#14: schoolgirl shamus

To pick up on a thread from #12...my collection of Trixies.

I've got #1-28 and #30. Every once in a blue moon I go on eBay to sleuth around for the oval softcover paperbacks #29 or #31-34. Apparently the series went up to #39 in the square soft- & hardcovers. I also wouldn't mind acquiring an oval replacement for my #11 "ugly" (or thin hardcover) with an oval softcover. It would result in a much more aesthetically pleasing sight line.

These babies are found on the bottom shelf of one of my IKEA bookcases, the one designated as the children's lit section. Note that they made the move with me, while my Nancys have been relegated to the far corner of my parents' basement. That's a tight spot I may have to rescue Nancy from the next time I'm out west. I was always a sucker for her titian hair.

For those of you who read Nancy Drew mysteries, you may want to look up a copy of Chelsea Cain's Confessions of a Teen Sleuth: A Parody. It pokes a bit of fun at all girls' series fiction.

I have my own confession to make. I started re-reading my Trixies in fall and they still hold the same charm for me as they did when I first got them. (I have paused at after #10 to squeeze in a few other finds. I'll be back.) But Jeepers! some of the events seem so dated: a life before cellphones, e-mail, Google, and blogs.

#13: she sells seashells by the seashore

I've never lived near the ocean, so when we visited Tofino in 2003, I'll admit I found some of the sea creatures downright creepy, in a fascinated I-can't-take-my-eyes-off-them sort of way (especially those things that snake along under the sand--shivers). Such a reaction is in stark contrast to my cousin's family, who makes a concerted effort to study all manner of aquatic life in great detail. Still, I like the look of seashells (minus the animals inside). We found this object not on any beach, but in a shop catering to tourists in Apsley, a town a short distance away from our friends' cottage, last summer. Apparently it's a Sputnik Urceus shells decorative ball. (We didn't buy it for its name, obviously.) James took a fancy to it, which surprised and delighted me: I'm thrilled when our tastes align. It rests on our mantle, a lovely reminder of places we dream we might someday explore.

#12: d is for Diefenbunker

A friend and I had talked about visiting the Diefenbunker since at least October. We finally set a "play date" for four for today. Mr & Mrs C invited us over for a delicious lunch (homemade lasagna, garlic bread, Caesar salad, and butterscotch pie--Shirley, you had me at lasagna!) before we headed over to Canada's Cold War Museum.

Outside the guardhouse/ticket office with the other Mr & Mrs C
Photo ©James Chychota, 2008

Missiles (deactivated) at entrance to bunker
Photo ©James Chychota, 2008

Jeep at entrance
Photo ©James Chychota, 2008

Replica of a B-36B bomb lost in BC, Feb 13, 1950
(for details, see "Lost nuclear bomb in British Columbia" heading here and
Clearwater's "broken arrow" expedition diary notes here)
Photo ©James Chychota, 2008

Standing in the doorway to the vault
Photo ©James Chychota, 2008

The cafeteria in foreground, kitchen in background

It's a really neat place to tour; I can see us taking future houseguests there. Our tour guide was a young fellow, still in high school, but very well-informed, with a great sense of humor. This will sound quirky, but I think my favorite part (I didn't get a picture of it) was finally seeing a real working dumb waiter. I've read about them--Nancy Drew used to hide from crooks in dumb waiters all the time and eavesdrop on their devious machinations--and imagined them often, but today I saw one with my own eyes. It was a lot smaller than I expected. No doubt slim Nancy would have fit just fine; I suspect Trixie Belden couldn't have squeezed herself into that little box. If it comes down to a contest between Nancy and Trixie, I'm with Trixie every time.

#11: twenty-minute trip

I made a quick trip to the Carlingwood Mall. For 5pm on a Friday, it wasn't very busy. Of course, I usually park in the Sears' lot instead of the central parking area. Sears didn't have what I wanted, so I bought some Hershey Hugs at PharmaPlus. I'd considered visiting the Smith Falls Hershey factory during my week off, but I talked myself out of it: do I really need to buy, and by corollary eat, lots of chocolate? I think not. Better to buy a small bag of hugs and save myself the drive out to Smith Falls.

Carlingwood Mall
Sears far left, Loblaws far right, apartments behind, OC Transpo stop & buses in front

On my way back home.
The drive between Barrhaven and Carlingwood takes me through greenbelt farmland.

The last intersection before home.
More new Minto townhomes going up on the left, Strandherd Crossing on right.

Earlier today, light fluffy flakes were falling from the gray sky yet again, which prompted the following feelings:

Ottawa is a haughty hottie teen queen who capriciously breaks up and gets back together with Winter every few days. In-between, sometimes, she flirts with Spring. She postulates it's just a fling and sees no harm in it. January and February, united in resolve, do their best to discourage Spring's interest: "Don't come around here no more, boy!" I watch the melodrama play out. I can't wait until Ottawa breaks Old Winter's heart, like she does every year, year after year, as sure as Spring will win her back. For who can resist the lure and the promise of Spring?

#10: the lava life

Before anyone gets the wrong ideas and pulls an eastwood, I should explain. Tonight we went to "Worshipping the Volcano Goddess: Fierce Love Stories from Ancient Polynesia," an Ottawa Storytellers event at the National Arts Centre/Centre national des Arts (NAC/CNA). It featured two tellers, one of whom I had the great misfortune to spill coffee on during intermission at the Ottawa Storytelling Festival's Saturday night "High Stakes" concert on Nov. 3. We agreed to share the blame for that episode, although I still suspect I was at fault for not watching where I was going. She was so gracious about it--she suggested we could tell spin stories out of our mishap--we ended up having a pleasant exchange, and that's when I learned that she was telling on Feb. 21. I much preferred her stories over the other teller's.

Still, the evening didn't quite live up to my expectations. Perhaps I've been spoiled: I've witnessed performances by the likes of Chirine El-Ansary, Elizabeth Ellis, Jeff Stockton, Laura Simms, and Liz Weir. I'm beset by the same disappointment I feel when I've chosen a movie and it just doesn't gel. I will say this, however: the NAC's Fourth Stage is the perfect venue for exactly such an intimate event. It seats 150, it's cozily dark, and according to that link above, it's got "valour" drapes. (I myself thought they looked more like velour. Maybe something got lost in translation? Then again, the NAC is only a short trek down the street from, practically facing, DND.) There are pot lights all the way around the periphery of the room. We sat at round tables, 4 chairs to a table (yay, we didn't have to share), and the centrepieces were candles in glass pear-shaped lamps evocative of volcanos--the kind of candlelight that was popular in restaurants in the '70s and '80s. I can't explain: you'll just have to wait until I can post the photo (it's trapped in a cellphone) to see what I mean. Suspense...

Friday morning:
OK, here's the cellphone photo. I'm pushing my luck again. I don't have Photoshop; I've got something called iPhoto, with which I'm not super familiar. However, in order to make this image viewable, I had to click on "Enhance" and then "Effects-Boost Color" or you would have been looking at a lot of extra noise (as you will be if you click to enlarge it).

Photo © James Chychota, 2008

I forgot to mention above that the program we received was also very cool, with its map of the Hawaiian islands and notes on character and place names. See what I mean about the candle?

#9: hairspray

My apologies if you were expecting a "tiny moment" involving an illegally downloaded frame of the 2007 John Travolta movie by the same name. Confidentially, I haven't even watched it, not that I haven't tried. Hairspray was one of the movies offered on the last flight I took, but it wasn't my first choice--I ask you, why list movies when they are not available? whose perverse idea of customer service is that?--and by the time I selected it as my second or third choice, too much time had passed for me to see it through before we landed. That's OK: I pegged it as a quirky spoof of musicals, and I've checked the imdb.com synopsis (the one with spoilers), so I feel as though I watched the whole thing. It'll probably be on TV in a year anyway.

So if not about the aforesaid movie, what will this post be about? Well, if you surmised from my recent postings that I haven't left the house all week, you'd be close to the truth. Today's moment comes to you courtesy of a visit to Caroline at the aptly named Vanity Hair.


It bears a resemblance to prison stripes, I know, but the top's mod design is the inspiration behind the hair. Can't wear a groovy top without funky hair. ("It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing.") I obligingly tilted my head for this shot so you could see the zigzag part (my request) and moderately chunky highlights.

Appointments with my stylist are always big deals for me; therefore, in honor of the occasion, I decided to search out a handful of relevant and intellectually stimulating quotations.

Except for the seven hours part, I could identify with the following:

Your hair may be brushed, but your mind’s untidy,
You’ve had about seven hours’ sleep since Friday,
No wonder you feel that lost sensation;
You’re sunk from a riot of relaxation.

Ogden Nash (1902–1971), U.S. poet. We’ll All Feel Better By Wednesday, Versus (1949).
from Bartleby text text

Nash is the guy who wrote "Old Dog lay in the summer sun, / much too lazy to rise and run." Some of us memorized that poem in grade 4. By "some of us" I mean at least two of Miss Bazak's former students. I clearly recall Don K. reciting it in front of the class. And there are times when I can recite a few of the subsequent lines; now is not one of them. I'd include a link to the poem if I could, but Nash died in 1971, so his work is presently under copyright protection in the U.S. until 2042 and in Canada until 2022. (That info. brought to you courtesy of knowledge gained in my former position clearing copyright requests.)

Next:

Some of the worst mistakes of my life have been haircuts.
Jim Morrison, No One Here Gets Out Alive
The Quotations Page

(some, but surely not all, Jim)


This one I find sobering (puts me in mind of Siobhan's "Passion" post):

An error the breadth of a single hair can lead one a thousand miles astray.
Chinese proverb.
Bartleby

Here's one with which I think my mom will concur:

Hair style is the final tip-off whether or not a woman really knows herself.
Hubert de Givenchy, Vogue Jul 85
Bartleby

And, finally, whether you've had a bad haircut or just a bad hair day, here's one to put it all into perspective:

Interest in hair today has grown to the proportions of a fetish. Think of the many loving ways in which advertisements refer to scalp hair—satiny, glowing, shimmering, breathing, living. Living indeed! It is as dead as rope.
Dr William Montagna, dermatological researcher, Brown University
NY Herald Tribune 11 Apr 63
Bartleby

What more could I say?

#8: "life in plastic, it's fantastic"

Disclaimer: I am not a Tupperware consultant, have never been one, and will never be one. I have not hosted Tupperware parties, nor do I wish to host them. I do, however, own and use Tupperware products. Yet I am not trying to sell you on anything, unless it's an idea.

I went to a friend-of-a-friend's on Saturday evening for a Tupperware presentation. Each one in attendance received a thank-you gift from the consultant. This is a picture of my loot, minus the purple orange-peeler.


To receive an invitation to a Tupperware party is a coming-of-age, a rite of passage for a female, an initiation ceremony delineating adulthood from late adolescence. It signifies that one is ready to assume responsibility for one's own "womanly realm," i.e., the kitchen and pantry. So it's always seemed to me. Perhaps because my first close encounter with Tupperware was a cousin's bridal shower.

I'm of two minds about Tupperware: on the one hand, I'm drawn to the ever-changing colors, shapes, and textures, which come together in practical designs. I like to attend the occasional event to see what's new. I admire what I imagine to be its subversive beginnings as a legitimate excuse for housewives of the past to escape from their predictably dreary existences for a few hours to enjoy the company of other women, i.e., to gossip and eat dessert. And it still facilitates socializing if one is new to a community, like yours truly. On the other hand, I can't help but feel that it's just another example of rampant consumerism, some company convincing me that its products are indispensable, molding me for its own profitable ends. There are moments when I can't help but thinking like Stacey MacAindra, the protagonist of Margaret Laurence's The Fire-Dwellers, as she sits through a Polyglam Superware presentation at her neighbor's:

--If I get out of here for less than ten bucks it will be a bloody miracle. Two weeks ago it was copper-bottomed stoveware at Bertha's, and I bought a Dutch oven, which I need slightly less than I need a Dutch uncle. I'm weak-minded, that's my trouble. Anything to look agreeable. (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1969, p. 82)

Because the long and the short of it is that no matter how much anyone reassures me that there's no obligation to buy, I know that the hostess gift is calculated on a percentage of the total sales of that party.