Thursday, December 27, 2007

half-baked ideas

Before I forget, I must quickly interject this footnote re: Christmas baking. For some reason, I felt kick-started into a season of flurried activity in yon kitchen. Here’s a synopsis:
  • Dec 18 – baked Company’s Coming Banana Muffins, added walnuts (ran out of all-purpose flour, substituted ½ whole wheat flour, and the experiment actually worked!)
  • Dec 19 – baked Ellen’s* Chocolate Chip Cookies & Oatmeal Thumbprint Cookies
  • Dec 20 – made Foolproof Chocolate Fudge (with chopped pecans) for James’s potluck at work
  • Dec 21 – baked Robin Hood's Chunky Oatmeal Cranberry Cookies (they're OK, not stupendous)
  • Dec 23 – baked Walnut Slice (from the Mennonite Treasury of Recipes)
  • Dec 24 – finished making the New York Delights I started Sunday (messy things – I discovered I much prefer to eat them frozen)
The "best of the fest"? Ellen’s Chocolate Chip cookies and the Walnut Slice.

Thus ends my holiday baking spree—unless I mix up another batch of fudge or succumb to the temptation to make brownies with mocha icing.


*Kornelsen, not DeGeneres

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Boxing Day

Will wonders never cease?! James and I actually braved the traffic along Merivale this afternoon to stop in at Best Buy, Linens ’n’ Things, EB Games, Independent Grocer, and Zellers. We weren’t on a quest for anything in particular, and it’s not like there was money burning a hole in our pockets, but we thought of it as our great BOXING DAY SALE ADVENTURE (that’s right, in caps like that). Best Buy, our first destination, was the craziest place. Back when I was still quite young, I thought that Boxing Day was so named in honor of prize fighters: I imagined them squaring off in the ring every Dec 26 for the World Heavyweight title, delivering flying dropkicks, piledrivers, and Indian deathlocks. (I was better acquainted with AWA wrestling than with boxing.) Actually, I was not so far off. Nobody in Best Buy was throwing punches, true, but it certainly smelled like a gym. It’s hard to say if the sweatiness cloying the air came from the anxious, deal-hound customers who had hiked in from the far reaches of the parking lot, or from the exhausted employees who had been at their stations since at least 6am for Boxing Day Blowout madness. It wasn’t a complete loss: we had to walk around the block for parking, so we exercised off some of the Christmas goodies we’ve indulged in, and I did acquire a lovely artificial burgundy poinsettia for $3 from LNT, a tea ball (for making soup) from Zellers, and some groceries. The best part is that I’m still at home until Jan 7. Woohoo!

Tuesday, December 25, 2007

Christmas Day

I slept in and woke to glorious sunshine! After snow last week, rain on Sunday, and a bit of a thaw the last few days, sun was welcome. Too bad it was so short-lived: by about 2 o’clock this afternoon the sky reverted to a light gray again. Winnipeg gets more winter sun than Ottawa. (It’s not just my imagination; Environment Canada released a study on this phenomenon.)

Today’s highlights included:
  • a Christmas telephone call from Celina & Duane
  • a walk around the neighborhood (only Shoppers, Starbucks, and the Shawarma place were open for business)
  • an e-mail from Mom & Dad
  • a holiday message from Chelsea
  • a Christmas card & letter from Lon & Pat
  • a Christmas photo card from the Waldners
  • a first letter from Juanita in Mexico (Compassion child)
Note: Canada Post did not deliver today; we simply forgot to check our superbox yesterday.

Thanks to everyone for all the Christmas greetings! Considering that I’ve missed the sleigh re: cards yet once more (oh, I bought them, all right, I just didn't write them out & address them & send them), I’ve been pleasantly surprised that we’ve received 16 photos/cards. Only one was from “people I don’t even know”: nope, not from Glen Campbell, but the Minto Homes staff. About that one I’m feeling a bit indifferent (I’ve never met the signees); all the others, however, have brought us joy and dressed up our mantle. Tidings of great joy & blessings to you!

Monday, December 24, 2007

O Tannenbaum

Christmas Eve and we are still virtually decorationless (except for the Cranberry soap and the Christmas cards on the mantle) and quite positively treeless. Perhaps it’s just as well. Jeff Hutchison, my favorite Canada AM weatherman (as opposed to Sylvia Kuzyk and that turncoat “Captain” John Sauder, my former favorite pair of CTV Winnipeg meteorologists), recently displayed a few pictures sent in by cat owners of their pets firmly ensconced in Christmas trees. I shudder to think.

Also, it gave me pause to think when a friend inquired about the spiritual significance of Christmas trees: there’s nothing of which I’m aware. Dan Gardner of the Citizen (a crotchety, self-acknowledged atheist) attributes it to the Norse, but Wikipedia suggests the Christmas tree is a more convoluted tradition. All I know is that I was 10 years old before we got a Christmas tree, and it was terribly exciting to see the end product, assembled and covered in lights, garland, and tinsel (back when tinsel was the last word in decorating). Even tonight I walked around the neighborhood, and seeing each lit tree produced a shivery thrill of delight. However, I’ve always felt miserably saddened when taking down the tree, so it’s just as well that I don’t have that task to weigh me down. Besides, where would I store it?! I’m forever trying to cut down on “stuff.”

Still, if I get really, really brave, or really, really motivated, I might venture out on Boxing Day, to scope out the sales. Of course, I’ve said that many years in a row, and have yet to act on it. The crush of shoppers on the lookout for deals in the wee hours of the early morning proves a temptation not strong enough to lure me out of my slumber come Dec 26.

So...Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night!

Sunday, December 23, 2007

silent night

James and I celebrated Christmas today. Although in the past our Christmas dinners have often featured store-made lasagna, this year I decided to go the more traditional route: I bought turkey breasts (’cause we both prefer white meat), Stove Top stuffing, and gravy mix, and made mashed potatoes and steamed asparagus. For dessert, we had cookies (Christmas baking details forthcoming). We listened to Christmas carols old and new, read the Christmas story, exchanged gifts, and watched The Grinch and Merry Christmas, Mr. Bean on CBC. Very low key, very cozy. (btw, I recently saw ads for Cozzy Coverings, an Ottawa retailer of bedding, blinds, and drapes. My first reaction was, “Did they intentionally or unintentionally misspell ‘cozy’?”)

We miss celebrating with family; however, the cost for both of us to fly back over the holidays was too steep for two people who recently moved, bought a house, and furnished aforesaid house. Of course, I was fortunate enough to enjoy an early Christmas with my family near the beginning of December, although I didn’t nearly get to see all the friends I wanted to see while I was out there. On the other hand, most Christmases we’re driving between Rosenort and Dauphin, trying to squeeze in as many family and extended family gatherings as we can. So we’ve been looking forward to some down time to play video games, do Sudoku puzzles, reconfigure electronic thingies, watch movies, read, write, and bake. (Can you guess who’s doing what?) And we’re still plugging away, approximately one episode a day, at Alias; we’re close to finishing Season 4. (I’ve actually ‘cheated’ and read the plot summaries for the remaining episodes on the show’s Web site. Actually, I’m not convinced it’s cheating, seeing as how the show ended in 2006.) All in all, it’s rather nice to have no set agenda right now.

Well, I'm off to "sleep in heavenly peace," thanks to our new bedding ensemble, a Christmas present. (Thanks, Mom & Dad!)

Saturday, December 22, 2007

’s no business like snow business

Apparently at 1:08 a.m., autumn officially ended and winter officially began. I say it doesn’t take a solstice: with all the snow Ottawa has been getting, it already felt like winter. It has snowed every day from Dec 16 to 20. I can’t tell you the number of people who have shared with me that last year Ottawans experienced a green Christmas Eve. Since we weren’t here at that time, these confidences have not been the great consolation that these individuals might have supposed. Sunday, Dec 16 was the worst: James was going to borrow Dave’s snow blower, but the guys couldn’t fit the machine into the back of our vehicle (I’d had my doubts about that, anyway). The two of them cleared the driveway of the knee-deep white stuff, and then watched a movie; by the time the movie ended, they had to give the driveway another once-over. The stretch of lawn between our driveway and that of our neighbors to the north is heaped high—it’s well over my head, which made it quite a challenge yesterday to shovel out the hardening chunks left at the end of the driveway by the city’s plow. It’s also making it extremely difficult to see the street as we back out of our driveway: it’s not just the vehicles going by we have to watch for, but the cars parked along the street. You see, they send the little plow to clear the sidewalks, but it, too, leaves piles of snow. Essentially, walking down the sidewalk is now like picking one’s way through a mountain pass, foothills on one side, Rockies on the other.

All the shovelling condensed into such a short time frame was enough to make me wish that I had signed up for Tony’s grammatically incorrect services when I had the chance…until I read today’s Ottawa Citizen. The “City” section, Section E, p. 1, ran the headline, “Bylaw order stops snow contractor cold” with the cross heading, “Owner of Tony’s Snow Blowing ordered to appear at Jan. 21 hearing as officers look at yanking suspended licence for good.” According to journalist Kate Scroggins, Tony’s “left more than 14,000 driveways unplowed following last weekend’s record snowfall.” She quotes Tony as “citing brake problems on 13 of his 17 tractors,” blaming the equipment manufacturers, and claiming, “’It’s not my fault the brakes don’t work.’” Thirteen out of seventeen is not a great track record. I feel sorry for all those people who “payed” in advance. Faulty brakes would increase the likelihood of the “possibility of sliding into the house with our equipment,” one would presume.

Update:
I did not have a chance to read the Dec 21 issue of our community paper, the Barrhaven Independent (published every Friday), until today, Dec 24. The second story on the front page appears under the headline, “Snow blower leaves residents in the cold,” and begins with the sentence, “Another year, another excuse.” Steph Willems reports that last January, Tony “failed to show up at clients’ houses after the first three snowfalls of the year,” as a result of the equipment having been “damaged by vandals” (so said Tony). The year before that, the company “had its membership revoked after similar complaints.” The Ottawa Police Service is now investigating. I wonder if Tony has asked Santa for new equipment—or maybe a new job.

A note of thanks to Steph Willems, who specified that Ottawa received “a record-breaking” 37 cm of snow Dec 16. (I remember hearing it was to be between 30-40 cm, but wasn’t sure of the exact amount.)

Saturday, December 1, 2007

the goose is getting fat

Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat
Please to put a penny in an old man's hat
If you haven't got a penny, a ha' penny will do,
If you haven't got a ha' penny, God bless you

Notes:
1. ha’penny = ellision of halfpenny (It’s an English song)
2. the ambiguity of "then God bless you":
a) if you haven’t got a ha’penny, you must be worse off than the old man, so you’re in need of God’s blessing;
b) a statement meant to make you feel guilty because you’re being blessed anyway, even though you’re not sparing even a ha’penny

This song comes to you courtesy of Miss Bazak’s grade four class of 1977. I believe I could recount pretty much every song we learned in music class that year. It’s quite possible that it is forever imprinted in my memory, folksy songs domestic and foreign, such as:

Land of the Silver Birch” (the one with the drums)

Land of the silver birch, home of the beaver,
Where still the mighty moose wanders at will,
Blue lake and rocky shore, I will return once more,
Boom-da-da-boom-boom, Boom-da-da-boom-boom,
Boom-da-da-boom-boom-boom…
Boom boom


(the one about the goat)
One day a goat was feeling fine,
Ate three red shirts right off the line,
Jack took a stick, gave him a whack,
And tied him on a railroad track.
Sing adios! But not good-bye,
That goat was down, but not to die
He gave one yell, as though in pain,
Coughed up those shirts, and flagged the train!

(I had to do a quick Google search for everything but the first line and final couplet; I had no idea there were so many variations! Sometimes it’s Bill’s goat, sometimes Jack’s; sometimes it’s two shirts, sometimes three. Poor old goat.)


“Ting-a-lay-o” (the one about the donkey)

Ting-a-lay-o, come, little donkey, come,
Ting-a-lay-o, come, little donkey, come.

My donkey eat, my donkey sleep,
My donkey kick with his two hind feet,
Ting-a-lay-o, come little donkey, come,
Ting-a-lay-o, come, little donkey, come.

My donkey walk, my donkey talk,
My donkey eat with a knife and fork,
Ting-a-lay-o, come little donkey, come,
Ting-a-lay-o, come, little donkey, come.

(That was the version we learned, but here’s an extended one.)

They could almost fill a K-Tel “greatest hits of grade 4” collection. Or maybe they should be combined with the ones I remember from Mrs. Piché’s grade 5 music instruction: “You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown,” and the one whose title I don’t remember, but the words are, “A nice young ma-wa-wan lived on a hi-wi-will, a nice young ma-wa-wan, for I knew him we-we-well. To ma rattle to ma roo ra ree.” (That's a right cheery one, about a man who dies of a snake bite.)

Well, we made it through November, and Christmas is coming, and the goose is getting fat. This goose certainly is, at any rate. We haven’t even entered Christmas celebrations proper yet, and I may already have consumed my own weight in chocolate. Woe is me. Sears had a sale on their Lindt chocolate a few weeks ago – thus began the difficulty. (Thanks, Perry, for reminding me how good Lindt Swiss milk chocolate can be.) The trouble with the Lindt bars was compounded by the fact that I made fudge for Jason’s Grey Cup party held at Barry’s place (that's an anecdotal footnote in itself). OK, technically I wouldn’t have had to eat any myself, right, but I felt I owed it to Jason or Barry or whoever ultimately organized the event, to do some sampling – strictly for quality assurance purposes, understand.

Anyway, I’ve been reading friends’ blog posts about Christmas preparations, and I am truly put to shame. Dec 1 is the day that CFAM traditionally used to begin broadcasting Christmas carols—although perhaps they’ve given in like everybody else and now begin to play them right after Halloween. I haven’t even listened to my Elvis Christmas collection yet. (I’m not 100% certain I know where it is in my office jumble, but that’s beside the point.)

Well, I do have good – not great – intentions. Truth be told, however, the only decorating I’ve done this far is limited to the main floor powder room. I splurged on a dispenser of Body Shop Cranberry liquid hand soap (“sweet, fruity, and festive” proclaims its label). I think $12 is a ridiculous price. I could buy 6 Ivory liquid hand soap dispensers for that price, or 4 refill-sized bottles. Yet the sales guy was rakishly handsome in a young skateboarding dude kind of way, with longish bangs. He was very smooth, very subtle: no high-pressure sales techniques with him. He agreed with my assessment that $12 was pricey. He appealed to my feminine side which likes to indulge in frivolities by suggesting that one needs to spoil oneself every once in a while. He offered that I could test it over at their makeshift sink. (Hey, he had me at the agreeing part!) The guy is probably a psychology major—or a conflict resolution practitioner.

I should mention that there actually was a second perfectly legitimate reason why I wanted a new hand soap for the main floor washroom. The sink is rounded—I’ve never seen a pedestal sink quite so voluptuous (as sinks go)—and the soap ledge curves downwards rather sharply, so that my usual liquid soap bottle is prone to tip over.

So that’s all for decorating so far. Oh, wait, I’m using a forest green towel to contrast with the deep claret of the cranberry soap. Might get a tree when I return from my Winnipeg visit. I’m thinking the cats will try to climb it, shred it, eat it, or all three—but maybe not. I’ve done a practice run of lights on our silk ficus trees the last two years in the apartment, and that doesn’t seem to have troubled them. I’ll have to scope out the sales upon my return.

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Happy All Hallows’ Eve

~ from a Halloween party pooper ~

Have you noticed how in the last few years, Halloween has become extremely popular? I’ve actually heard someone say, “Halloween is my favorite holiday.” I must confess, I’m not that big a fan. I was raised in a household where treats of all sorts (chips, chocolate, popcorn twists, ju jubes) were available (in moderation, of course), so I never felt compelled to resort to dressing up and walking the streets to get my junk food fix.

Of course, when I was quite young, my dad would take us around Riverside to our grandparents’ and relatives and a handful of neighbors (a majority of whom were the aforesaid grandparents and relatives; I mean, hey, it was a small, rural community), and that was that. Not like some people I recall who, at one high school noon hour, drove themselves into town to go trick-or-treating. Also not like the 14-year-olds at Mom & Dad’s door one year whose voices gave them away. When it comes to trick-or-treating, the age of accountability may not be firmly fixed, but I’d think hitting puberty is a fairly good indicator one should stop.

And honestly, I find the displays at my local Shoppers Drug Mart repulsive: they’ve got the Grim Reaper, complete with scythe, in sculpted plastic leering at all passersby at the end of the aisle closest to the bins of Halloween treats. It’s (almost) enough to turn me off chocolate. That’s why I found it disturbing to read Tony Hicks’s article, “Really scary stuff: is Halloween décor too adult for the kids?” in this past Saturday’s Ottawa Citizen (p. J4-J5). The author shared that his five-year-old “weeps uncontrollably at the sight of a dead roly-poly bug, but doesn’t bat an eyelash at the disemboweled rubber man on a torture rack” in the Halloween store. In fact, she “giggles at the decapitated head on the ground.” Strange. No way I’m going to frequent that store.

Oh, and by the way, Halloween’s not a “holiday.” Not yet. Betcha’ within a couple of years someone will lobby to make it a stat.

So I guess you’ve gathered that we’re not going to be handing out treats to the little darlings. Nope, not this year. The few I’ve bought, we’re keeping. Actually, I have French class tonight. But after that, I think I’ll need to indulge in le chocolat.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

new 'do

alternative title: “hair today, gone tomorrow” or “i'm so vain”

I’m finding it difficult to squeeze blogging into my schedule, what with all the seemingly endless bus rides to work, work itself, French classes, and the general grocery shopping, meal preparing, house cleaning, laundry, litter scooping, TV watching, and many other quotidian details. (Quotidian is such a great word, isn’t it? I rediscovered it again yesterday, in French class, when we learned the French equivalent: quotidien/quotidienne - depending upon if the word it modifies is masculine or feminine.) If a picture really is worth a thousand words, the following means I’ll have fulfilled my quota for a while.

I've taken a lot of pictures of myself lately - blame it on the built-in PhotoBooth application, and my indecision over what to do with my mop. Here's my hair and how it’s evolved over the last few months.

Apparently, this was August 2, perhaps about 2½ months after my last visit to Maria. That was the Thursday before the long weekend. Feeling the longer layer brush against the back of my neck started to drive me crazy in the heat and humidity.

I’ll admit this cut was not the greatest idea. It got rid of the itchiness, but it was obviously a hasty/cheap job, a rash decision made on the Saturday of the Civic Holiday weekend. I look like I should be wearing wooden shoes and a three-cornered white and blue bonnet.

This was taken October 11, one higher-end cut plus about 6 weeks’ growth later. Hmm, could use a little taming on the ends.

I have a photo which I’m *not* posting: me with hair pulled back off my face to try to figure out my basic facial structure, and consequently, what cuts, if any, will flatter me, according to the hair magazines.

Ta da! After the salon! It’s a miracle. Of course, when/if you see me in person, do not be surprised if I do not look exactly like my photo. I must confess I have not mastered the whole round brush thing. And the latest crisis is that I’ve run out of Scruples O2 foam mousse. I’ll have to phone around to find it. I suppose another mousse would do, but I’m particular about scents, and I liked Scruples because it was light and not overly perfumey and didn’t smell like coconut, watermelon, vanilla, or sunflowers.

Watch for my next hair adventure: I expect it will involve highlights, possibly lowlights, too.

Monday, October 8, 2007

Happy Thanksgiving Monday!

So as most of you prepare to savor turkey dinners (or leftovers), and as we look forward to our non-traditional leftover chicken curry (or a meal of whole wheat spaghetti and tomato sauce if I can’t stretch the curry), I thought I’d reflect on some of the many things I am thankful for. Here’s a partial list:
  • my husband
  • my family, immediate and extended—yes, my in-laws, too!
  • my friends, far and near
  • that I’m forgiven and free in Jesus Christ
  • good health
  • that I possess five senses (and sometimes a sixth)
  • the education I’ve received
  • a comfortable little townhome
  • Red Rose tea
  • lunch with Shirley at Feleena’s on Friday
  • the privilege of sponsoring a Compassion Canada child (actually, we’re on our third one, since the previous two moved out of sponsorship areas and ceased being eligible)
  • that it’s time for the Samaritan's Purse annual Operation Christmas Child shoebox-packing event
  • art & literature
  • chocolate:
    • that James was not fond of the Godiva milk chocolate strawberries ("made from real dried strawberries") we bought Saturday (more for me)
    • that our friend’s daughter was out of school fundraiser chocolate bars to sell ('cause I would have bought'em and stuffed myself with even more chocolate)
    • that the Smith Falls Hershey’s Chocolate Shoppe is still open, meaning that there is still a slim chance I’ll get to visit it before it closes
  • that we can watch Church of the Rock on TV on those Sundays we don’t feel motivated to attend a local service
  • running water
  • the smell of Canadian Tire
  • the smell of clover
  • red maples
  • teddy bears
  • technology, especially being able to send emails, Google for information, reconnect with people on Facebook, and order online from McNally Robinson (come to Ottawa!), ChaptersIndigo, and Amazon
  • white cheddar popcorn
  • obtaining a reasonably priced return flight for early December
  • two goofy cats
  • Swiffers, 3M lint rollers, and Dirt Devil vacuums with which to clean up aforesaid pet hair
  • a good highlight, cut, and blow dry session with a reputable hair stylist
  • a good book and a comfortable chair on a rainy day
  • a long, leisurely walk
  • massage therapy
  • stretchy jeans
Enjoy today!

Sunday, September 30, 2007

uncharitable thoughts

I’ve heard that as people mature, they often exhibit traits that were previously uncharacteristic of them; for example, those who are high-strung mellow out, and those who were mellow to begin with become more excitable. Well, it doesn’t seem to be working for me. In general, I would rank myself much closer to the high-strung end of the spectrum than the footloose and fancy-free pole. Until Friday, I was under the illusion that perhaps I had reached that point where I had loosened up and learned to appreciate a little spontaneity. Hah.

I was vacuuming the living room on Friday afternoon when I heard the doorbell. I couldn’t see anybody at the front door, so I suspected it was my little neighbors at the back door. I decided to ignore them. That lasted only a short time, since I soon heard unusual noises coming from the deck, and via the living room windows, I could see a neighbor watching through her patio door, fully absorbed in what was transpiring in her line of vision. I decided to satisfy my curiosity. Don’t you think I found Lina and Ferris happily coloring with their bucketful of sidewalk chalk on the floorboards of the deck, not a care in the world. Maybe if I had children of my own, I would have found this terribly amusing, creative, clever, or resourceful; however, I found it none of the above. I reacted exactly the way you’d expect someone high-strung to react.

Me (flinging open the patio door): What are you doing?
Lina (calmly): Coloring. I did this, too. (pointing to her handiwork, four or five stripes on the screen door)

At which point I really lost it.

Me (voice raising an octave): Noooooo!!!! You DO NOT color on my house! Go home! Go home right now! Go home and color on your own house, if your mom lets you! You take your chalk and you go home!

Lina (unfazed): But can we pet the kitties?
Me: No. I’m busy vacuuming. Go home. Do NOT color on my house!

What nerve! What gall! What cheek!

After reflecting on it, I am beginning to think that maybe I overreacted. I mean, it is only sidewalk chalk. I haven’t washed it off yet, thinking that it might mark my house as part of Lina’s turf, and thereby dissuade the hordes of other young hoodlums in the area from leaving their calling cards. Naw, actually, it just hasn’t been a priority. I’m sure it will wash off the next time it rains--or the pervasive construction dust will cover it in a week’s time. Oh, well, I’m sure I’ve now firmly established my reputation as the Chapman Mills grumpy cat lady. On second thought, I feel justified. If they’d got away with chalk this time, they might have tried markers next, and before you know it, they’d be working their way up to the spray paint.

And so ends September...

Sunday, September 23, 2007

Life, the Universe, and Everything: Part 3

OK, so you get three-for-one today. I feel I owe you a hat trick. I’m trying to make up for lost time, since I’ve had a few people fear I’ve dropped off the blogwagon. (Plus the title--shamelessly borrowed from Douglas Adams--is misleading, and I’m not feeling particularly witty so the content strikes me as sub-par. Better luck next time!)

Remember how I expressed, in an earlier post, my uncertainty about what Ontario’s provincial symbol was? Well, I’m happy to report that I did a little Internet sleuthing subsequent to that post and learned that the triangular thing represents a trillium flower. I’m including a few links below, in case you’re curious. Essentially, Ontario went through a logo rebranding process last year that left quite a few citizens in a huff. Sound familiar? Maybe all the provinces underwent a similar costly and unnecessary (in my opinion) rebranding in 2006. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a conspiracy: distract everyone with a highly controversial big ticket item, and then slip a bunch of smaller ticket items right past them. Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t turned all political just because I pass by Parliament Hill on a regular basis—not that there’s anything wrong with that (nod to Seinfeld).

Trillium logo sites:

Life, the Universe, and Everything: Part 2

Regardez moi, je parle français!

To be quite honest, I should say, “Je parle seulement un petit peu de français.” Since knowing French (supposedly) can open a lot of doors in this region, I’ve enrolled in a twice-a-week beginner class at Algonquin College. I had an introduction to French way back in 1990-1992, but never sought out opportunities to use it. I remember picking it up relatively quickly back then; hopefully I can do the same again, provided my mental acuity hasn’t atrophied to the point of no return. I’ve secretly been going about day-to-day activities while chanting (not aloud) the conjugation of the verb être (je suis, tu es, il est, elle est, on est, nous sommes, vous êtes, ils sont, elles sont) and formulating in my head a couple of sentences with which to astound my instructor and classmates. (I'll let you know if it works; I'm guessing I'll chicken out at the last minute.)

Too bad I didn’t know then what I know now, i.e., too bad I didn’t know in the early 1990s that I would eventually end up living in Ottawa, or I would have kept up my French lessons. Another thing: too bad that when the federal? provincial? government rolled out their bilingual agenda, it was met with resistance in my local community. I calculate it was back in my grade 4 days that every student got a bilingual kit to take home, complete with one of those 45 rpm records. There was a book of some sort in primary colors featuring comics-style Canadian children conversing in both official languages, and the record contained songs meant to facilitate fluency. I want to say that a beaver character figured prominently in the book—but the whole memory is really hazy, as if I had repressed it. I dutifully listened to the soundtrack. Why I thought it was my duty I don’t know: the kits were distributed with little fanfare, and there was certainly no promise of any immediate, tangible academic reward. As I search back in my memory, I am tempted to say that I recall an expression of displeasure or distaste on my teacher’s face as she handed out the kits. (Mind you, this might be another unreliable memory. It’s difficult to say, for this particular teacher’s countenance seemed oft given to that same downturn of the mouth; she did not appear to possess a naturally sunny disposition.) In truth, living as we did in southern Manitoba, staunch Progressive Conservatives with strong anti-Trudeau sentiments, the bilingualism campaign stung: it was perceived as a slight against Low German- and German-speaking communities everywhere. All part of that “Western alienation” phenomenon.

Of course, these are only impressions that I’ve formed. I don’t recollect that I’ve ever mentioned it to anyone before. I believe I discarded the kit soon after receiving it, thinking I would never need to know French anyway, and almost ashamed for having kept it as long as I had. I have a suspicion that the kits were perceived as propaganda, part of the fallout of the Official Languages Act. In any event, there was pushback on the push for French to be taught in our school. Fortunately, the German we studied instead did help me better understand some aspects of French grammar when I got to it. Yet every once in a while over the years, I’ve found that the tune and chiasmic lyrics “Bonjour, my friend, how are you, mon ami?” jostle their way from some far recess of gray matter to assert themselves in my consciousness. Just think if I'd memorized the entire song! I coulda' been a contender.

Life, the Universe, and Everything: Part 1

I cannot believe there’s only one more week left in September. I have not posted for ages, although I have thought about it many times. Where have I been? Bidding a fond farewell to dear departing summer. Adjusting to the madness that autumn brings. Questing after a balance of work and life. Trying to figure out some semblance of routine and failing miserably. I keep hoping that somehow—by osmosis, I suppose (since something in the very core of me rejects the notion of reading The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People and other books of that ilk that strike me as well-intentioned, perhaps, but a little too naïve in their assumptions that all can be solved by a formulaic approach)—I will acquire the secrets of time management. Since that hasn’t happened yet, let me catch you up on what has been goin’ down in centre-town.

I’ve applied to various postings over the summer, and since nothing had come of them (despite my follow-up efforts) by mid-August, I started as a contractor with the University of Ottawa’s Access Service at the beginning of term. U of O calls me a “written interpreter,” although in Winnipeg I learned to think of myself in this capacity as a “computerized notetaker.” Essentially, I capture lectures and any questions and answers on a laptop for hard of hearing students. This availability of this kind of work can vary greatly from year to year, and even from term to term. Not only does it depend upon how many students have requested the service, but also the first two weeks of any term can be chaotic: students might add or drop classes up until a pre-determined date that’s usually fixed somewhere in the third week of classes. During that time, the administrative powers that be usually reschedule the location of a few classes. To give them the benefit of the doubt, it must come to their attention that Professor X’s Physics class of 150 students cannot possibly be crammed into Room 012 of Building A, which holds only 60, and must subsequently be switched with Professor Y’s Macroeconomics class of 50 students in Room 345 of Building Z, which seats 150. To be fair, I believe students are warned that administration reserves the right to change classrooms, and that they (students) are responsible for confirming the location of their classes. Yet these changes tend to cause moments of anxiety and upheaval—not for the student alone, but also for me, the interpreter, who must then try to keep up to the student charging all the way across campus, my laptop bag bumping against my thigh, my sandals slapping the pavement as I make an effort to run, but end up in more of a lop-sided lurch. There's nothing like entering a classroom dishevelled and breathing heavily.

While the job itself is the same in Ottawa as in Winnipeg, that is, keyboarding/typing verbal utterances, there are quite a few differences in terms of staffing, equipment, and financial remuneration. For example, in Winnipeg, the post-secondary institutions supply the laptops; here, the notetaker or student supplies one. Whether these differences are due to policies and procedures at the institutional or provincial level, I haven’t yet deduced.

Up until this term, I’ve managed to avoid notetaking for any Math or Science classes. It’s a much greater challenge to accurately capture the key concepts of a subject about which I know practically nothing. Even reviewing the professors’ online notes does little to prepare me other than providing me with vocabulary, which I can then enter as autocorrect shortcuts. But I’m very happy to have this work, and I’m getting a bit of transcription work here and there, too. It’s all about building a (satisfied) clientele base and extending outward from there!

Friday, August 31, 2007

Digiridoo Your Nails? and other shades of OPI

~ A post contemplating the marriage of nail polish and hockey ~

For quite some time now I’ve thought that I really should write my own personal response to Robert Kroetsch’s long poem Seed Catalogue. Mine would be entitled Avon Catalogue, because just as surely as the annual mail (male) order seed catalogue signified a rite of passage for a rural lad coming of age in the 1940s, so the monthly Avon catalogue impacted this rural girl growing up in the 1970s. In fact, I think I have started that project. It’s in my jumble of papers somewhere. I’m hoping to buy a second filing cabinet under the pretense that then I’ll actually finish sorting out all my “stuff.” The point, however, is that there was something exotic and alluring about the names of all the nail enamels—like the “sudden and glamorous” names the (unreliable) narrator of The Studhorse Man (another Kroetsch offering) calls the reader’s attention to in chapter 24 of the novel:

…I have more than once remarked that the pleasure in listening to a hockey game, as I do each Saturday night during the long winter, resides not only in the air of suppressed and yet impending violence, but also in the rain upon our senses of those sudden and glamorous names…Mikita from the corner for the Black Hawks. A backhander by Laperriere. Kelly upended by Marshall. In for the puck goes Bobby Hull. Here is Delvecchio faking a shot…I sit contented in my clean white tub, the radio turned low, square and protective on the windowsill, glossy against the dark night beyond.

I don’t have to sit in my soaker tub to appreciate the potency of names and naming.

So what has this to do with my life in the here and now? Glad you asked. As a birthday present, James had given me carte blanche for esthetic services at any location of my choice. The Spa in Bells Corners is amazing with its wood and stone interior, housed in an old United church building, but I was sure the prices would have shot up in the six years since I’d been there. (I was right.) Instead, I chose Spa Haven over Lovely Nails or Nice One Nails, primarily because it’s within walking distance. Last Saturday I received a pedicure, and the esthetician let me choose from a basket of OPI polishes. Nobody, not even Avon, can beat OPI for product naming. I narrowed the selection down to three: Not So Bora-Bora-ing Pink, Digiridoo Your Nails?, and Mauving to Manitoba. Mauving won out. How could I resist that? I mean, these lacquers are not manufactured in Canada, and although I live in Ontario, I’m still a Manitoban at heart. (Manitoba has a way cooler provincial symbol. Yes, even with the whole provincial rebranding and subsequent redesign of the bison. Beats a triangular thing in a box any day. I don’t even know what that is supposed to be. A three-leaf clover? A pinwheel?)

That’s not all. I checked out OPI’s Web site, and it’s got so many cool names, I could spend hours running through them all. For Fall/Winter 2007, there’s the Russian Collection, featuring Krème de la Kremlin, St. Petersburgundy, and Cosmo-Not Tonight Honey, among others. The Australia Collection has the aforementioned Digiridoo Your Nails? but also Don’t Melbourne the Toast and Kangarooby. Some of their Classic Colors include Aphrodite’s Pink Nightie and Mrs. O’Leary’s BBQ. Even their “Garden Party” of softer shades contains amusing titles: Hearts & Tarts, Just Tea-sing!, Mod Hatter. How can I not admire the creative marketing genius behind all of this “modern opulence”? There’s got to be room for more greats, so I think I’ll suggest they start a Hockey Night in Canada Collection. I even have a lacquer name all picked out: Pass Me the Puk-atawagan. Now if only I can figure out about eleven more, maybe I can make a sales pitch—oops, I mean shot.

Update:
#1 Pass Me the Puk-atawagan
#2 Rock'em Sock'em Cherry Red
#3 Power Play Pamplemousse
#4 Over the Blue Line
#5 Shinny-ma-Rink-a-Dink-a-Dink Pink
#6 Here She Comes Now Singin' Mony Zamboni
#7 Stick-y Wickenheiser
#8 The Grape One #99

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

memory lane

I am thrilled! Thanks to a certain group of guys who shall remain nameless, but who spend a significant amount of time sharing their YouTube finds (among them Robot Chicken Star Wars), I've re-discovered some Sesame Street childhood favorites: "The Little Dollhouse" and "A Loaf of Bread, a Container of Milk, and a Stick of Butter." And there seem to be many more where those came from.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

out of the mouths of babes


My friendly neighborhood un-spider kids: Oscar, Lina with umbrella, Azar, Ferris

Here’s a shot of my little visitors from last Wednesday. I only thought of taking their picture after I had trundled the cats inside. (Poor kitties really don’t know what to do with all the attention.) Lina and Ferris, of course, are the regulars. Oscar and his younger brother, whose name sounds like Azar, were along for the stroll. Oscar proved to be a highly intelligent young man. He made a particularly shrewd observation, something about the cats being shy because they don’t know them yet. “Did everyone hear what Oscar had to say? Good thinking!” I praised him. “I think a lot,” he replied, and, under his breath added, “Sometimes I think too much.”

Yesterday afternoon, I ignored the doorbell once or twice. I answered it at supper to inform Lina that she should try back tomorrow, try again. “I’ve tried a million times already!” she said, disappointment in her voice. I happen to know she headed over to our place only after she was turned away from Darian's. I heard Darian's father explain it was supper time for them. He went so far as to resort to a line I've used a few times: "OK, you go home now. Bye-bye." Sheesh, I sure hope Lina's parents enroll her in pre-school or play group for fall. She craves social interaction.

Saturday, August 25, 2007

“…and I think it’s gonna’ rain today…”

(as a thematic extension of the Beaches soundtrack)

There were thunderstorms with a lot of lightning this morning. I was pretty sure there would be, not just because the forecast was calling for that. You see, almost every year for 39 years, it has rained on August 24. I can recall only one year (1993?) when it did not rain. (Perry has a photographic memory and can correct me if I’m wrong.)

Witness, for instance, an excerpt below from a grade 12 assignment in which each student in the class was to write a one-page autobiography. The assignment was issued sometime between studying Our Town and the end of the first semester. (I checked: I kept my grade 12 English notes.) I suppose the expectation back then was that nobody at 17 has done anything that warrants more than one page; today’s typical 17-year-old could no doubt write a novella. Here’s my introductory paragraph:

They say that into every life some rain must fall. On the twenty-fourth of day of August, 1968, this proverb was illustrated as roads turned muddy and still rain proceeded to descend. This was understandable, however, as my parents were expecting the arrival of a little drip of their own. Accordingly, almost every birthday I can recall has featured threatening rain clouds.

So, in summary, it’s my birthday once more, it has rained, and the current humidity suggests more rain might be in store.

As I mentioned to my cousin last week, I remember when 40 seemed like a number so far away I'd never get close in a million years. And now it’s looming ever nearer. A few months ago I was having difficulty coming to terms with 39. Surely there must be some mistake. I feel older than 20, but almost-40? Naw, can’t be. After a great deal of contemplation (and some therapy), I think I’ve embraced it now. I mean, what else am I gonna’ do? It’s not as if I have that many options: either I accept it or I live in denial. Come to think of it, I have read that Anita Loos, author of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, its sequel, and many screenplays of the “roaring ’20s,” shaved a number of years off her birthdate—like many other women of the time, I’m sure. And I always did admire my high school German and Math teacher for sticking to his guns and insisting he was 39, right up until the day he retired. For all I know, he’s still 39 today. To all of you who are younger than me, let me leave you with this choice tidbit to reflect on: “right now is the oldest you’ve ever been.” So don’t get too smug. Besides, in virtually no time you'll catch up and we'll all be 39 together.

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

“Of cabbages and kings” – Cont'd

Where was I when I so rudely interrupted myself? Oh yes, up to nectarines—you know, my alternative list was “of shoes and kids and transit tracks, of nectarines and titslings.”

Nectarines
This next anecdote again harkens back to Monday. (Monday was a very eventful day!) On that particular afternoon, as on many afternoons ’round about three o’clock when I realize I am suffering from a lack of ideas as to what to make for supper and I search for inspiration, I decided to go grocery shopping. Loeb is, as I think I’ve mentioned before, conveniently located down the (curving) street, through the gate, and around the corner.



With me I had a list of three things: milk, Romaine lettuce, breaded chicken strips (the Buffalo seasoned kind). Now, nowhere on that list do I see nectarines. Yet since the kind marketing folks at Loeb strategically place tables of fresh baked goods and fresh fruit directly inside the front entrance (maybe they are meant to counterbalance each other), I was forced to pass by the display of nectarines to get to the Romaine. [Blatant aside: I recently found out that Rebecca Romijn—Jerry O’Connell’s current spouse, John Stamos’s ex—pronounces her surname “like the lettuce.” Honest. Check it out for yourself at IMDB if you don’t believe me. OK, back to the nectarines.]

The 3L baskets were $2.99 apiece. Great price—but a lot of nectarines for just two people. Far too many, I rationalized. I brushed past the nectarines—until, that is, I caught a glimpse of the name stamped in the red plastic handle. I did a double-take: “Epp Nectarines,” it read. And printed on the end: “Grown and packed by Abe Epp & Family Inc., RR3 Lakeshore Rd., Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ontario, Canada.” How could I, in good conscience as a fellow Menno, resist buying those nectarines? Think of Abe and his family of Epps in their orchards. They’re just “makin’ their way, the only way they know how” (like them Dukes), and after all, as the TV commercials that have been broadcast an awful lot lately say, “Good things gro-o-ow in On-tar-i-o.” I’m supporting local producers. Kind of. I’ve only had to throw away two nectarines so far; I’m happy to report that the ones I’ve eaten have greatly surpassed any of the others of regular supermarket variety I’ve bought previously this summer.

Titslings
R-Rated (adult themes, may appeal to sympathetic women only)
Welcome to the final section of this series of installments. This is the one in which things head south, namely anatomical parts and my choice of topics. I’ll try to employ as many euphemisms as I can in order not to offend anyone’s sensibilities too profoundly. Let’s just say that more often than not in recent days, the following lyrics from “Otto Titsling,” that unforgettable Bette Midler song from Beaches, have found their way into my waking consciousness:

The result of this swindle is pointedly clear:
Do you buy a titsling or do you buy a brassiere?

I’m thinking definitely the former. It was a year and a half ago or so when I underwent the undergarment fitting at Sears. I left feeling truly uplifted. I do wish I had bought two of the same product, or that some shrewd representative would have warned me that never again would I find 4419 in my precise size. I have searched high and low, at Sears, Wal-Mart, Zellers. I even inquired at The Bay, only to be told by a snooty salesclerk, “The Bay does not carry Playtex; that’s Zellers.” Evidently, as sister stores go, Zellers is The Bay’s pesky, tag-along younger sibling, the ’tween who’s still in a training bra.

Obviously, the 4419 that accommodates my girls is now as elusive as a pair of size seven shoes at a sidewalk sale at the mall. Maybe I’ll have to start taking James shopping with me for intimate apparel, too (cf. "shoes," previous post). Ultimately, I had to settle for an alternative product. The euphoric novelty of the relationship quickly wore off after a couple of weeks, a *fortnight*, if you will (that one’s for Tannis); now it’s characterized by uneasiness on both sides.

In honor of this post, I consulted Merriam Webster Online and the Urban Dictionary for insight into the etymology and contemporary use of the word bra. Merriam Webster revealed that brassiere comes “from Old French braciere arm protector.” Didn’t realize my arms needed protecting. The Urban Dictionary offers up three definitions, one lifted from Midler’s Beaches song: over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder. (What a far-reaching impact that movie had.) Personally, I can identify more closely with the second Urban offering: “a device to encage one's titties” and its accompanying example of how to use it in an utterance: “this bra is too small my titties are popping out.” (Let’s be big enough to overlook the lack of proper punctuation in the foregoing phrase in light of the truths contained therein.)

All of which brings me to the point: Were the bra-burners of the ‘60s on to something? Take a closer look at the “Otto Titsling” lyrics. Note that it’s a man who decides that something must be done about the Aida’s endowments; she doesn’t seem fazed by her predicament. Yet I’m not convinced that a philosophy shunning commodification and male control of the female form, no matter how valid the criticism, would receive the support due it given our current culture’s emphasis on porn-star perkiness.

So that’s my two…cents. Care to comment? It’ll be tit for tat.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

“Of shoes and ships and sealing-wax, of cabbages and kings”

I try (not always successfully) to choose evocative titles for these blog entries. Since I’m a bit behind in my posts, today’s will be a mish-mash of items; hence, the title. I remember reading these lines in a book a long time ago, and they’ve stuck with me ever since. No doubt it’s the strong meter and the juxtaposition of unlikely nouns that made them so memorable. Not until today did I discover they were lifted from the eleventh stanza of Lewis Carroll’s “The Walrus and The Carpenter.”

Here’s the stanza in its entirety:

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

Funny, I’d always been under the impression I’d first read them in Alcott’s Little Women. For some reason, I thought Jo quoted them when the March sisters and Theodore (aka “Teddy,” aka “Laurie”) Lawrence discussed “castles in the air.” Alas, I was wrong. Via Project Gutenberg I called up the plain texts of Little Women, Little Men, and Jo’s Boys; no instances of these lines to be found in any of them. Perhaps it was in Eight Cousins or Rose in Bloom? I might be confusing my series; perhaps it was Montgomery’s Anne Shirley who quoted Carroll. No matter. (But if anyone knows, please tell me.)

Down to business. I was thinking that “of shoes and kids and transit tracks, of nectarines and titslings” might be a more accurate summary of my post (despite its messing with the metrics).

Shoes
We can dispense with shoes right off. I think I’ll need new shoes for work, but I hate shopping for them. I’m going to procrastinate until I can cajole James into accompanying me. Normally, I prefer to shop by myself, but when it comes to shoes, I fare much better if James is beside me. All I have to do is wince, whine, and wail about how impossible it is to find size sevens in a flattering style, and suddenly it takes on the aspect of—du du du duhhhh—a mission. “Must…find…shoes.” Did I mention I married a task-oriented man? Or…I could beg Nicole C. for her help. Shopping for shoes ranks as one of her top ten activities on Facebook, and the Aerosoles she helped me find about five or six years ago lasted almost five or six years. In fact, I think they might still be hiding out in an unpacked box somewhere.

Kids
(“Who are the people in your neighborhood?” or “Meet the Blockers”)
Little Lina strikes again! After three days of absence (probably due to the cooler, windy weather), she appeared yesterday afternoon (Monday), with younger brother trailing behind. Another of her little friends, named Rajean, as far as I can tell, or “Jean” for short, appeared from two doors down. (I took an immediate like to Jean; she’s not as forward as the other two.) Later in the evening, the team came back—minus Jean, but having acquired a boy named Cedric. (Aside: When I asked Lina who her friend was, she said, “He’s not my friend.” That didn’t stop her from playing with him, I noticed.)

Finally the parents were out and about at the same time as their children. I first introduced myself to Jean’s mom. Later I walked over to Lina’s mom and told her I was the woman with the two cats. She said she had thought maybe her kids were imagining things, making up the cats. She hoped her children weren’t bothering me. Hmm. I told her that if the cats were outdoors, the kids could play with them, but if I didn’t want company, I would say the cats were busy. (Their social calendar is quickly filling up with, let’s see, sleeping, eating, litterbox breaks, sleeping….) She corrected me on Falas’s name. It’s actually Ferris—Lina has difficulty pronouncing r's. (It only struck me on the way home from aquafit that evening that whoever names their child with a homonym for phallus is blatantly inviting trouble. Something Oedipal would have to be going on there.) So Ferris it is. I always did like Matthew Broderick in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. If his early years are any indication, this Ferris will probably follow in the footsteps of the fictional one. Next it was over to see Cedric’s mom, who happened to be out on her deck.

I emphasized to all the mothers that the inside of my house is off limits to the kids. There’s no way I’m having the little dervishes inside; it’s hard enough to shoo them away from our place on the outside. Plus, I am conscious of avoiding any potential false allegations of child abuse. These days, you just never know. You’d think all of today’s parents would know that, too.

Transit Tracks
I took the bus to a doctor’s appointment on Riverside. I was aware that Billings Bridge precedes Pleasant Park, which precedes Riverside station. However, I miscalculated: I was certain somebody would ring the bell for a stop at Riverside, but no one did, and I wasn’t sure it was Riverside (didn't have a clear view of the sign), so I bypassed it and got off at Smyth instead. No biggie, I thought, Smyth can’t be more than a quarter of a mile up the road from Riverside. I had lots of time, so I enjoyed the walk along the paved shoulder of the transitway. Suddenly, an OC Transpo patrol car pulls up beside me and the officer wants to know where I’m going. To Riverside, say I. “Did you miss your stop?” Yes, say I, got off at Smyth by mistake. Apparently they don’t allow pedestrians on the paved shoulder of the transitway. I apologized, and hurriedly backtracked to my original destination. If he’d been playing Bad Cop, he could have charged me with a fine; fortunately for me, he was Bon Cop.

Who knew this post about “nothing” would get this long. In fact, it’s way too long as it is.

To be continued…

Thursday, August 16, 2007

"Suffer the little children..."

Well, I’ve now had the dubious pleasure of meeting my Inukshuk builders, and I must say it has been a very trying experience. I was wrong to assign deep, heartfelt meaning to their project, but I was right when I wrote that it’s all about them. They are, after all, only young children—young children, roaming the backyards of the neighborhood without parental supervision.

In the last three days we’ve been visited on at least eight separate occasions by four-year-old Lina (or Lena) who lives in the townhouse at the end of the row facing ours across the backyard. It’s the house with the child-sized plastic furniture scattered about the lawn at all angles. Lina is a very pretty little girl, with shoulder-length straight dark brown hair, and big brown eyes surrounded by black lashes. On the first visit, a boy with blue eyes and light brown hair in a mushroom cut accompanied Lina. I’d say he was also four, maybe five. The big attraction at our place? I let the cats out on their leashes. The boy, whose name I didn’t catch, has his own cat at home; Lina does not have a kitty or a puppy. Lina found Darth and Curli fascinating, yet unnerving. She’s let out a little shriek when they moved too near. Remember that phrase in “The Highwayman,” the one that asserts “the hours crawled by like years”? Well, in this case the minutes crawled by like years. For all intents and purposes, I became a broken record: “Don’t pull the grass. Don’t put stones on the grass; put them back where you found them. Don’t dump gravel on the cats. Don’t, don’t, DON'T!”

Too bad little Lina overcame her fear of animals so quickly. She appeared on our deck again the next day. It took me a while to figure out that someone was ringing the doorbell at the back door. Lina wanted to play with the kitties. I told her the kitties were busy. I asked her where all her friends were. They’d gone away. I asked if she had any brothers and sisters. She said she had a baby sister. She was silent for a moment and then added that she had a little brother, too, and that’s why her mom was feeling ill (!). Lina had in her hand a rusty screw, which she proceeded to poke into our screen door until I sternly commanded her to stop it. She made her way reluctantly home. She returned that evening, when James was outdoors with the cats, so I left it to him to deal with her.

Don’t you think that like the proverbial cat, Lina was back the next day, dragging her little brother with her. His name, if I understood correctly, is Falas. I was prepared to ignore the doorbell, but Falas arrived wielding a baseball bat (plastic, fortunately), which he was using to tap at the patio windows—presumably to get the cats’ attention. (He doesn’t look old enough for deliberate vandalism.) Once again my refrain of “Don’t” filled the air: “Don’t hit the window, don’t pull my grass, don’t pull the neighbor’s grass.” I repeatedly interjected “Go play in your own yard" with increasing frequency.

Yesterday evening I relented. I got to thinking that perhaps I hadn’t been modeling Christ-like, neighborly love as I should be. (What can I say, I had a weak moment.) I let Lina hang out with the cats, although I closely supervised the event. As principal tour guide of the Chychota Petting Zoo, my role consisted of:
  • praising Lina for being gentle with the cats;
  • convincing her that our cats eat only special cat food, not grass or gravel;
  • suggesting that sticking a paint brush in a cat’s ear (or other orifices, for that matter) is inadvisable;
  • discouraging her from trying to “pet the cat’s ‘booby things’” (i.e., Curli’s nipples);
  • emphasizing our cats were unused to children and therefore shy and needed space (in response to which she promptly climbed up the stairs and parked herself in front of the patio door, announcing, “I’m giving her space”; that was actually kinda’ cute);
  • and stressing in no uncertain terms that the inside of our house is off limits to her. (And believe me, I was stressing by that time!)
I can’t remember the last time I looked forward with such relish to a forecast calling for showers.

Alas, Ottawa’s weather is so unpredictable. In-between morning and afternoon showers, the sun shone upon the two small children who made their way up our deck stairs. I ignored the doorbell, hoping they’d go away. I peeked out to see they had plunked themselves on our lawn and were digging around in our gravel patch again. I chased them away.

That was not the end of it: Lina returned on her own twice this evening. That’s eleven visits to date! Jesus’s words, “Suffer the little children to come to me,” keep going through my head. I know the word translated as “suffer” in that sense means “allow, permit,” but the contemporary meaning of “bear with patiently; endure” seems a better fit in this case. Yea, verily, I am suffering.

I want to know, where are these children’s parents? What are they thinking? Do they know their children are making/would make themselves at home anywhere they please? Multiple times a day? Are they not concerned about what kind of people their neighbors might be? I mean, I’m not going to harm their kids, but what about the next guy? Where are the boundaries? Please, show some “tough love,” people. Something's got to give. If it doesn't, I'll have to schedule a little visit with Lina's mommy and daddy.


Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Seafood Diet

I neglected to mention in Monday’s post that I didn’t even go swimming at Britannia. I also didn’t mention that the lifeguards wore windbreakers. (Maybe that was self-evident given that I did write about the wind and white caps.) I did go so far as to pick my way through the seaweed carcasses and wade in up to my ankles about 15 minutes before I left to catch the bus home.

Monday afternoon’s sandblasting session has done wonders for the soles of my feet—a mini-pedicure, shall we say—and for my legs, sloughing off dry skin cells. That reminds of the item I read in The Ottawa Citizen this past weekend: “In Tokyo, sushi gets its revenge” (L1). For those who didn’t read it, the article’s author, Andrea Sachs of The Washington Post, signed up for a “Doctor Fish foot treatment” at Ooedo-Onsen-Monogatari, a Japanese hot springs spa. The spa has a pondful of Garra rufa, fish that feed on “dry, flaking human skin,” writes Sachs. She notes that she “could feel the light flutter of their fins against my skin and the slight pinch of their mouths. It would have been calming had it not been so disturbing.” I should think so! I think I’ll pass—I’m not big on seafood—and stick with my sand & surf treatment, thank you very much. Or I’ll break down and book an appointment at Spa Haven.

Monday, August 13, 2007

A moment in the sun

Today started as many of my days lately have started (pun intended): with me sleeping in because I had an unrestful night. My morning routine had me eating breakfast, checking my e mail, checking Facebook, and making my usual list as to whom I should call or what I thought I should accomplish. Sunlight was streaming into my office through the window where I’d pulled back the curtain, the curtain swaying in the breeze blowing through. Consequently, by about 11:30am all the happy outdoor action had convinced me to slough off responsibility (i.e., job search) for the afternoon and consult the Ottawa Beaches Water Quality and The Weather Network sites.

A few posts back (July 30) I wrote of an OC Transpo billboard ad, one of the wittiest I’d ever seen. There was another brilliant one that I recall seeing through the windows of an OC Transpo bus five or six years ago somewhere along Bank Street, in The Glebe. (Want more info about The Glebe? Read here and here.) The billboard promoted The Weather Network with the slogan, “Written, Produced, and Directed by God”! I still grin every time I think about it.

Given the forecast (23˚C the predicted high, 25˚C the actual), I could only surmise that Providence had foreordained today as my beach day. I accessed the OC Transpo Trip Planner (similar to Winnipeg Transit’s Navigo), threw together a backpack, and rode off into the noontide towards Britannia Beach. Approximately one hour, three buses, and a 15-minute walk later I arrived at my destination. I could have saved myself the walk: had I not been filled with overweening pride and self-confidence, I could have asked the bus driver to point out my stop. Instead, I exercised my independence, poor judgement, and legs by hopping off at the Yacht Club. Still, I knew I was in the general vicinity of the beach and it was a gorgeous day. Trust me, I needed the exercise anyway.

If Britannia Beach has designated change rooms, I didn’t find them. The washroom that served that purpose was modern, but not very clean at 2:30pm. Since I didn’t plan to spend more time than absolutely necessary there, it sufficed.

Children, primarily, dotted the beach and water, with a handful of adults in tow (adults, here, being a synonym for packhorses). The wind certainly made its presence known: there were white caps on the river, and every now and again mini-sandstorms would ravage the tranquility on shore. I read my book, dozed, and just soaked up the atmosphere. At any given time, from four to seven kiteboarders (aka kitesurfers) and at least six sailboarders (aka windsurf boarders) provided visual points of interest along the horizon. I’ll have to return another time to explore the outcropping of rocks and the scenic pathway to get there.

All in all, a fantastic afternoon. Even my trip back went smoothly. I caught the #18 up to Lincoln Fields 3B, then crossed over to gate 1C, where I waited for the #77 express. One passed by without stopping, too full of downtown commuters to squeeze even one more in. A fellow waiting beside me was, in his own words, “pissed” about that. (
I figured I’d just go with flow and take a #95.) He probably felt a little foolish when another #77 rolled up only a few minutes later. As it turns out, I beat James home.

So I’ve had my moment in the sun. I even have the (faint) tan lines to prove it. It occurred to me again yesterday that my idea of heaven-on-earth is a beach: Grand Beach would be better, but Britannia will do in a pinch. So, God, if you’re reading my blog, I don’t really need a mansion in heaven, but I won’t say no to a lakefront cottage!

Sunday, August 12, 2007

Paved with good intentions

Here's the view from just outside our front door on Friday morning. Our street's now paved for the most part, although the patches around the storm drains still need finishing off. As the work crew laid down and rolled out the asphalt, I was fascinated by its rich, dark smoothness--until people drove their vehicles over it, marring it with dusty tracks--and I imagined it must be like working a big piece of fondant, that candy-icing often used to coat wedding cakes.

If you look closely at the picture, you should be able to distinguish where our lawn ends and the neighbors' begins. That's because we've cut the grass with our noisy human-powered mow contraption, and they have merely stared down their green growth. You will notice that their laser-vision approach to lawn care has been equally successful in combatting the weeds beginning to camp out at the base of the tree; if they don't exercise caution or common sense soon, they--and we--could have a jamboree by summer's end.

Saturday, August 11, 2007

The Inukshuk in my backyard

Thursday evening I decided to quickly turn on the sprinkler in our backyard before I left for aquafitness class. As I stepped out onto the deck, I saw that a few handfuls of gravel and blades of grass had been heaped at the head of the stairs. James pointed out the rivulets made by fingers in the patch of gravel at the bottom, where cement blocks will eventually rest. I was not too thrilled that someone had made a mess that I had to clean up: I was anxious to be out the door and on the road, but being the responsible adult that I struggle to be, and the fastidious individual that I am, I got the broom and dustpan.

Our townhouse and deck from the farthest edge of our backyard
(the two white posts, far right, will eventually support a fence:
"good fences make good neighbors")

As I swept away the traces, I wondered if this was the reason for Darth’s earlier fit of meyowling (a conflation of meowing/yowling/howling—if you don’t think this is possible, you haven’t heard Darth). He likes to keep his eyes trained on the great outdoors just beyond the patio window, and he’s sensitive to disruptions in routine. For instance, last week, a few minutes after one of his fits, I detected eau de skunk wafting in the window. So perhaps he had once again been warning us that something or someone was invading our space.

My first hunch was that the youngsters from the townhouses with backyards facing ours had tired of tag and tea parties and decided to leave us a token of, what, their esteem? their loathing? their creative abilities? There are no small children at our house whom they would want to attract or repel. Maybe it was an offering for the household gods, i.e., the cats? I decided to attribute it to their blatant disregard of other people’s property.


Until, that is, I began to entertain suspicions involving our neighbors to the north. Let me explain: Tuesday evening I went out to cut the grass at approx. 8:00pm. Out of the corner of my eye, I became aware of the neighbor lady pressed against her patio window; I felt rather than saw her glaring at my industriousness. Mere seconds later I heard the patio door slam shut with a vengeance. Guess even though it’s got no motor, my mower still makes a bit of a racket when I run it. (Oops.) Was there a by-law, unbeknownst to me, restricting the operation of lawn mowers to the hours between 7:00am and 7:00pm? Could this little pile of pluckings be some strange voodoo concocted to keep me in my place? Nasty, nasty business.

At the head of the stairs where "it" once stood

Not until Friday morning, while waiting for the kettle to boil, did it strike me that in my overprotectiveness about my deck, my lawn, my space, I had misinterpreted the gesture of the grass and gravel. I am convinced it must have been the children after all. It wasn’t about me: it was about them. It was an inukshuk of sorts, a cairn, a marker, a means of insisting upon and attesting to their existence in a particular time and space. It was an object validating that they had passed by and indulged their innate desire to create something of meaning, no matter how fleeting and temporal, despite the possibility that their contractual meaning might be lost in the interpretation.

This flash of insight made me deeply regret my hasty actions of the previous night. I contemplated reconstructing the inukshuk—but by then the breeze had done its damage. Anyway, I reasoned, a replica would not exude the aura of the original. I lament the fact that I did not accept it, did not value it for its own sake and take a picture of it before I destroyed it forever. All that’s left now are a few scattered fragments, barely discernible, at the foot of the stairs.




The remains of that day

Wednesday, August 8, 2007

Tony's Snowblowing

I don't know what it is today, but I just can't seem to shut up. I was reading Ellen's "Worth It: Life Goes On" blog, and her post mentioned a subtle shift in the air that heralds back-to-s***** season (we won't mention that dreadful word), so I thought the following tidbit was worth sharing.

Intermittently throughout June and July, we received flyers proclaiming "Central Air Conditioning." Usually these would arrive on the days in which the thermometer would shoot above 25˚C. (I pity those who had to deliver them; on the other hand, they probably got the tans I'm envious of now.) So today I arrive home and what to my wondering eyes does appear but a flyer for Tony's Snowblowing. Nothing like getting a jump on the competition. Ah, but wait, there's an early bird special--a free service upgrade "valued at aprox. $150.00 from our competitors" [sic]. And I'm told that last year I "payed for a service that was only provided a few times." Hmmm, methinks Tony could use some help with spelling. "Payed" is indeed a word, I discovered--but it is not the past tense of "pay." Tony's also got a penchant for comma splices that needs to be curbed. For some reason, I find these sentences terribly amusing: "Weather timing is not an exact science, there may be some inconveniences" and "Driveways that have downwards slope greater than 15 degrees towards the house, hinder our capabilities to perform our duties safely without the possibility of sliding into the house with our equipment." Nothing like laying it on the line. You go, Tony! Go blow!

Spider-cat?

Curli-cat, Curli-cat, does whatever a Curli-cat does...
oh, wow, check that out, my headless torso is reflected in the microwave as I point & click.

David & Delilah & Barbie: A Modest/Indecent Proposal

Apparently I’m not finished discussing those action figures. While I find the idea of Bible action figures appealing, if the presupposition is that kids will re-enact stories from the Bible, why is Samson wrestling with Goliath on the One2Believe Web site? Notice they’ve both got that Hulk Hogan physique going for them. Yes, Samson fought Philistines, and Big Bad G is a Philistine, but it’s an anachronistic pairing. It’s David with his slingshot who should be going up against the giant. Samson should be paired against Delilah and her props—the ropes, scissors, negligé. Personally, I’d model her after WWF’s Chyna. I think Delilah would make a great brunette, intense, with an air of latent brutishness, a sense that she’s perpetually prepared to pounce, like a sinewy black panther. She’d exude danger and dominance. That’s seems to me the kind of femme fatale/formidable foe that someone like Samson would find irresistible.

Of course, I hear objections already if Chyna/Delilah were to put Hulk/Samson in a headlock—time to haul out those simpering P31 dolls avec cookie recipes and teach Chyna/Delilah a lesson in womanly conduct. (Oh come on, tell me that, like me, you couldn’t resist exploring One2Believe’s online store?) Puh-leeze. If One2Believe’s P31 dolls allude to Proverbs 31, somebody’s gotta go back and re-read their verses. I take exception. The “wife of noble character” is a wife, not a schoolgirl. Sure, she “provides food for her family,” but nowhere does it say she bakes cookies. Baklava, maybe. Might as well dress Barbie up as P31. Hey, now there’s an idea that I could go for, Barbie as women of the Bible. Let’s see, there’s Eve, Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, Leah, Esther, Mary, Naaman’s wife and anonymous servant girl warrant a doll each, Judge Deborah, Jael with her tent peg, Lois and Eunice (Timothy’s grandma and mom), and the Fembots—no, wait, that last one would be part of the Barbie as Bionic Woman set. I can't believe they're remaking that TV show.

Tuesday, August 7, 2007

"Magic" Spinach Brownies

Here's the recipe for the dish I brought to the BBQ on Monday.

“Magic” Spinach Brownies

(1)
1 tsp salt
1 cup flour
1 lb. grated cheddar or mozzarella cheese
1 tsp baking powder

(2)
2 eggs
1 cup milk
1/3 cup margarine (melted)
1/2 - 3/4 cup finely chopped onion
1 pkg. frozen spinach thawed & drained (or fresh spinach equivalent to 1 pkg. frozen)

Mix (1) and (2) and put in 9” x 13” pan. Bake at 350˚F for 40-45 minutes.

Notes:
a) “Spinach Brownies” recipe is from Jacquie courtesy of Sheila.
b) My version of spinach brownies turned out as if by “magic,” despite the following two shortcomings: I guesstimated the amount of fresh spinach needed to equal a frozen package; and I had to combine Monterey Jack, cheddar, one slice of Swiss, and pinches of Parmesan to make what I hope was close to 1 lb. of cheese. (I stopped short of incorporating the Kraft Singles grilled cheese slices.)
c) The ingredients should make it obvious, but just in case, please don't mistake these for a "dessert" brownie; no chocolate in this one!

We are family

We were invited to a fantastic barbecue at Dave & Ci’s yesterday evening: good food, great company. We feel very blessed to know the whole gang; in fact, we’ve come to think of them as extended family.

Speaking of relatives, my mom called last night to say that cousin Alicia & husband Rick and three older siblings welcomed a new baby boy, Noah, into their family. Cousin Tannis & husband Jeremy and the princesses welcomed prince Ezra into their lives on Aug 4.

It appears Biblical names are still in vogue for boys. Wonder if there’s any correlation to Wal-Mart’s new venture into Bible action figures? (See below.) I first caught the news via Yahoo!
(I don’t understand why the first article gives the toys’ measurements in millimetres; I mean why not centimetres or inches? How bizarre.)

Sunday, August 5, 2007

Stuck in the middle

Today would have been a perfect beach day, much better than yesterday. I think the high was 27˚C. However, we didn't go. Instead, we picked up Dave & Ci and went to Woodvale for the 10:15am service. Pastor Mark Scarr spoke on "Enjoying Others" (Phil. 1:3-11). To immediately practice what he preached, the four of us went out for lunch at Broadway Bar & Grill. The patio wasn't as busy as it has been at times in the past--must mean a lot of people are out of town for the long weekend.

While James worked like a mad scientist on electronic things in the basement, I spent basically the entire afternoon trying to get the photo below to appear in its rotated glory. I tried a variety of things with no success. Turns out, it existed in the rotated form all along, just not in the folder to which I'd renamed it and saved it. No, somehow behind the scenes the system saved it to a new "modified" folder. Technology is getting too smart for our own good.

Here's the view as we face our house: half a neighbor's home, our townhome, and half of another neighbor's. A quick tour of the outside includes our sidewalk, our (unpaved) driveway, our stretch of sod, a few leaves of the tree on the neighbor's yard poking out, and most of a street lamp.


So that's us, stuck in the middle--fortunately, not between Scylla and Charybdis, or clowns to the left and jokers to the right, for that matter, unless the teams of construction workers count as such. Most weekdays they're on the job beginning at about 7am.

Other than that, ours is a reasonably quiet neighborhood, despite the fair number of children biking, blading, and bumming around up and down the street. Those are probably the 6- to 12-year-olds; the smaller fry are preoccupied with playing tag or tea party in their backyards. There may be teens; if so, they've mastered the art of camouflage and are indiscernible from adults, brickwork, and very skinny trees. It seemed even quieter than usual out there today. I guess everyone's stuck in the middle of the long weekend, and trying to wring every ounce of pleasure out of it. Cheers to that, I say.

Saturday, August 4, 2007

Sometimes, Life’s a Beach

I was extremely pumped all yesterday evening because we were going to go to Lac Philippe today. (Do people still use the word “pumped”? What about “psyched”? Probably not.) Sure, I woke up at 8:30am, a half an hour later than I’d hoped to, but, hey, my well-deserved rest left me refreshed; I anticipated an excellent day ahead. We were on the road by about 10am—never mind that 10 was the time I’d suggested we aim to be there to avoid the crush. We arrived at the beach at 11:15am, lugged all our stuff (yes, even the pool noodles I insisted on bringing, much to James’s chagrin) down the sloping path paved through the pines, and spread out our beach blanket (to be accurate, it’s an old sheet). We waited for what seemed an eternity until the clouds passed and the rays descended—for all of a few brief minutes of warmth before the wind shooed them away. This happened two or three more times at intervals spaced farther and farther apart.

Now, I love going to the beach. I love soaking up sunshine, and then, when my skin gets to the point where it feels stretched tight from the heat, heading for the water. I’m not a great swimmer, don’t do much more than dog-paddle about, but I love curling a pool noodle around my back, under my arms, so it forms a U-shape, and then I hook my knees over the ends; I love bobbing around effortlessly like a big white and blue buoy until I’ve cooled off enough to want to go back to the sand. I love snacking on Ripple potato chips and fruit, all the while reading a book as I let the sun dry me off. Lather, rinse, repeat. And I dearly love the close of a perfect beach day: that sun-drenched skin smell, the mellow ride home, showering off the sand and discovering my souvenir tan lines are darker than I thought—total contentment.

Consequently, it was absolutely heart-wrenching to have to admit defeat. We retreated to the Pathfinder, all items, including aforementioned discomfiting pool noodles, in tow. I tried to be a good sport about it; still, the wake of disappointment followed me for the better part of the afternoon and evening. There may be other beach days, but I wanted this one for myself. (Sigh.) Small consolation, but I think my pale flesh was exposed to more direct sunlight while travelling on the highway and while lunching on the second floor patio of the Hard Rock Café overlooking the Byward Market than it has yet this summer. I tried to convince myself that tans are overrated, but then I read in the Citizen that a new study suggests that sunlight decreases the risk of breast cancer (although it still increases the risk of skin cancer). What’s a woman to do? I’m seriously toying with the idea of giving up the beach and purchasing a Mr. Turtle pool (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) for our backyard.