What's the opposite of a week from hell? Obviously, we lean towards "week from heaven" but is that any better? Who needs the pressure of surviving a week in heaven? In terms of my urbanized version of a resource-challenged heaven, the pressure has eased somewhat, since I accepted a respectable job offer this morning. In no way does this fact diminish my insatiable need to pry into your lives, by way of The Friday Five. To me this week, the number FIVE represents the amount of painkillers I'll need to get through each day (imagined new job stress) - or the amount of hours you'll nap after reading this very boring Friday Five. I don't write 'em I just paste 'em.

1. What drinking water do you prefer -- tap, bottle, purifier, etc.?
Tap is just fine, but if I need to buy a bottle, only Aberfoyle will do.

2. What is your favourite flavor of chips?
Salt and Vinegar, although I can't remember when I last ate chips. Mmmmmm..... chips.

3. Of all the things you can cook, what dish do you like the most?
Hard question. I think my chicken and mushrooms in wine sauce is killer, but Mr. Crabby raves about my jerk chicken. I'm most proud of my recent success with pickling, but if I had to pick one recipe I like the most, it would be my roasted tomatoes. Or the tapenade. Actually, my sesame sole is really delicious too .....

4. How do you have your eggs?
Over hard. Very hard. Killed. No runny bits or they go back.

5. Who was the last person who cooked you a meal? How did it turn out?
Icy cooked us two fantastic, labour-intensive meals recently, both of which turned out brilliantly. Unless you count Ronald McDonald this afternoon, who didn't do such a good job, really.

Insomnia
"Take a bath, play some music",
the good doctor says.
No pills for me, only his righteous prescription for
sleeplessness,
a smug look, a snide comment
about mind over matter.
Do you mind do I matter?
Just give me the pills and I'll leave quietly.

It's his death I plot in the thin hours before dawn,
bleary-eyed and thirsty, writing worse poems
than yesterday.
"I asked nicely," I'll tell everyone at the funeral,
"But he left me no choice."

The Third Level of Hell
I have been harshly judged. According to Dante's Inferno Test, I'm being banished to the Third Level of Hell, left to rot with Cerebus amidst eternal rain, filthy mixtures of shadows, and cold stinking mud. Doesn't that just pickle your bits? I thought I was a very kind person, proud that I cooked a whole chicken without incident and shared it with family and neighbours. Now I have to sit in the mud with a red-eyed dog. I hope there's some good scotch down there, and maybe a blanket. Hey Chip - send more cheese.

Neighbourly Etiquette

Our neighbour has been an unending source of entertainment for the three years that we've lived beside each other. He's found $6,000 in his BBQ, cut a squirrel free of his laundry line with kitchen scissors, thoughtfully fertilized several neighbours' grass only to burn it to a yellow crisp, chased away litterers and cussing youth, and best of all, tells me whenever he thinks I look pretty.

Last week, he had two cardiac episodes. I won't go into detail, but believe me when I tell you how upsetting this is. He's half deaf, ridden with cataracts, and nearing 80-something years old. Anyway, Mr. Crabby and I have been helping him out, by picking up some groceries, and cutting our own lawn for the first time in three years. Oh, and tonight I'm roasting a chicken, and will send him over a big gooey plate dripping with gravy and roast taters. Get to the point, Crab.

He wants to take us out for lunch. Is this appropriate? It's actually a short but busy week for us... and he's a pensioner... How do I gracefully decline without hurting his old-fashioned feelings?

Want more details about the $6000 in the barbie? Another time, I promise. My mother is coming for dinner, in about 7 minutes, and I am rain-soaked and muddy from walking the dog - who has the scoots AGAIN. The dog, not mummy.

Oh, and speaking of parents, the poem that I wrote for my other neighbour's dead cat Phil.... it's bogus. Phil Lives! Phil Lives!