share romantic cocktail hours with fireside, which man next to whom you will wake up, snuggle closer too, and smile because you feel like the luckiest woman in the world, I have prepared a list of qualities you should value more highly than looks or a charming smile.

1) You know he’s crazy about you. That means that he KNOWS how to make you feel comfortable and confident. There is no flibberty-jibber stuttering about how inept he is at communicating. Bad communicators are simply; A waste. Of. Time. Move along.

2) He is thoughtful and considerate of your time. In other words, he’s not chronically late. Furthermore, he is a decisive ‘date maker’ without you having to do all of the work.

3) If he has ever had an obligatory occasion to give a wonderful gal like you a gift, it was a thoughtful gift. In other words, it’s not something he knows you don’t prefer, and just bought it because it was an on-line sale and easier than going out to do the work of thoughtful gifting.

4) His  physical amorous efforts  make your nether regions become an edge-of-your-seat-fully-entertained-standing-ovation audience which is left both exhausted and eager for more. Now, keep in mind, the other nine tips listed here must also be applicable as well, because let’s face it ladies, we all like to entertain men who momentarily make us strap on our bed-spurs and shout, “Giddy-Up!”, but they’re not the kind we need to keep for very long.

5) He takes care of you.  Gives you his jacket. Brings breakfast in bed. Pours your cocktail for happy hour when you arrive home from work. Does the driving.  Covers you up when you fall asleep reading… get the picture.

6) He makes you laugh. Belly laugh. Until you snort and pee your pants.

7) He is baggage free. No partial fresh separations, no incomplete divorces. In other words, no whiny immature excuses about his inability to have adult relationships with healthy boundaries. Trust me, B.O.B is better.

8) He thinks your quirks are cute. I once had a beau, a best friend and lover who thought my Irish temper was adorable. God rest his soul my sweet little plums.

9) No matter what, he’s there for you, and no matter what he wants you there for him.

10) Way deep down in your soul, you know, you just know, that if you could be anywhere in the world, it would be wrapped up in his arms.

Wishing you all the best in love and luck as summer wraps up her rodeo and leaves town. Stay fabulous my darlings, and don’t settle for a man who makes you feel anything less.

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Summer Harvest

Quan Yin
Quan Yin (Photo credit: Robbi Baba)

It makes me nostalgic to  know we are at the waxing of our summertime. Already I am mourning the late 9pm sunsets and my walks around the lake.

With some home reno’s complete, I’m feeling the urge to nest, to put up my home preserves, and tuck in for a long, cozy winter.

There is something entirely instinctual about the way that I feel, preparing my home for the winter months and looking forward to the crackling of the fireplace.

My old cat is stretched out on the new hardwood floors, chin flat and legs splayed, a lazy intent toward the door, and who may or may not be at the threshold.

My neighbours, Pakistani Muslims who arrived via a four year stay in Singapore have collected our cast off television and glass-doored cabinet, in preparation for their  first ‘Canadian’ winter.

How they came to collect my furniture is an odd story. I was reading David Shields’,  “How Literature Saved My Life”, when the two new neighbor girls came out to play.

Frolicking in their lemon-drop yellow and candy-floss pink dresses, I smiled behind the pages, thinking how lovely it is watch the innocent freedom through which young children experience the world.

After a few rounds in the evergreen and dogwood mini-forest, the girls disappeared back inside their home to return in a few seconds, plastic golf-clubs waving in the air, madly chasing a squirrel that appeared out of nowhere.  My attention completely left the book, which expounds quite broadly on the topic of mortality, survival and the meaning of life, to follow these pastel angels waving their Fischer Price weapons in the air.

The squirrel skittered through the underbrush, and scampered up a tree. I could almost feel his little heart pounding as he raced to escape death by pretend-five-iron. “We must throw something at him,” the young candy-floss enrobed huntress said to her older lemon-drop sister, “Can you find a big rock?”.

My stare must have put a wrinkle in their aura because they both turned around and saw me staring at them. I got their cold shoulder, and they wandered back to their patio where I could no longer witness their attack.

Cookies make everything better, so, I slid open my patio doors, and padded to the kitchen in my bare feet. I placed two of my freshly baked, half-cookie-half-brownie delights on a beautiful plate, and carried them over. Thus are all great neighbours made, are they not?

I introduced myself to Mom, to make sure the cookies were ok, and we began a conversation out on the grass about how they are settling in, where the girls will go to school, and whether or not they needed the cabinet and television I wished to give away.

I can’t help but reflect on the play-psychology of those young girls, out for blood with their toy golf clubs. Our survival instinct is intricately tangled up in our genetics like our hair colour  and the contour of our noses.

As I prepare for winter, preserving the harvest and deciding on committing to a relationship so I have someone with whom I can hibernate  during the cold  months, I will wonder at how deeply instinctual and evolutionary is our need to love and to fight.

Yesterday I was the recipient of a Quan Yin statue at my temple. An omen for sure. The goddess of compassion, the image of whom I’ve kept in my office as I carry out the truly earthy  work of caring for the dying, the dead and bereaved.

Tonight she sits as the guest of honour on my buffet, reminding me of the cycle of life; spring, summer, autumn and winter, reminding me that we are all, indeed, in this together.

Tonight I wonder at the immensity and the simplicity of it all; candy-floss and lemon-drop dresses, little girls with golf clubs, squirrels readying for winter, a Buddhist and Muslim living side by side as neighbours, and my open heart.


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Shirtless Worker
Shirtless Worker (Photo credit: Lizzie279)

Yah. We all need one sometime.

Not because we can’t do something. We wonderfully dazzling ladies need a handyman because we choose not to sully our delightfully delicate, feminine wardrobe or our manicured nails.

You may also be like me and require a handyman because you’re just a touch lazy. That’s ok my sweet, juicy, peaches. It’s OK to be a lady of leisure after a long day at the office.

I’d much rather come home to a delightfully refreshing spritzer and watch a hunky man install what-cha-ma-call-its while I watch his rippling biceps and continue to tipple.

However, my recent handyman experience has reinforced my strong tendency toward independence.

I was delighted when a tall dark and handsome man pulled up with a load of tools and an adorably short hair cut.  So delighted I had a very brief flash of imagination that instead of writing this to you, I would be tangled in my light, cotton sheets covered in sweaty handyman love, wearing his tool belt, with a socket wrench thrown in for a little pizazz. But I digress….

Alas, when said handyman stepped out of his car, he was so short I had to look down to see his biceps, and I certainly wouldn’t call them, ‘rippling’.  In other words, he was short and puny with adorable eyes.

“It’s ok, it’s the short ones that make love like Cirque du Soleil acrobats”, I told my judgmental self. “He could be the nicest guy in the world.”


Had I not had a previous relationship with a relatively short foreigner who sported an accent and an annoying attitude, I may have made the mistake of being attracted to this man. If he were on stilts and kept his mouth shut.

Mr. Handyman proceeded to try to up-sell me on electronics equipment, and then poked his nose into the photos I keep on the mantle, asking personal questions and making an irritatingly obvious attempt at flirtation.

I could hardly blame him. After all, his nose was precisely at the level of my breasts, and I could just imagine his dirty little mind undressing the girls, burying his face in the grand valley of womanhood and prematurely ejaculating in his low-riding trousers.

That I know Mr. Handyman wears tightie-whities is just wrong, wrong, wrong. I’m not talking trouser cleavage here, I’m talking low riding at his puny little hip.  That’s just dirty. In a bad way.

I couldn’t’ even continue my light, spritzer induced buzz on the off chance the vino snuck up on me and I got tanked and woke up next to this Russian anomaly of masculinity with the golden tooth.

Instead,  I made a cup of tea and made myself scarce in the kitchen.

Yep. That’s right. I had a short man with a gold tooth hitting on me in my own living room.

When he asked me out for a drink, silently in my mind I cursed the colleague who referred me to this lovely gem of Russian wisdom. I made a note to crazy-glue my beloved colleague’s wipers to his windshield and hide a lump of dog poop under the driver’s seat of his car. Soft, fresh, dog poop.

My not-so-hunky-handyman had an opinion about my relationship status (every woman needs a man), my haircut (cute), my face (fresh), and my ‘no dating’ stance ( just a little shy).

Then he walked me through a scenario when he was working with a ‘single-mother’ and texted her later that night because he liked her and asked if he could come over.  Subtle Casanova. So, with the same subtlety I let him know that should I receive a text that woke me up later this evening (or EVER) from him, it would  be at his peril.

Had I decided to get in his pants based on that story, in a week I’d be wearing his severed, dry penis and ball sack as a teeny, tiny pendant.

Handyman indeed. I think not darlings. Definitely not.

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Decolletage & Other Temptations

Free Pink Woman's Foot in Bubblebath Creative ...
Free Pink Woman’s Foot in Bubblebath Creative Commons (Photo credit: Pink Sherbet Photography)

My sweet darlings. It’s been too long. I’ve been busier than a bee in a clover field, but I have not forgotten you. NO! Of course not, how could I?

As last summer was as season of pure indulgence and delight, this summer has been equally intense with hard work and business.

With the onset of summer’s end and harvest (yes, yes, I’m afraid, I did see a leaf fall from a tree today), I have begun the work of nesting for the long, cold, winter months that are meant for snuggling and indulging in all pleasures of the flesh; Rich wine and food, long stretches of night with our lovers and languishing weekend afternoons reading, writing and socializing to our hearts’ content.

I was listening to some Rachmaninoff in the tubby-wubby last night, sunk up to my shoulders and sipping hot tea. I was thinking of someone special…a tall dark and handsome someone…or someone(s).

A someone who had in the past, perched on the floor and recited Neruda poetry and poured Cava for me as I indulged in a long soak. There was also a someone who always unwrapped a small, fresh bar of lemon soap and ran a bath for me while he prepared dinner (making sure to have a glass of beautiful Burgundy at the ready). The man who always knew what hors d’oeuvres and drink to order before I even got to the restaurant.

I also thought about the man who would take me to a pub every Friday night and how genuinely happy he was as we sipped our beer and took in the live music. There was also the fellow who bumped me around a perfect autumn in California wine country, in a jeep that had an endless stream of Van Morrison playing.

Ah yes, the memories came flooding back.

In my friskier days, I was a woman who knew exactly what her décolletage was capable of. I knew what temptation I could bait with a shy smile, a quick breath on the neck, an innocent dance or a look of surprise.

These days I know that the relationships I desire with the more handsome sex require no secret hooks, just sincerity, generosity and compassion.

After all ladies, these poor little men-folk think we’re all just fabulous as we are. For the handsome princes who are eager to please, so should we be. The rest can rot darlings.

As I mature, my intimate moments with men have taken on a flavor of deep friendship, mutual respect, and long-standing companionship. My lovers are my friends, and not a nemesis to be conquered or toyed with.

Don’t get me wrong friends, I still have my sly wit and twisted sense of humour. I’m not completely cured of an occasional indulgence of ego. Especially with the young ones. After all, they’re just so damn cute!

I’ve merely fallen in love, time and again, with the wonderful, lush machismo of my male compadres. The temptations are no longer superficial and fleeting. They are real, meaningful, and abundant with promise.

Wishing you the joy of lovers who are friends, lemon soap, and at least one fellow who knows how to order your favourite drink without having to ask.





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Savoury Sundy: Parrothead Delight

parrotsOh darlings, don’t panic. I don’t mean the heads of parrots.

No.  I’m talking about Parrotheads my friends, a group that I am a proud, card-carrying member of, despite my demure demeanor. Ah-hem…..

So, in honour of my club’s summer concert party, I offer up a simple Parrothead delight. Pair with cheeseburgers of course.

McDishy’s White-Wine-Why-Not-Phlock-Spritzers

White wine ( as much as you want)

Ice-cold Club Soda

Lemon wedges for squeezing

Pour at least half your glass full of wine, top up with icy club soda, and squeeze in a bit of lemon.

Best consumed poolside, seaside or on your patio, surrounded by your Phlock of Parrothead Pals. Wearing much more than your bathing suit and a light cover up is gauche. Mustachioed men who know the words to Blame it On The Rum considered highly attractive.

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