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Dear Diary – At first I thought they were chocolate cupcakes piled high with silky blue buttercream icing. My potential future daughter-in-law is a great baker and learned how to decorate during a summer job in a bakery. “Can you guess what we’re making?”, asked Eldest Son.

My guess was wrong.

He directed me to watch the video which I had “obviously not watched”. Obviously I had not. This woman was making meat cupcakes. No, that isn’t a typo. Meat Cupcakes. Why? Because her daughter had asked why you couldn’t have cupcakes for dinner, and she realized, no reason. Her daughter is after my own heart, but I admit, I prefer the sweet kind.

Eldest Son and his girlfriend joined us Friday night to celebrate Father’s Day, and I had suggested they make meat cupcakes for dear ol’ dad. I bought the groceries and made the salad. Then I was directed from the perimeters of the kitchen to grab bowls and graters, etc. and I introduced them to my spice drawer.

The end result was, I must say, delicious. You just had to overlook the pool of grease at the bottom of the cups. Essentially, meat cupcakes are cheese-filled mini meat loaves, topped with blue Betty Crocker garlic whipped potatoes, and garnished with a fried cheese tuille.

The type of meal is the kind that warms Dad’s heart.

Dear Diary – Hubby was looking at houses for sale amongst the villages and hamlets near the city where Eldest Son lives and he came across one with an unusual name: Punkydoodles Corner. On Wikipedia, he read that this blip on the map is known for its odd name and “for sign theft”. Eldest Son’s girlfriend piped up, “it’s also known for accidents”.

I said, “That’s because of all the stolen stop signs”! 😉

Dear Diary – After I spent an hour filling out Youngest Son’s passport application, partly because my printing is legible and partly because if I waited for him, my 3 day trip to visit him would be over, I drove Youngest Son to the passport office. It was 30 degrees outside…in the shade, but cool in the empty office.

I’ll admit. I went in fully expecting to be met with a frozen clerk dishing out lots of rejection. I’ve had a few bad experiences before! Youngest Son’s passport had expired during Covid, and while we went through the process of a mug shot and filling in forms once offices were open, we never went. Wait times were 8 hours or more, and I just couldn’t face it. We never travel anyway, and I guess I assumed he’d have his driver’s license by now, so he wouldn’t need it for photo ID.

We waited less than 2 minutes before we were invited into the inner sanctum.

Our clerk was quiet but thorough, reviewing the form and highlighting a few things we missed or didn’t do “quite right”. She told us how to fix it and within 10 minutes, it was all over.

I felt light and giddy. In fact, I was so in awe, I didn’t even notice the wall of heat that hit us in the face like a brick when we stepped outside. I kept waiting for something to happen to let us know that the ease with which we transacted our business was a cruel joke, a prank, and our anguished, crumpled faces would be splashed on t.v. in slow motion, with canned laughter in the background.

But nothing happened.

We drove home, sweating despite the air-conditioner blasting, to pick up my Mom and go for ice-cream. This was certainly a day to mark on the calendar.

Dear Diary – The closed captioning errors on Masterchef Australia Season 2 last Thursday night didn’t disappoint:

“I don’t like raw pastor.”

“You’ve talked to us about your colonary dream…”

“I’m making ravioli with sage and a porn moose”

“I’m making a Porn cream saffron sauce.”

What’s up with these Australians cooks? Everybody knows Pastors are best cooked over a hot grill to a juicy medium rare, and never paired with a porn sauce. As far as I know, colons don’t dream, but I’m guessing if they did, it would be about food. Food poisoning would be a nightmare. I don’t even want to think about a pole-dancing loose moose.

Dear Diary – I was reviewing my Fabricland receipt (from a recent visit) and I discovered that I had been charged for 5 pillow slips, when I had only purchased 3. I expected to be out of luck, but I called the store anyway. I ended up being transferred to the retailer who had cashed me out. There had been a couple slip-ups during that transaction, but I was still surprised when she remembered me. It probably helped that I had my outspoken, chatty friend with me. She remembered her too.

My friend and I drove over again and we had a lovely visit while she did my refund. Which I immediately went and spent on strapping for the cross-body bags I made from one of the pillow slips. It seemed only fitting.

Dear Diary – Eldest Son’s girlfriend and her sister are taking her Mom for a Spa Day soon. She’s never been. (Neither have I).

His girlfriend went last Fall with her sister and a friend, but they didn’t tell her that there was not talking, no cell phones, and to bring a book. It was a long afternoon of twiddling her thumbs.

I can’t imagine spending an entire afternoon with a group of women I love…not talking! I’d rather go to a tea shop and have a great gab. Even better if there’s scones and whipped cream.

It’s my belief we developed language because of our deep inner need to complain.
Lily Tomlin

Dear Diary – I’m visiting Youngest Son, and my folks who have been putting up with hosting Youngest Son for the last several weeks while he slept all day/chatted all night searched for a summer job. He had one, but his career as a sandwich artist was short-lived and absolutely despised.

The weather man is throwing out phrases like “trapped under a heat dome” and “prolonged heat event” which basically just means stinking hot! It could be worse…parts of Canada experienced snow this week (and not in the far Great North).

A great way to beat weather hot-ness is plunging in a pool, but hotness is not a word that comes to mind when I think about bathing suits. Bathing suits push the limits of textiles tensile strength. Lycra was invented to hold shapes and smooth rumples, but it has a breaking point. And it is not pretty when it reaches its breaking point. It’s not usually a sudden bursting failure, but a gradual one that involves words like “seepage” and “side boob”. Words that the weather man has never been forced to say, but often is forced to view in video clips of beachside sunbathers.

Unless you look like a supermodel, women’s bathing suits conceal far too little. Children are particularly vulnerable to scarring at this time of year, because their imagination is still magically-based, outside the sobering realities of the real world. They don’t know that monsters exist, and that they look like your Aunt Maureen in a violet tankini with a corset back.

No one should wear a violet tankini with a corset back.

All this to say, I’m not ready to don my bathing suit, assuming it still fits. And my self-esteem certainly isn’t ready to shop for a new one. Yet. I looked at a couple at GT Boutique today. The first one I picked up was black. It was missing the entire middle section. I know this because I stuck my arm through it and waved at my Mom. The second one I picked up was one-piece, with a striped top and navy bottom. But it too had been slashed in half. The top and bottom were held together at the waist by a shower curtain ring. The third bathing suit had a ruffle at the neck. I couldn’t tell what the rest of it was supposed to do and I have a rule. If I can’t figure out how it goes on, I’m not buying.

If the temperatures continue to peak close to 40C much longer, I may be forced to take drastic measures. If I do, I’ll be sure to let everyone know…so they can keep their kids indoors.

Bikini season is right around the corner. Sadly, Baskin Robbins was closer.

Dear Diary – I’ve been considering hiring someone to do a few home renovations. I’m heading home today and I wish #2 was already done” Replace the bathroom door. Our bathroom door is too thin and the crack under the door is too high… and Hubby’s been eating chili.

If a clown farts, does it smell funny?
Unknown

Dear Diary – Why does it feel like the first day of school?

It’s Youngest Son’s first day at a new job, where his Papa works. Papa will drive and train him too. I’m hoping one day he’ll remember how family was there for him when he was down. Like we always will be. And he’ll do the same. Even on his days off.

I got up to see him off. He was moving slowly, and like a mother hen, I fluttered behind him urging him to go faster and to get him out the door. I don’t know if he was nervous, or disappointed not to be going home with me for a few days. Or just tired. He’s staying up too late, sometimes until dawn.

I really hope this works out. Not just because Dad put himself out, but because Youngest Son needs life skills and experience.

Last night, we played a family game of 5 Crowns, and Youngest Son tried to plant a song in my head. He succeeded in planting a song, but not with the one he suggested . With one that popped in uninvited in my own. It reminded me of the late Friday nights when my parents played Euchre with friends, while we kids entertained each other until our eyelids grew heavy. The radio playing quietly in the background. Playing this song…

Playin’ with the Queen of Hearts
Knowin’ it ain’t really smart
The Joker ain’t the only fool
Who’ll do anythin’ for you

Juice Newton, Playing With the Queen of Hearts