For Every Woman Who's Gone on Vacation- My All Inclusive Man

I met him on the beach

While i was working on my tan

He said something in spanish

That i still don’t understand

But it really doesn’t matter

Cuz he’s such a sexy man

This poem is dedicated to

My all inclusive man.

His teeth were white like diamonds,

And his skin was sun kissed brown,

He watched me as i lost my speech,

And looked him up and down.

And though not very stylish,

His pants were way too tight,

His shirt the early 90’s

And his “hip hop”

Not quite right.

But when he took a hold of me,

You wouldn’t understand,

The magic that can happen,

With an all inclusive man.

He thought my name was “Risho”

Rachael didn’t come out right,

Oh Risho, You’re so sexy,

as he held my body tight.

The only words that I had learned,

From my tour guide in the day,

Was Cervaca, Ola, Mi Amor,

Had nothing more to say.

But my all inclusive Jose,

Made it all just seem ok,

Because the latin language needed,

was only needed in the day.

He asked me who I’m here with,

If my husband is near by,

I told him that I’m single,

And he says “oh mami..why”

He tells me “God,I love you’

And that I should stop my search,

Because he’s a senior pastor

And my body is his church.

Now don’t think I got it twisted,

I knew it was a fling,

But I thought I’d let you know,

Jose, he taught me many things

Jose, he liked them chunky,

My curves he held on tight,

He rolled me like a dumplin,

and although I’d try to fight,

I had an ah ha moment,

And it all just seemed alright,

My all inclusive Jose,

Loved me up throughout the night.

The next day by the pool,

My walk it had a swing,

I whistled as I sashayed,

Did a meringue /salsa thing

I ordered my Cervaca,

and then I wished upon a star

Dear God,

Please let all the men in Toronto turn into Joses

Minus the really tight pants and the shiny “Stiches” shirt.

Please god, let all of them like chubby girls and let all skinny girls

break their ankles while dancing on the dance floor.

Amen.

Ok, back to the poem.

I left just 3 days later,

And as the plane touched down,

I was greeted by Toronto boys,

Who live with me downtown.

The ones that stand in night clubs,

And never speak a sound.

You know the ones,

The pretty boys,

Who dress up to the nines,

No need to ask a girl to dance because they know their fine?

And their pants they’re fitted perfectly

Their shirts are always sharp,

But when it comes to romance,

They’re completely in the dark.

I’m sorry guys,

You might be mad,

You might not understand,

Perhaps I’ll give your email

To my All inclusive man,

And he can give you pointers

So you can change your action plan.

Because,

HEY!

I heard you women’s on vacation,

And she’s got and all inclusive man!

When you hate your job this much.... it's time to find another one. The definition of corporate madness.

Blind for a Night...

I take for granted what I have. I wrinkle up my nose at the lady with the bad smelling perfume beside me on the train (SMELL), or the young teenager that's playing his music from a beat up cell phone without earphones so the whole subway train can hear it (HEARING). I get annoyed when someone sits too closely to me and leans a little too hard against me as the subway rocks back and forth (TOUCH). I grumble as I get out of bed and see the winter blizzard blowing from outside my window (SIGHT). I gasp as I eat something that doesn't please my palette (TASTE)..and what I don't realize is...I take it all for granted.

Tonight, I took my friend Ashley out for a birthday dinner. Thinking, what could I do that would be original and different. What have I never done before? A friend of mine suggested I visit a restaurant called NOIR. "You'll love it Rach, it's a whole new experience, it's dining in the dark". Dining in the dark? Really? Now that was something I had to try. Knowing my track record, I felt it wise to dress in black that day. I can barely keep light colors tidy when I'm not in the dark, surely I would embarrass myself if it was anything other than black.

We arrived at 620 Church Street and headed down a flight of stairs that lead to a lobby that looked like an old library. A Sherlock Holmes kind of feel with a bar! LOL...Old book shelves and a mysterious feel to it. On the wall was a quote that really summed up the whole evening

The quote said "There is no darkness but ignorance".

We were greeted by a hostess who then told us that our server would be Michael and he is visually impaired. She knocked on a door and shortly afterwards, Michael came out and greeted us. We were asked to stand in a row, with our right hand on the person in front of us, and Michael then led us to the table.

It sort of felt like I was playing a game of Marco Polo, minus the pool. Trusting on my other senses, and Michael of course, to get us to the table.

But then the fun began.

You never know how much you rely on your sight, until it's taken away. Where the hell is the butter? My knife? The glass of juice I ordered. You can't see a thing, it's pitch dark and after a while your eyes get so tired of searching for light, that you just end up closing them. I could have guessed that there might have been about 5 other tables in the room. But who the heck knows? LOL! I heard voices, I smelled the food, I listened more to Ashley and wasn't distracted by things that would make me drift away from the conversation. No cell phones, no internet access, nothing, but darkness and good conversation.

When the food arrived I was excited. Some swayed me from going there, saying "what if the food drops on the floor", "what if it's recycled"...I had to trust that the awards upon awards that this restaurant had been given, was reason to trust that I'd enjoy my meal. It was delicious! Mind you, I started out attempting to eat with a knife and fork, but after poking my cheek with my fork several times, and losing my knife somewhere on the table, I said "screw it"...and ate with my hands. Yes, that's right. I ate my steak, potatoe wedges and portabello mushrooms with the 10 instruments God gave me, my hands. And hey, no one could see me anyway, so what's the big deal? Ashley and I laughed as we succesffully finished each plate that was handed to us by Michael. He'd rest it on our shoulder so we could grab it and put it down in front of us.

Our conversations were intense, and we could not rely on facial expressions to get our messages across. Words seem to have more meaning and the sound of my friends voice seemed more clear than ever before.

After about an hour and half of eating in the dark, we were lead from the table to the door that would bring us back to light. Ashley and I felt like we were seeing for the first time in years.

And as we paid the staff for the wonderful meal, and grabbed our coats and headed back to the car, we gazed at the street lights, the colors, the passing cars and thanked God that we did have our sight.

We know our server Michael doesn't end his shift the way we did that night. We know he doesn't walk into the light and see the traffic lights and the whizzing cars. But we do know that he appreciates life differently than we do. He listens, he hears things that we take for granted, his taste buds must come alive when he sits down to a meal.

Do I recommend NOIR? Absolutely worth the time and money. It's one of the places in Toronto that you must visit before you die! Step out of your box and try something new.

We are so glad we did.

P.S- a great date night if you need to test how well you can communicate with your partner. You'll have fun, but also realize if your relationship can hold up when you can't stare into each

others eyes.

NOIR is located at

416-922-NOIR

The Crazy Man at Starbucks

Since moving downtown I've learned a couple of things.

Learn the transit,

Drink Starbucks because Tim Hortons is just too Suburban and unhip,

And ignore the crazy people.

When I first moved to Toronto, I couldn't help but notice them. Even more disturbing was the "sane" people who walked passed them, Ignored them, told them to go get a job. "How cruel" I thought. How could people be so cold? How can you just walk past another human being like they were a crumpled up piece of garbage they found lying on the floor.

Fast forward 3 years later.

I have become one of those people. The kind of person who walks by my fellow city dwellers who hang out near the Princess of Whales theatre, or the local grocery stores. I choose not to see them. They annoy me. They should certainly go and get a job.

But for the past couple of months I've taken a new route to work.

I drive my electric bike and stop off at the local Starbucks in the morning for my morning dose of my ethically grown and environmentally friendly cup of Java. "Good for me" I say, as I read the side of the Starbucks cup that proudly announces that just by stopping in and buying a cup, I have helped Starbucks help farmers in several countries. I have contributed to employing more and more farmers around the world. I am doing my job to help others. Am I?

It's a morning ritual for me. Every morning, like clock work, I grab my coffee.

Every morning I also see the crazy man on the patio who chants prayers in a language I don't understand. Every morning, I take a seat on the same patio and read the Metro paper online from my Iphone. And every morning, I get to know the crazy man a little bit more.

He's tanned. His skin tells stories of travel and his eyes have a history so deep that I often want to ask, but I don't.

Who are you?

Where's your family?

Where do you live?

People stare at him and laugh and I find myself getting angry. Because beneath his weathered skin and misunderstood body language, I see a spirit and a man that has a heart.

Yesterday, I sat a little closer to him. He knows me now. I looked up at him today and smiled at him and softly nodded my head.

He nodded back.

He's my crazy Starbucks friend who says nothing to me every morning but in a strange way, almost checks in to see if I'm there.

And now I'm starting to realize, that sometimes people label others crazy, when someone doesn't look like them, talk like them, think like them. We label them unfortunate and underprivileged. Meanwhile, most of us head to a job we hate and go home to a neighborhood where we don't know our neighbors. My Starbucks friend talks to the birds and they seem to talk back. He has a higher level of connectedness with God than most. But he is unfortunate, right?

I watch him as he stretches his arms out towards the sky as if to do some kind of yoga that my undiagnosed ADD would never have patience for.

He seems happy.

He seems at peace.

My Starbucks friend is far more in tune with himself than any sane downtowner I know.

And although we'll never speak the same language,

And we may never sit exactly at the same table.

I understand him, and he understands me,

And you know,

That's not so crazy.

I'm a writer..

I'm a writer.

That's what I've been telling myself and thankfully there is some proof of it on the web and in a local magazine every three months.

I'm a writer.

But the fact of the matter is, lately, I've chosen to take the title without doing the work.

I'm too busy, life is hectic, I just don't have time..

I just don't have time for one of the things that brings me pure joy.

I'm a writer.

I sometimes wonder if I'm the only one that doesn't make as much time as they should to do what God has put me here to do.

The other day, one of my friends, who just so happens to be doing her writing, put a quote on her wall. It affected me so greatly that I actually wanted to ignore it, but I couldn't. Couldn't ignore the blatant message that I needed to hear.

And that quote said

"When I stand before God, at the end of my life, I would hope I could say I don't have a single talent left. I used everything you gave me!" ...thanks for that trey.

I tried to shove it off, pretend it didn't bother me.

But when people ask..

I tell them.

I'm a writer.

So I ask you..

What is it that you are NOT doing in your life that brings you pure joy?

Are you dancing like you should be? Singing? Baking? Knitting?

What is it in your life that you have decided is no longer essential because it's "not realistic" or can't pay your cable bill. And the second question is, what are you replacing it with? Empty fillers? A job that pays the bills but doesn't fill your soul with satisfaction?

I'm afraid, I let life get the better of me. Let excuses take over and allowed myself to become the people I sighed at as they made their way along the sidewalk, scurrying along going nowhere more important than what they really should be doing...their passion.

So,

I'm a writer.

And it's necessary for me to do the one thing that allows me to drift away. The one thing that doesn't put limits on the what I believe. Allows me to tell stories the way I want them to. I am free to make my forever afters, play by my rules. It's the one place where I can be whoever I choose to be, meet whoever I want to meet, dream whatever dreams I choose to dream.

Because,

I am a writer.

And it's time I start writing.

Someone else's STUFF

Today,

I allowed someone to affect me in ways I never thought they would. I allowed someone to spew their "stuff" all over me, and their words dripped down my shoulders and somehow found a way to soak into my spirit.

Today, I allowed someone to dictate how the rest of my day should go.

I walked slower, my shoulders slouched, my eyes got red and I felt an angry cry coming. For me, an angry cry is a dangerous cry. It's not the type of cry where one weeps against a rock by a babbling brook, rather, an angry cry makes staplers whip across a room, and makes old ladies with canes jump out of the way. Today I felt to do that angry cry.

I held it back.

Held it back because I've been told "Never let them see you cry". It's a form of weakness. And although I don't subscribe to that "suck it up" mentality,today, I did.

I came home, lit my over priced Bath and Body works candle, turned on my music and turned off the phone. Sat in it. Felt what I needed to feel without any disruptions.

And I realized, today, that person had to get me mad. This person had to insult my intelligence, had to overwhelm me with their ego..all of this had to happen, so I could remember, that this was all my choice.

Instead of taking the easy road of "poor me", I am choosing to remember that I have a choice to accept this behavior, or turn away from it.

These are also moments that need to be cherished.

Today, I will try and bottle this feeling.

Remember exactly how I felt in that moment.

So the next time I rush someone while they are speaking, choose to always think I'm right, put my "stuff" all over someone without them asking for it, accuse, judge or pretend that someone's opinion doesn't matter. I'll remember how I feel today.

To me, I experienced a small gift that came in the form of a slap. Not a physical slap. No forms of violence at all. But the kind of slap that needs no words, just looks. The kind of slap that doesn't speak, but doesn't allow you to speak either. A message from God that whispered, "My child, you're wasting every moment you have here"...

But the beauty of this day is, that at the end of the day,

I still know who I am,

Where I want to be,

And who I want to surround myself with.

So I set the bath, listened to some Yolanda Adams, closed my eyes and washed away the "stuff".

And I thank God at the end of the day that I have a door that I can close, a bath that I can stretch out in, a computer I can play music on, and the peace of mind that I am greater than someone else's STUFF.

I want to be in love...

I want to be in love

I want to be in love,
Not a regular kind of every day love,
But the kind of love that doesn’t make me focus at work,
Lose track of time,
Get sunburned while sitting by the water,
Thinking about you.

I want to be in love,
The kind of love that makes me eat foods I wouldn’t usually try,
Just because I want to taste what makes your taste buds come alive.

If I’m going to be in love,
The kind of love I’m looking for,
makes flowers talk,
the air smell sweet,
and when you're with me.
Time stands still,
Burdens fall away,

I want to be in love.
So I can wrap surprises in pretty pieces of paper
and leave it under your pillow.
Burn food on the stove I’ve never made
from cookbooks I’d never usually buy
in an attempt to make you the perfect meal.

And when I do finally make that meal
We never eat it anyway.
The food gets cold because
There’s no time to eat...
Food.

The kind of love
that doesn’t need words,
You don't have to give me your last Rolo,
I already know what's mine is yours,
what's yours is mine.


I want to be in love,
the kind of love where you meet in my dreams
and when you meet me there,
We talk about how great it will be
when you meet me in the morning.

I want to be in love.
But for now,
I’ll write this poem
tuck it away amongst the packages of surprises I’ve yet to wrap and place under your pillow.

Hide it between the pages of the cookbooks I’ve yet to buy.

Because one day.

I’ll be in love.