A Novel Woman

Alternatives to Toxic Cleaning Products

2012-01-26T13:01:00.000-08:00

This is for you, gentle readers.

But mostly for me, so I can find this list again before it's lost to the internet ether.

A most excellent article on alternatives to some of the harsh, toxic cleaning products we've all grown accustomed to using in our homes. I've already swapped some of them for safer alternatives, for example, vinegar for cleaning windows and a bio laundry detergent I found that cleans better and actually smells nicer than my old brand.

Read more HERE.

Star Wars Goes To the Dogs

2012-01-24T07:06:00.000-08:00

Boris, R.I.P.

2012-01-23T05:37:00.001-08:00

To many, he was just a cat. To most of my neighbours, he was a holy terror, but that was a bad rap mostly based on his tough guy name. Sure, he'd often sit on the window ledge across the street and taunt the two male cats trapped inside. They would hurl themselves at the glass in furious impotence while Boris licked his foot and yawned. He wasn't doing anything wrong because his cat logic dictated he owned that property long before they all moved in so in fact, they were the interlopers, not him. It was simple feline logic, as far as he was concerned. He was confused, almost offended, when the owner would emerge and throw buckets of water at him, but he learned to sidestep quickly. And it didn't stop him from doing it again and again, usually the minute she stepped back inside.

Another neighbour, a street gossip universally loathed for her no-holds-barred approach to spreading rumours, pulled me over one day and gravely reported that Boris hissed at her whenever she went up to him. I wanted to say "well, don't go up to him" but I nodded and tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a smile. He was a cat with the gift of sentience and could see straight into people's souls, I reckoned.

I watched him move about the neighbourhood for years, and I know he was never the aggressor. Our little white cat Kicia, yes. She will take on animals several times her size, but not Boris. However, while he didn't actively seek out fights with other cats, he was stubborn in his refusal to back down when a fight presented itself.

As for humans, when Boris was outside, he pretty much ignored or hissed at you, depending on his mood. My next-door neighbour put it best; after she shooed him away from her porch, Boris turned as he sauntered away and gave her what she described as a "fuck you glance" over his shoulder. "That's exactly what it was, a giant 'fuck you' right to my face!" She laughed and added, "But I have to say, I really like the old bugger. He's got attitude, that one."

He was my boy, devoted, and deeply loved in return. And now he's gone. He lost weight for months, and in the past two weeks refused all food, even his favourites like raw salmon and roast chicken. Then he stopped drinking water, grew weak, and we knew it was time.

I miss him most in the evenings. During the day, he did his own thing, but at night he craved affection, purring loudly beside me while I read or watched TV. He was a solid cat in his day, huge, a mass of tightly wound muscle and soft fur with a thick tail the size of a stove pipe. He'd sit on my lap like a Buddha while I rubbed his belly, and tolerated the clipping of his claws without a struggle. When he slept it was deeply, usually sprawled on his back, back feet propped up on the back of a comfy chair, his front feet curled up like an otter's. He snored soft squeaks of pleasure, no doubt dreaming of bountiful fields of lame mice and hobbled squirrels.

When I came upstairs to bed, no matter what time it was, he'd bound up behind me, and enter the bathroom like royalty. He'd flop on the bathmat, always on that thin bathmat even when it was wet, I think because it held the whole family's scent. Sometimes I'd wiggle my finger underneath it and he'd get wild-eyed, then pounce. I could feel the strength in those massive paws, but he kept his claws withdrawn. Then he'd flop on one side as if saying, "I could kill you with one blow, but I won't. Because I love you. And I need you and your damned opposable thumbs to turn on the tap for me."

He'd wait until I was finished brushing my teeth then he'd jump up for a drink and watch the dripping water with the same fascination it has held for countless years. And every night, as I closed my bedroom door, he'd sprawl at the top of the stairs with a view to the front door, consumed with the very important job of guarding the family from intruders.

The hallway is empty now. And I feel it keenly.

Boris was a gentle lion. I know I shall miss him my whole life. The pain will get easier to bear, it always does, but for now my heart aches for my loss. Silly, to mourn so deeply for a cat so old his black coat was threaded with silver, and so slow and weak he sometimes leaned into a wall for support. I have close friends who have suffered worse, much worse, losing husbands and children, but they have written to say they understand, because they too know the exquisite pain of losing a cherished pet.

I am bereft. But I will endure.

I find strength in my sorrows.
power in my pain.
To risk may be to lose
but without risk
there can be no gain.

Tomato Sauce To Ease My Heart's Pain

2012-01-20T13:31:00.000-08:00

My old tomcat Boris is not well. It may indeed be his time and I'm so distraught I've been wandering around the house looking for ways to distract myself from what appears to be the inevitable.

I turn to comfort food in times like these. Not necessarily to eat, but I'll often cook just to keep myself occupied. The stirring and chopping are soothing, and whatever is cooking makes the house smell good. And so I have a pot of tomato sauce simmering on the stove destined for pasta or maybe some Shirataki noodles.

If you would like the recipe, it's one of the easiest pasta sauces to make and it's also the most delicious. If you've ever had a simple pasta pomodoro in a restaurant and you can't figure out what makes it so exquisitely toothsome, well the answer is butter. That, and a slow simmer, plus a dash of baking soda to cut the acidity. It's unbelievably good considering how simple it is. You could add some 35% cream and cooked shrimp if you wanted to go all out.

Best Tomato Sauce

1 28 oz (796ml) can whole tomatoes (use San Marzano if you can find them)
5 TBSP unsalted butter
1/2 tsp baking soda
1 whole yellow onion, peeled and cut in half
1 tsp dried basil
splash of white wine (optional)
salt to taste

Place all the ingredients in a wide saucepan and heat until it's just boiling and the butter is melted.

Cover, and turn down the sauce to a slow, steady simmer. Set the timer for 45 minutes.

When the timer goes, remove and discard the onion halves. Squish the whole tomatoes with the back of a wooden spoon against the sides of the pan. Add salt to taste.

Serve over pasta with lots of grated parmesano-reggiano (not that pre-grated stuff that comes in a can. Buy yourself to a big wedge like they sell at Costco and you'll never go back to the cheap stuff.)

Oatmeal Scones

2012-01-18T06:32:00.000-08:00

I used to make these quite often because they were a big hit with my kids. They're delicious warm from the oven with a bit of butter and cherry jam for breakfast, but more often than not I serve these alongside a good homemade soup.

I use organic rolled oats for these scones, but any old-fashioned, slow cook type oats will do.

(That being said, don't use steel cut oats unless you want to crack a tooth. Bad for you, good for my husband's business. Ditto eating sticky toffee when your mouth is full of old fillings, opening beer bottles with your molars, and playing hockey without a mouth guard, all of which we've seen. But I digress...)

Oatmeal Scones

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup rolled oats
1 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 cup cold butter (salted or unsalted)
3/4 cup buttermilk*

In large mixing bowl, combine flour, oats, baking soda, and salt. Cut in cold butter with a pastry blender until the butter is the size of peas. Stir in the buttermilk just until mixed. (You might need a tad more buttermilk if the mixture looks too dry to hold together.) Divide the dough in half. On a floured surface, pat into 2 circles 1/2 inch thick. Score into quarters. Place on parchment paper or a greased pan and bake at 400F for 12-15 minutes, or until they are lightly browned at the edges.

*If you don't have buttermilk you can sour milk but putting 1 tsp of vinegar or lemon juice in a measuring cup and then adding milk. Let sit for 10 minutes to sour. But really, buttermilk is the best because it adds so much flavour, so use it if you can.

So....

Do you, gentle readers, want me to publish more recipes?

Often? Occasionally? Don't care either way?

Embrace Your Mistakes

2012-01-17T05:13:00.000-08:00

Texas artist Qiang Huang writes a blog about painting. He paints every day and many of his paintings are experiments, since he sets about to test colours and values. Sometimes a painting will work, often it doesn't. He says of these so-called failures that that it isn't the painting that's not working, but the theory. "Having wrong theories is very common in research. That is why experiments are so important."

So instead of beating himself up about what isn't working, he looks at it this way.

"You should congratulate yourself if you see problems in your painting, because you have caught the problem, it is no longer hiding, so you are half way to success already."

The same could be said of your writing.

Or your relationships.

Actually, it's a good lesson for life.

Thus endeth the lesson.

I could expound.

But I'm going to make oatmeal scones and tea instead.

And there is nothing you can do to stop me.

An intriguing new fabric

2012-01-13T08:40:00.001-08:00

For those of you who are constantly wondering "what can I possibly get Pam for her birthday?" have a gander at this.

It's a cloth cape, covered in embroidery, and made entirely out of spider silk. The yellow, almost egg-yolk shade is its natural colour, and it took millions of spiders (and 80 human workers) over four years to make it.

What kind of spiders would these be, I hear you asking. Spiders the size of your hand, I reply with an involuntary shudder.

It is to go on display at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London if you want to have a closer look. That is to say the fabric, not the spiders, who are now back to cavorting and gorging on flies and small children in Madagascar.

Listen to an interview here.

Watch a slide show here.

And there's a longer article here.

Maybe next time I'm tempted to smack one of the little devils with a rolled up magazine I'll capture it and put it to work for me.

Can you do this with a Kindle?

2012-01-10T08:20:00.000-08:00

My eldest daughter and I have been debating the merits of Kindles vs books, actual, made with paper and hold in your hands books. My father printed books for a living so I have a deep-seated love for real books. I remember he used to bring home "dummies," the prototypes for the hardcover books before they went to print. I used to fill the blank pages with my own stories.

There is nothing quite like holding a brand new book, opening it and feeling the spine crack slightly. I always admire the cover art, read the front inside flap to read the synopsis and the back inside flap to check out the author photo, examine the binding, feel the quality of the paper, scrutinize the typeface, smell the fresh ink....oh, that new book smell is intoxicating for someone who loves books. Even that musty old book smell is exciting because it means a good story and a new adventure might be hiding in those pages.

However, that being said, I love my Kindle. I carry it everywhere. In fact, I want a second one because the one I bought for my husband at Christmas is much smaller and lighter than mine and now I covet it. I'm also into instant gratification, so to own a device that let's me read a chapter then order the rest of the book instantly, wherever I am and whenever I want, well...that's also intoxicating.

On the other hand, I want to support small bookstores. They are struggling to survive these days against not only the big box stores but Amazon which is, well, an Amazon when it comes to book sales.

So to strengthen her argument, Eldest sent this video made by a couple in a tiny Toronto bookstore.

It came with the note "can your Kindle do this?"

Alas, no, it cannot.

I do not concede defeat, but I do admit that no, my Kindle cannot do this.

Battle of Wits

2012-01-08T10:01:00.000-08:00

If you play a battle of wits with a toddler, prepare to lose.

Every time.

When your camera is set on video

2012-01-04T08:32:00.000-08:00

And you're trying to take a photo.

It turns out like this.

And this. These two are adorable. I hope we're like this when we're this couple's age. Still playful and sweet. Wait until the end, the things he says to her under his breath.

From I Think It's On Video where there are a few more.

Have you ever done this?

A Most Excellent Way to Start the New Year

2012-01-01T10:19:00.001-08:00

My Wish For You in 2012 and Ever After

2011-12-31T13:58:00.000-08:00

May your days be filled with love and laughter.

Dream big. You never know what may come of it.

Write, paint, dance, sing, create something that comes from your heart not your head.

Send that little piece of you out into the world and see where it lands.

Think long and hard about what makes you truly happy.

Are you doing it? If not, ask yourself why.

Don't get trapped by should haves or could haves.

Don't feel guilty about following your bliss.

Grab that bliss by the ears and kiss it hard. On the lips.

Be good to those who deserve it, but also to those who don't, because being kind is more about you than them.

Take a chance, on someone or something. Honestly, what do you have to lose compared to what you stand to gain?

Do something that scares the crap out of you. When you are on the other side of it, you will feel a euphoria that is indescribable, whether it's paddling down a raging river, or giving a speech to your peers.

Every once in a while, treat yourself to the good stuff. The best of the best. Buy a bottle of fine champagne, a box of the richest chocolate, the most luxurious bar of French hand-milled soap, or shrimp the size of a baby's fist. Enjoy it with someone deserving, and by someone I mean you.

Happy New Year

Girls Want Superheroes Too

2011-12-30T10:36:00.000-08:00

Is it me, or are we inundated by stupid? I turn on the TV, or radio, open a newspaper or just walk into the nearest cafe and it seems within seconds I am splattered head to toe with stupid.

Many prancing around on the pinnacle of Mount Stupid are women, so happy to be on-camera that they blather on, sharing their jejune theories with a world that gobbles it up and demands more. They do it for attention, and to fill their designer handbags with wads of money, made possible by yes, people like me who tune in and watch. I am ashamed to admit I am as powerless to resist certain reality shows as I am to resist that box of Purdy's chocolates in my desk drawer. But just when I think there can't possibly be that much stupid in this world, Barbara Walters announces, with her usual faux gravitas, that the Kardashians are on her list of the "most fascinating" of 2011.

The Kardashians? Really Babs? This is the best you can come up with? The word fascinating, according to my dictionary, means "interesting, entertaining, captivating, engrossing, and gripping." It also has an archaic meaning, that of a snake depriving a person of the ability to resist or escape by the power of a gaze.

By that definition, why not interview my dog Buddy? He probably has deeper thoughts than all Kardashians combined. Actually, I think we can do better than that.

For every Toddler in a Tiara:

There is a Riley in the toy aisle:

And for every Kardashian who spends time "take caring of my body":

There is Meryl.

Glorious, ethereal, intelligent, talented Meryl.

Thank God for Meryl.

Now there's a role model we can get behind.

She's my superhero.

Car in The Ditch and Regrets of the Dying

2011-12-28T21:59:00.000-08:00

I am sitting here at 1 a.m. waiting for a tow truck. My son called a short while ago to say he'd spun out on the ice on his way home from visiting friends, and now our car is in a ditch. My husband and I drove over to pick him up and I knew he felt bad from his stricken face, but I also know he's a responsible person and, well, like the tee-shirt so succinctly states, shit happens.

"We've all done something like this, at one time or another," I told him. "The good news is, you're not hurt, and neither is the car from the looks of it. We'll get it hauled out as soon as we can. In the great scheme of things, this is minor."

The tow truck has been summoned, and I've sent everyone to bed, figuring I'm a late owl anyway and they all have to get up early to get to the airport (at 6:30 a.m.) and/or to work, so I can sleep in if need be.

Then I came across this post. It sure puts that car in a ditch into perspective.

From Arise India Forum:

Nurse Reveals Top 5 Regrets of the Dying

“For many years I worked in palliative care. My patients were those who had gone home to die. Some incredibly special times were shared. I was with them for the last three to twelve weeks of their lives

People grow a lot when they are faced with their own mortality. I learnt never to underestimate someone’s capacity for growth. Some changes were phenomenal. Each experienced a variety of emotions, as expected, denial, fear, anger, remorse, more denial and eventually acceptance. Every single patient found their peace before they departed though, every one of them.

When questioned about any regrets they had or anything they would do differently, common themes surfaced again and again. Here are the most common five:

1. I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.

This was the most common regret of all. When people realise that their life is almost over and look back clearly on it, it is easy to see how many dreams have gone unfulfilled. Most people had not honoured even a half of their dreams and had to die knowing that it was due to choices they had made, or not made.

It is very important to try and honour at least some of your dreams along the way. From the moment that you lose your health, it is too late. Health brings a freedom very few realise, until they no longer have it.

2. I wish I didn’t work so hard.

This came from every male patient that I nursed. They missed their children’s youth and their partner’s companionship. Women also spoke of this regret. But as most were from an older generation, many of the female patients had not been breadwinners. All of the men I nursed deeply regretted spending so much of their lives on the treadmill of a work existence.

By simplifying your lifestyle and making conscious choices along the way, it is possible to not need the income that you think you do. And by creating more space in your life, you become happier and more open to new opportunities, ones more suited to your new lifestyle.

3. I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.

Many people suppressed their feelings in order to keep peace with others. As a result, they settled for a mediocre existence and never became who they were truly capable of becoming. Many developed illnesses relating to the bitterness and resentment they carried as a result.

We cannot control the reactions of others. However, although people may initially react when you change the way you are by speaking honestly, in the end it raises the relationship to a whole new and healthier level. Either that or it releases the unhealthy relationship from your life. Either way, you win.

4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.

Often they would not truly realise the full benefits of old friends until their dying weeks and it was not always possible to track them down. Many had become so caught up in their own lives that they had let golden friendships slip by over the years. There were many deep regrets about not giving friendships the time and effort that they deserved. Everyone misses their friends when they are dying.

It is common for anyone in a busy lifestyle to let friendships slip. But when you are faced with your approaching death, the physical details of life fall away. People do want to get their financial affairs in order if possible. But it is not money or status that holds the true importance for them. They want to get things in order more for the benefit of those they love. Usually though, they are too ill and weary to ever manage this task. It is all comes down to love and relationships in the end. That is all that remains in the final weeks, love and relationships.

5. I wish that I had let myself be happier.

This is a surprisingly common one. Many did not realise until the end that happiness is a choice. They had stayed stuck in old patterns and habits. The so-called ‘comfort’ of familiarity overflowed into their emotions, as well as their physical lives. Fear of change had them pretending to others, and to their selves, that they were content. When deep within, they longed to laugh properly and have silliness in their life again.

When you are on your deathbed, what others think of you is a long way from your mind. How wonderful to be able to let go and smile again, long before you are dying.

thanks to eject

*It's now 2:15 a.m., the car is back in the driveway, everyone I love is tucked safely into bed, so all is right with the world.

Let it snow. And it will.

2011-12-23T09:07:00.000-08:00

It is finally snowing here in the Great White North, and it is supposed to stay cold so there will be snow for Christmas, yay! I'm going into the home stretch now with baking and wrapping and stuffing All Things Which Require Stuffing (I'm thinking specifically of the organic, free-range "happy" gobbler but it could equally apply to my big gob) so you won't be hearing much from me for the next few days.

May your days be merry and bright, and may all your Christmases be white.

If you don't have any snow, you can go to google and type "let it snow" and it will! In just a few seconds, your screen will be covered in "snow" until you defrost it or wipe away the snow with your mouse.

And just for fun, type in "Santa" and you should get a string of lights.

Try "tilt" and see what happens.

Ho ho ho.

Much love and happy holidays!

Brilliant little video

2011-12-21T06:49:00.000-08:00

Pencils, telling a story. Love it.

Drunk History Christmas

2011-12-20T12:15:00.000-08:00

My sister Yutha sent me this video called DRUNK HISTORY CHRISTMAS and it serves as a cautionary tale about the dangers of mixing whisky and recitation.

It's got Ryan Gosling and Jim Carrey in it.

And some bad language.

And some most excellent dubbing.

It's so wrong. And yet...

Sounds that have disappeared

2011-12-18T13:50:00.000-08:00

I have an old, black rotary-dial phone and I love it, except, well, if there's an emergency. The thing is, it's fun to dial it and then wait for each ticka ticka tick, and to challenge yourself to see if you can flick it just so and get the number you were aiming for. So it stands to reason I especially love phone numbers with lots of zeros in it. The bell itself isn't connected, and apparently there's an easy way to fix it, but since it resides in my bedroom I think I'll leave it as is. The bell is so loud I don't want to have heart failure in the night should it ring. We used to get regular middle of the night phone calls from some of our kids' more mischievous friends who found it funny to wake us up and mumble a drunken hey-how-the-hell-are-ya at 3 a.m.

You know who you are.

And I know who you are.

Friends shouldn't let friends drink and dial. Especially with call display.

Anyway there are a few sounds that have disappeared and they've listed some of them on this website so check these out and see if you get all nostalgic on me. Remember gas station bells? And the sound old TVs made when you turned them on and off? Or when they went off air for the night?

Sigh.

I will probably be posting sporadically for the next couple of weeks.

I'm baking my ass off.

(If only that were true...)

Shit Girls Say

2011-12-12T17:35:00.000-08:00

This has gone from a Twitter account to a web series.

There is absolutely nothing in this to which I can relate.

Nope.

Not one thing.

All lies.

thanks Strombo, you rock

And speaking of web series, if you haven't checked out Jane Espenson's Husbands, stop what you're doing and go check out husbandstheseries.

Why Good Housekeeping Matters

2011-12-11T09:13:00.000-08:00

Around 4 a.m. I was roused from a deep sleep by the sound of my pacing, frantic dog. Usually this means imminent diarrhea or vomit on our bedroom floor, often the result of eating someone's sock or thong, or more recently, two insoles from my son's running shoes. (Oh, and three of those waxed paper squares that separate cheese slices. Did you know, as I do intimately, that wax paper squares don't break down in a dog's gut, but twist into long rolls resembling shit-stained cigars? But I digress.)

I staggered downstairs in total darkness with the Budster right behind me, and flung him outside under a full moon (no pun intended.)

As he scampered across the snow-covered deck toward the backyard to relieve himself, I saw the real reason for his distress - hooked to one of his long, fluffy ears and trailing beneath his belly and through the snow was my black padded bra. Realizing that he was seconds away from peeing all over it or worse, I flew out the door after him, and ran barefoot through the snow to retrieve it.

I have learned my lesson. No more flinging my clothes onto the floor, not even after a party that goes on until 3 a.m.

Deck the Halls, Falalalala-whatev

2011-12-07T09:20:00.000-08:00

lac louisa cottage winter scenes, to add visual interest and provide emotional escape

After living the past twenty-three years in the same house, having raised children alongside dogs, cats, rabbits, and birds, we’re thinking it’s time to renovate. Our 70s era kitchen and scuffed floors could be upgraded with granite counters and fresh cupboards and gleaming hardwood.

I’m hesitant to commit because I remember our last big renovation - overhauling our basement. That was to be a six-week job starting mid-November, and the contractor promised completion by Christmas. I believed him, my first mistake. I also ordered furniture to be delivered December 23^rd and invited twenty-four people for Christmas dinner, my second mistake.

The contractor was a stocky, red-headed Irishman who used to work as an undercover cop. He limped through our front door, apologizing for his “gimpy” leg, the result of a gunshot wound courtesy of some “Mohawk smugglers.” He'd pigeon hole one of my kids and reminisce in front of a rapt audience about the old days of drug busts and shaking down informants. “Did you know there’s this small community nearby made up of feral-like people all of whom live ‘between the tracks’,” he said to my open-mouthed son. “Their genetic pool is so shallow that these people all look identical - most have no nails, eyebrows or hair. And they’re illiterate, with names like body parts, well, it’s kind of rude, but one guy --“ At that point I intercepted and shot my protesting son off to school.

The rest of the workers were a hormonally-driven gang of young men. There was the blond ski bum Tatu, who cracked jokes about how he loaded he just got, how loaded he was going to get, or how he shouldn't be handling the electric saw because he might still be loaded. His pal Tabtab muttered and puttered alongside him. Rounding out the gang was a lanky Jamaican with dreads they called Captain Morgan who dug a large pit in the back yard then defected to Jamaica at the first sign of snow, with a vow to return in the spring.

The house was a constant state of chaos for weeks on end with no visible progress. Tatu and Tabtab would come for an hour then disappear, or not show up at all, or stay just long enough to leave clouds of dust and sawdust covering everything. Meanwhile, I canceled appointments so I could be home, delayed Christmas shopping, decorating and baking. One morning they woke us at dawn on a Sunday and worked for an hour but to what end? The contractor hobbled around and shouted orders, faithfully showing up even after he’d celebrated his fiftieth birthday with wild abandon and much beer, judging from his hangover.

After their electrician bailed, we hired one, and he regaled us with stories of his French Canadian childhood. His father was one of eighteen children, and the whole family still got together every Christmas, eighty-seven people in all, he said. They use sleeping bags and camp in one house, and his mother, well she cooks for the whole gang, using industrial-sized vats, he said. They were poor growing up, but they were never hungry, he said. What lovely tales he told as I poured him tea and offered homemade Christmas cookies. He even brought his young daughter over to visit, the most delicious child I've ever met, like something out of a Victorian fairy tale. She had long curls under her knitted cap and matching mittens. Oh, and if it wasn’t too much trouble, could we please entrust him with $2,000 in cash to buy the new baseboard heaters because he could get us a great deal that way. I did, and that was my third and final mistake, as that was the last we saw of him and my cash. Ex-Detective Contractor, showing a flair for timing, snapped his fingers and remembered after the fact that this electrician may have been known to him from a drug bust years before.

Small emergencies like a flooded fridge after it was jolted off kilter and a 2x4 through a basement window were handled along with bigger ones. We carved a small niche in the living room grotto and set up a tree alongside old computer monitors, boxes of baby clothes and spare suitcases. Kids arrived from universities, as did shrimp rings, cheese platters, and fresh salads to appease the newly released prisoners of school cafeterias. I finally accepted that I couldn’t do Christmas dinner that year so my sister-in-law offered to do dinner at her mother's place. When I asked what I could bring, she requested a roast turkey, with stuffing, hold the sawdust.

You know, I hear 70s décor is coming back into vogue. Maybe I should nix the renovation idea completely and just declare myself a trendsetter.

Deck the halls, indeed.

The Red House at Cosford's Corners

2011-12-05T20:56:00.000-08:00

When I was thirteen, my family moved to Aurora, Ontario, a tiny town north of Toronto. It was a bit of an adjustment, being the new "city" kid in a small town where most of the kids had grown up together. It was the kind of place where if you sneezed one day, a dozen people would ask you how you were feeling the next. Aurora was, and still mostly is, surrounded by horse farms and rolling hills. This old red brick home stood at the north end of town at Cosford's Corners. It was named after Thomas Cosford, born in 1795, who settled there in 1834 as a blacksmith and carriage maker. The house was built for his family in 1845, and it is one of the oldest surviving brick houses in Aurora. It's main claim to fame came in 1928, when Stephen Leacock's brother bought the house.

But when I was in high school, we all knew this as The Red House Studio. By that time it was owned by a local artist named Dorothy Clark McClure, and her daughter Kelly was a good friend of my sister Brenda. In fact, I babysat for Mrs. McClure and once agreed to spend the night when she had to go out of town.

What she didn't tell me, until I'd settled in, was that the house was haunted. Don't worry, they all said. Sometimes we hear party sounds, you know, glasses tinkling and light conversation and laughter drifting up the stairs from the first floor, but nothing to worry about. Oh, and every once in a while, the ghost of a young girl wearing a white nightgown will visit my bedroom and sit on my bed, said Mrs. McClure. (Wha-at? This was the bed where I would be sleeping.) So don't be alarmed if you feel her presence during the night because she means no harm, she added.

Needless to say, I lay rigid and on high alert the entire night. As dawn broke I stumbled down to the kitchen. I settled at the table, holding my head, when suddenly I heard scratching noises in the ceiling, directly above me. Now it was probably mice, or maybe a squirrel, but in my frazzled state I could almost feel that young girl's cold bony fingers reaching out to get me. I shot out of that house and into the yard where I paced and waited for Mrs. McClure to arrive while the kids ate their CocoPuffs.

Now fast-forward forty years. I now have Kelly McClure, the girl I used to babysit, on Facebook. And this is what she posted today.

I took mom to lunch at Jonathons today and we sat beside a family that I only noticed in passing. Halfway through the meal, the waitress came to us and said the woman who had been sitting next to us had instructed the waitress to wait until she had left to tell us that she had paid for our lunch, mom's wine, added a dessert and also paid the tip. She said the woman lost her mother 5 years earlier and watching us made her cry and think of her own mother. Wish I could have given her a hug! I don't know who she was, but the gesture made me cry.

Who says angels don't walk among us?

Double Take

2011-12-03T07:52:00.001-08:00

This "awkward moment" was sent to me by my sister.

Take a good look before you scroll down.

This is an office party photo.

Confused?

I was too.

I mean, why is this woman in the middle completely naked in an office photo?

But the real awkward moment?

It's when she realized that her friend's "fat arm" made her look naked in an office group photo.

Thanks, Yutha. You made me laugh until I ached. And Doug was on the floor.

Heathrow Redux

2011-11-30T13:42:00.000-08:00

Sure, you've probably seen this already.

I don't care. I'm posting it again.

Because it makes me feel good.

And I always cry at the end.

Yes, T-Mobile, you stole my heart. Damn you and your corporate agenda to stroke my heartstrings and make me dance like a monkey.

The Hidden Power of Smiling

2011-11-25T06:19:00.000-08:00

The span of your smile can predict the span of your life.

The act of smiling can make you healthier, and make you happier than eating chocolate or winning cash.

Well, I guess I knew all about the power of a smile. I married a dentist, who not only gives brilliant smiles to others, but goes through life with a broad smile himself. This is an awesome lecture, and not that long.

I love this photographer

2011-11-24T14:39:00.001-08:00

Untitled, a photo by mindazonaltal on Flickr.

Each of the photos are like a fairytale. I don't know how they are done, but I love them all.

This is the latest.

Just when you thought it was safe to go outside

2011-11-21T13:09:00.000-08:00

I almost got run over today.

I was out with The Budster for our morning constitutional. He'd finished his business, so I sat for a bit on the bench in the children's playground at the end of our street. He nosed about nibbling on the grass while I enjoyed a bit of sun on my face, the only bit of my flesh exposed to the air as it is now below zero. I left the playground and started to cross the street to go home. Bearing in mind that Quebec drivers are notoriously irresponsible drivers, I watched as a car approached going at least twice the posted speed limit.

No problem, since the driver had a) a large stop sign, b) plenty of time to stop, c) a giant speed bump and, d) a pedestrian with the right of way, clearly visible in a puffy down-filled coat holding a bouncy dog on a leash.

But the woman at the wheel simply ignored the sign, the speed bump, me and the dog as she plowed right through, not even slowing down to make a pretense of stopping. I took a couple of steps back and almost tumbled into the ditch, then waved my fists in the air and yelled a "hey, hey, hey!" in the middle of the street (that'll show her!)

I figured she would just disappear down the road, but...she pulled right into a driveway about halfway up.

So what do you think I did? Yup. I jogged up the street and caught the passenger, a middle-aged woman, as she was going into the house right behind the driver.

"Uh, excuse me," I called from the street, deliberately keeping my voice level. "You guys almost ran me over back there. Did you even see the stop sign?" Note that this was a rhetorical question, since they live on this street and therefore must know it is there, and always has been there.

"See?" the passenger calls into the house to the driver hiding in there. "I told you that was bad. You could get a ticket!" She looked at me. "I told her she could have gotten a ticket."

A ticket? You're worried she'll get a ticket? "Uh, this was right beside a playground. You could have killed someone. It's not about her getting a ticket. That was dangerous what just happened back there."

And with that, she went in without another word and closed the door. No apology. Nada.

Question:

1. What would you have done?

Question:

2. If I happen to come across a dead skunk, what should I do with it?

It also explains why we have signs like this here in La Belle Province:

"Keep an eye on your kids. This might be yours."

Note missing shoe, ripped shirt, closed eyes and lack of irony.

Stephen Fry Asks You to Enjoy Language

2011-11-19T07:09:00.000-08:00

"Write poems, love letters, novels and stories..." and leave your red pens and sneering in the desk drawer you "semi-educated losers."

So says Stephen Fry.

Take that, all you pedants out there.

thank you Brenda, for sending this to me and for knowing what makes my heart truly sing

Sarah Kay If I should have a daughter

2011-11-15T13:27:00.000-08:00

Sarah Kay is an American poet and founder of V.O.I.C.E. (Vocal Outreach Into Creative Expression) a "group dedicated to using spoken word as an inspirational tool." This TED lecture was part of a series called "Beauty, Imagination, Enchantment."

Gay marriage is confusing? Quantum physics is confusing.

2011-11-14T02:42:00.000-08:00

Trying to get a childproof bottle open? Confusing. Gay marriage? Not confusing.

Dear friends of ours, two women to be specific, are getting married next year. We're pretty chuffed about the wedding because, a) there is a lot of love between these two and it lifts me up when I'm around it and, b) many of the invited guests know how to party likes it's 1999 and I'm always up for a good party with people I know well. We don't yet know whether there will be two suits, two gowns or one of each at the altar, but it doesn't matter. They are committed to each other, and their marriage, and all the people who love them will be there to witness it. The only question on my mind, as it is at every wedding, is whether or not the DJ will be any good and will he/she be able to get everyone up on the dance floor.

I realize there are still some people who don't believe in gay marriage, just as there are those who don't believe in true love, or that dogs who can communicate their feelings with their eyes, or why eating chocolate every day helps you live longer. (It does.)

This is what I think:

Love is love.

The End.

"Now they’re saying that we can’t have gay marriage because it would confuse the kids. But you know what else confuses kids? Everything: Time zones. Books without pictures. Cargo pants. Certain hair colors. Jello molds. The magic trick with the quarter behind the ear. Mirrors. Mentadent toothpaste dispensers. Everything confuses kids, because they’re kids. So “Will it confuse kids?” is probably not the best litmus test for, well, anything besides toys and Spongebob plotlines (and even then, there’s a lot of leeway)."

Amelie Gillette at A.V. club

From the Huffington Post

My Gay Lifestyle, by Dominick Scudera

I live the gay lifestyle, the gay lifestyle that is often mentioned by some Republican candidates for president. For those who are unfamiliar with the lifestyle, this is a typical day:

7:00 a.m. I wake up, and just as I have done every morning since puberty, I choose to be gay today. This will come as a great relief to my gay, homosexual, male lover who lies beside me. Because being gay is a choice, our relationship is a gamble day to day. Even though we have both chosen to remain gay and to be together every day for the past 16 years, we never take anything for granted. One of us just might throw in the towel one day and...read the rest here.

thanks Jason D. for the link.

PSAs revisited

2011-11-12T07:46:00.000-08:00

Five years ago, I visited London with my youngest daughter. I bought an original postcard-sized painting in my favourite gallery/museum in the world, the National Portrait Gallery, which has been in operation since 1856. The painting was part of a blind sale (i.e., artist's name was not revealed until you bought and picked up the piece) to raise money for the gallery, which was celebrating its 200th birthday. I was there to celebrate a significant birthday so I bought two paintings, one for me and one for my husband, who was also hitting a milestone that year.

One of the paintings was by the artist Stephen Earl Rogers and I love it, and the rest of his work. We've stayed in touch via emails over the years, and he lets me know when he has new shows.

His latest is a series called "What To Do In An Emergency" based on the 1980s Reader's Digest self-help, family manual many of us remember reading. Part of his exhibit and some his other paintings can be seen HERE.

This put me in mind of some of the really old PSAs, which seemed to put equal emphasis on dating advice and what to do in the event of a nuclear blast. Or they dispense advice on dining, like, "Most families don't have maids, so Mother needs help with the serving." Oy.

Enjoy.

An Ancient Parable from India, not to be confused with an ancient parasol or parasite

2011-11-07T18:38:00.000-08:00

A wise woman who was traveling in the mountains found a precious stone in a stream. The next day she met another traveler who was hungry, and the wise woman opened her bag to share her food. The hungry traveler saw the precious stone in the wise woman's bag, admired it, and asked the wise woman to give it to him. The wise woman did so without hesitation.

The traveler left, rejoicing in his good fortune. He knew the jewel was worth enough to give him security for the rest of his life.

But a few days later he came back, searching for the wise woman. When he found her, he returned the stone and said, "I have been thinking. I know how valuable this stone is, but I give it back to you in the hope that you can give me something much more precious."

"If you can, give me what you have within you that enabled you to give me the stone."

Words to live by (unless of course we're talking about oatmeal cookies, especially if they're still warm from the oven. Then this parable is totally bogus.)

Joanna Bourne and THE BLACK HAWK

2011-11-05T06:34:00.001-07:00

If you like romance and mystery and historical fiction, check out Rita Winner Joanna Bourne's latest book THE BLACK HAWK, which has just been nominated for Best Historical Romance by Romantic Times. Some of her earlier books include THE SPYMASTER'S LADY, MY LORD AND SPYMASTER, and THE FORBIDDEN ROSE and if you haven't read them, stop what you're doing (seriously, stop it, right now) and go get them.

(Jo is an awesome storyteller, and I'm telling you, hand over heart, that Spymaster's Lady made me stop and gasp and slap my thigh and yell a hey nonny nonny WHATNOW?! when I got to a certain part in the story. You will too. Trust.)

Publishers Weekly said this about THE BLACK HAWK:

Bourne mixes heart-pounding mystery and romance in her spellbinding fourth Spymaster historical romantic thriller (after 2010’s The Forbidden Rose). From childhood, Adrian Hawker spied on France for England while Justine DeCabrillac gathered intelligence for the Police Sècrete. They were teens when they met in Paris in 1794, and as they grew up, their paths crossed often in a changing world. Sometimes they were on the same side, and sometimes they were opposed, but it was inevitable that they fall bittersweetly in love, knowing that any minute duty could take precedence over passion. Their tempestuous love affair unfolds in flashbacks, alternating with scenes from 1818 London, where somebody tries to kill Justine and frame Hawker, now head of the British Intelligence Service with as many enemies in England as in France. Just the right amount of intrigue makes this vivid romance a gripping page-turner.

(Name drop alert.)

Last year, I had lunch with Jo and Anne Perry and the luminous, unflappable, awesome writer and conference coordinator Kathy Chung at the Surrey International Writers' Conference. Listening to Jo and Anne in conversation was like watching two master tennis players lob a ball back and forth for fun. They both have brilliant intellects and wit, and as they discussed details of the French Revolution as casually as one might discuss the weather, I felt privileged to be their ball boy grabbing at stray balls. Jo knows her history, and she is a born storyteller, so the two combined? Magic.

Hie yourself over to The Debutante Ball where you'll find an interview with Jo and a chance to win her latest novel.

All Is Really One

2011-11-04T09:01:00.000-07:00

All things are our relatives;
what we do to everything,
we do to ourselves.
All is really One.
Black Elk, religious leader of the Lakota tribe

I've been pondering this lately because I live in a small town where gossip runs as freely as the draft beer at the local pub. Also, I just finished reading an excellent book on sociopaths - THE SOCIOPATH NEXT DOOR by Martha Stout - and at the end of the book, she mentions gossip, and lack of conscience.

"Conscience is...the place where psychology and spirituality meet." Martha Stout.

Sometimes gossip is just little harmless bits of information - have you seen B. lately? She's lost a lot of weight. Did you see that tree that came down on V.'s back porch? But then there is harmful gossip that crosses a line. It's mean-spirited, intended to isolate and attack another person. It is a form of bullying because the person spreading the rumours believes he/she is elevated by pulling someone else down.

Let's be clear. I'm no angel. I am as tempted as the next person to pass on some juicy tidbit overheard at the local hardware store about someone's kid being arrested or the state of someone's long-term marriage that seems to be on shaky ground. We pass around celebrity gossip like a plate of warm brownies so why not include people we know, or think we know?

My opinion on gossip changed when I found out my family was the latest casualty. A neighbour saw boxes being carted from the house to a waiting van and assumed, incorrectly, that my husband had moved out. Did she ask me? No. She called another neighbour to report what she saw and what she suspected. As the gossip spread down the street like a game of broken telephone, it took on a life of its own. The story was embellished with lies and speculation as to why he had moved out, no, he must have been thrown out. He must have been unfaithful, that bastard, no she had it coming...none of it true, of course. But some people never let truth get in the way of a good story. The real story - we were renovating our entire basement after some minor water damage and the contractor need to have everything out temporarily - was not as juicy.

It's changed how I talk about, and behave, around others. I'm not as open or trusting with confidences. I resist spreading rumours but sometimes I slip and when I find myself zinging someone else, I end up feeling guilty as I remember how I felt when I was the target. Let's just say, I'm a work in progress.

Some ancient Eastern mythology states that gossip is a form of mental illness. Stout believes conscience, and the ability to feel empathy towards others, is how you end up with a happy, successful life.

All that we are is the result of
what we have thought.
If a man speaks or acts with an evil thought,
pain follows him.
If a man speaks or acts with a pure thought,
happiness follows him,
like a shadow that never leaves him.
Buddha

Now, before I am tempted to spread gossip, I ask myself three questions:

1. Is it the truth?

2. Is it well-intentioned?

3. Is there a valid reason to share it?

If I can't answer these questions, I shut my mouth tighter than a crab's ass at high tide.

A "poetree" mystery

2011-11-02T00:00:00.000-07:00

This is making the rounds on a few blogs and I thought I'd share it here in case any of you missed it.

First there was a tree, a "poetree" sculpture made of paper, left in a Scottish library.

It had a cryptic note and a poem in pieces hidden inside a golden egg.

Then, there was a coffin topped by a gramophone.

This was followed by an Edinburgh movie theatre, a dragon in an egg, a teacup...

The shredded paper sculptures were mostly, but not exclusively, made from Ian Rankin's books.

chris scott flickr

Were they from him, some sort of publicity stunt? Apparently not.

They came with the note:

"This is for you in support of libraries, books, words, ideas..." and the tag @ByLeavesWeLive

Who was creating these marvelous pieces and sneaking them into libraries undetected?

No one knew.

The coolest part of this story?

A former music librarian with the Edinburgh Evening News thought he recognized the artist and had a name. But did the newspaper print the name?

Nope. They took a poll to see if readers wanted to know the answer or did they want it to remain a mystery. The answer was a resounding "keep it a mystery!"

So they did!

Read about it and see the fantastical photos of all the art pieces HERE.

Graffiti, like it or loathe it

2011-11-01T05:58:00.000-07:00

I don't like graffiti as a rule, but I love it as a side dish. No seriously, it's wrong, and not respectful of other people's property, and wrong. However I do like cleverness. So I'm torn between laughing at these and feeling Very Guilty about it.

I remember the toilet stalls at the university library provided the best ongoing dialogue of current affairs out there. There were debates that went on for, well, walls and walls, at least until the cleaning staff gave it a good scrub. But then like magic, another debate would begin under the coat hook or above the toilet paper.

One began "My mother made me a homosexual!"

Underneath someone wrote "If I buy her the wool, will she make me one too?"

(Don't forget, this was the 70s in Toronto, so coming out was a big deal.)

So imagine my delight when The Bloggess posted a link to photos with some pretty funny responses to graffiti. Like this one, my favourite:

If you want to see the rest, just point your little mousie HERE and press go.

And then of course, I ended up at sarcastic additions to well-meaning signs. Like this one:

For the rest of those, direct your little mousie HERE.

Department of Homeland Whatnow?

2011-10-31T05:12:00.000-07:00

I'm attempting to get one of those speedy border passes through the Department of Homeland Security.

If I succeed, I will be that woman, you know, the one who scoots around the regular line, feeling the hot glares on the back of her neck from all those sweaty onlookers as they drag their bags slowly forward and she waltzes right into the security pat-down line.

You can't make a mistake, or worse, lie about anything when you fill out these forms. Because if you do, you're banned from using or getting another card for life. But the first question on the online form is so confusing I reckon I'm snookered before I even start.

It says: list your paternal name, then your maternal name, then your first name.

So...do they mean my married name i.e. last name, maiden name and first name? My married name IS my maiden name.

Or do they mean my father's last name, my mother's maiden name and my first name? What about my husband's last name, which I sometimes use socially?

Turns out they don't really know either. I called the Montreal office and Big Shocker, no one was there to pick up the phone. Quebec's motto should be "It's not my job" followed by a Gallic Shrug.So I phoned the Toronto office, finally got a human and she said "the paternal name is the last name you go by, and the maternal name is your maiden name." My maiden name IS my paternal name. I live in Quebec, so we are required by law to keep our maiden names. So do I write it down twice?

The she gave me another number in Ottawa.

This time, the woman said "the paternal name is your last name, the one you use now." (So, my maiden name.) "And the maternal name is any other name you've used."

Huh? So I told her I use my husband's last name sometimes, plus I'd been married before, like 30 years ago, and I used his last name at that time so is that what they want under "maternal name"? Yup. Are you sure? "Oh yes," she laughed. "This happens all the time. Put down any or all other names you've used."

So I go back online and it seems like I'm filling in more names than Elizabeth Taylor and then I see a teensy, tiny, 'help' button in the upper corner. Clearly they don't want you to use it, or they'd make it easier to see.

It says paternal name is your current last name and maternal name is your mother's last name.

If I can't get past the first page on the form, the likelihood is I'm going to be standing in the back of the line with the rest of the sweaty plebs, practicing my glare.

Hallowe'en has gone to the dogs

2011-10-28T12:00:00.000-07:00

If I were going to choose a Hallowe'en costume for Buddy, this would be the one.

But I won't do it.

Because it's cruel.

Terribly, terribly, terribly cruel.

Here Buddy...come to mama...

Squirrel Melt Anyone?

2011-10-27T21:25:00.000-07:00

If you're squeamish, don't read this.

If you love squirrels, don't read this.

Go make yourself a peanut butter sandwich and watch The X Factor. This post is to Cute Overload what Jaws is to The Little Mermaid.

So this blogger from T-dot, clearly a sensitive fellow and squirrel lover, happened upon one of the little critters after it was broadsided by a van.

The guy hopped off his bike, rushed to the scene and tried to "find a pulse" on its limp, furry body. He looked a little closer and thought "she" might have been nursing. The clues? It appeared she hadn't showered for several days, her tail was stained with spit up and her kitchen was full of dirty dishes.

Not knowing what to do, and unclear on the concept of roadkill, he called Toronto's animal services for advice.

Their response? Put it in a bag and leave it on the porch and they'll see about coming to get it in the morning. Um, that's why it's called roadkill. Also, they told him to watch the Monty Python Dead Parrot sketch before he called them again.

Not exactly the "proper send off" he was hoping for.

Btw, this is how we give squirrels a proper send off in our 'hood:

The Boris, aficionado of squirrel tartare

So I say, why not use that roadkill, or as I like to call it "free protein," for Squirrel Melts? They're "a nice weekend snack maybe while watchin' the football game." According to this expert squirrel chef below, it is very versatile because it's good hot or cold.

It's also low fat and as free range as it gets. Some say it tastes like a cross between lamb and duck, others more like wild boar. Nowhere does it say it tastes like chicken.

Grey squirrel is even flying off the shelves in the UK according to this article THE ULTIMATE ETHICAL MEAL:A GREY SQUIRREL. Best of all, it's free. And plentiful, if my backyard is anything to go by. And since the UK is known the world over for its fine cuisine, if they're saying eat squirrel, it must be good.

So get out your ~~aprons and cookbooks~~ shotguns and pickup trucks and hit the mean streets. If you're lucky enough to live in Toronto, it won't take long to get dinner out of that city park and on to your dinner table.

Not for the squeamish. Seriously, you have been warned.

And if you can't bring yourself to cook and eat one, there is always Roadkill Art.

I swear I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. I don't know what's more strange. The guy making art out of roadkill, or the people paying more than 50,000 pounds for it.

Rick Mercer

2011-10-27T14:36:00.001-07:00

And this is why we love him.

Surrey International Writers' Conference Part Deux

2011-10-25T11:47:00.000-07:00

If you are an aspiring writer and feel you need some motivation to keep going, check out this awesome keynote speech by Robert Dugoni.

It will turn you around.

I guarantee it.

Go HERE to listen.

This day we write!

Surrey International Writers' Conference

2011-10-24T17:25:00.000-07:00

I just got back from my annual writers' conference in Surrey, British Columbia. The SiWC was amazing, exhausting, exhilarating as it always is. It truly is the best writers' conference in the world. My heart is full to overflowing.

On the flight back, there was a sweet young mom of three sitting one seat over who was having such an attack of nerves my heart went out to her. She was flushed and shaking, fidgety and close to tears and that was before the plane had even left the hangar! When we started to move, she asked if she could hold my hand. So I reached over the outwardly calm but slightly disconcerted man in the middle seat who probably wished he'd been seated anywhere else than sandwiched between these two crazy female bookends and I held her hand, and rubbed the back of it in slow circles with my thumb. I used my soothing mama voice, the one that convinced my kids there were no more monsters hiding under the bed. I got her calmer, got her distracted by asking questions about her kids and her life. (Then the man in the middle thought he'd help too, and mentioned a guy he knew who was in a plane crash but it's okay, he survived it. Even if we do go down, we'll probably be fine! Venus to Mars, come in Mars. Stroke the hand, stroke the hand!)

gratuitous flower shot to break up the text

Anyway, at the SiWC, we have days packed with workshops, and long nights in the bar talking writing with friends and fellow writers. Where else can you chat about Queen Elizabeth I with Anne Perry in the elevator, Diana Gabaldon about what makes a good sex scene, and Michael Slade about some guy getting his kicks from dressing dogs in panties, all in the same day? Or sit with the ethereal novelist and professional puppeteer Mary Robinette Kowal, who had us in stitches describing a Passion Play gone horribly wrong. Or hear Jack Whyte not only sing his hippopotamus song but convince hundreds of people to join him in the chorus?

For me, the highlight of the conference was listening to the wise, charming, witty, soulful and very inspiring Ivan E. Coyote. When I leave one of her workshops, I not only feel like a better writer, I feel like a better person.

You know, when I attend the conference every year, there are always signals from the universe, little nudges, wee "woo woo" moments where I stop and think was that a coincidence, or do I need to pay close attention to something.

oh look, another gratuitous flower shot because, you know, too much text

When I was in line to board the plane in Montreal to Vancouver, I chatted with a woman and I wrote down her name, as I often do, thinking I might put it in a story. A few days later, Ivan told a story in her workshop about a friend of hers, a good friend, with whom she'd lost touch, and her last name was Bean. Twenty years later, Ivan was teaching a bullying workshop and she was approached afterwards by this wonderfully odd boy who was succinct and wise beyond his years. His name was... Eliot Bean, son of her friend.

The woman I talked to in line at the airport? Her name was Elaine Bean.

Ivan said to look for "watershed" moments. I write for a magazine called Watershed.

Ivan said one of her interests is Roma caravans, because her grandmother was Roma. I've recently been researching caravans for a story (including the day before I left for the conference) and I have a fat file on them as it's always been a dream of mine to own one.

Odd, no? But not, you know, earth shattering.

While I was standing in line to board the plane in Vancouver to come back home today, I chatted with the woman walking beside me. (You see a trend here, right? Yes, I talk to strangers, only if they're receptive, but I've had many an interesting conversation.) Turns out Heidi is president and general manager of an artist management company in Montreal.

Where are you coming from, I asked.

"The Yukon," she said, where she'd just attended the Western Canadian Music Awards.

yep, another one

And then I did that thing that makes every Canadian roll their eyes when they're talking to someone from outside the country. "I've just heard an amazing speaker from the Yukon," I said. "Do you know Ivan E. Coyote?"

"Know her? I just stayed with Kim Beggs, a good friend of Ivan's who has performed with her." And with that, Heidi gave me a CD with some of the artists she works with, including Ivan's friend Kim.

And then Heidi asked if I'd ever considered writing music bios. See? Magic.

When I tell you there is some kind of amazing alchemy that comes out of the SiWC, you'd better believe me. And in case that's not woo woo enough for you, the man sitting beside me on the plane mentioned his son, a news anchor, is named Tyler Fleming and Heidi, sitting in front of him, twisted around and said, "Hey, that's my nephew's name."

Yup.

To sum up- I'm tired, but inspired.

That's what the SiWC does every year.

Inspiration is everywhere

2011-10-21T10:15:00.000-07:00

TMB Bank Thailand put together this 5 minute video of a little football club that could.

If you watch Amazing Race, you'll have seen this village on the last show. The entire town floats off a little island in the south part of Thailand. There is literally no solid land on which to build, but the kids wanted to play football (soccer to us Canucks.) So watch what they did.

See if you aren't in tears by the end of this story. You might want to click it and go directly to YouTube so you can read the sub-titles.

Tide Commercial

2011-10-20T08:59:00.000-07:00

Have a look and see what you think about this. Then read what I think.

I actually wrote to the company to say I found it offensive, on so many levels.

They replied:

Thanks for taking the time to share your thoughts on the Tide commercial. Tide celebrates individual style, and we know kids are creative and sometimes choose to wear what they want - not always what mom suggests.

Our intention wasn’t to convey an unfavorable relationship between the mom and daughter or to express an opinion on what is or isn’t appropriate to wear. Our intention was to play up the humor of what happens when mothers and children have differing style preferences.

We take your feedback very seriously, and I’ll share your comments with the rest of our Tide team.

Interesting. "Tide celebrates individual style"? Really?

I wrote back again:

I understand that's where you were aiming with this Tide commercial, but your creative team completely missed the mark.

Of course mothers and daughters don't always agree when it comes to clothing choices. I've raised three kids, two of them daughters, so I know what kind of battles teenagers and their moms go through as one side struggles to express themselves and the other struggles to let go (and it's not just girls, btw.) I get that. But what this commercial suggests is that the mother is disappointed not only in her daughter's clothing choices, but where they might lead. It implies that the girl's rejection of pink "feminine" things and her interest in hoodies, cargo shorts and "gettin' dirty" while she plays with car garages are making her daughter kind of butch and possibly (gasp!) a lesbian, implying there is something wrong with this.

What kind of message is that? Gay and transgendered kids are being bullied and committing suicide because society and sometimes their own parents do not accept them as they are. Have you seen the "It Gets Better" campaigns on YouTube?

Say it was a father and son in the commercial, and the son was wearing pink and playing with dolls, and the father expressed disappointment that he couldn't change the way the kid dressed. Would it still be funny?

Kids struggle so hard these days, looking for their own identities while stereotypes are thrown at them from all sides, especially young girls. The fact that this aired during an episode of Teen Mom only adds to the irony.

I took time out of my day to write this because it's important. Thanks for taking time out of your day to listen.

So?

What do you think? If you like, go HERE and tell Tide yourself.

New Trick for Buddy

2011-10-18T16:35:00.000-07:00

I need to teach Buddy this trick.

He can flop on the floor and play dead, but this?

This is the best. Promise. I get the giggles every time I watch it.

13 Observations made by Lemony Snicket...

2011-10-18T02:42:00.000-07:00

This is brilliant. It was posted by the equally brilliant Neil Gaiman.

13 Observations
made by Lemony Snicket
while watching
Occupy Wall Street
from a Discreet Distance

1. If you work hard, and become successful, it does not necessarily mean you are successful because you worked hard, just as if you are tall with long hair it doesn’t mean you would be a midget if you were bald.

2. “Fortune” is a word for having a lot of money and for having a lot of luck, but that does not mean the word has two definitions.

3. Money is like a child—rarely unaccompanied. When it disappears, look to...keep reading here.

Breast Cancer and Your Man Reminder

2011-10-16T21:56:00.000-07:00

This is just so...exploitative and...I...am...just...I...

Where was I?

I need a new phone for Christmas.

Hey, I'm providing a public service, people.

Ode to Timmy

2011-10-14T08:17:00.000-07:00

For my non-Canadian readers, Tim Horton's is one of our national treasures. The coffee and doughnut chain was founded in 1964 by hockey player Tim Horton who unfortunately died in a car crash ten years later. He never saw just how successful his company would become, i.e., the largest fast food chain in the country. Nowadays you can spot a Timmy's from Kelowna to Kandahar.

Oh, it's more than coffee and doughnuts, my friends. It's a mecca for caffeine-starved, carb-craving Canucks, especially in the winter when we're heading out with a carload of kids to a pre-dawn hockey practice or shuffling off to work in the morning.

We are a loyal nation. We all worship at the altar of Timmy's. Ask any Canadian what "roll up the rim to win" means and he or she can tell you. We all roll up our rims and hope for the big one. Actually, a few years ago, two local families got into a heated battle. One girl found a winning coffee cup in the garbage can at her primary school. She couldn't figure out how to roll up the rim, so she asked an older girl to help her. Turns out the prize under the rim was a car worth $32,000. The older girl's family insisted they deserved the prize. The younger girl's family said something along the lines of "Nuh uh, you don't!

Tim Hortons, like a good mom, said they were not going to get involved and that they had to work things out themselves. Then a lawyer called for a DNA test to be done on the cup. (I swear I'm not making this up. This happened in a community close to my cottage.) The lawyer claimed that his unnamed client had thrown out the cup but was the rightful owner of the prize. Seriously?

What do you think is fair? Who do you think got the car?

Like the mom who heard a lamp crash in the rec room and stomps downstairs to investigate, Tim Hortons reversed their decision to get involved and announced they would award the prize to the younger girl who first found the cup. Yay! Tim Bits for everyone!

On a long, mind-numbing drive along the 401 from Montreal to Toronto, the regular sight of a Timmy's at the end of the exit ramp can lift one's spirits to the point where you can almost hear the celestial choir's voices raised in a big old Hallelujah. And that quick stop to pick up a large double double and a box of Tim Bits will inevitably end with the raised hand of the server (no baristas here) and the benediction "have a nice day." And you will. Oh yes, you will.

Now have a listen to this guy's experience.

Ellen's favourite guests of all time

2011-10-12T20:55:00.000-07:00

This kid slays me.

Part of me is charmed, another (bigger) part of me is so happy I don't have to live with this little one because I'm exhausted just watching her on Youtube.

Uptown Downstairs Abbey

2011-10-12T07:59:00.001-07:00

A brilliant satire for fans of Downton Abbey. If you haven't seen Season One, there are some spoilers. Actually if you haven't seen Season One, you might not find these funny anyway.

If anyone in my family is reading this, Mama Ham would love to look under the Christmas tree and find the complete Upstairs/Downstairs series on DVD. Just saying.

Anyone else remember Rose? And Mr. Hudson? And Mrs. Bridges? And poor Ruby? And Sarah?

The Universe is Jiggly

2011-10-07T07:53:00.000-07:00

Sorry I haven't been around these parts much lately. I was in Lancaster Pennsylvania for a week looking for ~~Harrison Ford~~ antiques for my sister. Now I'm back home and facing some choices for renovations in pretty much every room in the house. The outside stuff is done - windows, siding, garage door, front door - but now 23 years of ~~crap~~ accumulation has to be cleared out and that's daunting indeed. One look in my garage and I feel like one of those people featured on Hoarders. Only with fewer pizza boxes and slightly less cat feces.

This time of year, with the dwindling sunlight and rainy days, I turn into a bit of a cave dweller. In order to feel somewhat human again, I switch on my special light box to try to wrestle my seasonal affective disorder to the ground and get it in a choke hold. I push myself to get outside more often, and take advantage of the light we have until December 22nd, the winter solstice, my turning point. And don't even get me started on carbs. Carbs are like heroin for the next 3 months. But this too shall pass. It always does. Or I could move to Australia where their summer is just beginning.

Right now I have a small black distraction in the form of a Russian cat named КНОПОЧНЫЙ. This is roughly translated to Knopa, or 'Nopa for short which means "button" in Russian. It's my son's girlfriend's kitten and while she is back home visiting family, we get her cat. She is all black save for a spot on her chest and one toe and has the face of a Siamese, narrow and all eyes. (The cat, not his girlfriend. She is blond and lovely.) She is also a holy terror, spinning in circles, on and around furniture and resident cats and dog, until exhaustion sets in, at which point she stretches out on her belly, back legs flat out behind her. (Again, I feel compelled to point out I'm describing the cat, not his girlfriend.)

And if you are holding anything remotely resembling a dairy product, she's all in your ~~plate/bowl/cup~~ face before you can say Got Milk. I'd take a photo but she's too fast for a photo, moving more like a lizard or tiny bird. (Oh wait, I can ~~steal~~ borrow one from Facebook.)

This is her usual pose. Always ready to pounce.

I'm getting such a kick out of her it's going to hard to give her back, but my cats will be thankful. Buddy is oblivious, despite 'Nopa's enchantment with his swishy tail.

But now, I'll share something with you that gave me great joy today. It's an explanation of why the universe is jiggly. You didn't know the universe was jiggly? Top scientists say it is, so it must be true.

This is set to music using auto-tune. The universe, made up of "12 particles of matter, 4 forces of nature" is "a wonderful and significant story."

Believe me, you've never heard quantum science explained like this.

Happy Thanksgiving, my Canadian friends. Let's all go forth and eat turkey!

Jarle Bernhoft - One Man Band Sensation

2011-09-29T05:36:00.000-07:00

This musician is amazing. Especially after being forced to listen to pop songs that are the musical equivalent of junk food. He is the real deal.

He jokes "I can't even afford a band" so what does he do? He performs all of it himself. And that soulful voice? Oh, I swoon.

Wow.

Bridesmaids

2011-09-28T17:29:00.000-07:00

The DVD is out this week.

Here is the gag reel.

Don't watch it if you haven't seen the movie. Actually, if you haven't seen the movie, drop what you're doing and go rent it or buy it. Then you may come back and watch this gag reel. This really gave me the giggles, especially the scenes with Jon Hamm. What a phenomenal cast.

I went to Amish country!

2011-09-27T17:13:00.000-07:00

I flew to Toronto to meet up with my youngest sister and together we drove down south to Lancaster, Pennsylvania for a full week away. We had gorgeous weather, as warm as mid-July here but with lovely fall colours to accompany us as we made our way through the mountains. We were there to shop for vintage kitchen stuff for my sister's business, and believe it or not there was simply no time to blog or even take photos. We ate, we shopped, we fell exhausted in our little nests piled high with pillows every night...good times. Then we drove home in a car that made us look like the Beverly Hillbillies.

It was wonderful, but I'm exhausted so I will be back soon.

The Internet is a Playground

2011-09-15T14:50:00.000-07:00

And who is in charge? David Thorne.

He is pee your pants funny. Can't catch your breath wheezy black-lung-cough funny. Hands limp at your sides, tears down your face, then puke in your handbag FUNNY.

He's like the errant love child of David Sedaris and The Roadrunner.

Delightfully subversive, wickedly funny, I dare you to read his posts in public without humiliating yourself.

He's the genius behind:

MISSING MISSY

Go to the link above. Was your reaction like the one below?

Well, if you like his blog, now David has a book!

Called...The Internet is a Playground. Irreverent Correspondences of an Evil Online Genius. Here's a trailer featuring an interview with...Oprah?

Read these excerpts if you think you can handle them.

PARTY IN APARTMENT 3

TEN FORMAL COMPLAINTS (paying homage to Jim and Dwight)

and OBVIOUS FOGGOT

The last one reminds me of a comment The Bloggess got that read, and I quote:

"When your wrong, your wrong!"

(I'm kind of hoping she follows through on her threats to make that into a tee-shirt because I would totally buy it.)

I have to stop reading David's blog now. My stomach muscles are sore.

A new kind of moos-ical

2011-09-14T08:07:00.000-07:00

Those of you with cows. Ever try this?

An Epic Pig

2011-09-06T14:19:00.000-07:00

We have wild cherry trees growing right next to our cottage at the lake. Just as one grew big enough to produce some nice blossoms and a few actual wild cherries (which the birds love) something heinous blithely stripped the bark off the bottom of the trunk, effectively killing the whole tree.

However, due to some law along the lines of blah blah nature "abhorring a vacuum" (which I totally relate to, for I too hate to vacuum) the tree bounced back to life when an offshoot of the original tree grew to an impressive and robust 30 feet high.

Then last weekend, my daughter looked up from her book and said, "what is THAT?"

Can you see him? It's a resident porcupine, called a porc-épic in French. Pronounced pork-ay-PICK, this "epic pig" munched through my cherry tree like a Florida senior cruising a salad bar at a quarter to five.

At least I have this to look at. (The Epic Pig is slowly improving our view of the lake.)

(psst, autumn really is on its way... the leaves...they is turning colour)

Cats

2011-09-02T18:20:00.001-07:00

I have two cats.

This is one.

This is the other.

I want to go to Italy

2011-09-01T08:30:00.000-07:00

And do this:

Anyone want to come with me?

Steve Jobs

2011-08-25T07:13:00.000-07:00

Steve Jobs has resigned as chief executive of Apple.

As a reminder of his awesome contribution, here is an inspiring commencement speech he gave in 2005.

"Trust in something - your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever - because believing that the dots will connect down the road, will give you the confidence to follow your heart, even when it leads you off the well worn path."

Do what you believe to be great work.

Don't settle.

Happy Anniversary, Husband 'o mine

2011-08-24T06:31:00.000-07:00

Then:

Now:

This time, 26 years ago, I was just arriving at my chichi downtown Montreal hair salon to have my hair styled for my 11 a.m. wedding. I'd been up all night with my out-of-town girlfriends, sitting on my bed and drinking champagne and talking for hours. I went to bed around 3 a.m. and was dragged from sleep by a phone call at 5 a.m. It was a friend of Doug's working in Saudi Arabia asking if we'd like to get together for dinner in Paris (where we were headed on our honeymoon.) I gave him Doug's number at the hotel and told him go ahead, call him, he'd LOVE to hear from you even if it's at 5 a.m. on the day of our wedding. I staggered around looking for coffee, put on some makeup, and headed downtown (on the bus) to get my hair done.

The stylist turned out to be a no-show.

I wasn't a long-term customer, having just moved to the city a few months before, but still, you'd think the hairdresser would show more respect for a bride. All around me, the employees of the salon went into a minor panic mode trying to find a junior to fill in and do something with my hair. I was surprisingly calm. We'd kept the whole wedding very simple, no fuss, and to me this was a minor glitch.

"Who's doing your makeup after?" a breathless assistant asked. It's already done, I said. I did it myself.

"Oh," was the response. Clearly staying up all night to catch up with girlfriends couldn't be hidden with a light coat of mascara and some blusher. I didn't care.

The hair finally got done, a little half-halo of baby's breath was affixed to the back, and I was back on the bus to go home and change into my wedding dress. It wasn't an official wedding dress, per se, but a Nicole Miller off-the-rack number that cost around $200. We were saddled with student debt and we were paying for the wedding ourselves, so it made sense. Besides, I loved this dress. It was white linen, dropped waist, and looked like something out of Brideshead Revisited, perfect for a tennis match perhaps, or a stroll through the rose garden.

I stepped outside our flat in Westmount to see the little kids next door hugging themselves in excitement, waiting for me on their porch with fistfuls of confetti. Then a car arrived to take me to the church, actually the chapel at McGill college.

I waited downstairs with my friend Marg, my matron of honour, as per the minister's instructions and he said his assistant would come and fetch me when it was time to go upstairs to the chapel. Everyone filed in to the church and waited. I fiddled with my hair and traded jokes with my friend. Neither of us wore a watch.

What we didn't know at the time was that the assistant, owing to some early dementia, forgot about us and left.

Upstairs the processional music began, the groom and his best man and the forty-eight invited guests stood and turned to look down the aisle. I chatted with my friend out of earshot of the music, both of us in blissful ignorance. The organist played the entire song, and everyone sat down. Then he started again, everyone stood up and looked again, and still...no bride. The entire song played a second time. Ten minutes late, and Doug thought maybe I'd changed my mind and bolted. Everyone sat down, whispering to each other.

Finally the minister sent someone to find me and the music started up for the third time. A visibly relieved groom met me at the altar and the wedding went off without a hitch.

It rained a bit that day. They say rain on your wedding day brings good luck.

We came home from our honeymoon pregnant, and brought our first daughter home nine months to the day we got married. By year five we had three children.

We raised those three kids together, added rabbits, dogs, cats, canaries. There have been long road trips to PEI in a rental van that was returned smelling like vomited strawberry shake and fries, campouts under the stars, sleepless nights with kids burning with fever, long summers at the cottage we built together, basement floods, and the satisfaction that comes from helping people in one of the best dental practices in Montreal.

We created this life together. And we'll continue to do so in the next chapter of our lives as our kids leave the nest.

Happy Anniversary, sweetheart. I love you with all my heart.

Bisous.

A Whale of a Tale

2011-08-23T07:22:00.000-07:00

With a happy ending.

Dog Portraiture?

2011-08-19T20:19:00.001-07:00

I'm thinking that maybe, just maybe, after years of exhaustive research, I've found the right photographer, one Carli Davidson, to do a portrait of Buddy.

I'm a fan of HER WORK.

And now for something completely different

2011-08-18T10:37:00.000-07:00

Anderson Cooper gets the giggles when he tries to report on Gerard Depardieu and the public peeing incident on a plane. What? You don't know what Depardieu did? Oh, mon Dieu.

The "Je veux pisser!" moment is summarized HERE.

Then Anderson Cooper attempts to report on the incident with so many double entendres that he loses it and giggles like a little girl.

I can't watch this without laughing.

Oh, Gerard. What happened to you?

Hands up those of you who remember him from Green Card.

New Game

2011-08-16T09:18:00.000-07:00

It's called "spot the mistakes in this spam" and we can all play!

I found this in my junk mail file, and if he/she is telling the truth about being a retired teacher, well, no wonder we're in so much trouble.

How many mistakes can you spot from this one little 'ole excerpt?

Good Evening, I was bored and started just visiting on PBSs city entrepreneur section early last monday and then was infatuated with this new online based job where retired teachers continue to earn up to $3900 every few days and she did not really trust some of it at the start yet we really had to try it & thank the lord I did because I somehow made $258.04 my very 1st full day. its surprisingly easy I've already gotten paid once straight into my checking account! it's definently the best oppurtunity that has happened to us all year,

My brother-in-law

2011-08-15T11:30:00.000-07:00

With one of his tomatoes.

He grew it from seed.

He looks a bit....smug, don't you think?

And there's a hint, a whiff of a challenge, methinks.

He's a food engineer.

I'm just a lowly housewife/writer with no tomato qualifications.

However, I hereby challenge you to a Tomato-Off.

This time, next year, we'll see who can produce the biggest tomatoes, buddy.

Watch your back.

Also, fry up some bacon,
wash some lettuce,
toast yourself some whole wheat,
and grab the mayo and freshly ground pepper
because I'm going to be providing some major
BLT action.

Kris Carr and why happiness is important

2011-08-14T20:49:00.001-07:00

(shot of niece with sparklers because life is better with sparklers, no?)

Why have I never heard of this Kris Carr woman before?

She is some kind of awesome.

I read an article about her (I hope the link works) in today's New York Times Magazine. She calls herself a "wellness warrior" and if you are fighting cancer, or depression, or migraines, or any other illness - chronic or acute - that is threatening your ability to live your life to the fullest, then Carr's website is worth a look. It's not sad and it's not preachy, but informative and uplifting and funny.

Her website leads to a documentary she made in 2007 about a young woman "looking for a cure and finding her life."

And here's her equally wonderful blog.

She asks the question:

"Why, when we are challenged to survive, do we give ourselves permission to truly live?"

Why is this, do you suppose? Why do we feel so guilty for seeking out pleasure and fulfillment?

That's the big question. The little one is do you eat enough fresh veggies? One of the things she promotes is lots and lots of vegetables.

I believe in the power of veggies! To quote that famous pusillanimous lion, I do believe, I do I do I do. And here is my first home-grown crop of tomatoes to prove it.

Sure they're tiny fellas, but they're pretty tasty with a sprinkling of sea salt and a side of bocconcini cheese and a drizzle of olive oil and I grew them myself. Doug keeps asking if they're cherry tomatoes, and I keep telling him no, they are normal tomatoes. (I actually don't know what they are. I bought the plant on a whim for $5 at a farmer's market. But I am becoming defensive about his size-ism. These are just as good as those big beefsteak showoffs.)

Earlier tonight, I had to defend my crop against marauding raccoons. Actually, the family of raccoons were busy unscrewing the "animal proof lid" on my birdfeeder which was right beside my tomatoes but I'm sure my baby tomatoes clinging to the vine and calling for their mamas were going to be their next course.

For those of you who care about my well-being, the thumping and screaming of those raccoon babies in the dead of night on my deck just a few feet from where I sat calmly reading almost killed me on the spot from the shock. Then I was relieved it wasn't a bear, which had been my first thought. (Actually my first thought was that it was a thief. Then bear. Then I ran out of options until I saw beady little masked eyes staring me down.) I banged a pot, kept the Budster from bursting through the screen door with a well-placed foot, then dropped on the couch and tried to breathe normally again.

That can't be healthy.

But these puppies are.

Aren't they lovely? When you've finished basking in my awesome farm skills, go check out Kris Carr.

The Lake Louisa Great Relay Race 2011

2011-08-08T05:58:00.000-07:00

Last week, fourteen teams of six participated in the annual Lake Louisa Great Relay Race. They were competing for bragging rights and this much coveted tree stump trophy.

This year marked the 25th anniversary of the race. Founder and organizer Lawrence Irany was honoured with a commemorative paddle painted with the race logo. Lawrence is quick to downplay his role, citing help from others, but Lawrence is the heart and soul of this event. At age 83, he still handles the bulk of the work; he prints posters, places marker buoys in the lake, supplies medals, even sweeps sand off the roads the day before the race, and provides beer and soft drinks for all competitors.

He is rarely seen without a loudspeaker in his hand.

When he's not organizing the race, he's standing on his driveway calling wolves down from the hills. And yes, they come when Lawrence howls.

The idea for the race began more than 25 years ago when Lawrence met with Lake Louisa’s Social Club summer program coordinator. He proposed a relay race around the lake with teams of five, open to all ages - junior teams average fourteen years of age, while senior teams are fifty-plus. “The race wasn’t meant to be easy. It was designed to be a challenge.”

It has always kicked off at the clubhouse with cyclists hurtling 7 km around the lake to the end of Louisa North. Each cyclist passes a numbered wristband to a runner who sprints 4 km through the woods, and a few backyards, to Black Bay Road and the shore. The runner jumps into a canoe with two paddlers and can “flake out, steer or paddle like mad” another 4 km, said Lawrence. Most choose to paddle because the competition, though fun, is also fierce. The canoeists accompany their swimmer for the final ½ km leg from Hope Island to the club wharf, arriving to a cheering crowd on the beach. Last year, kayaks were added to the relay, so now there are teams of six. The largest number of participants was 102 in 2010. Here's a team from 2010 featuring some of our local lads, including my second-cousins-in-law. (It's complicated. They usually just call me Auntie.)

Meticulous records for every team go back to the very first race. The weather has always been fair bar one day when thunder and lightning loomed. Lawrence sent a rescue boat to bring in the last remaining junior teams, but they managed to finish the race on their own before the storm hit. It’s an event that brings out young and old, locals and out-of-towners, and family members who sometimes compete against each other, pitting brother against brother or husband against wife or men against women. Silly uniforms and team names are optional but encouraged. In the early days, no one used racing bicycles, they dusted off standard bikes pulled from the shed. One young girl biked with her dog Zipper running alongside, and when she got a flat, she walked the bike to the finish line. This girl is now in the cottage next door and she competed again this year with her two young daughters cheering her on.

Aside:This is our friend Bruce and his daughter Katherine. They pilot their small plane to the cottage. When Bruce comes and goes, he makes a point of flying over our house so I can run out and wave, and he always tips the wings in return. Even Buddy knows the sound of Bruce's plane and he'll run to the door in anticipation.

Canoeists are swamped, scrapes are bandaged, and stories are swapped and embellished. Many have long traditions of participating in the race, and some who were in this year's race were also there in the beginning!

We salute those hardy souls of Lake Louisa, testing the limits of physical endurance, and to the relay’s tireless organizer, Lawrence Irany. May your enthusiasm inspire others to follow in your footsteps, and the cheers from your loudspeaker echo across the lake for years to come.

What does drowning look like?

2011-08-04T15:58:00.000-07:00

Not like what you think.

I almost drowned when I was five.

I swam like a little fish by that age. Jumped or dove in fearlessly.

This time, I fell off the end of the dock.

I still remember tumbling upside-down, the sensation of breathing water into my lungs and hearing myself cough underwater.

I couldn't stand up. I couldn't get my bearings because I didn't know where "up" was. I couldn't get to the surface to take a breath. I couldn't reach up to grab hold of anything in order to pull myself back on the dock.

My grandmother was sitting a few feet away. Probably knitting or reading a book.

If my grandmother hadn't seen me, if she hadn't come to the end of the dock and hauled my little tush back up, I wouldn't be writing this today.

Drowning looks like THIS.

Read it, remember it.

Hummingbird Garden

2011-08-03T11:29:00.000-07:00

Remember I posted some hummingbird photos a while back? I mean, I love the little buggers, I really do, but one or two at a time suits me just fine. After watching this video, I'm so thankful I don't live in the Ozarks. Seriously. I have a friend with a bird phobia (I won't name names but her name sounds like "Darlene" without a D) and I wonder what she would do if she stepped out of her house and she was swarmed by hundreds of hummingbirds like these people.

(It would make an awesome blog post, though.)

(Sorry "Darlene" but it would.)

(And you know you'd watch that video. Don't lie to me.)

Last night, well...

2011-07-27T07:42:00.001-07:00

It was a magical night.

We went to see this guy:

Photograph by: Dario Ayala/THE GAZETTE

I'm telling you, it was three solid hours of Awesome Sir Paul. The guy was a machine, never stopping for a break until the very end. The roar of the crowd brought him back for another 1/2 hour of encores. It was amazing to see people of my generation and older rocking away to his music, but also kids in their twenties, even pre-teens, totally into the music, dancing in their seats and pumping their arms in the air. I have to admit, I teared up at some of the songs and photos as we all remembered Linda and John and George. And I thought back to those endless summer days of my childhood, when I carried my transistor radio into a nearby field, and stretched out on a blanket to listen to the Beatles.

Happy, happy sigh.

A Cat Goes Missing

2011-07-26T06:21:00.000-07:00

And the owner asks a friend to make a poster.

http://theneave.com/david-thorne-missing-missy/

In keeping with the cat theme, a shot of me and The Boris.

(Thanks to my niece Laura. She knows what tickles her auntie's funny bone.)

Hummingbirds

2011-07-20T16:58:00.000-07:00

These are for kc dyer who asked if I had any hummingbird photos. The photos are from last summer, but I'm pretty sure the same hummers are back this year. They are very familiar.

If I wear red, they'll buzz right up into my face.

Needless to say, I don't wear red. It's like swatting away very large insects.

How do you get around?

2011-07-18T12:47:00.000-07:00

When you travel, I mean.

Do you walk, take a bus, tram or metro?

Do you drive a car? Fly a plane like my buddy Bruce?

Ride a horse or motorcycle or donkey?

Would you rollerskate? Hop on a skateboard? Curl up in a Winnebago?

Or would you consider a bicycle trip across Scotland like this fellow?

My Next Car

2011-07-14T04:05:00.000-07:00

Is going to be THIS one. That's right, an actual flying car.

My husband should be happy because now I will stop pestering him to buy a Seadoo or a portable Jet Pack. By the way, when you look at the JetMan's website, you'll see a video. As I watched the beginning, I was confused as to which one of the two men was the JetMan. The obvious one was the guy with the cool jacket and Fabio coiffure, but then the old guy with the shaved head just screamed the message, "You're not the boss of me, life!"

I'm guessing he's not married. ("You're going to do WHAT now? When I said you needed a hobby how did you hear 'strap some jet fuel on your back and jump off the Grand Canyon?' I meant golf or military whist.")

And also, a helmet, really? You're hurling yourself over the Grand Canyon, JetMan. What do you expect a helmet to do, exactly? Keep your head warm before you turn it into scrambled eggs on the canyon floor? I kid, JetMan. You know I love you and your big plate of crazy. And the guys and gals at TED like you, too.

But, seriously a flying car? It's so...Mrs. Jetson. You can run errands in a flying car and bring home a carton of milk. Can you do that, JetMan? Do you even stop to think, as you're flying around the canyon or across the English Channel, that the family home may be out of toilet paper?

Next time someone tells me to "take off, eh"* now I can.

Also, nerds rule.

*Anyone who can name the source of that most Canadian of quotes gets a free space shuttle! No Googling. I can see your fingers from here.

Plot Device

2011-07-13T07:24:00.000-07:00

Maybe some of you won't find this nearly as funny as I did, but I'll bet the writers and movie fans out there will love this bit of silliness.

Enjoy.

thanks to Pub Rants for the link.

So there

2011-07-11T05:46:00.000-07:00

1. I thought I saw an bald-headed eagle fly right past me this week, but I wasn't 100% sure because it was obscured by some cedars down by the waterfront. My kids made me doubt myself, no way they said, this isn't even the right habitat for eagles. Google confirmed it was, and sure enough, as I sat on the dock at sunset last night, another eagle (or perhaps, the same eagle) flew right in front of me. There was no doubt this time.

That there was one big old Bald Eagle.

2. Last Friday, we experienced a huge storm that sneaked up on us after dark. Usually there's some sort of buildup, you know, so you can prepare yourself as the thunder claps creep closer but this storm just crashed above our heads in an instant. I flinched and maybe screamed a little after one particularly brutish crack that shook the windows, and me, to my very bones.

Again, one of the beloved fruits of my loins told me to get a grip and stop over-reacting. I responded by reminding said fruit that since four trees (four!) on our property have in fact been hit directly by lightening over the past few years (and one neighbour's septic tank, and one of my husband's patient's entire bathroom wall) I didn't think screaming and putting my hands over my ears was over-reacting, but in fact, acting the way one should when faced with random lightening bolts. She (fruit) said I wasn't helping matters and I was "ruining her enjoyment of a good thunderstorm."

I ran into my neighbour yesterday. She said that large boom actually split a tree in two, right to its roots, and knocked out her power, blew up her (brand new) flat screen TV and her pump amongst other things. I'm guessing that ruined her enjoyment of a good thunderstorm.

I think that's worth a hand over the ears and a scream or two, don't you?

And in other news, we saw a mink swimming in the water alongside our kayaks. He came up for air a couple of times then scooted off into the bushes at the point. Then my husband saw a little red fox by the cottage two doors down. Then a female loon swam past with a tiny baby perched on her back.

It's like a Disney movie around here. Except for the thunder and lightening.

What do cannibals do at weddings?

2011-07-08T08:43:00.001-07:00

They toast the bride and groom.

There is no theme here. I just like cannibal jokes.

E.g. Why don't cannibals eat clowns?

They taste funny.

Have a great weekend everyone.

Bonne fin de semaine!

And if anyone was wondering about the words to Praan by Garry Schyman (in that beautiful soldiers coming home video) here is the translation:

The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day

runs through the world and dances.

It is the same life that joyously shoots through the dust of the earth in countless blades of grass

and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers.

It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth and of death,

in ebb and in flow.

I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life.

And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in me.

Hugh Grant is my hero

2011-07-07T12:48:00.000-07:00

Happy July 4th

2011-07-04T19:10:00.000-07:00

To all my American friends from far and wide, Happy fourth of July!

Barbecues, fireworks, parades, fairs, picnics and most of all, family.

Found 'em

2011-07-03T08:14:00.003-07:00

A few flower shots...

And some squirrel damage....

Some nice flower photos from the lake

2011-06-29T13:49:00.001-07:00

Kathy Down The Road complained about lack of new content here on la blog.

She said she had enough of the squirrel crafts.

I said I have absolutely nothing to report unless you want to hear about how I washed sheets today and cleaned behind the microwave (there were vitamins with an expiry date of 2002 hidden back there) therefore the blog is "resting" like a field left to fallow, in order to restore its fertility.

She is having a hormone-challenged day and practically demanded entertainment.

So I went outside, even though it has been raining all day, and took some flower shots just for her because she loves gardening. I can fake that I have an actual garden here at the cottage with some close-up shots of the random flowers that pop up here and there in the borders of the gravel driveway that constitutes a garden, and no one will know the difference.

There are orange blossoms, honeysuckle in orange and red, daisies, wild roses, geraniums, evening primrose, some purple thingies, a red thingie...a veritable cornucopia of floral awesomeness and artfully glistening with droplets of water.

Unfortunately, when I went to upload them (and dry myself off and put salve on my mosquito bites) I realized that I'd left the cord I need at home.

The End.

How I Will Be Spending My Summer Vacation

2011-06-21T07:03:00.001-07:00

And You?

What have you got up your sleeves for this summer?

Thanks, Jen

Warms the cockles, this does

2011-06-16T07:29:00.000-07:00

I love when this happens.

I don't normally watch this show, but I happened to catch this guy one night. He's so unused to performing, he had to be reminded to use the microphone in order to be heard. I love his voice and his humility and the way he gives this song a whole new twist. Brilliant.

How to be alone

2011-06-10T10:00:00.000-07:00

Do you like being along? I literally crave it, especially when I haven't had enough time on my own.

Some people don't know this, but I went through a divorce in my late twenties. During this process, I realized I had not spent much, if any, time completely alone. I went from high school and living with my parents and siblings, to university and living with assorted roommates, to getting married to my high school boyfriend directly after university and then sharing an apartment with him, to divorce five years later.

What frightened me the most was the the prospect of being alone, or more properly, being lonely.

It didn't happen.

I loved the freedom of listening to my music, eating whatever I wanted or not at all, wearing what I wanted without comments, walking all over the city, or just sitting quietly on the sofa with a book (and my phone unplugged and stuffed in a drawer.) I bought a bike and cycled all over downtown Toronto, over to the island on summer evenings with a sandwich and Newcastle Brown in the basket (Newcastle Brown because it is meant to be served at room temperature.) I dined in fancy restaurants alone, attended concerts on a whim, art gallery openings, as much as I could cram into my new life. I forced myself do it at first, but after a while, walking into a room alone became comfortable.

Now I'm quite happy to spend time with my wonderful, patient husband of 25+ years, and my now-grown kids, and my friends, but if I don't have chunks of time where I'm alone, I get antsy. Is it a writer thing? I suppose artists and musicians probably feel that way too, but I know writers in particular can be a solitary bunch, happily living with the people in their heads. Friends sometimes call me a hermit. My non-writer friends, I should add. I find it hard to explain why I need this time, but I do.

...lonely is a freedom that breathes easy and weightless, and lonely is healing if you make it...

...if you're happy in your head, then solitude is blessed and alone is okay...

from a poem by Tanya Davis, more here:

nod to Helene Boudreau for the link

So?

Do you need time alone?

Or are you happiest when surrounded by lots of people?

Pet Peeve #872

2011-06-08T10:10:00.000-07:00

Theatre Etiquette.

Specifically, people who talk during movies.

It's one thing to talk through the trailers. I'll give a lot of leeway because everyone is getting settled in and the lights are usually on, so that's cool. But when those lights dim, and I'm ready to be transported to another world so that I can forget, for just a few hours, that my dog just shat another partially-digested thong or my roof needs replacing, and you're still running your mouth off about all-inclusives in Cuba or whether cherry or banana Popsicles are better (banana, everyone knows that) well, that drives me batty.

You're not sitting in your rec room with your big screen TV so please, with all due respect, STFU.

I have no mercy in my heart for these people. Especially:

1. Those eejits who lean over to their companions and guess, within earshot of several rows, what the hero is about to do.

2. Those eejits who repeat what the hero just did. You know, that bit of action we just watched onscreen together, mere seconds ago.

3. Those eejits who give advice to characters as though those characters onscreen can hear them. "Don't go down that hallway, don't go...oh my," then they usually revert to rule #2, "Tch. She went down the hallway. Can you believe it?"

4. Those eejits like the woman who sat directly behind me and broadcast in a stage whisper to her husband what was about to happen because she'd already seen the movie.

5. I'd like to add people who unroll candies with exaggerated slowness as though we can't hear what they're doing because they're doing it Really Slowly, but I won't. Sure they're annoying or possibly just hard of hearing, but not deserving of Theatre Outrage.

6. People who pile their purses/coats etc. on the chair next to them in an attempt to block someone sitting there when the theatre is full. Come on. You're fooling no one with that ploy. There was a woman last week who, when I sat in front of her, put her (I feel compelled to add here the descriptive 'stripper shoes' as in giant wooden heels and ankle strapped) shoes up on the back of the seat as a "silent" protest. I would have stuck it out through sheer stubborness, but she also couldn't stop talking. I moved back a row, then took secret delight when a rather large and pungent man inched past me to sit directly beside Stripper Shoes (forcing her to move her purse, see how that doesn't work?) And then another geezer, much taller than me, shuffled into the seat directly in front of her, the one I had just vacated. Karma. It's gonna do its thang, baby.

7. Chair kickers. Are you really that dense or do you not care? Do you honestly think I can't feel it when you shift and kick and squirm and cuff the back of my seat repeatedly? If you're that antsy, go to a hockey game.

8. Women with heavy, cloying perfume or men doused in cologne. No one wants to smell you unless you smell like fresh oatmeal cookies. Ugh. I'd rather be locked in a Johnny-on-the-Spot in the noonday sun after an all-you-can-eat Mexican buffet at summer camp.

9. Open mouth chewers who chow down on Nachos. Also, someone rooting around the bottom of a popcorn bag. And honestly, what are you going to get out of that besides a new filling for the cracked molar you're going to be spitting into your palm?

10. People who make or receive phone calls, or who text their friends because they can't stand to be out of the (imagined) loop for more than 90 minutes. Unless you're a transplant surgeon and some nurse is holding a cooler with a brain on ice and is summoning you to the O.R., turn it off people. (Yes, I know you can't transplant brains. It's just a dream I have sometimes, usually when someone is talking behind me in a movie theatre. "Hand me a scalpel and a melon baller, STAT!")

Which brings me back to the talkers. A theatre in Texas has had the cojones to address this issue.

I heart this theatre. If this theatre was my boyfriend, I'd do everything it asked of me, that's how much I heart this theatre. I'd marry it and have ten thousand of its babies if I could. (Name that movie.) I'd bring it breakfast in bed and while it was sipping the cappuccino I made with a leaf design in the foam and pulling apart a warm croissant, I'd rub its feet, even if it had callouses.

(I've tried to adjust the width to make it easier to read, but it's not working, so if you want to read it on a larger screen, just double click on it.)

thanks Martha W. for the link!

What do you think? Would you stand up and cheer? I would. But I'm guessing you already figured that out.

If you want to read an article about it, go HERE

Cuter than William Shatner?

2011-06-07T12:54:00.001-07:00

Oh yes.

My daughter sent me this video.

She is about to leave the nest.

One question.

Are you trying to kill me?

Damn it, I'm a doctor not Captain Kirk

2011-06-03T05:35:00.000-07:00

My little boy graduated from McGill yesterday with a degree in finance.

Somebody please explain to me how he grew up so fast, from this little guy who slept with a blankie and a firefighter's axe (plastic, but nonetheless powerful in our little hero's hands and capable, in his mind, of chopping us out of the house in case of fire during the night) to the man who now stands before me?

(For the story behind his blanket, go here.)

Mothers, listen up. You know how women of grown children always say "pay attention, because those children are grown before you even know it happened"? Well, it happened. And I'm shocked at how it's all over but for the dirty socks under the couch.

Congratulations, boy of mine. We are so proud of you. Go forth and discover the world, but don't forget to come home sometimes. I'll make waffles.

The commencement speech in the morning was delivered by none other than William Shatner.

Chris, however, had his ceremony in the afternoon. But here is Dr. Shatner's speech, for those of you who are fans. (And really, who isn't a fan of The Shat?) According to some accounts, the president of McGill flinched a few times as Bill remembered some good times. Hallmark of a good speech, I'd say.

Enjoy!

And if you really want a treat, check out his rendition of Oh Canada. Then check out behind the scenes. I wept.

Stupid Habit #429

2011-05-31T15:04:00.000-07:00

Am I the only one who does this?

I hide things from imaginary thieves, but I am so thorough that I can't find them when I return home again and I need them.

I think I hid my external hard drive because I can't find it anywhere. (Which makes absolutely no sense, because I left my laptop on my desk.)

I say I "think" because I can't actually remember hiding it, which is stupid habit #428.

I could have written down its location at the time, but then I probably would have argued (with my neurotic self) what if the thief finds the piece of paper that says "External Hard Drive is hidden under the middle sofa cushion." I'd end up hiding the paper too and then, well, you know...

My MacBook is completely out of memory and is running slowly if at all.

I have no way to make back-ups or save my files.

Off to kick self and look under the middle sofa cushion.

If there are any thieves reading this, just try someone else's house. I've been looking for an hour with no luck and I live here so good luck to you. And we have an alarm system. Which begs the question, why did I....oh, never mind.

I'm an eejit.

Spring is here when...

2011-05-30T21:42:00.001-07:00

I often work at night, well into the wee hours, but come summer I get less work done because I'm too distracted by June bugs the size of pinecones bashing themselves into oblivion on my window. They're so loud I'm constantly flinching and ducking. Not exactly conducive to writing love scenes or dreamy reveries about the south of France.

Still, suicidal June bugs are preferable to the wildlife debauchery that took place last night. My take on it? A raccoon somehow got into the garbage can, a feat which is, in and of itself, a mystery. I'm talking about those big green buggers (the can, not the raccoon) with the hinged lids which are fairly tall and hard to open. I know raccoons got in there because a) the bag inside was torn to shreds and, b) I opened the lid to make a deposit and I discovered a young raccoon inside. I'm not sure who was more surprised but I vote me, since I'm pretty sure she did not pee her pants or run screaming in circles or wring her hands or, for the umpteenth time, mutter to herself "this is not the life I signed up for when I married a dentist."

This is bad enough, but then I'm guessing what happened next is the skunks went all gangsta up in your face with the raccoons and maybe wanted a piece of that stolen pie, even though said "pie" was rancid meat and vegetable peels littering the driveway. And to quote the mighty Oprah, what I know For Sure is that skunks do not take no for an answer. And when you ask a skunk, "is that your final answer?" you'd better be able to run fast and in a zig zag pattern.

The kicker? Last night was hot and humid, so I put a double fan Right In The Bedroom Window to draw the cool evening air directly into our bedroom. It also drew the stench from the West Side Story action happening directly below. I woke up gagging, as the fan sucked and delivered the results of the mother of all food fights right into our sanctuary and smothered us as we slept.

Skunks One. Raccoons Zero. Novel Woman Minus Eleven.

Yes folks, in case there was any doubt, Spring is here.

Grimsvotn Volcano in Iceland

2011-05-25T08:44:00.000-07:00

Some amazing photographs of the Grimsvotn volcano in Iceland HERE.

I have friends with kids toodling around Europe and Scotland right now. They need to come home soon, preferably by air not sea.

Dear Volcano,

Could you ease up just a little bit please? You are causing quite a stir over the pond and I think that's quite enough, now. You've made your point. Now just settle down or else. Do not make me come over there.

Yours Sincerely,
A Novel Woman

Feck, feck, feckity, feck

2011-05-20T07:25:00.001-07:00

Sedona, Arizona was simply mahvelous. Some of these shots were taken at the Airport Mesa, a site of an upflow vortex, which is helpful when one wants to "view life from a higher plane, to develop a more universal perspective, or to send a prayer or affirmation out into the world."

Below are shots of Tlaquepaque (translation: "the best of everything") a recreated Mexican village in Sedona. I "viewed life from a higher plane" when I had a burger and locally brewed beer on a second story balcony overlooking the village and mountains.

My five days in Arizona were perfect. I got a warm welcome from the climate to the people. I finally found a Chipotle's in Scottsdale, a goal of mine since watching the documentary FOOD INC. The people in that area were so friendly that the couple standing ahead of me in line invited me to join them at their table when they found out I was alone! How often does that happen in Montreal? (Answer: Never.)

I had a rental car so while Doug was busy with meetings and workshops I beetled up through the desert and spent a day in Sedona. There's a great vibe in this town, partly the landscape composed of these magnificent red rock mountains, or maybe it's because of the vortexes that can be found in various spots in the mountains. Whatever "it" is, I didn't feel it because I was paranoid my rental car was going to get towed where I'd left it. Next time I'll allow myself more time to relax and feel the vortex properly and not become a swirling mass of nervous energy myself.

And for the first time, my luggage was lost. I think it was determined to stay awhile longer, and ended up in Denver. Perhaps, while idling on the tarmac, it met a nice handbag who convinced my suitcase to stick around because this was true love. After many frustrating pleas via a call centre in India, I convinced it to come home, which it finally did yesterday to great fanfare.

I really do love to travel. Let me rephrase that. I love to be somewhere other than home. The travel part? I could do without that. Our flight was canceled at the gate, we had to run to the baggage, reclaim the bags, run to the counter and rebook, then enter security a second time, and race to our new gate where we went to Scottsdale via Toronto then Dallas then Phoenix where we rented a car. We arrived after midnight instead of the 4 p.m. arrival we'd planned. Forget eating that day. No lunch, no dinner, and no fecking food on board.

With that in mind, have a look at this.

thanks Kathy Down the Road

Not in Kansas anymore

2011-05-16T07:27:00.000-07:00

But can you guess where I am?

Little hint:
Bigger hint:
Giant hint:

Spring has finally arrived

2011-05-12T09:33:00.000-07:00

And here is proof. Thanks, Kathy Down The Road.

Kids React to Bin Laden's Death

2011-05-09T12:05:00.000-07:00

This is on Twitter and Facebook, but it was so good, I wanted to make sure no one missed it.

These kids are smarter than most of the elected officials I've heard interviewed. Definitely smarter than everyone employed at Fox News. (News should be in quotes. I always do air quotes when I say it out loud.)

Of Noble Blood? Moi?

2011-05-08T06:59:00.000-07:00

Looks like it's true, eh.

I knew the name Patchet was French, and that the Patchet/Patchett line originated in Normandy, where the name was spelled Pachet. They left Normandy for England after the Norman Conquest of 1066, and settled mostly in Oxfordshire after Duke William of Normandy granted them land after the Battle of Hastings in thanks for their "distinguished assistance."

They Anglicized the name by adding a middle t, but other spellings evolved including Paget, Pagett, Pagit, Pagitt, Pagget, Paggett and Persnickety. (Okay, I made up the last one, but it's not that far-fetched if you know us.)

Our motto is: Per il suo contrario
Translation: Puerile contrarians rule!

(Okay, I made that up, too. The translation is really "By its reverse" but I think mine is more accurate.)

But the really cool news? I learned that my five times great-grandmother was a Scoville, a descendant of Sir Ralph de Scoville. Sir Ralph.

An actual knight.

The Scoville line came from Escoville, France ("of Escoville" or d'Escoville" which was shortened to Scoville.) Sir Ralph was listed as a landowner in 1205 and a knight in 1215, which means he was born around 1130 - 1150. He is listed in the roll of the king's court in 1194 Trinity Turn Buckinghamshire. From A Survey of the Scovils (or Scovills) in England:

"Hammond Passeewe, one of the three Knights who ought to elect the twelve to make the great assize between Walter de Las Haie and Hammond de Gernum excused his absence by Robert, son of William, pledging his faith against the coming of the Justices to those parts. But a day is given to the Knights who came, to wit: Ralph de Scoville, and William Raviel and Ralph Dairel."

Also:

"Ralph de Scoville was one of those manorial lords who joined with the great barons of England in forcing their King John to sign the Magna Carta."

In 1215. If this is true, then it is likely he fought in the Third Crusade under the leadership of Richard the Lionheart and alongside the Knights Templar to "free" Jerusalem.

And...

Scottish historian John Major wrote in 1521 that Robin Hood operated in 1193-4, the time of Richard I.

Many writers have agreed with Major (as well as the novels and movies made about Robin Hood) including Sir Walter Scott. And while Richard wasn't the king mentioned in the early ballads about Robin Hood, he is the one most closely linked with the outlaw along with his brother King John, who followed him. Some Robin Hood stories maintain he even went on the crusades with King Richard.

So my 25 times great-grandfather likely fought in the Crusades with Richard the Lionheart, the Knights Templar, and Robin Hood.

Sure makes history a whole lot interesting.

I'm going to be ticked if my cousin doing the family research tells me she made a mistake and we're not related to Sir Ralph Scoville the knight, but Ralph Scumberbutt the waste disposal expert.

Actually, if I found out we were descended from this guy, that would make total sense:

Why Fie?

2011-05-02T13:32:00.000-07:00

I recently spoke to our local guy (a great guy) in charge of installing WiFi service at our cottage.

It opens up a whole new world up in the wild, wild woods and it allows me to work from there. I discovered its joys after he put one in our cottage last year. Now he's going to install another unit in our guest cabin so while the birds are twittering, so too can our guests.

The conversation today went something like this (I'm paraphrasing here):

Him: Okay,, so I'll just attach the unit on the satellite arm.
Me: The what?
Him: You know, the satellite arm.
Me: Are you talking about a satellite dish?
Him: (slightly annoyed) No, the satellite dish is attached to the satellite arm. I'm going to put the Wifi unit on the same arm.
Me: We don't have a satellite arm.
Him: Sure you do (getting more annoyed) because that's where your satellite dish is attached.
Me: But we don't have a satellite dish.
Him: What?
Me: We don't have a satellite dish.
Him: WHAT?
Me: We. Don't. Have. A. Satellite. Dish. Hence, no satellite arm.
Him: WELL HOW DO YOU WATCH TV?
Me: We don't really watch TV.
Him: What? No seriously, how do you watch TV?
Me: We don't.
(crickets)
Him: What do you do?
Me: Well, we read a lot. We used to take the kids camping when they were little, and we'd read books to them, and we just kept the tradition going at the cottage. Why, I read the whole Harry Potter series to them and I ---
Him: Well, GEEZ, they're not kids anymore! Give them TV for God's sake!

I could not stop laughing on the phone. Literally. He had to wait for me to catch my breath.

Am I the only one who thinks it's better without TV at the lake?

Hands up those who think I'm nuts.

Hands up those who prefer a good book, or a rousing game of Balderdash, Scrabble, Pictionary, Cranium or Cribbage and a gin and tonic?

Newly shorn Buddy

2011-04-30T08:21:00.000-07:00

Time to get a little Wilde

2011-04-27T06:19:00.001-07:00

I can't take any more election talk.

I can't take any more hockey talk.

I can't take any more royal wedding talk.

Time to get a little Wilde, Jersey Shore style. This gave me fits of the giggles. The British actors are using actual lines from Jersey Shore episodes and delivering them Oscar Wilde style.

Usual warning about profanity ahead, easily offended, yada yada. (However if you've ever seen an episode of Jersey Shore, this ain't nothing.)

I've had enough of Harper

2011-04-26T10:01:00.000-07:00

and this is why