With Thanksgiving coming up on Monday, I feel my craving for the stuffed beast and pumpkin pie escalating.

I try just about everything to organize a Thanksgiving dinner, but there are no takers. My brother says he “doesn’t do the whole turkey thing”, my sister’s busy entertaining her own brood, and I am childless, with my youngest just having gone off to college in the U.S.

I drop my not-so-subtle hints to friends like” Boy, do I love turkey”, or “Save me a leg if you can” but that doesn’t seem to work.

At Loblaws, I lament to a complete stranger about my empty grocery cart while he hoists his 70-pound turkey on the conveyor belt beside my two apples, quart of milk and single Turkey breast -bone out. I’ve even considered standing at the corner of Yonge and Bloor to hand out leaflets with a request for dinner or at the very least, dinner guests.

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“I don’t have malaria” is the subject line of an email sent to me a few days ago from my 21 year-old daughter and social entrepreneur, who has spent the summer months in Kenya establishing a start-up company in a small town called Nyahururu. “Are you sure?” I cross-examine her. “ I’m good mom, don’t worry,” she giggles while probably rolling her eyes to her friends heard chatting in the background.

It’s only 8 am, but I pry open some champagne and drink a glass or two, relieved that she’s about to leave Kenya, and thrilled that she will be joining her siblings in Amsterdam for a much needed visit before they all head off on their own, engaging in rewarding but separate lives.

Later that night I slip in more motherly advice, this time targeting my eldest child. “Don’t eat too many hash brownies,” I warn my 23-year-old daughter, who’s chatting with me from La Guardia airport in New York, where she lives and works. “People have been known to have some horrible reactions.” She breaks out in a roar and then softly says, “Gotto go board the plane…love you!”

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Ring My Bell

The bell rings on the hour from the church a few cobblestone streets away, peaking in between some cypress trees.The rooster crows too. Five minutes later another bell rings, a reminder that the day is beginning.

Overlooking a sprinkling of olive trees, I’m about to sip my morning tea and tear away a piece of croissant already warm from the Tuscan sun, when I notice a small striped snake only inches away moving towards me.In my broken Italian I cheerily point out the suspicious serpent nearby to Paula, the lovely woman who serves me breakfast and tidies my room. An unexpected shriek including “mamma mia” escapes from her pursed lips, summoning the elderly neighbours from up the hill.

Straight out of a “Beverly Hill Billies ” episode, the 60’s television comedy, they appear armed each with a shovel. A lanky grey haired gentleman smacks the snake on the head, his wife in gloves and khakis scoops up the slithery beast and off they go, up the steep driveway, the snake, now dead in their possession, leaving me to my tea and a couple from New York seated sweetly across from me. The forty-something guy’s carefully chosen words and the freckled young woman’s freshly French manicured nails confirm they are honeymooners, a reminder of new love.

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Feeling Dirty Finally

Caressing my friend, Jeff’s, muscular calves, touching the flickers of his brown leg hairs peeking through torn fishnets, confirmed my suspicions last Monday night.

Not that Jeff is a closet transvestite, or cross dresser who has always longed to wear women’s corsets or high-heeled leopard pumps. Or that he is practicing to strut his stuff as the next contestant on RuPaul’s Drag Queen Race hit reality show.

But it was apparent that Jeff was having way too much fun playing “Brad” on stage in a community theatre production of the “Rocky Horror Show” a tribute to science fiction and horror B movies, that swept most of the audience back in time to the 1970’s.

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