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

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.

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.

“…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.

“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.

“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…

"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.

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.

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!

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.

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

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.

"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!

• Wal-Mart to test Bible action figures in 425 stores
• Biblical icons to fight for sales at Wal-Mart
• One2Believe

(I don’t understand why the first article gives the toys’ measurements in millimetres; I mean why not centimetres or inches? How bizarre.)

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.

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.

Little boxes made of ticky-tacky

our house, in the middle of our street

Four years ago, the development in which our townhome stands was an empty field. Now, however, there are rows and rows of "little boxes on a hillside." There are single-family detached dwellings, terrace homes (condos), and many, many townhouses (in rows of two, four, five, or six, just to mix it up). Technically, they're not "all the same"; there are different designs to choose from, for example, Manhattan, Park Place, Fifth Avenue, Empire, Ellington, Gershwin, Helmsley, Royalton, Dundas, Hathaway, Piccadilly, and so forth. The concept and popularity of townhouses as they exist in Ottawa are, I sense, foreign to people back home who don't really understand until they experience the region for themselves. We own our own townhome (well, technically the bank owns it: can you say "mortgage"?), and although Minto (the developer/builder) lays sod (hurray for instant grass!), plants initial trees (our neighbors got one, we didn't), and paves driveways (we trust they'll get around to ours eventually) as part of the deal, unlike with condos or terrace homes, the rest will be up to us. That is, we'll be responsible for the usual upkeep and maintenance--mowing the lawn, for instance.

In fact, we purchased a new lawn mower from Canadian Tire last weekend. Some of you may remember that the last time we owned a townhouse in Ottawa, we'd purchased a gas-powered push mower courtesy of Mom & Dad C. and Ukrainian Tire points. Upon our move back to Manitoba, we sold it to Volody, 'cause--let's be realistic--there's only so and so much one can fit into an 890-sq.-ft. apartment when downsizing from an approx. 1900-sq.-ft. townhouse. Volody needed a lawn mower, we needed money: it was a win/win situation. [Blatant aside: Who else thinks lawn mower should be spelled as a compound word? It's not, according to my Cdn Gage & Oxford dictionaries--and Merriam-Webster Online, for what it's worth.] Anyway, this time we decided that since we have a yard about half the size of our last one, we could go with an environmentally friendly model. I took it for a spin yesterday afternoon, and I am truly impressed. Relatively little noise, no pollution (unless you count the grass clippings), and finally there's a mower that can move as quickly as I'd like it to. I calculate it took me all of 12 minutes to finish the front and back yards. I went outside at 3:00pm, came in at 3:14pm, and it probably took me a minute each to move it out of the garage and around back via the neighbors' throughway, and back again.

And for all of you that feel sorry for us for having such a small plot of land to call our own, don't. After all, we've got all that greenspace nearby. Also, Minto has leveled and seeded a soccer-field- or baseball-diamond-shaped parcel of land not even a block away, and erected a sign that boldly proclaims "Minto - Park." It's just down the road from "Minto - School." That would be St. Emily's Catholic Elementary, a "state-of-the-art school with a bold blue, green and taupe colour scheme" (www2.ottawacatholicschools.ca/emi/pdf.php?doc=3197). How do you grow a community? How germane. (with a nod to Robert Kroetsch)

More pics next time...