Winter Weekend Getaway

This weekend I'm escaping the cold by going to... well, a cold destination, but where The Hubs and I will stay inside all weekend long, hopefully by a warm fire and pretend we're in Malibu. Fiji. Maui. You get the idea. We're heading to a little inn in the country. It's just a short drive, but a total escape and I have been counting down the days ever since The Hubs gave me the gift on Christmas morning. The deal was that it would be a reward once I finished writing Book 2 and my editor accepted it. Mid-December, when my agent asked me how long I thought it would take to finish writing the book, I projected sometime mid-February. At the earliest. (I can't rush my muse, I argued!). But when The Hubs gave me the gift, I practically handcuffed myself to my pink computer to finish typing.



Then I spent the rest of the break finishing the book, and handed it in nearly a month early. Yay for being done! (Except, of course, for the million revisions that are likely to come, but whatever. For now, Yay for being done!)

Note to all aspiring writers, or really, anyone who wants to meet any sort of goal or deadline: PRESENTS ARE THE BEST INCENTIVE!!!

Especially when they involve a weekend away filled with nothing to do but indoor, warm activities. However, once we decided on all our warm activities, The Hubs said:

"What if they have snowshoeing? When will we snowshoe?"

If all goes well, in our minds only while drinking wine in front of a fire. I'm really hoping they're all out of snowshoes.

A few years ago I went to an inn in the woods where there were no TVs in the rooms because you were supposed to be escaping reality. Um, my idea of escaping reality is watching reality TV! But anyway... I didn't know what to do with myself but they had snowshoes so I decided to snowshoe as I've never gone before and it seemed like one of those things I should do in my lifetime. But you know what? It looks a lot more fun than it really is. I mean, you're basically just walking. Only it's totally impossible walking because you've got tennis rackets strapped to your feet.

Oh sure, you're in nature and all that, but you're going by the nature SOOOOO slowly that it's not that exciting. I mean, if you were cross-country skiing, you'd be whizzing by, and see a lot of trees and well...what else are you going to see in the middle of winter besides snow-covered trees?

Stare at this picture for 10 minutes. That's what it's like when you're snowshoeing. Nothing changes. Now multiply that by a bazillion.

So yes, if you were on skis, you'd see a lot of trees. But because you're walking, well, nothing's really happening, except you're sort of staring down a lot at your feet to make sure you don't trip over the tennis rackets and fall face-down in the snow.

Not that THAT happened to me. Um. I'm just saying.

Also, when I asked where I should go snowshoeing, the lady at the front desk said I should probably just stick to the backyard of the inn. The backyard? How fun is that? I wanted adventure! Woods! Nature at its most undisturbed! I wanted to see deer! Bunnies! An abominable snowman! So instead I walked -- er, I mean, snowshoed -- to the end of the property and then, instead of turning around and coming back, I continued onto a path. Only the path wasn't really a path, it was a road, and then that road turned into the highway, and the only way to get back was to take the highway all the way around to the front of the inn.

Okay, that wasn't the ONLY option. Obviously the other option was to turn around and backtrack. But did I do that? No. I didn't because I have this real problem with backtracking (Note: Backtracking=good. Not backtracking=bad because if you're like me you'll inevitably get lost). In the end it took me like an hour to get all the way around the inn to the entrance and I took the snowshoes off (because just a side note, there is NO point wearing snowshoes when you're walking on a gravel path on the side of the highway) and carried them back to the inn.

So technically, I could probably improve upon my snowshoeing techniques this weekend (especially because The Hubs is very practical and would always think to take the best route back, ie. the one through a snowy forest and not a gravelly highway and he probably wouldn't be talking to his snowshoes and scare away all the potentially live animals).

But now that there is actually a lot of snow outside, The Hubs has also lost interest in doing anything outside. Thank. God. Besides, we really can't cut into any of the really fun indoor, warm activities we have planned, like wine tasting, afternoon tea, and best of all spa treatments.

When The Hubs asked what I wanted to book at the spa, I told him a massage and a pedicure, which are my two favourite treatments. (One to make you feel relaxed and one to make you feel pretty.)

So then he booked both and the same for himself. Seriously, who needs to go snowshoeing when they have a boy who will get a pedicure with you?

The Catch and Cape Cod

A few days ago I went to Louisa McCormack's book launch for The Catch, the followup to her fab debut novel, Six Weeks to Toxic. 

Louisa is positively lovely and full of energy and the launch at Type Books was great fun, filled with Chippy's chips, and prizes (!) such as lobster soap and lobster gummies and lobster earrings. And who doesn't love a kitschy prize? (I love any sort of prize, kitsch or not, actually). 

The Catch takes place mostly in PEI, where Louisa's also living at the moment (and where she was living while writing the book), yes, with Anne. Anne Shirley. That's all I'm going to say about the plot, because if you want more you can go here or here or here. I hate spoiling a plot and since I don't even read the backs of books because they spoil it too much for me, I would only be able to tell you what I've read so far, which is about one-third of the book. So far, so, so excellent. Louisa does an impeccable job of capturing the essence of PEI - so that if you've never been, it's like you're on a little getaway, and if you're from the east coast, it might feel like a little piece of home (not that I'm generalizing that all east coast towns in all east coast provinces and states feel the same...!). 

Speaking of the east coast in all its generality (because actually, I'm not quite sure where on the east coast this next place is...), I'm putting The Catch on hold for one week because next weekend we're trading turkey for tides and stuffing for sand and spending Thanksgiving in Cape Cod. I've never been* but in my head I expect it to romantic** and wispy and windy and lovely and I think that The Catch will make for a perfect literary soundtrack to the long weekend away. Bring on the argyle and scarves!

Want to win your own copy of The Catch? More is having a contest. Good luck!

* When I told my dad I was going to Cape Cod and had never been, he said "Yes, you have..." Oh. Oops! Apparently, I was the babe in tow when he and my mom still thought camping was a vacation. That lasted until I was about two, at which point they swapped sleeping bags for actual sleep in a bed inside, out of the rain, and promptly passed both their camping equipment on to friends and the anti-camping gene on to me (for which I'm grateful, actually, even though I'm positive it's because I don't camp that I don't like beer). So although I HAVE been to Cape Cod, Daddy-O,  I don't exactly remember it. Whatever, we'll call it a homecoming. 

** Mostly I chose Cape Cod because it seemed romantic (ahhh... The Cape) and also because the Ghost Hunters found some haunted houses there (and I love a good haunting). But I actually don't know anything about the Cape or what to do there. Any ideas? Send them to me and I'll bring you back something lobster-like! 

Miami Time

I just got back from Miami...okay not just (it's been a few days), but I'm still on Miami time. So what if there's no time change between Toronto and Miami? I guess I'm on tan time, then.

I went for three new Crest & Oral B products, though they're under embargo until the spring, so I can't tell you about how amazing they are (and how you will actually WANT to spend time in the bathroom) so let's just talk about the trip instead, shall we?

Like the yacht cruise...




...where we toured Millionaire's Row, where you know, the millionaires live.

It was fully like reading US Weekly, only without any pages blowing in the wind.

First stop: P. Diddy's place. 



What do you do when you love a good speed boat? You buy two!

We also saw where Will & Jada vacation...

And Shaq's blue getaway...

And the house they use for MTV reality shows...

And Elizabeth Taylor's place...

And Julio Iglesias's house.

And then... things got a little fuzzy. Which means I have a whole lot of pictures of homes, with no idea...




Who they ...


Belong to...

Back in the city, we drove past Versace's place, which is now a club. With a very excited door man! (Squint, you'll see).

Then, it was off to dinner at the Delano, where I sat in a very big chair...

(Don't you totally want this chair for your own home? I do.) 

Then I ate a very delicious meal that I had every intention of photographing. 

Except, after the appetizer, I forgot. Oops.

Oh well no matter. It would probably just make me hungry. 

And now, back to the real world.

Best of Montreal

This weekend I went to Montreal. The Hubs had to work. I went along to do some shopping. (I mean, keep him company). I'm very good at that. Know what I'm also very good at?
Eating poutine.

I mean, when in Rome.... Well, when in Rome you should buy shoes.

And when in la belle province, you should go to La Belle Province and eat poutine. Yum.





However, when I was eating pizza by myself (not at La Belle Province), the girl behind me in line ordered poutine but instead of gravy she got it with meat spaghetti sauce. I mean, can you even imagine? I immediately wanted to order that, but I mean, I already had my slice of pizza and if I ate both, I might not have been able to move, and I had shopping to do!

While shopping, I also managed to buy some lovely accessories, several from Simons, where the saleswoman asked me why I spell Simons (SIGH -mons) with two "M"s. I told her that's the way the name came. I didn't have the heart to tell her that really, I spell Simmons (SIMM-ons)with two M's. I guess maybe they just don't have the word "Simmons" in Quebec. I wonder what type of mattresses they sell at La Baie.

While shopping, I noticed a lot of ties. On girls. Very Avril Lavigne circa five years ago.

And a lot of stores selling them, too. Entire tie racks in the women's department. Eek. I did this trend in the ninth grade, as a way to show a little individuality in my green kilt uniform. Does this mean I'm too old to do it again? I don't really want to... but what if I did? What to do?


The Hubs did some spotting of his own. On the flight home, he noticed Geddy Lee of Rush on our flight, with his family.




This is not the picture I took. I mean, obviously Geddy wasn't playing bass on the plane. Nor was there a wind machine or blue lighting in the background. I tried to take a picture, actually, but it turned out to be more of a blurry stick in the distance as I don't know how to use the zoom on my phone. When we arrived on the island airport and got on the ferry I noticed a limo waiting on the other side. It had a sign in the window saying "Chamberlain." The Lee clan got into the limo.

So just a note, if you become super famous and want to go incognito, don't choose the last name Chamberlain, or you might find your car whisking away with Geddy Lee inside.

Better to choose something more obscure, like Poutine.

Cottage country without the cottage

I  just got home from five days in the wilderness. I have a black fly bite on the top of my head. I thought it was a tumor, but it's itchy. Then I found a similar one behind my ear and another on my leg, so I figured, what are the odds I went to the country and got three tumours? I mean, I'm not exactly Wilderness Woman, but that's crazy.

Highlight of the trip: My sister's boyfriend, Crocodile Dundee (he's Australian), telling a story about a PAWN shop at dinner. The rest of us, staring at him in alarm, thinking that he's talking about a PORN shop in front of my father. 

Second-place highlight of the trip: After my husband leaves to head back to the city for work, Crocodile Dundee breaks out his tighty blacky bathing suit - the one that makes my husband squirm - as a joke. While tanning without my glasses (leaving me near-blind) I see Croc walk past me,  the tighty shorts in my face. I almost grab his butt as a joke, then notice that he's wearing a bright orange sun hat I've never seen on this trip. I refrain from the butt-grabbing, put on my glasses and realize it's an 80-year-old man. Croc is not impressed and begins doing situps with fervour. 

Is Strata so Seventies?

My stepmom came over for brunch yesterday for Mother's Day. My favourite brunch item is quiche, but I've been making it a lot lately so I decided to mix it up by making this Strata.

When I told one of my girlfriends, she laughed.

"It's really not that different, is it?" I confirmed with worry.

"It's like crustless quiche."

For me, the best thing about quiche is the filling. The pastry's really just a vehicle to hold it all together, isn't it? So what's so bad about crustless quiche?

Of course, my one error (okay I admit it, the first of two) was that the recipe called for "day-old" bread. But if you don't have bread, what do you do? All bread at the grocery store is at least a day old, but it's meant to last until the due date so is it really as "day-old" as it needs to be? I finally settled on a French loaf that felt slightly crustier than I otherwise would've been happy with if I'd wanted baked-fresh-today bread. I figured it would have to do. The other mistake was that even though I'd written down that I had to buy cream, I forgot, so I had to improvise with skim milk I had in the fridge. But that just made it healthy, right?

It turned out just fine (how can a casserole NOT turn out, really? It's not like it has any sort of shape to start with, but whawtever). I loved it (what's not to love about bread and cheese melted together?) and took about 10 minutes to make. AND you can make it the day before and just cook it right before you want to serve it. So why does anyone make quiche instead of strata?

And then it dawned on me.

IS STRATA SO SEVENTIES????

Am I stuck in the wrong era without the right waistline on my apron?

I can't recall the last time Rachel or Martha or Nigella made strata.

Thankfully, I was making it for my stepmom and dad, who are always so appreciative (or rather, shocked) when I manage to cook something that's edible. They LOVED it. Although they did refer to it as Frittata not Strata, which really IS a crustless quiche (without the crusty bread cubes). I wasn't sure if they were trying to make me feel like I hadn't made a Seventies Strata or if they believed it was a Frittata and I KNOW Frittata's still relatively in this decade. Either way I went along with it and pretended it was even healthier without the added carbs that were actually inside.

What's your take on strata? And what did you do for Mother's Day?

African Lion Safari...without the lions.

I'm back from San Diego with all my digits in tact. That's what happens when you visit animals in a zoo rather than in the wild where there are SHARKS. The only shenanigans the zoo animals get up to are with eachother.

First, there was a little sex on the beach...

Then, some sex (or attempts) in the pool...

Some of the animals were quite successful at the sexy sex. Like this ape-mama, who was with child.

Her father was quite proud. As he should've been -- since he'll also be the father of the mini-ape. What a multi-tasker!

Everyone kept telling me that San Diego is the safest city in the U.S. I'm assuming they were not referring to sex, since I didn't see any sort of prophylactics being used. I'm just not sure how you can call a city that has SHARKS on the loose safe. 

Thankfully, just like in the photo I found on the internet..

The sealions were hanging out on the beach, away from the SHARK.

Still, with all the stress of steering clear of the SHARK, I was exhausted when I arrived home, and in need of some good comfort food. Last night was my bookclub meeting, and we read 

What is the What, which takes place in Africa. 

If only I'd gone to the African Lion Safari, I could've picked up some tips on what lions eat in Africa. Unfortunately, at the San Diego zoo, there were no lions. Or tigers. There were, however, bears. Like this polar bear, only he was eating something that didn't seem native to either Africa or the Arctic...

Anyway, throughout the course of the story, our main character, Achak, walked through Sudan, Ethiopia and Somalia. Can you imagine what his feet looked like in the end? Clearly in dire need of a pedicure. 

At 12,837 pages, it was no cakewalk to read, but I suppose, easier than living through it. What was  a breeze was the African curry recipe I found to make!  In the course of one episode of Ellen, I prepped, cooked and cleaned up. That's my kind of meal. 

What is African curry and how is it different from Indian curry? I'm not sure. It may have been a typo on the recipe, actually, which is why, it's best to refer to it as Somalian Stew. Or Ghana Goulash. It's much more impressive that way. 

He's a maneater...

I'm in San Diego. And you know what that means: SHARK.

When I booked my trip, I immediately began looking into scuba diving with the sea lions. It's one of the few places in the world where you can dive or snorkel and be guaranteed to be surrounded by swarms of cute lions of the sea. Who wouldn't want to do that?



Fun, RIGHT?

But then, I read this in the paper last week:

A shark today attacked and killed a 66-year-old swimmer who was training in the ocean with a group of triathletes, authorities said.

Dave Martin, a retired veterinarian from Solana Beach, was attacked by what authorities believe was a GREAT WHITE SHARK at San Diego County's Tide Beach around 7 a.m. local time, authorities and family friend Rob Hill said.

Apparently, the shark may be 17 feet long. Which means, it could fit THREE of me inside, no problem. Of course, they're not SURE how big the SHARK is, because they CAN'T FIND IT.

The Hubs was very nervous. He didn't want me to go diving.

"It's fine," I kept trying to reassure him. Because the thing is, the shark attack was VERY rare. The last fatal attack in San Diego happened in 1959.

"Just ask," The Hubs insisted. "Find out if they caught the shark before you go."

I promised I would.

Last night, I flipped on the TV. On Animal Planet, the episode was called "Maneaters: Killers in the Water".



The gist of the show was that due to global warming SHARK ATTACKS ARE BECOMING MORE COMMON and MORE PEOPLE ARE DYING EVERY YEAR DUE TO SHARK ATTACKS.

Also, apparently the sharks are getting confused and leaving their normal habitat and heading to other areas, like SAN DIEGO.

So then I did a Google search to find an update on the shark.

"The shark is still in the area. We're sure of that," Solana Beach Mayor Joe Kellejian said.

And then, on CNN, they said that even if they find the shark they're NOT GOING TO CAPTURE OR KILL IT. What??

And then, I read this warning:

"Don't go in waters occupied by large numbers of marine mammals, such as sea lions. Wherever there are marine mammals, such as in a rookery, these sharks are going to be nearby because that's what they're built to eat."

THEN, this morning I turned on the Today Show as I was getting ready and they interrupted regular programming to say that a man has been KILLED in San Diego at the beach ACROSS THE STREET FROM MY HOTEL. They're about to do an autopsy to see if it's SHARK-related.

In the hotel lobby, I heard some people say that they're going to go kayaking instead - because it's another very popular way to see the sea lions - and safer, because you're not IN THE WATER. With the SHARK.

I don't think so...



So, apparently if you go to La Jolla at sunset, you can see the sea lions frolicking on the beach. From a walkway far above the sea. Like these people. Who are NOT getting eaten by SHARKS.




I think that's what I'm going to do today. Wish me luck. If the SHARK doesn't get me, I'll report all tomorrow.

Aunt Jemima by any other name...

This weekend I made apple butter in my brand new crock pot. I really can't understand why Chantal (this is the person I blame for  non-sensical, evil or stupid actions) never wanted a crock pot before now. Also, is it more cool-ical to call it a crock pot or a slow cooker? I'm  not sure. I'm asking. Please tell me. Because really, the last thing I want to do is sound like I'm 82 when what I'm trying to pretend is that I do not have to be an organized housewife en apron to use a crock pot/slow cooker and can in fact wear stilettos and sip white wine (not a spritzer) while having a crafternoon in the kitchen. But calling it by the uncool name really just ruins that all, doesn't it? At the Mexicalarosa wedding, I went to a hen party. A what? I know. Apparently a hen party is to the senior set what a bachelorette party is to those under 40. My question is this: are we the hens or is the bride? 

Anyway, I think I'll call it a crock cooker. So I made apple butter. Just call me Aunt Jemima. Did Aunt Jemima make apple butter, or was she strictly a maple syrup kind of gal? Surely she couldn't make syrup every day of the year. Maybe she had a food porn show on the side. I asked one of my friends, who confirmed that's likely true. Maybe she was the Nigella of her day. I am not the Nigella of my kitchen, but the apple butter did turn out, though it only made 3 jars, which seems like a lot of work for such a little amount, but maybe that makes it more special, like a diamond. The recipe said it would take about 10 hours. It took me about 20. I like to think it was a labour of love. Maybe I'm just a slow cooker. 

I'm peeling and need a margarita.

I'm back from a week-long vacation to Mexico for my sister-in-law's wedding, which wasn't actually a week-long so I'm spending the day today physically at my desk but actually sneaking sips of fruity cocktails to get in my last day. Some highlights:

Monday, 5:37 a.m. The Hubs and I are thrilled to find there's no lineup at the airport check in. That's what we get for arriving 2 hours and 8 minutes before lift off. Then we find out why: "Your flight has been delayed until 1:25," the check-in chick says. For a moment I could not even comprehend this time. "The plane is caught in bad weather in Cuba." I wanted to say, What the hell is our plane doing in Cuba at 5 am? Isn't it supposed to be sitting on the tarmac in Toronto? And if not, shouldn't it be en route from Mexico? Apparently not. That's what we get for taking a crappy charter flight. It doesn't just make trips back and forth to one beachy destination to pick up and drop off all-inclusive package travellers. Oh no, it also has to squeeze in a few side trips to other islands. Lesson learned: Never fly SkyService.

Monday, 1:23 p.m. The Hubs and I board the plane after spending 7 hours pretending to be on vacation, drinking margaritas and eating guacamole and playing volleyball in the middle of the airport, barefoot. We are relaxed and almost forget the point of the trip. A wedding group on our plane has clearly maxed out on happy hour and are falling down drunk in the aisles. The flight attendant is crying, trying to get them to sit down while they scream at her that they don't want to sit down so that the plane can take off. They tell her that they have been sitting for 7 hours in the airport waiting for this flight to finally leave and are tired of sitting. Lesson learned: If you don't sit down, you'll never get to your destination. The pilot denies the Cuba story and tells us someone drove into the plane in Winnipeg. Another reason not to fly SkyService.

Wednesday, 6 p.m. One of the Hubs' friends, who was supposed to be a groomsmen at our wedding in Mexico 3 years ago but couldn't make the trip at the last minute, has come for this wedding instead. We're not picky about technicalities that he's at the wrong wedding and 3 years late. One Simmons wedding is as good as another. He has only been at the resort for 5 hours but is redder than the weird red shrimp tacos we're eating at dinner. 

The Hubs: "Didn't you put on sunscreen?"

He: "I didn't check my luggage. I carried on, so I couldn't bring any." 

The Hubs: "They sell it in the gift shop." 

He: "It's like 20 bucks. And I've got 3 bottles at home. I'm not going to buy another bottle."

An hour passes.

He: "Do you have some aloe?" 

The Hubs: "How much is that in the gift shop?"

He comes back to our room. I'm about to give him the bottle to take when The Hubs stops me. "You're not taking the whole bottle. Hold out your hand."

We compromise - since  a handful isn't quite enough for his entire 6'5" body -  so The Hubs finds a seashell-shaped soap dish and put some aloe in it and sends him on his way.

Thursday, noon: Our red friend is looking much more brown thanks to the aloe but is wearing sneakers since his feet are too burned and blistered to wear his flip flops. He still hasn't bought sunscreen. I take pity on him and lend him some while the Hubs isn't looking since it's either that or sneak him more aloe. "Oh, I've still got aloe," he says. Since it's clear gel in a blue dish, he was worried the maid would clean out the dish, so he's stored it in the safe for well, safe keeping. 

Thursday, 2 p.m. The flowers for the wedding arrive. I pick them up. They are supposed to be orange and yellow. They are pink. And there's no maid of honour bouquet. I point out that they need to come up with another bouquet in an hour - and since they've gone against the original color scheme, they should make this bouquet pink too. 

Florist: "We don't have any more flowers." 

Me: "None? Anywhere? What about the other 17 people who will be getting married this week?What will you do for them?"

Florist: "No more flowers."

Apparently this is not a negotiation.

So I grab my mother in law and we beg the concierge to let us steal the lilies from the floral arrangements in the lobby bar, then duck into bushes and snap off  birds of paradise and lilies from wild plants. As we're walking back to the room - where my mother in law says that she not only has scissors but also floral tape in her suitcase as though doesn't everyone carry floral tape on vacation? - people keep stopping us to tell us what a lovely bouquet we have. Then my mother in law makes a maid of honour bouquet that's 10 times better than the bridal bouquet (and likely would've cost about $100 at home), and the bride likes it so much she uses it instead of the lame pink one.

4:30 p.m. Another bouquet arrives. They not only have somehow found more flowers, but they're actually orange and yellow, as requested. Probably some bride tomorrow will be missing a bouquet.

Friday, noon: Tired of buffet food, I eat a healthy lunch of guacamole and nacho chips for the fourth day in a row. One of the ladies there for the wedding tells me that her friend (who is also at the wedding) doesn't like pink salmon, only red salmon. I realize that the restaurant smells like salmon, which must be the fish of the day that they're grilling and this is the reason the topic has arisen.

Me: "Is it red salmon or pink salmon on the buffet?"

She: "Oh I don't know."

Me: "How can you tell the difference?"

She: "Oh I don't know. But she just can't eat pink salmon."

For some reason, this seems like normal conversation. 

Friday, 4 p.m.: A new batch of vacationers arrive, including what looks like a new breed of Laguna Beach castaways, and the guys join into the beach volleyball game The Hubs and I are playing. Lucky for me there are five of them on my side, and they push me out of the way to clobber the ball. I am stuck staring at their butt cracks since they're wearing their bathing suits (and boxers underneath) so low. Grody. The Hubs gives me looks of pity from the other side of the court. I'm afraid they're going to rip my boob out of my bikini top on the way to get the ball so I put on my t-shirt. In the next game, their girlfriends arrive, clad in bikinis and fake boobs. "Guys against girls!" one guy yells and then chest-bumps one of his friends. The guys go to the other side with The Hubs and the girls join my side. There are 7 of them and 1 of me. Even though there should only be 6 players, the entertainment coordinator decides arbitrarily that they can have 7, but not 8. "You, without the bikini, you have to sit out." I skulk back to my beach chair to eat more guacamole. The Hubs joins me. "They sucked anyway." He says, which is probably just to make me feel better, and it does. 

Homie comes to Toronto

I heart Annie Choi. A few weeks ago, she was cleaning her place and found a bunch of Homies. She wanted to give them new homes. I told Mr. Baz this, and he decided he wanted a Homie to play with. So he sat down to send Annie an email asking for a Homie to love.

And then, a few days later, a Homie arrived in an package from America. The package was marked Airmail and addressed to Mr. Baz. He felt very important.

Mr. thinks Homie looks a little like the Anti-Santa Claus. He calls him Anti-Santi. Homie doesn't like his new nickname very much.

Mr. Baz and Homie decide to play a game of Cat & Homie. Actually it's all Mr. Baz's idea. Homie thinks Mr. Baz has an unfair advantage. Homie is sitting in a chair. He's not very mobile.

When Mr. Baz gets tired of all the activity, Homie checks out the pad. He finds three soldiers and tries to hang with them. They're pretty stiff. He thinks they could use a drink. 

Homie goes outside to check out Toronto. He sees the CN Tower and thinks it's pretty cool. Or tall, at least. He asks Mr. Baz if they can get a closeup look but Mr. Baz says he's no workhorse and if Homie wants to go downtown he better get up off his chair and walk. Homie thinks that sounds like a lot of effort, all to see some stupid tall tower. He'd rather hang out  on the patio, with his butt an inch off the barbeque. It feels warm. Sort of like he has peed himself.

Back inside, Homie spots Chantel's keys. There's a silver shoe. Like the glass slipper. He feels a little like Cinderella until he tries on the heel and discovers it's way too big. Then he feels like an evil stepsister, but he tries to pretend the silver would just ruin his dope outfit. He decides to go with Chantel to work. 

He checks out the beauty stash. He sees some Gillette antiperspirant for men, but he doesn't need it. He's not like Richard Simmons. He doesn't sweat. 

He thinks the aloe plant would make a dope slide. But the prickles prick his butt. Chantel says they can go get manicures, so they leave. 

On the way, Homie sees a Free Dream Box. He thinks he would like a free dream. But when he looks inside the box he sees it is empty. Apparently there's no such thing as a free dream.

At the nail shop, the manicurist tells him to pick out a shade of polish. He thinks black or purple would rock, but all there seems to be is 17 shades of pink.  

Instead, he steals a nail file and fashions it into a snowboard so he can shred some gnar outside.

On the way home they pass the World's Biggest Bookstore. He  wonders what the world's biggest book is or if all the books inside the store are gigantic. Like books on 'roids. He wants to go in but Chantel says they have plenty of books at home. 

There seem to be a lot of Nancy Drew Mysteries. What's up with Ned Nickerson anyway? He's not as cool as the Hardy Boys. He wears pink polo shirts. 

Then Homie sees Annie's book Happy Birthday or Whatever. He misses Annie. But that seems wimpy, so he goes to find something macho to do.
 

He checks out RockBand. He wants to play the drums but he's too small to hold the stix. And pounding his butt against the drums makes it hurts.

Since the drums suck, he tries the microphone. They play Bon Jovi. He is Jon. He is wanted dead or alive. He's going down in a blaze of glory. He is livin' on a prayer. He gives love a bad name.