Hook me up!

(reprint from the Trentonian 2007)

Staring right at me … all slick, sexy and powerful … lying on my desk and silently calling out for my attention … is my new guy … my Blackberry.

He’s smart, neatly organized, doesn’t complain about my driving and likes shopping. Trouble is, while he knows everything about me, I know absolutely nothing about him. Like what turns him on?

Hey, I’m not trying to talk dirty. I’m serious. He’s just lying there on the desk because I don’t know how to switch this ‘user friendly’ piece of techno-gadgetry on!

It sounds old fashioned and turn of the century (not the last ‘turn’, the one before) but I actually write notes down. I’m a pen and paper kind of girl. I have a purse busting with lists and scribbles. My old cell allowed me to make and receive phone calls. That was it. No camera. No Internet. No automatic car starter. It didn’t read my hydro meter. It was a phone that was a phone.

But my M-in-L said something to me that made sense (don’t tell her I said that). She fought her way through the agony of getting used to using an electronic day timer because she knew if she didn’t stay up to date with technology, she would be left behind. She was right (don’t tell her that either). It’s not like we’re heading back to the rotary dial. We’re going ‘wire-less’ not ‘wire-more’. I knew I needed to get with it!

Mickey D is Captain Technology and I told him I wanted to make the leap into holding the world quite literally in the palm of my hand. After he wiped the streaming tears of joy from his cheeks, we headed to the electronics superstore.

I’m positive I could hear his heart beating in his chest as we slowly perused the handheld all-in-one devices displayed on the Wall of Circuitry – certainly his eyes sparkled and his palms got sweaty.

He reached for the Blackberry and held it gingerly in his hand. I snatched up another unit I liked with a cool slide out keyboard. But I could tell instantly by the gasps, the shock and awe, from both Mickey D and the salesgirl, that I needed to return the ‘less than Blackberry’ to the shelf. Obviously, I was not taking the task of growing up and getting connected seriously enough. This was a commitment and I had to pull it together.

“Will you, Alison Davies, take this Blackberry to be your constant companion? Will you love and comfort him, honor and keep him, in low power and full battery health, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto him as long as you both shall live? And if you purchase the no-hassle extended factory warranty for only $99.00, any repair work will be covered free of charge for a period of 36 months as long as it’s not due to neglect or misuse.”

“I will”

“And the extended warranty?”

“Ah, sure, ‘I will’, to that, too.”

We traded in our children's University fund and walked down the aisle into the mall with ‘him’.

Sure there is a high rate of remorse – some people jump into handheld devices without thinking it through and soon they lose interest. But that’s not going to be me. This is different. I’m committed to making it work – for better or for worse.

I’m going to be one of those people that never leaves home without the old ball and chain, oops, sorry, Honey, I mean Blackberry.

There’s no talking turkey when you’re sawing logs

If you’re feeling a little touch of turkey-itis this week, don’t blame it all on the bird. Your fatigue has just as much to do with your Aunt Gertrude’s stuffing and your Uncle Marty’s glass raising cheers of thanks.

Everyone blames Tryptophan, the apparent sleep agent in turkey but I did a little carving out of the truth. The turkey is a wild and crazy friend enjoying a night out with pals - not a date boring you with his early memories of the farm.

Yes, your main course has Tryptophan and in the body, that produces niacin. Niacin jumps right in there and produces the oh-so-calming, nappy time serotonin. Mmmm, big breath now…in through your nose … out through your mouth. And while this serotonin is indeed a sleep regulator, there’s a problem (and it’s not as far a stretch as the snooze bar). For Tryptophan to be the main suspect in slowing you down, it needs to be taken on an empty stomach and most definitely without protein. Good job, my dear Watson. So Tommy the Protein-packed Turkey is not working alone. Let’s get back to the scene of the crime – the buffet line – and the stuffing. What do we really know about Aunt Estelle anyway?

We know she carted in the high on the carb-o-meter gizzard-packed stuffing. It’s these high carbs that make the pancreas secrete insulin (not often that I can fit the word secrete into a column). Boom! Insulin makes competing amino acids check out of the bloodstream and in to the muscle cells, leaving a high level of Tryptophan swimming in the blood which makes you feel a smidge sleepy. But the Tryp to Snoozeville isn’t over yet.

In docks the gravy boat and you stir in the very fats that slow down digestion. Your stomach sucks all the energy out of the rest your body to deal with what came down the oesophageal pike. So the captain, your brain, sends out a message to return to your seat and settle in for the journey.

Alcohol gets a big pat on the back for its contribution to the nap-needing, too. By dessert, Uncle Marty has expressed thanks by way of a toast to family, sunny days, the CBC, Don Cherry, Viagra and shelled peanuts. Booze is a depressant for the central nervous system.

And overeating. Is there a big enough plate in the Country to lay host to the Thanksgiving Day feast? We shove, squeeze, jam and hoist food into our mouths with one hand while we reach for another buttered roll with the other. In the mere presence of turkey, we become pigs. It’s a ‘he who eats the fastest, gets the most’ world.

As the meal comes to an end, with Uncle Marty sleeping with his hand still gripping the wine glass and Aunt Estelle reminiscing about her Grandma Trudy that passed down that stuffing recipe, we push back our chairs and decompress. This relaxation, after an action packed, family filled holiday, provides the slow down and stretch out that’s the final straw to break the groggy camels back. You’re too pooped to even think about the yummy leftovers.

You lean back on the couch and cover your mouth with your hand as you let out a big yawn (and then reach for a napkin because you find a little piece of pumpkin pie on your upper lip). Soon, you snuggle back in and realize what you’re really thankful for. You’re thankful you’ll wake up after your nap – Tommy the Turkey has sadly sung his last swan song.

Hope the holiday was lovely for you all. I’m thankful you keep reading so I can keep writing.

Fail to plan and plan to wail

Go inside any McDonalds and there is a huge, backlit sign showcasing their complete price list. You know what you are getting yourself into financially when you supersize the fries (not that I have ever done that).

Wanna buy a car? The sticker price is for the base model and if you want to heat up your buns, you’ll pay more for the built-in seat warmer.

Telling people what they are going to pay for something seems standard operating procedure in this ‘selling you stuff’ world.

With the exception of one industry: dental offices. They write their own rules.

“We’re going to do X-rays this visit.”

“Ah, okay”. No mention of what the additional cost is – you just nod in acceptance.

When a retail sales clerk says “This belt is a great accessory for those pants”, you can flip over the price tag in the change room and do the old “Nah, I have one just like it at home”.

Hard to fake with a ‘We have an X-ray machine in the basement but thanks”.

Now truth be told (not always a given in this column), while I’m busy booking my next blind purchase, I mean, dentist appointment, my bill gets magically sent to the insurance company for payment. We have a Dental Plan.

It would be way more fun to have a Disneyland Plan, or an Early Retirement Plan (I think the dentist has one of those) or a Barbie Dream Castle Floor Plan (I think the dentist has one of those, too). But it’s hard to pay for a Dental Plan AND have one of those plans.

I thought my parents had provided me with a lifelong dental plan: brush, floss, rinse, spit, don’t eat rocks and don’t crack-open beers with your molars (thanks for that tip, Grammy Davies).

Doesn’t that sound like a solid dental plan?

The paid-for plan includes metal probes, power tools, recliner chairs and deep scaling. There’s a hooked suction hose that is supposed to void your rivers of saliva but instead it vacuum seals itself to the inside of your cheek.

And the paid-for plan also includes the use of mad scientist torture devices like the Dr. Jekyll cold iron needle plunger. Yikes. Can we not make a pink one with a little portion of the plan premium going to breast cancer research? Why does it have to look so terrorizing? And what’s with creepy dentist holding it down low, rolling the chair a little closer, a little closer, and then BAM – in one swift move, he stabs the needle right into the roof of your mouth? My God – is there any part on your body that seems less interested in having a needle jammed into it than the cratered moon-like surface of the roof of your mouth? It’s like hardened rubber up there.

Within minutes of your roof-top injection, you find yourself numb from the temples down, your feet are elevated, your head is downhill, the blood is rushing to your ears, the light is in your eyes, there is a tray of metal instruments to your left, a masked assistant to your right, the suction hook latches onto your cheek and you think ‘Is this really the right Plan for me?”

Dogs chew Denta Stix. They’re laughing at us.



Alison Davies writes More About Life weekly for the Trentonian.

So that’s how the Duke got his swagger

Real life is so much funnier than fiction. We can get ourselves into such messes!

Family was here from out of town recently and I was talking with Duke. Duke is a formidable guy. Big, solid, as sweet as apple pie and like Superman - he’s stronger than a locomotive. He’s the kind of guy you want on your football team or in the anchor position during a tug o’ war match.

We were talking about a local restaurant he was heading to for dinner when he shared this belly buster with me.

Back in his home town, there is a place that serves an endless list of chicken wing flavours. One of the selections is so brutally hot, anyone ordering them is required to sign a waiver. Now, I’ve never missed a meal in my life but I’d think twice if I had to sign away my legal rights before ingesting something.

Well, eating these wings were a bucket list item for Duke so he signed away. Matter of fact, he was so confident in his superhero abilities to swallow fire that he didn’t even read that stinkin’ waiver before scribbling his Clark Kent on the bottom line.

Six wings arrived. Duke made his way through 3 of them. That’s 2 more than a mere mortal could have managed. They weren’t “Gee, I’m sweating” hot, they were “OMG, I’ve lost the sight in my right eye” hot.

Duke excused himself and headed to the washroom. He wasn’t sick; he just needed to move around a bit and take a moment. Remember, these things did come with a warning.

About 15 minutes after returning to the table, Duke started to feel the heat again – BAD. Not in his mouth or on his fingers, not in his stomach … lower, lower … not twisting in his intestines … lower, lower, lower ….apparently that well intentioned but unread waiver included a warning to thoroughly wash hands BEFORE going to the washroom – especially pertinent to you fella’s who need to steer the ship. Ahhhhhhh!

Duke had done what his mamma taught him: pee first then wash your hands - wrong order of events in this restaurant. Again, ahhhhhhh!

He’s burning. He turns to his lovely wife and shared the horror of what was happening to his privates. She, like any concerned wife finding themselves in this situation, laughed.

He wanted to go home. He needed to go home. But he couldn’t move. He was on fire. Our ‘faster than a speeding bullet’ man was buckled over and sizzling.

How far away is the local emergency department?

Is there a urologist in the house?

Smart Mrs. Duke said he better get back to that washroom and bust out the soap. He needed to stop this chemical spill if they were ever going to have a family of their own.

Duke staggered to the men’s room. Taking matters into his own hands, he unloaded the damaged goods into the sink and begin to save what he could. Lather, rinse, repeat. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Now what makes me laugh is imagining the other guys that went into that washroom who didn’t know about the waiver wings. Can’t you just picture their surprised faces when they walked in on some neat freak giving himself a sponge bath in the sink!

I’m happy to report that Duke is able to leap tall buildings in a single bound again. And that he barely screams out in his sleep anymore.

Confucius say “He who ignores fine print, soon finds himself sinking.”

Its time to abandon that fashion ship

How long have men been wearing Capri’s?

I’m at a big splash pad with my boys and watching a flock of dad’s chasing their kids around when I notice they are all making the same ¾ length-leg fashion faux pas.

Sorry, fella’s, but as far as I’m concerned, only women can pull off the ‘too long to be shorts, too short to be pants” look. What are you thinking?

And because the fountains are spewing water, the dad’s are all shirtless so plenty of tattoos are being flashed around. Chinese symbols, razor-edged bands, lions and tigers and bears, oh my.

Back in the day, tattoos were reserved for the ‘bad boys’. Now they are common fare for Chess Club Past Presidents and government tax accountants. Young, fresh-faced daddies are sporting the old snake and dagger on the bicep. What are you thinking?

When men starting wearing earrings in the 70’s, that fad moved to a trend quickly. And at this water park, you would be hard pressed to not see a guy splashing around with a hoop or a stud or …

Hey, wait just one second.

Capri’s, tattoos, earrings...OMG!

Now I know what you guys are thinking.

Shiver me Timbers – its Pirate fashion!

As if sensing I’d stumbled upon their walk the plank, I mean, walk the runway style attempt, every goateed face in the joint looked right in my direction.

(gasp) Goatees! Well, if that doesn’t confirm it, this will:

“When Johnny Depp grew out his thin moustache and goatee for his roll as the swashbuckling Pirate of the Caribbean, young men begin sporting his ‘styled pirate look’.” Says George Caroll, legendary hair stylist to the Stars. (http://www.georgecaroll.com/george.htm)

Oh, honestly guys, pirates?

Clearly, we’ve left them to their own fashion devices too long, Ladies. The warning signs were there. Remember when they attempted the sweater vest? That was a cry for help and we looked away and snickered rather than helping.

You know, hundreds of years ago, both men and women wore cravats – the early neck tie. But those women handed that piece of fashion over exclusively to their men. Some folk lore states that women had liked the idea of a piece of fabric being tied around their husband’s necks and tightened. Other records support the notion women felt men couldn’t really go wrong with such a simple garment. Who would have thought they’d figure out how to stuff batteries into it and make Rudolph’s nose flash for the holidays.

Well, it’s clearly time to help again. We must turn their pirate ship around.

I suggest we give them leg warmers. We’re not using them anymore and it might make them stop wearing socks with their sandals. If it’s a go, I’ll pick up some Captain Morgan’s and schedule the intervention.

Alison Davies writes More About Life weekly for the Trentonian. Continue to email her through her blog at www.alisondavies.ca

Monkey no see, Monkey no do

Summer makes being a bossy parent much harder. It’s just too easy for the kiddies to hide in plain sight.

"Drewpy, when we get home, I need you to …"

"Drew, I need you to ..."

"Drew, please stop, I need..."

"Drewpy, please…”

Submerge. Submerge. Under the water he disappears again.

My kids go all “Hunt for Red October” in my in-laws pool as soon as they hear the start of a sentence that sounds like I’m going to ask them to do something.

Sean Connery couldn’t track ‘em with sonar. They stay lurking beneath the surface figuring if they don’t hear the instructions, they can’t speak or acknowledge the instructions.

I bet the record holder for holding their breath underwater is some kid from a dairy farm whose mom was trying to get him out of the pool and into the field for cow patty clean-up.

There’s tons of sneaky, defiant, “huh, did you say something?” summer fun for kids.

In our house, it’s been so hot that they know when they ask to play video games down in our chilly basement, I’m very likely to say yes.

And they have realized that my yes not only gets them a mid-day video party, but it also provides a "Sorry, but we couldn't hear you" easy out when I'm on my third, high volume yell down the stairs looking for someone to walk the dog.

Summer was invented for kids who want to run away from home without actually leaving. They get all the benefits of a cushy life as they hoodwink their powers that be.

"I didn’t see you, Mom."

"You didn’t see me looking like a fool waving my arms wildly to signal I wanted you home to cut the grass?"

"Mom, I was on my bike at the other end of the street. You wanted me to get more exercise. I’m sorry."

Everything they say is so sugar-coated in innocence.

Winter doesn’t blow in with all the same built in ‘get out of jail’ free cards.

It even takes more time in winter to get suited up for the outdoors – plenty of time between snow pants and mittens to bark out a few “don’t forget to unload the dishwasher when you come back in” or “I want that homework done before dinner”.

In the summer, they are just a pair of flip-flops away from a great escape.

"Can someone help me carry up the laundry hampers? Hello? Guys, can someone..."

Scuffle scuffle scuffle schlink shlump schlink shlump shhhhwap schlink shlump BANG

"Was that the door? Is anybody up there? Hello? Hello? Where did everybody go?"

See no evil. Hear no evil. Speak no evil. That’s the summer mantra for my three wise apes.











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You gotta know when to fold ‘em

Every once in a while, you hear about some famous person who never fly’s – they travel around by bus. It’s so not cool. Dolly Parton was recently showing off her bus on Oprah.

“Here’s my teeny tiny bathtub. Here’s my itty bitty TV screen.” But you were a big sensation, Dolly. Show us your private plane and ‘islands in the jet stream’.

She was very excited about one special feature on board: she can simply hit a button and a solid, flat panel will slide out from one wall and click into the opposite wall so she can separate one room from the next. Isn’t that a similar technology to ‘the door’?

Dolly – you’re known for your big hair, big lashes, and big sequins but now you’re big busted in your old-styled transportation.

Younger stars are bragging about hopping on shuttles to the moon and ‘here you come again’ rolling into Chicago in the Partridge Family tour bus.

Travel in 2010 style: Helium filled breast implants. Just politely pass a little gas whenever you need to float down to do a concert.

It would work for her because every aging country music singer loves their plastic surgery. Is their goal to slow down Father Time’s wrath or are they looking to be completely transported back to puberty?

Dolly brought her old pal Kenny Rogers with her to Oprah for a duet. Sheesh - that Kenny Rogers was the gambler alright when he went back for more nip / tuck. Is he getting his work done under the care of Oscar Goldman and the doctors at OSI – Office of Scientific Intelligence? That’s the place that made the promise to the Bionic Man Steve Austin, “We can rebuild you – we can make you better, stronger, faster”.

It’s very disconcerting to hear the voice of Kenny Rogers coming out of an apple face doll.

I hated Ruby for taking her love to town but Kenny, many spouses say “I don’t know you anymore” but Ruby could really make that statement.

“911? My name is Ruby. There is a strange pre-pubescent boy in my home. Yes, I can describe him. He has snow white hair, a snow white goatee, he’s coated in spray tan, his eyes are pulled so tight they are vertical and he keeps singing “Don’t fall in love with a dreamer” – no, Ma’m, he’s not a lawn gnome, he says he’s Kenny Rogers.”

When Kenny Rogers proposed to his wife, he said “I’m your knight in shining armour and I love you”. She said yes to the marriage proposal but did ask why he was wearing the shining armour.

“Oh, I just had 6 ribs removed to make myself look slimmer and this keeps the swelling down.”

Know when to walk away from self improvement and know when to run. Run, Kenny, Run!

Okay, okay, I’m done being mean spirited. I will always love you, Dolly and Kenny, truth be known, I wouldn’t mind borrowing that shining armour because I’m feeling about three times a lady and my control top super briefs just aren’t cutting it. Have you got Goldman’s number handy?

Guinea pigs are people, too

Einstein I’m not. I’m okay with that. Physicism is not a career path I entertained. Actually, I don’t even think physicism is a word. I just wanted to be at least as smart as my sweetie-piesky, Mickey D. But I’m not. He pokes fun at me to this day that I’m lagging behind him a smidge.

He came up with this notion many years ago when he was in University and asked if I would be a guinea pig for a classmate of his. I said yes.

Just like when I said yes to my brother to be his guinea pig in 1974: “Hey, Al. Jump behind the wheel of my homemade go-cart, okay? I wanna see if it’ll make it all the way down Dead Man’s Hill without the wheels flying off”.

It did not.

And I said yes when that same brother asked: “Will you lie down here? Lets see if it’s possible to free yourself when you are rolled in blankets, bound, blindfolded and gagged.”

It is not possible.

Well, this guinea pig was about to try out a more intellectual path.

“Hey, Al. A guy from school could use your help. Can you go to his class and let him give you an IQ test? The results don’t matter – it’ll be fun.”

It was not.

“If a train was heading east at 147 km/hour with a 33 km/hour head wind on a track with a 5 degree incline, how many minutes would it take for you to travel from the caboose to the engine car?”

“Depends. Where’s the bar car?”

Okay, I made that one up but there were math and vocabulary questions; spatial skill drills and logic (like that’s one of my strong suits).

My short term memory was challenged. I could barely remember what I had eaten for breakfast and, ah, where was I, oh, the IQ test.

The fellow moved skilfully from one set of tests to another.

“Time for Geometrics” he stated.

Geometrics: How well one can comprehend geometric relationships of lines, sides, planes, angles, and topological properties.

Oh, I was in trouble. My brain hurt. It would have been easier for me to dismantle the brakes on my car and head to the top of Dead Man’s Hill.

Rote Utilization. Algebraic. Intuition. Computation Speed.

I couldn’t even spell I – Q by this point.

Finally, he took all his notations and disappeared to summarize his findings.

I headed up a 5 degree incline towards the bar car.

Mickey received his friends test results for the both of us.

“It looks like you scored Superior.”

Well, in slightly more time than it took me to blast out: “IN YOUR FACE! YOU’RE DARN TOOTIN’ I’M SUPERIOR”, he hit me with “Oh, sorry. His final comments for you are down here. You scored high average.” Mickey had scored Superior.

The only thing wrong with being high average is knowing that for a whole 1.2 seconds, I was Superior (kinda). But honestly, do you think someone who is ‘average’ could come up with physicism and sweetie-piesky? I highly doubt it.

The Mother Ship is calling me home

This column arrives after Mothers Day on purpose. It’s more real life to be late in an ‘Owed to Mothers’ tribute …it just fits.

“Hey, Mom will understand that we didn’t have time to buy a gift, get a card or call.”

Because Mom’s are the Queens of Understanding.

Now for me, the understanding from my Queen began when I was delivered to this planet by way of spaceship. Aliens left me on my parents’ doorstep and my mom, being the Saint she is, agreed to raise me as her own. It’s the only plausible explanation as to how she wound up getting stuck with me.

My mother is tiny framed and 5 foot 1 inch tall (and I think I’m being generous); I’m, how do they say it, “big boned” and 5’9”.

My mother maintains a weight that is within 10 pounds of my birth weight. She exercises everyday, lifts free weights, dabbles with yoga and tai chi and took golf lessons when I was a kid.

I spent grades 7, 8 and 9 in a full length leg cast due to a horrifying, death defying, cross country skiing incident. I’m still nervous around low grade inclines.

Her hands are small and delicate; I have man hands – I mean real catchers mitts. Her nails are filed beautifully to a sensible length and lightly coated in a pastel polish; mine are bitten, jagged, ridgey and I don’t care and she knows it.

There are a few early school pictures of me in a dress. Ick. It just wasn’t my thing. I preferred pants, sloppy shirts and hair tucked behind my ears in a Marsha Brady style.

Girly pom pom hats she would buy were thrown out at school. Sparkling white running shoes were left behind the wheels of the car so my dad would drive over them and scuff ‘em to a wearable condition.

When I was a teenager, my mother would head out to work each day in a classic pleat skirt, silky hose, stylish high heels, crisply ironed blouse and a smart, tailored jacket. Her hair would be gently streaked, makeup carefully applied and accessories perfectly selected.

I would race passed her in a Van Halen t-shirt, black eyeliner and a green lumber jacket with rock band pins plastered all over it.

Our home was impeccable; she whipped up healthy balanced meals after her Mary Tyler Moore day working for Mr. Grant, she took English Literature classes at U of T, volunteered, and smiled through every baton lesson, hockey practice or baseball game.

I live out of laundry hampers, praise the gods for inventing microwaves, take my courses online and sit at the kids’ practices distracted by the thousand things running through my brain.

And you know what my mom has told me pretty much every day of my life? You’d think it would be to pull it together or offer some tip on how I could do better. Nope. She has always told me she’s proud of me. Huh? That she loves me and doesn’t know how I do it. She says I’m smart, talented and these days, that I’m a great mom. Me!!! Ratty haired, broken nailed, sloppy, chunky, frumpy, messy, whiney, moany, her polar-opposite me!!

OMG - You don’t think she’s being mind-controlled by my Martian parents, do you?


Alison Davies is a humour columnist for the Trentonian. Her articles and essays have appeared throughout North America. Read her business blog at www.morebusiness.ca

The Fountain of Youth for $19.95 plus installation

A horrible thing has happened since my last column. I’ve turned 44. Whew – I just got chills. The occasion was marked with a cake boasting two very big, neatly lined up 4’s. Nice touch. I suppose it was in case the number had slipped my mind or my eyesight had started to fade (which it has, sniff sniff).

To me, 43 seemed so 40-ish. Forty is after all, the new black. It’s chic and hot to be forty. Its “I am woman, hear me roar” time. You’re pre-belly fat, pre-menopausal and post diaper changing – hooray for 40!

But it’s a short lived celebration.

Once you get to your mid forty’s, the party is over and it’s less about pro-living and more about anti-aging.

Itchy, my ‘man in the middle’, is an advertising junkie so I’m used to hearing things like:

“Mom, Mom. A store on TV said if we buy one pair of shoes from them, they will give us another pair of shoes for like 50% off. Fifty percent off, Mom – that’s almost free.”

Well lately, he has shifted his attention to personal care products for me:

“Mom. You’re gonna love this. I just heard about this cream that you wipe on your face everyday for a week. Then you wipe it a few times during the next week. And then all of your wrinkles will be gone and you will be young again. It would be like a miracle for you.”

Ah, the tender surroundings of a house filled with boys.

What about the old fine wine/cheese theory? That you get better with age?

Clearly the product manufacturers aren’t winos or old cheddar fans because they’re really pushing these age-defying, age-defending, age-fighting wrinkle erasers. We’re encouraged to rejuvenate, repair or replace whichever of our parts is not going along with the ‘anti-aging’ program. Aren’t we throwing the grown up, wrinkly baby out with the Epsom salts bath water, here?

I mean, what exactly is the ‘anti-aging’ movement? I’m all for slowing down the hands of time but I’m not exactly anti aging. The alternative to aging seems rather grim.

The Dream Lips Age Defying Plumping Serum offers immediate plumping results. So does a Big Mac. I just have to figure out how to get it to go to my lips.

Revlon has an Age Defying Concealer with Botafirm. If I were them, I would rename it Butt-o-firm – the bigger the butt, the more it would take to conceal and defy – that’s a money maker.

One series of articles I read about wiping the age slate clean came from a guy that also informs on decorative night lights. That’s it – let’s hide in dimly lit rooms while we treat ourselves to a mud mask guaranteed to restore our youth in less than 10 minutes.

I’m not falling for any of this junk. I am who I am and if nothing else, being in my mid forties (gulp, still kinda hard to say) has taught me one thing:

Don’t fall for all the gimmicks and magic anti-aging potions – just hang out with people who are a lot older than you.

Hey, keep your distance!

My mom was in town to see Drewpy in a school play. Mickey D phoned to say he would have to stay at work late so instead of coming home first, he would meet up with mom and I at the school. I let her in on the plans while we ate dinner with the three boys.

Half way through the chicken caesar salad, my six year old Achey turned and said in a very serious tone to my mom, "Grandma, if you're thinking about hugging my dad when you see him tonight - DON'T. We have a no-touch policy at my school".

I’d rather have cabin fever

Saturday night was the final banquet for the curling club to officially end the season. Sunday night was the first meeting for the soccer club to officially begin the season.

Is there no time to even take a shower between the extra curricula’s these days?

I’ll miss curling. I hate change and the fact that I can consistently stink at curling is reassuring.

The rest of my life seems to be going to hell in a hand basket.

Yes. That is a camper trailer parked in my driveway. Yes, we bought it. Yes, that was me cleaning it, vacuuming it, buying Tupperware storage bins for it and picking dead flies out of the zippered windows.

Ladies and Gentleman, Alison L. Davies, born and raised a city slicker, will now not have my wagon hitched to a star as much as have my camper trailer hitched to my mini van.

“Sleeps six ‘comfortably’” the guy said in his sales pitch. Hmmm. I wonder if he’s ever slept on a Sealy Posturepedic at Howard Johnsons. They’re pretty comfortable.

He must have been bragging up trailer sleeping over the less comfortable ‘sleeping directly on the ground’. Yeah. I’m certain he was sticking it to the tent-styled accommodations that come with the “suitable for all hard surfaces” guarantee.

A hotel room tends to spoil its guests with modern conveniences like unlimited electricity and boundless streams of running water. The camper trailer gets plugged in and there’s a water jug to fill under the spit sink.

A hotel room has security windows; a camper trailer has sturdy zippers.

A hotel room has a sitting area with a coffee table; a camper trailer has a kitchen table that doubles as the master bedroom.

A hotel room has a hair dryer, wake up service and a coffee maker; a camper trailer has a fire extinguisher, thin canvas walls and a wheel jack.

A hotel room can be a few doors down from the elevator; a camper trailer uses a crank to hoist up its roof.

But who am I to not go along with the group and in this case, ‘the group’ consists of the soccer moms. We have some tournaments to play and the soccer moms want the whole team to camp. And you DO NOT cross the soccer moms.

Last Sunday morning, one of these soccer moms, Madame (French teacher not brothel owner) scored on me twice during my soccer game. And she plays on my team!!

Oh no, if the soccer moms say ‘camp’, you camp – nuff said.

Mickey D knew that me roughing it in a tent could alter my personality forever. And out of fear that it would make me even more unbearable and impossible to live with, he coughed up some dough to ensure I would be nestled a good 4 feet off the ground. I tell ya, that Mickey D knows how to treat a lady.

Drinks Taste Better in Coconut Shells

Through the magic of modern publishing, I’ve been able to slip away without anyone being the wiser. I snuck back into town last Thursday night after a week in Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic.

Certainly I’m no travel writer but I do feel an obligation to report my experiences so no one else has to walk in my shoes … well, sandals.

The people in the Dominican are having a little fun at our expense.

As soon as you land, everyone greets you with a smile and a big “Hola” (oh la!), which simply means ‘hello’. Well, how much fun is Hola to say?? They know that once we tourists master ‘Hola’, we think we are completely fluent in Spanish.

So the laughs are on us when we start an exchange with “Hola”, throw a little slowed-English in and then they reply by hitting us with actual full Spanish sentences.

“Hola. Me a-no like, you know ‘like’, well, me no like too much rum, okay?”

“Ah, Si. Entiendo. Quieres un montón de ron” replies the pool bartender with a grin as she pours what looks like an awful lot of rum into my Banana Mama.

And, of course, the food at our hotel was fantastic. But I knew what the staff was up to. They figured they’d fatten us up for our world-renowned cold Canadian winter. Well, the jokes on you, Island Dwellers, because it’s not winter in Canada all year round. We’re gonna be fat for summer – hah! Take that, Chocolate Crepe Station!

Sadly, the rooms were so clean and well kept that we could never feel like it was a ‘home away from home’. The fresh flowers on the bed, the gleaming tiled floors and the sparkling Jacuzzi tub --nope, sorry, but that’s not screaming ‘home’ at all.

But it didn’t truly dawn on me that we were the brunt of some international ‘kill ‘em with kindness’ tomfoolery until I was on the beach at sunset the night before we left with two of my sons and my two nephews. They were all wave jumping and frolicking as I looked out over the ocean.

The water, quite honestly, was a colour my eyes have never seen before. It never appeared on a colour wheel in school or on a Glidden paint chip.

I’ll say jade but, wow, what a weak description. It was greener, or lighter, or brighter or maybe deeper. And lying under a lavender sky with its streaks of blueberry and pink, well, again, the Punta Cana locals surely giggle knowing they’ve challenged us to describe the indescribable -- in any language, let alone our own.

Thank goodness the honestly of SkyService came into play or we would have been completely duped by greatness. SkyService, our airline carrier, folded its wings while we were away. Thank you, SunWing, aka The Cavalry, who came to our rescue. They were amazing and gave us a fabulous ride home.

We did stumble upon love on that Dominican Island though. Mickey D’s cousin Jaime-Lynn married her sweetheart Damon under a white gazebo alongside breathtaking shores and white sands. They had lots of friends and family gathered. Even bathing-suit-clad onlookers from the beach witnessed their vows. Hopefully the hairy guy in the Speedo didn’t make it to any of the photos. There were no words to describe that sight either.

Alison Davies writes More About Life weekly. Email your thoughts to alisondavies@morebusiness.ca

Gimme that 25th hour

“Mom,” Itch said as he entered the kitchen. “I really, really want this 8th book in the 39 Clues book series. I’ve read the other 7 and its ONLY $9.99 if you order it from school” he said while waving a Scholastic book order form around.

It’s Monday. It’s 8:10 in the morning. I have two other kids looking hungrily at me. I’ve agreed to drive them because I have to drop off a bag of clothes and costumes that I’ve been busy assembling for use in their big upcoming school musical.

I’m feeling stretched and he’s throwing yet another something at me. Frustration races through my veins as I stand waiting for the toast to pop.

“Mom. Just come here for a minute and read the description of the book. It’s totally awesome.”

I mentioned it was Monday morning, right?

“Itch. I don’t have a minute. I don’t have 10 seconds. It’s ‘awesome’ for YOU but for ME, it’s just another thing I have to do. And I’m running on overload around here. You guys are sitting there like bumps while I make your breakfast. And in between toast popping and milk pouring and listening to blabbering about who wants peanut butter AND jam and who will die if jam even comes close to landing on their toast, I’m also picking fallen jackets up off the floor, finding matching socks and putting the lunches together.”

I motion to the counter and the three separate piles. “One guy likes apple juice not fruit punch; the other guy will throw his sandwich in the garbage if there is butter on it and I’m smack dab in the middle of my daily struggle to strike a balance between the evil pre-packed snacks and fruit and sliced cucumbers.”

“You guys just don’t get it. There is not enough time in a day. Not only do I carry your laundry hampers downstairs, wash the clothes, dry the clothes, carry them back up, fold them AND put everyone’s clothes away, lately I’ve been having to waste time searching for the dirty clothes – under beds, shoved into drawers, in the closet – its ridiculous.”

“I throw out empty wrappers left on the counter. And, correct me if I’m wrong, I seem to be the only one capable of putting a glass into the sink LET ALONE loading it into the dishwasher.”

“The floor needs to be swept – I’ll end up doing it. I’ve been asking for a week if you would each go through this stack of papers on the table and throw out what needs to be thrown out but I guess I’ll end up doing that, too. And, if you can believe THIS, I found half drank water bottles left by the sink. Are all of you SO LAZY that you can’t even dump out the water from your own drinking bottles???? Do you think someone is going to follow you around and pick up after you FOR YOUR WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE!?”

“Itchy! You might really, really want that book but you leaving the sheet there waiting for me to read the description is JUST GIVING ME ONE MORE THING TO DO!!” Ahhhhhhhh.

After wiping the last bit of spit off my lip, I look towards my three boys for some sign, some glimmer, of understanding…

Itch looked at me wide eyed. “Maybe I could read the book description out loud to you.”