Party of 3

Why the world needs translation editors: "But sometimes the mistakes make me happy, especially when I'm drinking beer with lunch" edition

2012-01-31T11:00:00.070-05:00

I was looking through my photos from France this summer, looking for a suitable profile picture for Facebook, and man, I took a lot of pictures of us sitting around tables eating and drinking.

I found a couple of photos that I took of not-quite-right translations that I found in menus. (I warned you that you'd be hearing about my trip to France for way longer than you were going to want to. Promise kept.)

The first one was from the Restaurant L'estragon in Monaco-Ville, Monaco, where we stopped for lunch:

"Assorted Pork-butchery"

Okaaaay.

I'm sure that they meant this:

Rather than this:

It might be kind of hard to bring an entire butchery to the table. At any rate, none of us were brave or curious enough to order the butchery -- we settled for warm goat-cheese salads and omelettes.

Then there was this, on the menu at the Nid d'Aigle in Eze village:

"Grilled Lamb Shops"

Again, I'm sure they meant this:

Rather than this:

But, hey, you never know.

I ended up ordering this:

and two of these:

Which may explain why I found the menu so funny.

Things we made at our house yesterday

2012-01-30T11:00:00.000-05:00

Home-made French bread:

Lemon meringue pies (which had a bit of a sliding accident in the oven):

Zombie babies:

I think you can probably figure out who made what.

The best way to serve haggis

2012-01-25T11:28:00.000-05:00

This is especially for you, Jen. Oh, and for Lynda too, who will be dining tonight on haggis nachos. Which, as we all know, is the second-best way to serve haggis. :)

Happy Robbie Burns day!!!

All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up

2012-01-13T09:04:00.002-05:00

My friend Jen put up an interesting post a couple of weeks ago about self-image and photographs. Here is some of it:

"A couple weeks ago, I posted some photos of myself and talked about how hard it is for me to do something like that. Your comments were interesting and I really enjoyed reading your thoughts about having your photos taken or not having your photos taken.

I have to admit, however, that your comments made me sad because, for the most part, we women (no men commented) do not like how we look in photos. Like, we really don’t like photos of ourselves. Many of you even shared your tricks yourselves look thinner or taller or just disappear altogether (e.g. hiding behind children) in photos.

I blame Hollywood and the glossy magazine industry for giving us unrealistic expectations of what we should look like. There are no perfect bodies or perfectly beautiful faces. We are all beautiful in our own way and I’m sad that, while we can easily see other women’s beauty, we don’t look in the mirror and see our own.

As we approach the holiday season, I’d like to encourage you all to make sure that you get some photos of yourself, either alone or with your family. Don’t hide behind your children or a big dog or your Christmas tree. Just stand tall and proud and revel in your beauty. Enjoy the moment and laugh. Remember that you’re capturing memories that your family will enjoy for a long time.....

If there’s interest among you, I’d love to do a post in January of your photos and share with the world (okay, a very small slice of the world) just how lovely we all are."

My comment to this was:

"...Some pictures that have been taken of me are better than others, but we are always our own worst critics and cringe from photos that others find fine or even flattering. So, unless I’ve been caught with my mouth open, or my eyes shut, or a really stupid look on my face, I’m fine with posting them. It’s what I look like, after all."

We really are our own worst enemies. Mostly, I like the way I look. Without makeup or with, this is me. (Or sometimes a stick figure representation.) So, as challenged by Jen, here are some pix of me. Flattering or not, they are me and I'm OK with that:

This is me with my sister, Lise, taken during a winery tour in early December. We are gorgeous broads!

Here I am with my family, flour on my pants and stickers (courtesy of Rachel) on my shirt. I am not a tiny woman, lol. Also, no makeup. I am a shiny-faced woman.

Here I am, again with my sis, on the balcony of the condo we rented in Nice, France last summer, makeup free and jetlagged after 16 hours of travel. I don't know where my eyes were in this picture. I might have left them on the plane.

And going from no eyes to really big, scary ones, here I am back in 2007, taking pictures to amuse my chicken-pox-ridden kids.

And finally (admit it, you're relieved I'm stopping now and therefore I'm not totally self-involved and exhibitionistic), here is my favourite picture of me. Ever. Or at least since I was three.

Tuesday in cubicle land

2012-01-10T16:02:00.002-05:00

Someone in the office is making laser gun noises.

Pew! Pew, pew, pew!

I can't see who it is.

I am not going to roll out of my chair, grab my (imaginary) Jedi light sabre and use the Force to levitate me over the cubicle wall and join the battle.

I am all restrained and decorous like that.

Also, I may need to drink less coffee.

A haiku composed on the occasion of not having my Christmas decorations put away yet

2012-01-07T17:50:00.000-05:00

It’s Ukrainian

Christmas today. My story.

Sticking to it. Yeah.

Really, Sun News? Really? You're going there?

2012-01-06T12:25:00.007-05:00

This is a screen capture I took of an ad at the bottom of the page on the Ottawa Sun newspaper website containing a story about new smoke-free public housing being built in Ottawa:

A close-up:

Ah, Sun News Network -- "Canada's new home for Hard News and Straight Talk" -- the official news website of grumpy old men (who may or may not live in Alberta).

Way to pitch to your demographic, guys.

Don't go in the basement

2012-01-03T11:24:00.001-05:00

It was 6:40 a.m. this morning. I was drinking coffee in the kitchen, trying to drag myself to full consciousness on the first work day of the new year, pulling the belt of my terry robe tighter around my waist as I peered out the window at the tail-lights of the early commuters heading into Ottawa. The house was quiet, only the subdued whoosh of the furnace kept me company as I sipped.

All at once there was a commotion in the basement, and both cats came tearing up the stairs as if all the devils in hell were on their tails. They rushed past me and disappeared down the hall. I could now hear the noise that scared them. An eerie, robotic noise -- a staccato barking -- was drifting up the stairs from the basement.

The basement.

I have a very nice basement, actually, since the reno after the flood. But, if horror movies have taught me anything, they've taught me NOT TO GO IN THE BASEMENT TO CHECK OUT THE MYSTERIOUS NOISE. Granted, it wasn't midnight during power outage in a thunderstorm, and I'm not a willowy teenager in a romantic white nightgown, and the house isn't built near an Indian burial ground/abandoned murder-plagued summer camp/sinister mental hospital -- but nonetheless, 'Don't go in the basement' is probably Horror Movie Rule #1 (or #2 right after 'Don't have sex in an abandoned, murder-plagued summer camp').

But someone had to check it out. It could be ~~a crazed axe murderer~~ the furnace malfunctioning and spewing deadly carbon monoxide into the air. I decided to send the cats down to check. They declined by the simple expedient of disappearing under my bed. It was going to have to be me.

Grabbing the nearest approximation to a weapon at hand, a hefty three-hole punch, and scattering little punched-out paper circles in my wake, I descended the stairs. The otherworldly barking continued. It didn't seem to be coming from the furnace room.

It was coming from the television. The old television that we have down there that the Wii is connected to. It was the old television that was emitting the strange noises, EVEN THOUGH THE POWER BAR THAT IT WAS PLUGGED INTO WAS TURNED OFF. That really worried me. A very electronic noise was issuing from an electronic device with no power. Aliens? Could aliens be transmitting some signal through an unpowered television set?

I crept closer. The noise got lounder. "Bark bark" pause "Bark bark". I reached out a trembling hand and turned on the overhead light. An iPod touch, its screen black and almost invisible, lay on the tv. I picked it up, and the screen opened, showing a cartoon barking dog, and the message, "Alice, you should be up for school by now".

Not aliens. Not escaped homicidal maniacs. Not demons.

Just a weekday morning alarm on an iPod Touch left behind after Alice, Leah's New Year's Eve sleepover guest, left on New Year's Day.

Whew.

I grabbed the device and hurried up the stairs as fast as I could, because everybody knows that Horror Movie Rule #3 is: 'When everything appears to be OK, and the scary noise turns out to be just a cat or something similarly innocuous, and the heroine is smiling in relief, that's when the monster/homicidal maniac/vampire springs out of the closet and attacks'.

I'm not stupid, you know.

Why the world needs editors: "I'm sure that's not what they really meant" edition

2011-11-15T09:00:00.001-05:00

A haiku composed on the occasion of driving Old Carp Road at dusk

2011-11-09T10:57:00.000-05:00

Deer are not lonely

They cross the road with their friends

Your brakes must be good

Why the world needs translation editors: beefs on the loose edition

2011-10-28T17:10:00.001-04:00

I am totally reblogging something I saw today on Dave Reevely's blog in the Ottawa Citizen, as it fits in so well with my "Why the world needs translation editors" series. This is an actual press release sent out this afternoon by the Service de police de la ville de Gatineau. (Gatineau is the city in Quebec right across the river from Ottawa.)

"Appeals in connection with two animals.

On October 27, 2011 to 12h22 P.M.

The SPVG received a call in relation to an animal or a beef, who was walking in public at large and was threatening to the population. The call stated that there could be two beef in liberty.

The call was received October 27, 2011 to 12:22. The beef was walking freely on the 148 or the Montreal Road West, near George Street in Gatineau (Masson-Angers). Throughout the duration of the intervention, the police found that the animal was aggressive and threatening to the population. The police even had to ask staff to primary school St-Jean de Brebeuf to bring the children inside the school for safety. Several times the animal has dark on patrol cars and police officers.

Around 1:27 p.m., the animal was at the height of the shore road and path of the Quai. It was impossible to contain the animal because of its high aggressiveness. With the consent of the owner, the police had no choice but to kill the animal. The animal has since been taken over by its owner.

Meanwhile, a police officer spotted the second animal in the George Street exit of Highway 50 eastbound. The police managed to contain the animal for some time, but again, the animal was aggressive and difficult to contain. With the consent of its owner the police had to shoot the second animal (2:08 p.m.).

It is important to know that prior to slaughter animals, including the police tried a few times to get the beef into the trailer of their owners using different tactics (in collaboration). The animals showed a lot of aggression and loaded with police officers, patrol cars and the trailer’s owner several times, the decision to kill the animals was necessary to protect citizens (the animals were threatening the population). All measures have been taken to ensure that no person has been put in danger when the shots were fired police officers."

Ah Google Translate, how I love you.

Poor beefs :(

10 signs that I might be watching too much C.S.I.

2011-10-22T00:00:00.011-04:00

OK, I'll admit it. I have a slightly disturbing obsession with the C.S.I. franchises. And maybe I've been watching too much. The signs? I mean besides making up my own hometown version: C.S.I. Carp?

1. I'm seriously considering wearing latex gloves to do the housework around here.

Like the laundry.

And cleaning the kitchen.

2. I've also thought that figuring out who left the half-full glass of milk on the kitchen counter that was knocked over by Max would be so easy if I only had a fingerprint kit. Because both girls deny it was them.

3. I've been looking around online for those special flashlights. Not because I need one, but because I want one.

4. I've been considering incorporating vests and lab coats into my wardrobe.

I think I could totally rock a vest.

5. I find myself wondering what the Windex budget for the C.S.I. Miami and C.S.I. New York labs is, seeing as they are composed almost entirely of glass.

6. I was using a pumice stone the other day on very dry, scaly feet and caught myself thinking, "Ooooo! Epithelials!"

(There's no picture for this one.)

(You're welcome.)

7. I've taken to standing with my hands on my hips a lot.

And taking my sunglasses off very, very dramatically.

8. I sometimes wish I had tweezers and an evidence envelope when cleaning underneath the dining room table.

9. I really like C.S.I. humour.

Really like.

Really, really like.

10. The clincher, when I realized that perhaps really do watch too much C.S.I., was a couple of days after I let Leah stay up and watch an episode of C.S.I. with me on DVD. I went down in the basement and saw a Barbie crime scene laid out on the floor.

Crap. What have I done?

Just Don't 3

2011-10-19T15:02:00.008-04:00

Yet another public service announcement for my loyal readers.

If you buy Just Dance 3 for the Wii for your daughter for her birthday, your entire family will spend more time dancing, which is wonderful exercise. Win.

If you are wearing a pair of pajama bottoms with a loose drawstring, and grab a Wii remote and dance like crazy to The Pointer Sisters' "I'm So Excited", you might *actually* dance your pants off. Fail.

However, this will send your children into fits of hysterical laughter, which is also pretty good cardio excercise. Win. I think.

Things I learned on the weekend

2011-10-17T11:03:00.008-04:00

1. If you host a sleepover for your daughters and their friends and decide to jazz up their dinner of home-made pizza, baby carrots, celery sticks, and milk by lighting the candles on the table to give them some ambiance before grabbing your pizza and heading to the living room ~~for some peace and quiet~~ so as not to intrude, DON'T. Because later, when you go to throw out some leftovers, you might find almost all of the vegetables (which you thought the girls ate since the serving plate was empty) in the compost bin, scorched at one or both ends.

2. Your dishwasher will not remove "Hi, I'm Rebecca ♥ ♥ ♥" written on a dinner plate in soot from a scorched carrot or celery stick. You will have to wash those plates by hand.

According to Rachel: inability to distinguish between cultural stereotypes edition

2011-10-14T06:00:00.001-04:00

Getting breakfast ready on a weekday morning:

Rae: It's a Freaky Friday for our class this week. It was Sara's birthday so she got to pick what kind of day it was going to be, and she picked "Pajama Day".

Me: OK, sounds good. Which PJs are you going to wear?

Rae: My monkey ones. Guess what? If it was my choice, I'd pick Korean Day. [assumes a passable Jamaican accent] -- 'Yah mon'.

Me....

Me [recovering]: Um, what does 'yah mon' have to do with Korea?

Rae: [slightly exasperated at my obvious lack of knowledge]: You know: 'Yah mon'?? That thing that Korean people say all the time?

Me: Oh.... Right.

Angus update, and how not to take two cats to the vet's

2011-10-12T12:00:00.003-04:00

Well it's been a year since we welcomed Angus inside and out of his life as a wild kitten living by his wits. That tiny, scared, kitten has morphed into a large, skittish cat who loves having his belly rubbed, but only by family. He has learned to trust us. He loves me, tolerates the girls, and disappears if anyone else comes into the house (with the exception of Arlene, whom he lavishes with offers of his belly to rub, and my mum, whom he'll sit on.)

And about that 'large' part -- when you pick him up, he feels like a fur-covered bowling ball. While he was a small kitty a year ago (see below in comparison with Max):

He is now rather more, um, portly:

All in all, he's settled in well, though the Evil Ninja Assassin Cat has had to change his fighting tactics due to Angus's superior weight. The ENAC will now execute several pouncing maneuvers on Angus instead of engaging in a prolonged wrestling bout that he will lose. It's funny to watch. Definitely a case of old age and treachery being better than youth and skill...0r youth and portliness.

A couple of weeks ago the two cats had to go to the vet's for a check up and their vaccinations. I now have two cats. I only have one cat carrier. "No problem," said the receptionist at the vet's office*, "swing by before your appointment and we'll lend you one." And so I did. As I was leaving, the receptionist gave me this piece of advice: "Put the more difficult one in a carrier first."

She was wrong (or maybe not -- I assumed, wrongly, that Angus would be the difficult one). The advice should have been: "Put the smarter cat in a carrier first."

I came home with the vet's carrier and put it down on the floor of the living room. Then I went down in the basement to get my cat carrier. What I didn't do was to close all the bedroom doors. Angus, attracted by the enticing scents of all the other cats who had ridden in the carrier, followed his nose right inside the carrier. Bingo! I closed the carrier.

Max was sitting on the couch, not far away. He looked at Angus in the carrier. He looked at the empty carrier. Then he looked at me. I could see the comprehension blooming in his eyes.

Instantly, he took off at top speed into my bedroom, under my bed and lay down in the exact centre, where he was out of reach. I had to use a broom to get him to come out from under the bed, and then it was pure craziness as I tried to catch him. All that was missing was the Benny Hill theme music. It took me nearly 15 minutes, and a couple of scratches, before I had him safely in the cat carrier.

So here are your public service announcements for putting multiple cats into multiple carriers:

1. Close off all avenues of escape.

2. Put the smart cat in the carrier first.

3. A little vodka wouldn't go amiss. (For you, not the cats.)

Both cats are healthy, and have been vaccinated.

And Angus? Although he's gotten bigger:

He hasn't really changed all that much.

:)

*I can't say enough nice things about the West Carleton Animal Hospital in Carp. The staff and vets are kind and caring, and the cost of veterinary care is more than reasonable. If you're local, please consider going there.

According to Rachel: dubious compliments edition

2011-09-27T09:51:00.007-04:00

We are having a beautiful early fall here in Ottawa. Warm, sunny days, chilly nights, and cool, crisp mornings. It's making deciding what to wear difficult. You don't want to freeze in the mornings, and you don't want feel too hot in the afternoons.

The girls are reluctant to give up their shorts, and have been wearing a hoodie over a teeshirt with shorts and running shoes to school. This morning, I put on a denim skirt, a dark red, scoop-necked teeshirt, and a camel-coloured cardi on top to keep me warm on the walk from my car to my office.

Rae: You look like a ketchup-ed hot dog today.

Me: A what?

Rae: Your teeshirt is like the hot dog covered in ketchup, and the sides of the sweater look like the two parts of the bun on each side.

Me: That's very observant. Is it a compliment?

Rae: I don't know. How does it make you feel?

Me: Not really good, to tell the truth. You're right about the colours, but do I look like a hot dog to you?

Rae: Only a little. You're not made out of pork, though.

Me: ....

Two countries separated by the same language

2011-09-19T12:02:00.012-04:00

That quote, attributed to George Bernard Shaw (and sometimes to Oscar Wilde, people are arguing about this) was meant to refer to Britain and the U.S. But, in my experience, the same can be said for Canada and the U.S.

I was clearing out some old files on my computer and found this guest post that I contributed to a friend's blog some years ago. Alissa doesn't blog anymore, well except for her photo blog where she showcases her gorgeous Kentucky landscapes, sunsets, flowers and dogs, which is a shame. (The fact that she doesn't 'blog' blog anymore is a shame, not the fact that she takes beautiful pictures and shares them online.) So, I've dusted that post off and I'm posting it here.

(This may or may not have something to do with the fact that I'm having a bit of writer's block at the moment, and am dealing with the fall craziness of yard work, back-to-school, pool closing, firewood ordering, garage cleaning, cookie baking, etc., etc.)

Hi, I’m Alison, and I live in a small village just outside Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. Like Briana, who guest-posted last week, I ‘met’ Alissa online through a parenting forum and have known her for probably six years or so [more like 9 or 10 now - Alison]. It was her blog that first inspired me to start one of my own, so I’d like to take this opportunity to say “Thanks, Alissa!”

Internet friendships have added a lot of joy to my life. I’ve been blessed by a wonderful and group of women (and one man) from all over Canada and the U.S., and now new friends in Europe, Australia and New Zealand, reaching out and showing that the world is a pretty small place after all.

But for all our similarities in experience and outlook, I have come to see that there are differences. And being a Canadian with American and British friends, I’m finding that language can be one of those places where those differences pop up.

During one thread on our parenting forum, I mentioned that the girls were getting a new toboggan because the old one was too worn out from banging into trees. Some confusion ensued with Alissa, and when we finally figured out what was going on, we realized that while I was talking about this:

Alissa thought I was talking about this:

Big difference. Yes, the same word is used in Canada to mean sled and in parts of the U.S. (Kentucky, apparently is one) to mean a winter hat. Which we would call a tuque up here. Go figure.

This reminded me of another miscommunication that happened in Kentucky, funnily enough, back when I was in university. I was on a third-year geology field trip in Corbin, Kentucky to study sedimentary geological features. They’re kind of hard to study in Ontario, seeing as the last glaciation scraped most of them away, but there are some gorgeous sections to study down in Kentucky.

It was November, and starting to get chilly. We spent our day driving around in a bus, stopping along the highway to get out and look at the roadcuts. (Sedimentary rocks are arranged in layer-cake fashion, and the best place to look at the features is in a roadcut, where you are looking at a ‘slice’ through the rocks.) Just an aside here, Kentuckians must be the most friendly, helpful people I’ve ever met. Whenever drivers on the highway would see the bus pulled over and all of us out looking at the rocks, they would pull over and ask if we were OK and if we needed them to call us a tow truck.

At the end of the day we were chilled. I hadn’t packed a heavy enough jacket, thinking we were headed to the (almost) Deep South. We ended up at a restaurant after nightfall for dinner. We sat down and the waitress took our orders. I wanted to heat up fast, so I ordered a bowl of chili and tea, and then headed to the washroom to run some hot water over my icy hands, thinking of how hot and comforting the hot chili and tea would be, picturing steam coming out of the little steel teapot, the cup upside down next to it.

Imagine my surprise when I returned to the table to find that the waitress had already set my drink order on the table, and I was looking at a tall, frosty glass of iced tea. Iced tea! When the waitress came back, I apologised for the error, and told her that I had wanted a cup of tea, not a glass of iced tea. “Oh”, she said as she headed back to the kitchen, “you want hot tea.” Up here, ‘tea’ means a pot of steaming tea, and if you want it cold, you have to order iced tea. In Kentucky, it’s the exact opposite: ‘tea’ is iced tea, and if you want tea, you have to order ‘hot tea’. Weird, eh?

I guess that ‘eh’ is a giveaway that I’m Canadian. Though I don’t pronounce ‘about’ as ‘aboot’ as we are reputed to do. There are a few Canadian words or phrases that seem to confuse readers from other countries, so as a public service, I’ll use the rest of my time here on Alissa’s blog (and doesn’t she have the cutest accent?) to explain a few of the most questioned Canadianisms, in case you’ve ever wondered:

Loonie – A one-dollar coin with a picture of a loon on the tails side. We no longer have bills lower than five dollars.

Toonie – A two-dollar coin. Named because it’s worth two loonies.

Tim's, Timmie’s – Tim Horton's: a franchise of coffee shops selling the Canadian national food: the donut. Founded by Tim Horton, an National Hockey League player who played for almost 20 years for the Toronto Maple Leafs. They are everywhere in Canada.

Double double – When you’re at Timmie’s if you want your coffee with two cream and two sugar, you order a double double.

Pickerel – what American fishermen call Walleye

Eavestrough – I think it's called a gutter in the States, you know, the long things that are supposed to collect water from the roof and then send it down the rainspout, but all they really do is clog up with dead leaves?

Kraft dinner – Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, the main diet of the Canadian university student

Chesterfield – sofa or couch

Serviette – napkin

Poutine – a French-Canadian delicacy – french fries covered in a layer of fresh cheese curds and drenched in brown gravy

I guess only a Canadian would understand this, “Excuse me, could you please pass me a serviette? I spilled my poutine on the chesterfield.” Only now, you all (y’all) do too! :-)

Why the world needs translation editors

2011-09-08T09:00:00.005-04:00

Or, why Google language tools are not always the best.

Many years ago, I had dinner with my father in a restaurant in the Queen Elizabeth Hotel in Montréal. I had bouillabaisse, a French fish stew that originated in Marseille. It was so delicious, I remembered that meal for years. So, when I Googled a recipe for it a few years ago, the first few pages returned were in French. I figured that a French recipe for a French dish would be the most authentic. However, I didn't read French that well back then, and hit the button on the page which translated the recipe into 'English'.

The translation was about as good as the English instructions for a Japanese VCR circa 1988. Here are some excerpts:

"Subtle dish with the many fish species which cook together to release us their different taste and particular perfume, to make a success of it it is essential to rigorously respect the order and the time of cooking of fish, if not parks with a pulp dull full with stop!"

Um, OK. I'll respect the cooking order. Because you know I don't want it to parks with a pulp dull full stop. That would be bad. I think.

"To make partly cooked, potatoes to the vapor, and to keep them with the heat. They will be cut in 4 sections each one and will be added during cooking. To put 8 semi hollow or hollow plates and a large hollow dish to heat."

Great! A chance to use the hollow plates. I hardly ever use those.

"In a pot, to make a bed with white onions thin slices, the crushed cloves of garlic, crushed tomatos, the bay tree, fennel and the bark of orange."

I'm not sure there's room enough in the pot for a bay tree.

"If need be, to add a little soup or water for just to cover fish, and to let cook 10 minutes. Your Bouillabaisse is ready to be useful, and like the soufflés, it could not wait."

I'm *so* glad the bouillabaisse is ready to be useful. Maybe it could vacuum the living room. Or fold some laundry.

"For the service, to present fish and their trimming of potatoes in the large hollow dish, the soup, the sections of toast rubbed with garlic, and garlic mayonnaise and rust with share. To pour a little soup in its plate, to deposit sections of bread pasted of rust or garlic mayonnaise and to taste there various fish with soup, rust or garlic mayonnaise with its own way. "

I'm totally lost with this one. Not sure I want to eat rust. And the mayonnaise sounds kinda pushy, wanting its own way.

I ended up making lasagna instead. But next time I'm in Montréal....

Back seat conversations: the meaning of lyrics edition

2011-08-30T11:20:00.003-04:00

So we were driving back from soccer one day last month, and "Kiss You (When it's Dangerous)" came on the radio. I've embedded the video above for those of you (my U.S and U.K. friends) who have probably never heard this 80s Ottawa band's most famous song.

And from the back seat came this conversation:

Leah [singing along]: ♫ ♪ I'll kiss you when it's dangerous. I'll kiss you then and only then. ♪

Rae: What do you think they mean by "kiss you when it's dangerous"? What does it mean?

Leah: I don't know.

Rae: Maybe it means that he will only kiss her if she's tied up on a moving conveyor belt with sharp knives on it.

Leah: Ummm....

Rae: And lasers.

Leah: Nah, it probably means that he's going to kiss her when she's mad at him and he might get slapped if he tries. So it's dangerous.

Rae: Like she's mad because he didn't buy her some shoes?

Leah: Exactly.

A public service announcement

2011-08-29T09:50:00.001-04:00

Here is a picture of the people I nearly poisoned with toxic ribs earlier this month:

Well, actually, the body count would only have been 5 rather than 7.

So, here's the PSA:

Always, always, always defrost meat in the refrigerator. Don't leave two racks of frozen ribs out at room temp in the microwave to thaw overnight. Because if you do, they might grow copius amounts of bacteria and eating them could result in a trip to the ER.

When I went to put the ribs on the barbecue, the edges had turned a delicate emerald green.

(Joke: who are two people you don't want coming over for dinner? Sam and Ella.)

So, instead of my much-bragged-about barbecued ribs, we had hamburgers for supper. And we all survived.

This has been a public service announcement from the Let's Not Poison our Southern Neighbours Action Group.

(PSA #2: always have backup propane so you don't have to finish the hamburgers under the broiler -- the hamburgers you were serving instead of lethal ribs. A rookie mistake, not having a second tank, but I made that one too. ) I am *so* not Martha Stewart.

Nice (n-ee-ce) was pretty nice (n-eye-ce)

2011-08-24T12:21:00.000-04:00

Yes, I know I'm home, but you'll just have to put up with a couple more posts about what was the best vacation ever. No, wait. BEST. VACATION. EVER.

Nice (or maybe all of France, or all of Europe for that matter, I don't know for sure) is very different from Canada. Here are some random things I noticed:

Things are smaller (apartments, washing machines, refrigerators, supermarkets), and despite the crazy traffic and bus drivers who think they're driving in a Formula One race, life is slower paced.

Walking down the Promenade des Anglais, day or night, was the thing I liked to do best.

Best. Croissants. Ever.

Seriously.

Considering the above bullet point, it's strange that there are no overweight people here. Also, I have never seen so many attractive people in one place in my entire life.

Skin cancer does not seem to be a major concern in Nice. Everyone seems to be tanned to a deep toasty brown. Including the one woman we saw on several days down on the beach, clad only in a teeny yellow thong, a gold chain around her waist, and a Gilligan hat. Reading Emile Zola and eating nectarines, no less.

A real Nicoise Salad doesn't have any green beans or potatoes in it. But it does have lots of tuna, olives, radishes, tomatoes, hardboiled eggs and some anchovies.

Even though the Mediterranean Sea is salty and easy to float in

I couldn't smell the sea the way you usually do at the seaside. But swimming in it will leave you all salty and with a bad case of Med Head until you shower.

Parking is a sport in Nice. People will park anywhere. On sidewalks. On corners. Double parking. You name it.

If you order anything with prawns (gambas) or shrimp (crevettes), be prepared to do some dissection. Most of the time in North America, shrimp are little pink commas of flesh when they're served to you. In Nice, they are cooked to a rosy red, but not peeled. Even in a curry sauce, you'll still see little eyes peering out at you, and little leg things waving.

The upside is, that when you take the time to peel them, they taste better than any North American shrimp.

The Hotel Negresco is a truly fascinating place. The gorgeous architecture and eclectic art make it a place not to miss.

Wine there is really cheap and really good.

Mostly we drank local varieties of rosé by the bottle, but we couldn't resist these single-serving glasses we found in the grocery store. Vive la France!

The default music type in any public space is jazz. It was playing on the tour boat we took to Monaco, and in those restaurants that had music playing. It was so nice. How nice was brought home rather forcefully when, on the long trip home, we ate lunch in a 'seafood' restaurant in the Newark airport and the soundtrack was Taylor Swift's greatest hits. Yeah.

You WILL gain weight in Nice (And Villefranche Sur Mer, and Monaco).

Oh. Yes. You. Will.

Banana split crepes. O.M.G.

Warm goat cheese salad!!

Moules et frites!!!

Calamari!!!!!!

I seem to have used up all my exclamation points.

[I don't know why this is all different colours and underlined. HTML coding and I are not friends.]

I think I would like to be dropped in a vat of Chantilly whipped cream. And left there

Lettuces, mangoes and nectarines from the greengrocers are ENORMOUS. And delicious. Really, really delicious.

The transit system -- the trains, trams and buses -- are clean and efficient and cheap. You can go a long way on the bus for a euro.

Even as far as Eze, which is probably the most picturesque place I've ever been.

This picture was taken from the boat from Nice to Monaco. You can see that Eze is perched right at the top of the mountain.

So, to sum it all up, I can see why people retire to the South of France. Thanks, Dad, I'll never forget that trip.

I can't wait to go back. Come on Lotto 649.

Canada and the U.S. are still friends and we were not disrespectful to the nun within her hearing

2011-08-16T13:00:00.001-04:00

So, I invited my friend Jen and her family (from Virginia) up to Ottawa for a visit. Jen's family and mine have vacationed together four summers now, and it was her turn to visit me, see our beautiful capital city, and check another UNESCO World Heritage site (the Rideau Canal) off her list.

But what I didn't expect was that my mild-mannered American friend would almost cause an international incident by trying to smuggle a knife into the Centre Block of the Parliament buildings! (da da DA!) Well sort of...... OK, not really.

Actually, it was an innocent mistake. She had forgotten about a small Swiss Army knife in her purse and had it confiscated by security on the way in. She was issued a chit to pick it up on the way out. We teased her a bit (OK, a lot) as our tour group (which included visitors from all over Canada, the States, Iran, the Philippines, and a trio of tiny, elderly nuns from Italy) moved from room to room.

When the tour ended, Jen was able to retrieve her ~~sharp, pointy weapon~~ teeny-tiny Swiss Army knife from the security desk at the exit. Waiting in line in front of her was one of the elderly Italian nuns, who turned in her chit and was handed a small, sharp pair of sewing scissors by the security guard manning the desk.

As soon as we were out of the nun's earshot, Jen turned to me and her husband and said, "That nun has a shiv." We all but collapsed laughing, and, inevitably, following the verbal template of this post, said, in unison, "This nun WILL cut you." Of course, the only logical way to follow this was to head across the street to a chip truck for some poutine, slog through an unexpected thundershower with the children back to the minivan, and then set off in search of the Beavertail stand in Byward market. That's just how we roll.

By four thirty, we were safe at my house, towelling off and enjoying a rum and coke, and still saying 'shiv' out loud occasionally to make each other laugh.

I hope making fun of a nun isn't too bad a sin.

Jen's far, far funnier recounting of these events can be found here.

The French sense of humour, part deux

2011-08-03T15:06:00.013-04:00

While traversing the city on Sunday, on our way to the Port in order to buy tickets for our boat ride to Monaco, we walked through Place Garabaldi. There is a big statue in the middle of the square.

Apparently, Mr. Garabaldi liked to play raquetball.

A conversation on the Promenade

2011-07-29T17:04:00.011-04:00

On the Promenade des Anglais.

Alison: Over there, green shirt, black pants.

Lise (Alison's sister): Mmmm, nice.

Alison: You know, we need a code word for saying "Look at the hot guy over there" so we don't have to say "Look at the hot guy over there."

Lise: Yep.

Alison: But what?

Lise: How about "Bazinga".

Alison: Bazinga?

Lise: Or "Knock, knock".

Alison: *laughs* I like "Bazinga".

Lise: "Bazinga" it is.

The French sense of humour

2011-07-27T09:27:00.009-04:00

We went walking this morning, my sister Lise, my dad and I, looking for a cheese shop. On the way we passed a small store that sells cosmetics:

Outside was this sign:

"Tested on the English"

I think that PETA would probably be OK with that.

Hee.

And now for something completely different

2011-07-24T11:13:00.013-04:00

A while back I did a recipe post on my blog. Now it's going to be a travel blog for a while. Why? Because I'm in France, and who knows when I'm going to have a chance like this again. So you're just going to have to put up with me chronicling two weeks of jealousy-inducing meals and trips and scenery, just because I can. Sorry.

Did I say France? I meant the South of France. Yes, I'm in Nice on the French Riviera, and really, now I know why rich and famous people move here. It's gorgeous.

The trip, from Detroit, to Washington, to Munich and then to Nice, was very long, but the last leg, from Munich to Nice was when I met the first man of the trip. Instead of being seated next to my sister, I was next to a really good-looking man. He was olive-skinned and dark-haired, with huge brown eyes and long silky lashes and charming English. Unfortunately, he was also about 18, and spoke to me with all the polite respect that's usually reserved for the elderly. Sigh. I couldn't figure out his nationality: Italian? Spanish? French? Turns out he was Swedish. Go figure

We arrived in Nice about 2 p.m. local time and took a bus to our apartment.

It's very nice and looks out over the Promenade des Anglais and the Mediterranean Sea.

We had only been in the apartment (me, my dad, my sister and my stepmum) half an hour before the first bottle of rose was polished off. Life is good.

(We had been travelling for 16 hours when this was taken and well, we are kind of tired and it shows.)

When Bambi goes bad

2011-07-11T14:40:00.004-04:00

Why, yes, this stuffed animal does belong to Rachel. Why do you ask?

A Fathers' Day card by Rachel

2011-06-21T15:49:00.011-04:00

Once we work on the spelling a bit, I fully expect her to begin a career in the section of Hallmark that makes the snide greeting cards.

The front of the card:

The inside. (I think she gets her sense of humour from me. Seriously.)

But wait, there's more!

Coupons! They start out as your standard kid coupons:

Awww, she's going to make him breakfast:

And he can come and watch her soccer game:

But then I think that she thought that perhaps she wasn't getting enough out of the coupon deal. Et voilà, a coupon good for the chance to take her for ice cream:

And the pièce de resistance:

She'll go far, this one.

Back seat conversations

2011-06-09T09:59:00.022-04:00

In which attempts are made to articulate the degree of awfulness of the smell of turtle urine

It was just after supper on a beautiful early summer evening and we were on our way to Dunrobin for a soccer game. We were coming around one of the curves on Carp Road, past farms and silos and the Carp Ridge up to our right. Something round and dark was sitting on the centre line ahead of us. “Mum, it’s a turtle,” yelled Rachel, “Don’t hit it!” I slowed down and pulled over on the side of the road.

It was a big old snapping turtle. His shell was about a foot across, and he seemed to be pretty happy sitting on the warm roadway. We decided that I needed to pick him up and take him across the road so he’d be safe in the ditch and long grass.

Now I’m not a novice turtle saver, and I know that turtles will pee when threatened. I found this out first-hand last summer when I stopped to help a painted turtle across another section of Carp Road, and got wet feet for my pains. (I’m not sure if it’s because you’re scaring the piss out of them, or whether it’s because they’re trying to make things unpleasant for a predator.) So this time I was careful to grip the turtle by the edges of his shell and hold him far out in front of me so that I wouldn't be in the spray radius.

He was not amused. He was whipping his dinosaur-like tail from side to side, hissing at me, and trying to dislodge my hands by swiping at them with his back feet. He was also trying to bite me, which was impossible due to where I was holding him. "Hah, turtle," I thought, "you can't do anything, so just relax and enjoy the ride." Suddenly, I could feel something warm and wet on my fingers. Damn. He was peeing.

I walked as quickly as I could across the road and put him down on the edge of the ditch. He hissed at me one last time and headed down into the ditch. I was left standing there with brownish fluid dripping from my fingertips. It smelled very bad. I wiped my hands on the grass beside the road and hopped in the car.

Of course, there were no tissues in the car. I dug around in my purse with the non-pee-covered fingers and found a wet nap and did my best. The smell was still apparent. Even with all the car windows open. The girls were both delighted and horrified. Horrified at the stench, but delighted that their mother had been peed on by a turtle.

Rae [through the car window at me as I approached the car]: Mum! Did he pee on you?

Me [wiggling my just-wiped-on-the-grass fingers in her face]: Yeah. Wanna sniff?

Rae [recoiling, horrified]: Eeeww! That smells awful. It’s like…like...[words fail her for a moment] like...asparagus mixed with burning rubber.

Leah [joining in, as we pull back onto the road]: No, it’s worse than that.

Rae: It’s like asparagus and burning rubber mixed with cherry cough syrup. [The cough syrup smells and tastes fine, but Rae hates it.]

Leah: If Rebecca Black was a smell, she’d be turtle pee.

Me: [explodes in laughter]

Rachel: [trying to outdo her sister]: No, no, no, wait, if Justin Bieber was a smell, he’d be turtle pee.

Leah: If Rebecca Black and Justin Bieber had a baby…

Rae [interrupting]: …and the baby fell in a portapotty…

Me: OK, now you’re just getting carried away.

Rae: But it does really stink, Mum. And I meant the part about the asparagus and burning rubber.

Me: I know.

Rae: At least we know he’s OK.

Leah: Yep, he’ll live to pee another day.

Vaya con Dios, Mr. Turtle.

Classic pairings

2011-05-27T08:53:00.016-04:00

Chocolate and peanut butter:

Starsky and Hutch:

Summer and soccer:

Wine and cheese:

Kids and swimming pools:

Ron and Don:

Beer and pizza:

Beer and wings:

Beer and hockey:

(Beer goes with just about everything.)

But some pairings, though classic, are getting really old, like --

me and pneumonia:

And a related pairing -- one for which I'm sure you'll forgive me for not supplying a picture:

incessant coughing and peeing my pants.

I won't be sad to see those pairs broken up.

According to Rachel: 'self-esteem is not a problem' edition

2011-05-19T13:00:00.002-04:00

Last night, at dinner.

Rachel: Monsieur asked me to come up to the board and write the math problem today. *And* Ellie and I got to take the attendance to the office. He likes me.

Me: Well of course he does. You're a good student and a great kid.

Rachel: I think it's because of my intense cuteness.

Change is good

2011-05-14T21:25:00.006-04:00

I realized a couple of days ago that the post about the zombies was my 400th post.

400!!

I've had a lot to say. So I decided to give myself a blog makeover as a 400th post present.

Yay me!

Why the world needs editors: Starfrit edition

2011-05-12T12:10:00.001-04:00

This was sent to me by Evelyn (the BFF) attached to an email this morning: "I bought a slider press last night and was reading the instructions. Read the text in the central part under the 3 pictures."

I don't think I want to eat any of those.

Why the world needs editors

2011-04-29T13:05:00.004-04:00

This is a door on the fourth floor that leads from our building to the adjoining one. Every time I go through it and read the sign, I snicker.

Cue the zombies

2011-04-26T15:01:00.005-04:00

I'm moving offices again. Second move in six months, third move in two years. And in the same job, mind you.

My most recent office (well, cubicle within an office) is on the fourth floor, where we were stationed with the other workers in our unit. And now we're moving to a giant cube farm that will hold our entire branch.

The move has been in stages, with each sub-unit moving at different times. We editors are the last to go. Everyone else has moved. We're still waiting for our move date to be announced. Today, my office mate is on vacation. Except for one other editor on the far end of the long hallway, I'm the only person here in this wing of the fourth floor.

It's quiet and eerie. It looks kind of like this:

And it's making me feel very uneasy, being by myself in this quiet office. I can't help but be reminded of 28 Days Later.

All alone except for the zombies.

I don't think my survival skills are up to this. I wish I'd worn running shoes.

Culinary dilemma: solved

2011-04-20T12:04:00.002-04:00

A couple of days ago, I went out for lunch with my friend Pat. We went to The Pantry, a vegetarian tea room that's been in business for more than 30 years in the Glebe Community Centre. The meal was delicious. I had vegetable-lentil soup, an open-faced tuna salad sandwich on rye, and Italian marmalata cake.

Yes, tuna salad. In a vegetarian tea room. Apparently tuna is a vegetable now.

Taking this into account, along with the European Union's Jam Directive of 1979, which declared the carrot to be a fruit (due to Portugal wanting to trade its carrot jam within the EU), I think I may have found a creative way to solve my Easter Dinner problem.

Due to the travel plans of the family members I've invited for an Easter meal, I'm having my ham and scalloped potato dinner on Good Friday, a day that is tradionally meat-free.

But that's OK. I'm not serving meat, I'm serving fish. Yep, those pink, curly-tailed, funny-nosed fish.

Hey, if it worked for Portugal, it can work for me.

Movies we'd like to see, vol. I

2011-04-14T22:07:00.004-04:00

Screw the popcorn -- pass the wine! Three bottles ought to do it.
(For Jen, Allison, Julie and Josie.)

I have got to get downtown more often

2011-04-12T12:34:00.020-04:00

I don't really work downtown. At Booth and Carling, I'm more downtown-ish. But I had occasion to go right downtown this morning, to Slater and Elgin (that's a hard 'G', for one of my readers) to have my "Test of Oral Proficiency" in French. Yes, my French oral exam. (No snickering.)

I had parked a fair bit away from the Public Service Commission building, and had a nice walk there, looking at all the stylish people walking purposefully down the sidewalks and into office buildings and at the varying architecture -- old churches cheek-by-jowl with modern multi-storey towers. The people downtown look more fashionable, the buildings look more dramatic, and even the bathroom reading is of a higher calibre. Remember that last bit, I'll come back to it later.

After the test (J'ai survécu à l'examen. Je pense.) I was starting to feel hungry, and detoured into the Esplanade Laurier to get some pho to take to work with me for my lunch (chicken soup being just the ticket for my poor stomach, recovering from a 24 hour period where, much like the Fukishima Daiichi nuclear plant, it had a containment breach and all its contents were expelled rapidly in all directions. You can thank Evelyn for that analogy, btw.)

While I was walking through the mall, I needed to use the ladies' room. And this is what was written on the back of the stall door:

Baby, I'm an anarchist
You're a bleeding heart liberal
We marched together
For the eight hour day
And held hands
In the streets of Seattle
But when it came time to throw bricks through
The Starbucks window
You left me all alone*

See, that totally kicks butt and is way more interesting than the more usual "Candace is a slut" kind of bathroom graffiti. Doesn't it leave you wondering about the doomed love affair? Yep, pho and literate bathroom poetry. I have to go downtown more often.

*Yes, I did spend an extra couple of minutes in the stall, copying the poem into the notebook I keep in my purse for emergencies such as this. The things I do for you people.

This weekend by the numbers

2011-04-09T20:01:00.009-04:00

Number of children affected by the violent vomiting virus - 2

Number of times Leah threw up Friday night - 1 (But it was a doozy)

Number of times per hour Rachel threw up between midnight Friday and 5 a.m. Saturday - 3

Number of mothers affected by the VVV in my house - 0 (So far, fingers crossed)

Number of degrees Celcius reached on Saturday in sunshine - 15

Number of yard waste bags filled with leaves which fell from the oak tree after the snow started to fall and I stopped raking last year - 4

Number of shoots of crocus and tulip poking through the soil proving that it's spring - ~25

Number of spider-related screams that startled passing dog walkers - 1

Number of Advil consumed due to muscle pain from yard work - 2

Number of RDJ movies acquired for weekend viewing after girls in bed - 1 (Sherlock Holmes)

Number of RDJ movies viewed Friday night, seeing as night-time hours spent running from one girl's bedroom to the other and to the bathroom to empty vomit bowls - 0

Number of times Grease was viewed instead by sick girls who ended up in my bed in the wee hours - 1.5

Number of RDJ movies viewed Saturday night, seeing as Friday night was essentially sleepless - 0.021 (I think I might have stayed awake for the first three minutes)

Number of feelings of accomplishment for starting to get yard in shape - 1

Dear Kraft,

2011-04-08T11:20:00.013-04:00

This blog post first appeared at Jen on the Edge in February 2009, when I guest posted for Jen while she moved. I'm posting it here now because ~~I have no idea what to blog about these days~~ some of you might have missed it.

We all know that Jen is organized. Beyond organized, really. She arranged for guest bloggers during her move to the new house, she mentioned in a recent posting that she has all her bills and things arranged in expanding file folders filed by month, and I have a sneaking suspicion that if you looked underneath her Precious, you would find that each cushion is labelled so that, in case of catastrophe, she could put it back together again if she had to.

Me? Not so much. I try, I really do, but it’s hard. One thing that I’ve found that helps is What’s Cooking magazine from Kraft Canada. It arrives in my mailbox every couple of weeks, and there are always a couple of decent recipes in it. (All the recipes that will be mentioned from here on in can be found here. I won’t be linking to each one because ~~I’m lazy~~ ~~I’m disorganized~~ I don’t want to.)

Bruschetta Chicken Bake was pretty good. The Sky-High Brunch Bake kind of rocked. And the Oreo and Fudge Ice Cream Cake impressed the pants off some visitors from out of town. (Well, not literally.)

But, you know, after a while a lot of the recipes start looking the same. I realize that the magazine and the website are promotional vehicles for Kraft Canada, but seriously, how many things can you make using Zesty Italian Dressing? 343. I checked. Stove Top Stuffing? 207. Philadelphia Cream Cheese? A whopping 768! Cream cheese and Italian dressing? 23. Dressing and stuffing? 15. Cream cheese and stuffing? 30. Nothing hit the trifecta by using all 3 ingredients though, which is probably a good thing, because stuffing, dressing and cream cheese together? Ew. But, I digress.

I got to thinking that at some point they will hit the saturation point for recipes. There area only so many combinations that they will be able formulate. So, what then? And it hit me. A new marketing ploy for Kraft. (Note to Kraft: feel free to shower me with money for coming up with these ideas. No, really. Feel free.)

Introducing the Kraft Beauty Products website:

Philadelphia Cream Cheese Instant Deep Wrinkle Filler

Our rich and creamy Philadelphia Cream Cheese is the ideal ingredient in a decadent cheesecake, a savoury entrée, or to reverse the signs of aging! Our ultra-concentrated cheese formula will give you immediate, visible results. This fast-acting treatment instantly fills wrinkles, reduces the appearance of fine lines and crow's feet and plumps up those deep creases between your eyebrows and around the lips.

Zesty Italian Dressing Exfoliating Scrub

Why not give your skin a peachy glow while you marinate those steaks for dinner? Pour ½ cup of Zesty Italian Dressing over steaks, cover and put in the fridge. Then gently massage ¼ cup of dressing into your face. Feel the finely chopped garlic, onions and red pepper gently loosening dead skin to reveal a new glow! The canola oil base moisturizes, while the lemon juice refreshes.

And if that’s not enough, Kraft and Home Depot team up to bring you:

The Kraft Home Improvement website, DIY tips

Drafts keeping you cold? They don’t have to. Simply fill a caulking gun or cake-decorating bag with Philadelphia Cream Cheese and pipe a smooth bead of cheese along the edges of your windows. And pesto! The drafts are a thing of the past.

Oh oh. The guests are arriving and you’re out of clean kitty litter! Don’t worry, Stove Top Stuffing has twice the absorbent capacity of most brands of kitty litter on the market today. Fill the litter box to a depth of 3 inches with the bread cubes, and sprinkle with the flavour packet so that every time Fluffy visits the loo, she’ll release the fresh scent of chicken and sage.

I’m thinking this could work. You see, my fridge and pantry would also be acting as my tool box and make-up drawer. And that’s what I call being organized.

According to Rachel: election edition

2011-03-30T12:15:00.001-04:00

This morning, getting ready for school/work. Leah and Rachel are giggling over something in the living room.

Me: What's so funny?

Leah: Never mind. Just something Rae and I were talking about.

Rae: Yeah, you're a grownup, you wouldn't get it.

Me: Hey, now you've gone and got me interested. I want to know what you were talking about. [mock threateningly] Tell me now!

Rae: Sometimes you won't tell us why you're laughing at something. You say that it's "not appropriate". I think you're being a hypocrite.

Me [impressed and amused]: Wow, that's a pretty big word, and you're using it right. I guess you could say I'm being a hypocrite.

Rae: Yeah, you are. And let me tell you, hypocrittery isn't nice at all.

***

Sadly, with the federal election campaign now in full swing, I think we're going to be exposed to a whole lot of hypocrittery between now and May 2.

Talking music with Rachel

2011-03-29T12:10:00.002-04:00

In the car on the way back from grocery shopping last night:

Rae: I heard a David Bowie song in the grocery store.

Me: Really? Which one.

Rae: I don't know the name of it. It goes: "Oooooooooooh, somebody, something, something, oooooooooh, doo doo doo doo doo doo."

Me: Hmmm. I'm not sure I know that one. Jean Genie?

Rae: No, not that one. "Oooooooooooh, somebody, something, something, oooooooooh, doo doo doo doo doo doo."

Me: John, I'm only Dancing?

Rae [giving me the exasperated look in the rear-view mirror]: NO! [this pronunciation is all dragged out to two syllables and sounds like "noooowah"] I know *that* song. LISTEN: "Oooooooooooh, somebody, something, something, oooooooooh, doo doo doo doo doo doo."

Me: Oh, now I think I know. Blue Jean? [I hum a bit for her.]

Rae: Yes! That's it! You're not very good at this, you know. I had to sing it, like, 3 times.

*******************************

Getting our coats on in the front entryway this morning:

Rae: What's that song from Shrek?

Me: Which song?

Rae: The one about jumping up.

Me: Jumping up?

Rae: Yeah, about falling down and jumping up.

Me: Tubthumping?

Rae: What?

Me: Is it Tubthumping?

Rae: I don't know. How does that go?

Leah goes by blasting Florence + the Machine's Dog Days are Over from her iPod touch, with no earphones so we all can enjoy it.

Me: It's hard to think about one song when you're listening to another song. [Singing] "He drinks a whisky drink, he drinks a vodka drink, he drinks a lager drink, he drinks a cider drink.."

Rae: No, that's not it. It's about jumping, not drinking stuff.

Me: [singing again] "I get knocked down, but I get up again, you're never going to keep me down."

Rae: That's it! That's the one.

Me: It's the same song.

Rae: No it isn't.

Me: Yes it is.

Rae: [sighs wearily] If you say so.

The thing is, I don't think that song was ever on a Shrek soundtrack, so I don't know which song she was actually thinking about. And really, I don't want to know.

Cinnamon buns 101

2011-03-14T10:29:00.005-04:00

I can hear you all now, "Hey! This isn't a recipe blog!" And you're right, I usually post about things that Rachel says, or trips to the ER, or bacteria who use Facebook.

Some of you have been lucky enough to have had me make these for you, and some of you were offered demonstrations but were too hung over to get up and watch (I'm not naming names, but you know who you are :-)), and I've emailed the recipe to some of you, but I've never explained how to make cinnamon buns in ~~excruciating~~ detail before.

So. Do you want to be a hero to your family? Do you want to have something amazing up your sleeve to coerce your children to clean their rooms? Do you want to seduce ~~Daniel Craig~~ that special someone by whipping up a batch of really divine cinnamon buns? Do you want to win a first-place ribbon at the Carp Fair?

Well look no further. I'll walk you through it. All you need is a bread machine and the willingness to be worshipped like a goddess. (Or god, I'm all about equal opportunity.) Here's how you do it (recipe follows):

First of all, you put the ingredients in the bread machine: liquids first, then dry ingredients, finishing with the yeast and salt. One thing I learned about getting dough right in a breadmaker, whether it's for cinnamon buns or bread, is measuring the flour accurately. You have to stir the bread flour (not all-purpose flour) in the bag with a spoon to lighten it a bit, then spoon the flour into the measuring cup and level it off with a knife. Otherwise, if you just scoop it out and bang the measuring cup to settle the flour, you'll be using too much and have to add more water when it's kneading. Oh, and always use bread flour and bread machine yeast. It makes a difference.

Anyway, add the ingredients and set it to the dough cycle. When it's done, it will be silky and elastic and look like this:

Roll it out into a rectangle. Use a fair amount of flour. (I took these photos during different cinnamon-bun-making events, so that's why you might notice the disappearing pastry mat. Funny story, I stored it behind the toaster oven and accidentally melted it one day when making a pizza.)

Now take a spatula and spread the softened butter all over the rolled-out dough, leaving one long edge without butter (for sealing it up):

Now sprinkle the brown sugar/cinnamon mixture on top of the butter:

If you have helpers, this goes really quickly. Just make sure they wash their hands.

Once the brown sugar/cinnamon has been evenly spread, roll up along the long edge, starting with the edge that you *didn't* leave free of butter and sugar:

Pinch it shut along the edge that you left free of butter and sugar:

Roll it over until the seam is on the bottom:

Now take a big, sharp knife, and cut the roll in half:

And then cut each half in half:

Now, cut each quarter into three rolls, giving you a dozen rolls. Isn't math great?

Place them on a lightly greased cookie sheet. They'll be small and won't touch each other:

Now spray some plastic wrap with a little spray oil and cover the cookie sheet. Child head is optional. I used to use a tea towel, but I got tired of having butter-stained tea towels. But you can use one if you want.

Leave in a warm place to rise, about 30-40 minutes. Now they'll be touching each other:

Now into a preheated oven and bake them. I once went through all the steps up until this point and was too impatient to wait until the little light on the oven went off, indicating that the oven had hit the right temp, and I burned the tops of the rolls. It was horrible. I cried. And then I ate them anyway. They're *that* good. So be sure the oven is ready and the top element isn't still on trying to heat up the oven. Mmmmmmm. Don't they look GREAT?:

Now make the icing. Not any icing. CREAM CHEESE ICING. If ever an icing deserved all caps, it's CREAM CHEESE ICING. Now, unless you're really ~~a pig~~ a sweet-toothed person, half of the icing recipe is enough for a dozen cinnamon buns:

Now spread a little or a lot of icing onto a warm roll, inhale the cinnamon-vanilla fragrance, and wallow in a piece of home-made heaven.

Five out of five sleepover party guests think these are the best cinnamon buns ever.

Cinnamon Rolls for the bread maker

12 servings

It takes about 2 1/2 hours to make a batch of rolls with my bread machine: dough cycle is 1 1/2 hours, 10 minutes to roll out dough and put filling on it and cut into rolls, 35 - 40 minute for rising, and 12 - 15 minutes to bake.

Rolls
1/4 cup butter, melted
1/4 cup water (warm)
1 cup milk (room temp or just nuke for a minute if it's right out of the fridge)
1 egg, beaten
1 tablespoon sugar
2 1/2 tablespoons vanilla instant pudding mix (not the diet kind with artificial sweetener, and not the kind you have to cook)
4 cups bread flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 1/2 teaspoons bread machine yeast

Filling
1/2 cup butter, softened
1 cup brown sugar
2 teaspoons cinnamon

Frosting
4 ounces cream cheese, softened (1/2 a regular pkg)
1/4 cup butter, softened
1 1/2 cups confectioners' sugar (icing sugar)
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 1/2 teaspoons milk

Rolls : Place ingredients in the machine following manufacturer's instructions and set for dough cycle. Wet ingredients first, then flour, sugar and pudding mix. Make 2 little wells in the flour with your finger or a spoon and put the salt in one and the yeast in the other. Start the dough cycle. After completion of cycle, remove from machine and roll out to 17x10-inch rectangle.

Filling: Mix together brown sugar and cinnamon. Spread softened butter over dough and sprinkle brown sugar/cinnamon mixture over the top. Roll tightly from long end, pinching edges closed when finished. Slice into sizes of your choice (I usually get 12 rolls from this). Place on greased cookie sheet and let rise until doubled in size . Cover with a slightly damp tea towel and put somewhere warm and not drafty. (I usually turn the oven on to 150F, let it warm up, then turn the oven off and put the pan in there to rise with the oven door open about 1/4 of the way.) Rising should take about 35 to 40 minutes.

Bake at 350°F for 12 -18 minutes, until light golden- DO NOT OVERBAKE! <- Keep an eye on them because mine were done in 12 mins, but my oven runs hot . You want them not too hard, but soft and yummy. Golden on the top, but whitish where they touch each other.

Frosting: Mix together and spread over warm rolls. You'll need a spatula to get them out of the pan -- some of the butter and sugar filling leaks down and caramelizes on the bottom of the rolls and they sometimes stick to the pan even though you greased it. Enjoy!

Things I learned today, vol. 2

2011-03-10T09:46:00.006-05:00

When your children go to bed gleefully anticipating a snow day, and you have to wake them up in the morning to tell them that the school buses are running and the schools are open, you should be prepared for levels of grumpiness never before seen. Nuclear-strength grumpiness and pouting.

Wild turkeys can fly. It ain't pretty, and they don't get much altitude, but they can fly. I nearly ran off the road this morning when one seemed to fall out of the sky right above my car. Fortunately she veered off and landed in the forest next to the road and not spreadeagled on my windshield.

Hat head isn't fatal. It only feels like it should be when you get to work and take off your hat and realize that you look as though you've been simultaneously electrocuted and drowned.

Knowing that you're going out for lunch with friends takes a lot of the sting out of a late-season snow/freezing rain/rain event.

International Women's Day

2011-03-08T12:28:00.005-05:00

We have a little ritual that we do when we leave the house for the day, heading for school and work. First, we tell the cats to behave themselves while we're gone: "Be good. No smoking. No making french fries." And then as we go through the front door, I always say, "Let's go conquer the world!"

Today is the 100th anniversary of International Women's Day, so I decided to switch it up a bit. I told the girls that I wanted them to go out and kick some butt and show everyone what super amazing women they are. (And then I had to explain the word 'metaphorically' to Rachel.)

What are you going to do today?

According to Rachel: Canal edition

2011-02-28T10:22:00.005-05:00

Yesterday we went skating on the Canal to get a skate in before the promised freezing rain and snow that's taking place today. Bribed with the promise of Beavertails and hot apple cider, the girls happily skated the length of Dows Lake and we headed to the Beavertail stand and rest area to refuel and warm ourselves by the outdoor fireplace.

Satisfied, we headed down the Canal towards the Bank Street Bridge, with Leah helping her sister, who isn't as accomplished a skater as Leah is.

Leah: Don't go so near the edge where the snow is. The ice is really bumpy under there. And watch out for the cracks, you could trip if your skate blade catches in one.

Rachel [in a witheringly sarcastic voice]: Yah, I think I can figure that out. You don't have to be Albert Frankenstein to know *that*.

Enough already

2011-02-23T12:20:00.001-05:00

RE: Cessation of ongoing viral/bacterial infections

To: Group A Streptococcus; Pneumococcus; Rotavirus
Cc: Norovirus; Rhinovirus
_______________________

Dear Sirs,

Though I realize that you are our major corporate stakeholders in the infection line-of-business, a lack of resources is forcing our organization to terminate the stakeholder-engagement process.

After consultation with our lung, stomach, and gastrointestinal-tract teams, we've decided to revert to our core competencies -- breathing, digestion, and nutrient absorption -- and get out of the business of coughing, vomiting, restricted oxygen levels, fever, and diarrhea.

The past few months have been productive for the infection line-of-business, with infection targets being reached or exceeded in the program sectors of pneumonia (Alison and Rachel), bronchitis (Alison), strep throat (Rachel), and some kind of rotavirus/norovirus (Leah and Rachel). We hope that you will be successful elsewhere as a direct result of leveraging the knowledge base acquired during these program trials.

We wish you the best in your future infection endeavours.

Sincerely,

Alison
CEO, Party of 3

Onslaught of the Henchkitten

2011-02-17T11:00:00.007-05:00

Hello, Large One.

My training of the Henchkitten proceeds apace. He is an inspired student and has absorbed my knowledge well.

The day of his first solo attack is here. I have unleashed him to lay waste to those papers you concentrate on so strongly.

Make me proud, Grasshopper.

Your pen will not survive.

Did that just say what I thought it said?

2011-02-11T14:48:00.027-05:00

I don't know whether it's because I read very quickly, or because I'm an editor, and used to looking for certain words or word patterns, or maybe ~~I drink too much wine~~ I'm just tired, but lately I find that I'm reading things that aren't there.

It usually happens when I'm reading online in that split second after I've hit the back button on the browser -- or clicked on a new link -- and my eye will pick up a phrase or sentence from the disappearing web page that registers on my brain *after* the new page is already loading, and I can't re-check to see if I really saw what I saw. Which can be some really weird stuff.

Such as the following:

The Princess Royal is handed a posy during a visit to open the new premises of The Princess Royal Trust for Carers' Renfrewshire Carers Centre in Paisley, 26 January 2011. The centre supports more than 3,000 carers in the Renfrewshire area.

'A posy'! That makes so much more sense. I read 'a pony':

I think she'll need a bigger vase.

Or this one, last week:

Top Headlines

Calgary pathologist's reports probed

A former Calgary medical examiner whose expert reports are being reviewed by Alberta Justice officials has been identified as Dr. Michael Belenky, CBC News has learned.

'Calgary pathologist'! *slaps forehead* I read 'Culinary pathologist':

Which is kind of gross, really. Ewwww.

Or this, which showed up in an ad at the side of my Facebook page:

NY Ski Deals starting $15

'Ski deals'! Well that sounds so much better than 'ski deaths', which is what I read.

Not exactly a great marketing campaign.

But the best one was this:

The Canadian Press

OTTAWA—Immigration Minister Jason Kenney is lashing out at the judicial system, accusing judges and lawyers of undermining Canada’s immigration process by indulging spurious refugee cases.

I bet you can figure out what I thought I read:

Yikes!

According to Rachel, January 2011 edition

2011-01-28T12:10:00.012-05:00

In the car the other night, driving back from visiting friends, talking about summer camps to Leah.

Me: And they have all kinds of camps. They even have a C.S.I. camp where you learn detective techniques!

Leah: Cool!

Rachel [sounding very adult and world-weary]: That would be the Village of Yawn for me.

Me: . . . . *hysterical laughter*

Rachel [sounding disgruntled]: What?

Me: Where did you hear that?

Rae [sounding defensive]: Nowhere. I was just trying to say that it sounds boring.

Me: Well, you did a pretty good job.

(I am totally going to use this from now on whenever something is boring: "Are you going to the legend committee meeting, Alison?" "Yep, I'm heading out to the Village of Yawn." )

Son of the Evil Ninja Assassin Cat

2011-01-26T17:33:00.000-05:00

Good evening, Large One.

I cannot believe you have made such a mis-step, such a mistake. In all the years of our warfare you have proved a worthy opponent. But no more.

Did you really think that bringing another Superior Being into the household would tame me? Did you think that another of my ilk would render me soft and playful? Ha! I laugh at that idea.

You have provided me with a henchkitten, and together we will. destroy. your. world.

Sure, he looks innocuous and sweet:

But I shall train him. He shall be my disciple in all the unholy arts.

We shall eat together:

And rest together:

I shall teach him the arcane and mysterious feline martial arts:

I shall school him in the occult mysteries of mind melding and thought transfer:

And then I shall turn him loose to wreak havoc on your paltry human lives!

He will shed all over your favourite chair:

He will steal your identity and demolish your credit rating! (And order lots of canned tuna online.)

He will bite all the buttons off your duvet cover!

And shred the blankie of Loud One!

Anarchy and mayhem shall follow you all the days of your life!

The Evil Ninja Assassin Cat and the Henchkitten will be obeyed!

Or you shall suffer the consequences.

A good day

2011-01-21T20:43:00.013-05:00

A school trip to the Parliament Buildings:

+

Skating on the Rideau Canal Skateway:

+

A fire in the fireplace:

Home-made pizza (can you tell which third of the pie was mine?):

A glass or two of Shiraz:

Be careful what you wish for

2011-01-13T23:48:00.008-05:00

I am sorry for the long absence, but I've been a little....under the weather since Christmas, having hit the pulmonary lotto (thanks Jen, for that phrase) of pneumonia with a side of bronchitis. So I've been off work since New Year's, trying to rest and regain my strength while the antibiotics and steriods do their magic.

The story that comes to mind today is one that happened on New Year's Eve. On holidays in Windsor, the girls and I went out for dinner with family to a Chinese restaurant in Lasalle. On the way out, the owner gave each of the girls a cellophane bag with several fortune cookies in them. On the way to my sister's place in Belle River, the girls started eating the cookies and reading the fortunes.

Leah: Mum, listen to this fortune, it's weird: "Be careful what you wish for, you might just get it." That doesn't sound bad.

Me: When you're a bit older, I'll read you a story called 'The Monkey's Paw'. It's really scary.

Leah: How is getting what you wish for scary?

Me: In the story, the wishes don't turn out like the people thought they would.

Rachel: I don't think that story would be scary at all.

Me: No? Why not?

Rachel: What's so scary about a bunch of monkeys getting their nails done?

Me: ......? Oooh. Rachel, it's "The Monkey's Paw" not "The Monkey Spa".

Rachel: Oh.

********************

I had occasion to revisit this subject with Leah a few days ago. I told her that I had been wishing for a week off work while she and her sister were at school, so that I could declutter and deep clean the house. Well, I got the week off alright, but was too weak to do more than lie on the couch watching True Blood and C.S.I. on dvd. I told her that I should have been careful what I wished for.

I think she gets it now.

I am an idiot, volumes I and II

2010-12-23T06:41:00.010-05:00

Volume I

While wrapping Christmas gifts yesterday, I decided to charge the battery for the camera that my dad bought Rachel. I read the instructions and carefully hooked the charging cable to the camera and to the thing that plugs into the wall. A red light was supposed to light up and then turn green when the battery is full. I plugged it in. No light. Hmmmm. Maybe a different electrical outlet? No light. Crap, I thought, maybe the charger is broken. I went back to look at the instructions, and noticed the battery sitting right there on the table.

I am an idiot.

Volume II

Today is our office's pot luck Christmas lunch. I was too tired last night to make the broccoli salad for the lunch, and went to bed at 9:30, figuring I'd get up in the morning and make it. When the alarm went off this morning, I hopped out of bed and started the coffee maker. I had unplugged it the night before and so the clock on it was flashing zeroes. I got the water boiling for the broccoli, and the ice water ready for after it was blanched. I put the tv on the CTV news channel, and started chopping an onion and grating cheese. I glanced at the clock on the microwave. It said 2:12 and I thought, "Oh, there must have been a power outage last night, the clock is wrong."

I blanched the broccoli, and made the dressing. While the broccoli was cooling, I poured a cup of coffee and decided to check my email before jumping in the shower. While on the laptop, I drank my coffee, and wondered idly why Canada A.M. hadn't started yet. Surely it was 6 a.m. by now, and the news channel should be showing Canada A.M., but no, it was still Lloyd Robertson and last night's news.

Hmmmm. I got up and went over to the clock on the thermostat, which is never affected by power outages. 2:46 a.m. And the horror slowly dawned on me. I hadn't changed my alarm setting since Monday night when I set it for 1:30 a.m. so that Leah and I could get up and watch the lunar eclipse.

It was the middle of the night and I was sitting in the living room drinking coffee. (Which is why, Natalie, you have an email from me about the explanatory notes sent around 2:40 a.m.)

I am an idiot.

Dear Angus

2010-12-17T11:22:00.005-05:00

I realize you are still getting used to the whole 'living inside with people' thing, but there are a couple of things that we need to talk about.

First of all, humans are animals who rely on sight rather than smell to idividuate amongst family members. In other words, I know what you look like, I do not need to sniff your butt in order to recognize you. So, really, you don't have to push that part of your anatomy in my face when I'm reading on the couch, however helpful you feel you are being.

Also, though I am ecstatic that you know how to use your litterbox and use it often, I need to tell you that it is not necessary to spend 10 minutes piling all the litter in the box into a scale model of Mt. Fuji before pooping right on the tippy top of the mountain. And afterwards, you don't really need to ensure that every last grain of clumping kitty litter has been piled on top of the evidence. Your enthusiasm is charming, but it's creating a lot of extra vacuuming.

Max is your friend. Please don't lurk on the arm of the couch and then launch a flying kamikaze attack on him when he's only trying to get to the kitchen for a bite to eat.

And, last but not least, we *will* feed you. Always. I know you still worry about where your next meal is coming from, that's to be expected in a former feral kitty. But we will always make sure you have something to eat. I hope you enjoyed the rotini with pesto that you knocked off the counter last night.

Sincerely,

Alison

P.S. Thanks for not destroying the Christmas tree. We were worried about that.

For Jazz - Jason and the birth control pills

2010-12-07T12:00:00.003-05:00

Many years ago, when I was just out of university, I moved to Toronto for a job. My first real grown-up job. (Yes, it was during this period that the horrible thing happened. But I digress...) My boyfriend moved with me, and we were sharing an apartment with an old university friend of mine.

I was apprehensive about starting work in a new office. Most of the people there were around my own age and they seemed a friendly bunch. There were the other junior editors, the senior editors, the cartographers, and the admin staff.

At the end of my very first day, I was standing in my office, getting ready to go home. I had one hand in my purse, looking to grab my hairbrush and brush my hair before setting off, when Jason, one of the cartographers, appeared in my doorway to ask if I wanted to go out for beer and wings with the gang. I had spoken to him only once before, when we were introduced that morning.

"Sure," I said, thinking it was nice to be invited along on my very first day, and, a little nervous and wanting something to do with my hands, pulled my hairbrush from my purse. It was one of those skeleton brushes that were so popular back then:

Each of the stiff plastic bristles was tipped with a flat disk, like the head of a sewing pin. And one of those bristle ends caught in one of the holes in the birth control pill compact that was also in my purse -- the holes that let you push a pill through.

So, as the brush cleared the purse, the pill compact somersaulted lazily in a high arc through the air. It seemed to fly in slow motion. In my head, I was screaming NOOOOOOOOOOOO, but could only watch speechlessly in horror as the compact bounced once on the floor and skittered over to come to rest against Jason's shoe. We both looked down at the pills and then up at each other, and without hesitating a second, he said, "So, are you busy Saturday night?" and grinned. I cracked up, and we were friends from that moment on. The end.

Thank you, Juan Valdez

2010-11-24T09:27:00.031-05:00

Coffee is a wonderful thing. It wakes you up. It increases your energy. It tastes delicious. It is, in the immortal words of my friend Jason, whom I used to work with many years ago in Toronto, "sweet elixir of life*."

It makes 5 a.m. seem a little bit sunnier, a little more bearable. I usually drink three cups between the time I get up and the time I arrive at work. (Thanks for the travel cup, Mum!)

I found out yesterday, however, just how important coffee is. I found out that unbeknownst to me, it is a big part of what makes me me -- part of the essential core of my being and what defines me as a person. At least according to Rachel.

We were driving home from daycare yesterday evening and she was telling me all about a project that she's doing at school. She said that each student in the class had to pick a 'character' from their family and describe them. (Great, my eight-year-old thinks I'm a character.) They had to list four things about their character that described them.

Here are the words and phrases that Rae feels describe me best:

dirty blonde
nice
generous
three cups of coffee

Three cups of coffee. Not that I'm tall, or that I'm fun, or that I bake amazing cinnamon buns, but 'three cups of coffee.' I did get 'nice' and 'generous', which is better than the perhaps more accurate 'grouchy' and 'nagging.'

And really, I should be grateful that the last bullet point she chose wasn't 'three glasses of merlot.'

*from the opening line of a poem Jason wrote me about coffee on a sheet of lined paper in bright green ink. I still have it somewhere. I miss him. We once went Christmas shopping together at the Eaton Centre inebriated (on public transportation, of course), and someday I really must tell you about Jason and the birth control pills, it's a good story.

Crazy old lady warning signs

2010-11-23T12:15:00.004-05:00

This morning I caught myself having a long conversation with Angus, conducted entirely (on my part) in high-pitched baby talk. He meowed back very sweetly. I said a lot of things like, "Oh him is a pretty, pretty boy, him is!" and "Oh, who has the cutest little fuzzy tummy?"

Can unfortunate flowered blouses and tea cups full of gin be far behind?

Sweet dreams are made of this

2010-11-18T09:16:00.028-05:00

I've run out of things to blog about, and so, poor readers, you get to hear about the dream I had a few nights ago,

I dreamed that I ran into Peter Mansbridge on the Toronto subway and since he looked familiar, I figured he was one of the geologists from work. I kept asking him when he was going to submit his map for editing. He had to show me a picture of Cynthia Dale before I'd believe him about who he was. I was very embarrassed about the mix up, and tried to save face by pretending that I needed to get off at the next station, but I tripped and dropped the grocery bag I was carrying, showering him and the subway car with grapefruits and cheese.

But what did it mean? Strangely, I couldn't find this scenario on the dream interpretation website:

Sorry, there are no matches for your request. For best results, narrow your search request to one or two words.

So I did.

Subway

To dream that you are in the subway implies that you are attaining your objectives without having to use much physical effort. You are discovering your inner spirituality and personality. It may also mean that you are being too impulsive and you should think carefully before making a decision.

Press

To see the press in your dream suggests your being aware of what’s happening around you and getting involved. Dreaming of press conveys what you discern about your surroundings.
To dream of the press chasing you indicates that someone may be intruding into your private life.

Office

A dream involving your work office suggests difficulty in leaving your work. This may represent the possibility of being preoccupied with work and having too much office work to accomplish. It may also stand for your position, achievements and status in society.

Cheese

To see cheese in your dream in an indication that you may soon find yourself a recipient of substantial wealth, rewards, or benefits. You may be elevated to a higher social status or a higher level of importance.

Grapefruit

To dream that you are eating grapefruit indicates that you feel recharged and fresh mentally. You are happier lately as a result of a boost in energy and spirits.To dream about a grapefruit tree represents your abilities, your faith and morals, and the good things you do. It could also indicate the 'fruits' of your effort.

So if I cobble that all together, I'm impusive and overworked, yet aware of my surroundings and recharged mentally and about to be elevated to a higher social status. That doesn't sound good, except for the last part.

Or maybe I just like cheese, and fell asleep with The National on the TV while thinking of the map I'm working on at the office.

I still can't explain the grapefruit, though.

According to Rachel

2010-11-15T09:09:00.007-05:00

In which Rachel blows off an entire subcontinent

Rachel (singing the song from Lady and the Tramp): 'This is the night, it's a beautiful night, and they call it bella notte.' You know, that's the only Indian I know.
Leah: It's not Indian, it's Italian.
Rae: Same thing.
Leah (a mite sarcastically): I think there's a couple of million Indians who probably wouldn't agree with you.
Rae: Whatever.

Rachel, queen of the metaphor. Or simile. I can never get those straight.

Rachel, frustrated because whenever she invites a friend over to play, the friend inevitably gravitates to Leah:
"It's like Leah's a fridge, and all my friends are magnets."

On the subject of cleaning up the toys in the basement

Rae: The basement looks fine. It's not like the Queen is coming over, or Josie, or Marsha Stewart.

Lest we forget

2010-11-11T06:34:00.000-05:00

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

— John McCrae 1915

Please take some time this Remembrance Day to reflect on the sacrifices made by our Canadian Armed Forces and Peacekeepers, and to pay tribute to all those who died in war.

At the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, the time the Armistice of World War I was signed in 1918, we observe two minutes of silence to remember. We remember those lost in both World Wars, Korea, and the men and women serving today in Afghanistan.

They deserve no less.

Hero/Sidekick

2010-11-05T18:20:00.007-04:00

Batman and Robin

Lucy and Ethel

Timmy and Lassie

Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson

Radioactive Man and Fallout Boy

Evil Ninja Assassin Cat and Henchkitten

Is there a Wednesday fetish I don't know about?

2010-11-02T14:00:00.000-04:00

Easton, Pennsylvania; Austin, Texas (twice); Cortlandt Manor, New York; Boston, Massachusetts; Melbourne, Australia; unidentified city in Mexico; Ankara, Turkey; Denver, Colorado; Jamaica, New York; Toronto, Ontario; Jensen Beach, Florida; Budapest, Hungary; Flagstaff, Arizona; Portland, Oregon; Topeka, Kansas; San Diego, California; York, Pennsylvania; Karlsruhe, Germany; Brampton, Ontario; Evreux, France; Richmond, Virginia; Boynton Beach, Florida...

What do all of these cities have in common?

Over the last few days, someone from each of those cities came to my blog through a Google search that landed them on this page. And, since the search term was either Wednesday or Wednesday Addams, they were either looking for this:

Or this:

I don't know which is more disturbing.

In the past week or so, my traffic has doubled, and most of the increase is looking for Wednesday. Is there some kind of pop-culture significance I'm missing here, or is it a coincidence that such a geographically diverse group of people just want to look at pictures of either a slutty Halloween costume or a seven-year-old girl?

Any thoughts?

Rated PG for language

2010-10-28T18:00:00.000-04:00

I was driving home from grocery shopping with the girls a couple of evenings ago. The radio was on, but I wasn't listening -- my mind was far away, already thinking of the other things I had to do once the groceries were put away and the children in bed.

Leah: Why did he use that word?

Me: (coming out of my reverie) What?

Leah: He just said a bad word on that commercial.

Me: (listening now to the tail end of a car dealership ad) Really? What did he say?

Leah: He said, "no-asshole financing."

Me: (nearly driving off the road, laughing) Oh, honey, I'm pretty sure he said "no-hassle financing."

Leah: (laughing along with me) I guess that makes more sense. Otherwise, they wouldn't give financing to people who are... you know...

It's probably a good thing that there isn't any no-asshole financing. If there were, I can think of a few people I know who wouldn't have cars.

Busted

2010-10-24T09:31:00.000-04:00

Rachel turned 8 last weekend. She planned an almost-24-hour birthday party which included a trip to the pool at the rec centre (the one with the cool waterslide), pizza, Boston Cream Cake, a movie and a sleepover. It was an unqualified success. Lots of fun was had by all the kids.

During the party, Leah and I decided that we really didn't want to watch Furry Vengeance with the 8-year-old partygoers, my tolerance for Brendan Fraser not being at an all time high. So we repaired to my bedroom, where we watched Lara Croft: Tomb Raider. I figured that it wasn't too bad for Leah to watch -- less gore than the Indiana Jones movies, and about the same kind of plot. I'd forgotten a few things about the movie in the years since I first saw it though:

1. Despite what the credits say, the two main actors in the movie are Angelina Jolie, and Angelina Jolie's breasts. They're in almost every scene. Front and centre.

2. Daniel Craig is in the movie. And I think you all know how I feel about Daniel Craig.

(I have to give him kudos for looking her in the eyes in this picture. I'm pretty sure those things would exert an actual gravitational pull.)

3. Daniel has an almost-nude scene in the movie.

Yes, he's taking a shower (!) and hears a noise. Stepping out of the shower, and not bothering to grab a towel (squee!) he picks up his gun, and posing carefully behind a view-blocking table (what's the opposite of 'squee'?) he inserts a new clip into his gun (see picture above) and then walks to the door. He throws it open to reveal a startled chambermaid, who screams and throws a towel at him, which, disappointingly, he wraps around himself while apologizing to the maid in Spanish. Still PG rated, yet the scene makes the whole silly plot, Daniel's atrocious attempt at an American accent, and the wall-to-wall presence of Angelina's boobs worth watching.

We were watching an old VHS tape of the movie ('cause I'm old school), and as soon as the scene ended, Leah left the room to get more popcorn for us. I rewound it and watched the scene again. And then I rewound it and watched the scene again. Leah walked back in during the third time Daniel inserted the clip into his gun.

Leah: Did you rewind that?

Me: What? Oh. Um. Yeah. I did.

Leah: Why?

Me: I couldn't hear what he said at the start of the scene, so I rewound it to see if I could hear it better.
(I figured it was pretty good thinking on my feet, if I do say so myself.)

Leah: Mum?

Me: Yeah?

Leah: He was in the shower. He didn't say anything.

Busted.

I'm not a cat lady, honest. I'm stopping at two.

2010-09-30T12:37:00.038-04:00

Pulling into the driveway one evening after work about two weeks ago, I saw a small furry creature streak across the lawn and into the bushes near my front door. It was small, but it didn't move like a squirrel. The girls and I went over and peeked into the bushes, and a tiny brown tabby kitten looked at us fearfully for a fraction of a second and then took off running into the neighbour's yard.

Over the next few days, I saw the little guy twice more. Once I caught him peeking at me from the hedge separating our yard from next door. And once, alerted by Max staring fixedly out the sliding glass doors, I saw him up on the barbecue, which I had forgotten to close after using it the night before, licking the grill to get at the last remnants of stuck chicken. Both times he fled when he saw me.

We live in the country, sort of, and so do coyotes:

martens:

and fishers:

Oops, sorry:

All of which (except for the guy who married Carrie ~~Underpants~~ Underwood) would look on a kitten as a tender morsel about on par with popcorn chicken. Not to mention the fact that winter is coming, and we live a block away from a very busy road full of potential kitten-smushing traffic.

I was not going to let that happen.

I started leaving a bowl of cat kibble out on the back deck near the sliding glass doors, and soon he would show up for a quick bite and then would disappear. With some help and direction from my friend Lori, I read up on feral kittens, and began to plot the kitten's capture. I started putting his food inside a cat carrier, and calling to him when I put the food out for him. Last Sunday, when he was in the carrier eating, I slowly slid the glass door open, put my hand out, and closed the cat carrier. The target was acquired.

He's been given a clean bill of health from the vet, except for worms and ear mites, which are to be expected in a feral kitty, and he's been medicated for both. He needs to stay in isolation (in my ensuite bathroom) for another week before being introduced to Max. How the Evil Ninja Assassin Cat is going to react to having a henchkitten is anyone's guess. I am sure we will hear from him in the fullness of time.

Here he is, peeking out from behind my clothes hampers:

and here he is with one of my giant shoes for scale:

When we first caught him, he was too scared for me to check whether he was a boy or a girl, so Leah and Rachel and I made a deal: if the kitten was a girl, they could name her, if it was a boy, it would be called Angus. I've wanted a cat named Angus ever since I read Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging by Louise Rennison. It turns out he's a boy.

Leah doesn't think he looks like an Angus, but I don't know, I think he kinda does:

Sick... a pictorial history of yesterday afternoon

2010-09-21T13:04:00.013-04:00

There is no one like her in the whole universe

2010-09-14T21:28:00.005-04:00

Found while initialling work in Leah's workbook, where the teacher had asked them to explain the word 'unique':

Unique means special and that there is nothing in the whole universe like it.

I am unique. There is only one of me, unless I have been secretly cloned.

Yep, she's my daughter alright.

Squirrels: cute woodland creatures or evil vermin? Discuss.

2010-09-12T21:43:00.002-04:00

I have a really nice mature oak tree in my yard. It is large, and spreading, and produces big, glossy brown acorns that look good enough to eat. So, if they look appetizing to me, you can only imagine how delicious they look to the squirrels in the area.

Lately, there have been scads of squirrels in my yard, busily burying the booty from the oak tree. 'Oh how charming,' I thought, 'you know it's fall when the industrious squirrels are out looking so cute and busy burying the acorns.'

That was a few days ago. Now I'm not quite so charmed. See, the very best acorns grow at the very ends of the branches, which are thin and springy. And the portly squirrels, seriously in need of a zumba class or two, have trouble staying on the branches to eat or collect the acorns. Their solution? Bite the ends off the branches and toss them down, then climb down the tree and stuff their fat little faces in comfort on the grass. The lawn under the tree is littered with the branch ends -- a clump of 10 or 12 leaves on a twig that's been neatly severed with a perfect 45° bite.

It can't be good for the tree, and it makes a lot of work for me and the girls picking up the now acornless branch ends off the lawn. At first, I found myself muttering, "Stupid freakin' squirrels" under my breath, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that they're pretty smart freakin' squirrels.

Smart .... and evil.

I have to wonder that since they figured that problem out, can attempted world domination be far off?

I'm going to need a pointy hat with a veil

2010-09-09T15:02:00.008-04:00

This morning did not start well. Somehow the alarm didn't go off, and I slept in an hour and a half late. So it was an insane scramble to get the kids to school on time and then get to work for an early meeting with my boss.

And of course, just as I dropped the girls off, the empty light on the gas gauge came on, which meant a detour to the gas station.

But there, at the gas station, when I went in to pay for the gas after pumping it, the day got a bit brighter. First, there was the surprisingly good coffee I bought there, as I hadn't had time to make any at home. And then there was the fact that the cashier called me "My Lady."

Yeah, "My Lady." Not "Miss" or "Ms." or the dreaded "Ma'am." But "My Lady". I felt like Guinevere.

It was very courtly and unexpected:
"Just the coffee and gas?"
"Yes, thanks, just the coffee and gas. I'd like to pay with my debit card."
"Do you have an Airmiles card, My Lady?"
"Um. Oh. Yes, here it is."
"Have a good day, My Lady."
"Thanks. [trying not to giggle] You too."

I was really tempted to add "My Lord" to the end of my last sentence. But I didn't. I did smile all the way to work though.

Conrad Black has nothing on her

2010-08-26T20:49:00.002-04:00

I think Leah might have a head for business. She decided to set up a face-painting stand at the end of the driveway to make some money to spend at the Carp Fair. She was very methodical. First she drew designs of the various face paintings on offer on pieces of paper that she inserted into plastic photo-album pages, and created a catalogue of designs. Then she bought some face paint crayons.

I heard the following when she was discussing how much she should be charging for the service with her sister:

Rae: How much are you going to charge?

Leah: I don't know. A dollar? Hey! We should go on Dragons' Den and ask for $300 in return for 40% of the business.

I figure I'll be getting a Rolls for my birthday in a couple of years.

(For my American friends, you have Dragons' Den too, only it's called Shark Tank down there.)

I'm back. Damn.

2010-08-23T14:24:00.006-04:00

This is a picture of a cat with mice crawling all over its head:

This is a fairly accurate representation of how it feels to be back at work in the office after two weeks of vacation (sleeping late, eating too much and having entirely too much fun):

Any questions?

No, we still don't like Justin Bieber around here

2010-08-13T23:52:00.007-04:00

Perhaps unaware of Leah's feelings for Justin Bieber, my mother, who's staying with us for a visit, had the following conversation with Rachel about a Justin Bieber song playing on the radio:

Mum: Do you like this singer?

Rachel: Nope, he's not my cup of tea. [Glances down at what she's holding in her hand] Well, actually, he's not my can of Grape Crush.

Wait, is this irony?

2010-08-13T23:29:00.003-04:00

So, a month or two ago, I succumbed to a slick sales pitch and moved my internet and home phone service to Rogers Cable from Bell/Sympatico. But it seems that their marketing push was far more advanced than their infrastructure. The cable bringing all this communications goodness into my home was patched into the cable box on the street behind mine and the guys who laid it put it right on the grass, through the yard and perennial garden of the house right behind mine. I'm waiting now for the company to get all the necessary permits for burying the cable..

I get along really well with my neighbours, but as you can imagine, they aren't really thrilled with a cable coming through their yard. They're retired and avid gardeners. The husband, when he noticed the cable through his yard, called Rogers to complain, and at one point, threatened to run over the cable with his lawnmower. He wasn't serious, just blowing steam. He would never have done that to me.

Three days ago, we suddenly lost the phone and internet. You guessed it. He accidentally ran over the cable with his riding lawnmower.

Irony? Maybe.

Annoying? Yeah.

What I did on the weekend -- Part 2: How do you say "Curse you, Mapquest!" in French?

2010-07-23T16:33:00.028-04:00

2008, Toronto. I plan to leave at 5 a.m., getting to TO by 9:30 or 10 a.m. I actually leave at 7:30 and then have to drive around the city of Belleville en route looking for an open pharmacy because Leah has inexplicably spiked a fever. We arrive at 11:30 a.m.

2009, Charlottesville, Virginia. I plan to leave at 5 a.m. and it's a 12 hour drive which should put us there around 5ish. I actually leave around 7 a.m. and it takes us longer than expected due to roadworks and a traffic jam due to a burning 18-wheeler, and we arrive around 8 or 9 at night.

So, you see, I don't have the most sterling reputation for punctuality. But having Josie there to wrangle the kidlets and help do the last-minute chores helped immeasurably. And we managed to get about 5 minutes away from home before Rachel realized that she'd left Daffodil, her stuffed bunny, at home. So we turned around, and retreived the bunny. Whew, still only 10 minutes behind schedule.

I had looked up a route to get us to Quebec City that bypassed Montréal and was about 5.5 hours long. And then I typed the route into Mapquest and printed out the driving directions. (Maps? We don't need no steenking maps!) We left at 9 a.m. Simple math tells us that we should arrive around 2:30 p.m. But oh how the gods laughed at us. I am fated never to be on time, at least when Jen is involved.

Most of the trip was uneventful. I did turn onto one wrong highway -- well it was the right highway, but in the wrong direction, but we needed to stop for gas and ketchup chips anyway, and use the bathroom, so it was more of a refueling stop than a mistake.

But as we neared the outskirts of Québec, the clouds gathered close and darkened. The wind sprang up, and it started to rain. Lightly at first, but with increasing intensity. Did I mention that we didn't have a map, only driving directions? Do you know how hard it is to navigate using driving directions in a strange city with lots and lots of one-way streets? And lots and lots of roadworks and traffic lights on the flash cycle? And stop signs every block along a main road that we seemed to be the only people stopping at, nearly getting rear-ended a couple of times?

The rain just got harder. And it was coming down (across?) pretty much horizontally. Thunder and lightning were crashing and flashing (respectively) and I was white-knuckled on the steering wheel while Josie was reading the directions and we were both trying to read the ridiculously small lettering on the street signs. We didn't need a map, we needed an ark.

It was only a matter of time until the inevitable happened. We missed a street sign and became lost. Using my Infallible Sense of Direction ™, I attempted to circle around and get back onto Rue St-Paul, and back onto our driving directions. Because unlike a map, which you can use to figure out where you actually are and where you need to go, driving directions just tell you where you should be, you poor stupid bastard. And circling around works much better in a place with fewer one-way streets, I'm just sayin'.

So, soon we were irretrievably lost. Well, we knew that we needed to be in the Old City, which is at the highest point in the area, and has the oldest buildings. Surely it wouldn't be too hard to drive around, heading upwards? In traffic? In a monsoon? Surely not? Um, nope, not too hard. Just slightly impossible.

Fortunately Josie is the ultimate travel companion. Nothing fazes her, and we were laughing our asses off and cracking wise about the whole situation. After my Infallible Sense of Direction ™ took us down the same dead end (sans issue) for the second time, we parked at a corner where we could see both street names and called the hotel. And were promptly put on hold for 15 minutes. Instead of muzak to listen to on hold, the hotel had promotional messages looping in French and English. And each time the French voice started up, I thought I was talking to a real person and would launch into my halting French to ask directions, only to find I was talking to a recording. Finally we got a real person on the line. I told him we were at the corner of St-Foy and Désy and that we needed to be at the hotel. Jo got on the line with him and he talked us in.

Except that Josie wrote all the directions down with him on the line, and had hung up before we actually reached the hotel, and we ended up circling a fountain in front of the Chateau Frontenac a couple of times before realizing that we were lost again. I pulled over in front of the SAQ (the Quebec version of the LCBO) and hopped out. I went in, and in my very best French, said to the man behind the counter, "Je m'excuse, Monsieur, pourriez-vous m'aider? Nous sommes perdu. Nous cherchons l'hotel Clarendon." He smiled and said, "You're almost there. You need to go one more block that way, turn left and you can't miss it." I thanked him and went out to the car.

"How did it go?" asked Josie. "We're fucked," I replied quietly, so the girls wouldn't hear, "He said we couldn't miss it, which always means I will never be able to find it in a million years." But five minutes later, we arrived, unloaded the luggage and more importantly, the cooler with the beer in it. The valet swooped down to whisk away our car, and we went in to try to sort out the rooms. Jen had been texting/emailing Jo's Blackberry for arrival updates and had found out and let us know that Josie was not booked in for that night, but for the following two.

I don't remember what time it was exactly, but it sure as hell wasn't 2:30.

Tomorrow: We have an ecstatic reunion with our friends and walk about 275 km, most of which is uphill.

What I did on the weekend -- Part 1: Ribs, beer and awesomeness at Bluesfest

2010-07-22T11:53:00.031-04:00

So, we went to Québec for the weekend with friends. And we had a great time. The end.

That would be the Coles Notes version of the weekend, or the correct answer when someone at work asks, "So, what did you do on the weekend?" just to be polite. But you know me. When have I ever answered anything in less than full essay format with pictures and footnotes? Never, that's when. But in the interests of not boring you silly all at once, and stretching this story out for a couple of posts in hopes of reversing my terribly sporadic posting history of late, here is Part 1 of the story -- Ribs, beer and awesomeness at Bluesfest.

Prologue: (see, I told you I never tell any story the short way) Back in April, when the Ottawa Bluesfest (an amazing two-week-long outdoor music festival every July that I have never attended despite living in Ottawa for 13 years) announced its lineup for this summer, Becca called me and told me it was high time that I actually attended a show with her, and she suggested the B-52s. I decided she was right. And since the show was the night before the girls and I were leaving for QC, and my friend Josie would be staying with me that night, and since Josie is also a big B-52s fan, we all decided to go together.

On Thursday, Becca and Josie came up from St. Catharines and Burlington, respectively, and we ate lots of barbecued ribs and chicken and drank beer (in stinking hot temperatures) at my house and then headed off to Bluesfest to catch some acts. The Moody Blues sounded pretty good from our vantage point by one of the beer tents (never let it be said that we don't have our priorities straight) where we caught the end of their set. Then we wandered over to another stage to check out Andrew Bird, whom Bec had seen before and wanted to see again.

While Josie and I both agreed that he is a virtuoso musician, and the many, many people watching him perform were very, very appreciative, we realized that his music was not our ~~glass of beer~~ cup of tea, and Bec soon escorted the old people (Josie's words) to the main stage and settled us safely there (with admonishments not to go anywhere else so that she could find us again), waiting for the B-52s to start. She left to catch the rest of the Andrew Bird set and Jo and I marveled at the strange assortment of humanity there, including a really large woman dressed in a pink and champagne corset and tutu outfit (complete with a tiara), and a really, really drunk guy in a battered straw fedora and a red Hawaiian shirt covered in chili peppers who looked like he'd just been paroled from a Jimmy Buffet concert.

The concert was amazing! The crowd was dancing and singing, and the band looked and sounded like it was the 80s all over again. I couldn't say it better than this review from the Bluesfest site:

Last night LeBreton Flats was transformed into a giant go-go dance party as surf-punk New Wave staples The B-52s took the stage to headline day three of the Ottawa Bluesfest.

As the city endured soaring temperatures during the hottest day of a relentless heatwave, the B-52’s rollicked through a set that never slowed down, keeping the crowd on their feet and dancing despite a humidex reading that stayed in the forties until well after the sun had gone down.

There’s a certain quirkiness inherent in the call-and-response between pre-rap quasi-singer Fred Schneider and the harmonious pair of Kate Pierson and Cindy Wilson that permeates the B-52s sound. And while the ultra-distinctive vocal stylings have always set the band apart from the rest of the New Wave scene, it was the jangly open-tuned guitars and some remarkably tight drumming that kept things moving last night on the MBNA Stage through hits like Deadbeat Club, Roam, and the ultra-lounge party smash, Love Shack.

Bec joined us again just in time to hear Funplex, which was my fave song of the night and the three of us watched the rest of the set. We danced and sang, and at one point, Becca took a picture of Josie and me with the band in the background. The pix have yet to be uploaded, as Becca forgot her USB camera cable in Ottawa when she headed home. But fear not! Through the magic of MS Paint, I am able to recreate the picture of Josie and I at the B-52s:

Don't we look happy? We were.

After playing Love Shack, the band left. But not for long, in response to the crowd's yelling and clapping, they came back for an encore and played Planet Claire (and I'm embarrassed to say that for all these years I thought it was a synthesizer on that song, and it isn't, it's Kate Pierson's voice! And she can still do it perfectly.) and finally Rock Lobster. We all knew it was coming. The crowd went nuts. (Well, as nuts as an Ottawa crowd will ever get.) And then we filed out of the Bluesfest grounds with the rest of the crowd. As we were being swept towards the exit by the crowd, someone started mooing, which cracked me up, since the scene was sort of like a herd of cattle being driven into ~~trucks setting off for the slaughterhouse~~ a barn.

We ended the evening with sangria at my place before heading to bed. It was a great kick-off for the weekend.

Tomorrow: The trip from Ottawa to Québec and why maps are a Very Good Idea.

UPDATED Why I like to spend time with my kids: they're funny

2010-07-05T20:45:00.021-04:00

On the subject of the relative cost of items one might wish to purchase:

Leah, talking about the car my mum won with a $10 raffle ticket: *I'd* like to win a car for $10. You can't even buy a hermit crab for $10.

On the subject of what one might like to eat for breakfast:

Me: What do you want for breakfast?
Rachel: I'll have some of that crispy stuff the locals call "toast".

On the subject of intellectual property law:

My conversation with Leah as she worked on a cat-themed costume for Superhero Day at school:
Me: Who are you going to be anyway? Cat Woman?
Leah: No! Cat Woman is copyrighted. I'm Kitty Girl.

On the subject of anatomy:

Rachel, swimming in next door's pool: It's way deeper than our pool, I can't even touch bottom with the palms of my feet.

On the subject of tween pop idols:

Leah and I watching a Justin Bieber music video on YTV between programs:
Me: So, do you think he's cute?
Leah: Justin Bieber? Seriously??? [rolls eyes] What am I? Six?

On the subject of the appropriateness of names in popular culture:

Rae, playing with Leah's Star Wars action figures: Why is the hairy guy partners with Han Solo?
Me: You mean Chewbacca?
Rae: Yeah, why is Chewbacca Han Solo's partner? He shouldn't have a partner.
Me: Why not?
Rae: Duh! Han *Solo*[meaningful look from under raised eyebrows].....So...Lo? [looks at me all disgusted with my obvious stupidity]

On the subject of proper evil overlord etiquette, when one has not quite heard the lingo correctly:

Rachel and Leah, in the pool during a water fight with pump squirters:
Leah: Oh no, I'm out of ammo!!
Rae: Bwhahahahaha [excellent evil laugh]. Now you will pay! Now. You. Will. Feel. My. Raft!

The more things change....

2010-06-27T23:20:00.007-04:00

Summer 2010:

>

Summer 2007:

If I'd known there was going to be an earthquake, I would have shaved my legs

2010-06-23T18:26:00.013-04:00

At 1:41 p.m. on June 23, 2010, somewhere 18 km below the surface of the earth, under the sleepy Quebec town of Val-des-Bois, a sudden pressure release occurred, probably along reactivated faults on the failed Precambrian rift stretching the length of the West Quebec Seismic Zone.

Seismic waves rushed out in all directions, through rock and sediment, rippling up to and across the earth's surface, rolling through fields and forests, villages and cities, lakes and rivers.

The magnitude 5.0 earthquake hit Ottawa fairly hard and moved outwards, rumbling through most of Ontario and Quebec and parts of New York state.

In Ottawa, frightened people ran from buildings as first the up-and-down motion of the P waves and then the side-to-side movement of the S waves shook the city. Cell phone systems were jammed. Schools and office buildings were evacuated. Thousands of people milled aimlessly around outside government buildings waiting for the all clear from the teams that had gone back inside to check for structural damage.

And one government worker tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible among the throngs of people, seeing as she had run out of the house late that morning, dressed in a short skirt to combat the forecast hot and sticky temperatures and safe in the knowledge that even though she had not had time to shave, no one would see her unshaven legs, as she would be alone in her office all day.

Crap.

Great moments in motherhood -- not so much

2010-06-08T13:55:00.003-04:00

Last night we rode our bikes to soccer practice. Which meant that I spent an hour sitting on a blanket on the sidelines instead of in my semi-comfy folding chair, which has no case with straps and therefore can't be transported by bicycle. I did this because the girls really, really wanted to ride their bikes to practice. And because I try to be a good mum.

Apparently, it worked, because as we were coming back into the house, Rae looked up at me and said, "This was the Best. Day. Ever." (Note: we have a lot of Best. Days. Ever. around our house, and Worst. Days. Ever. are not altogether uncommon either. The younger inhabitants of the Casa de los Estrógenos are pretty dramatic on a fairly regular basis.) "And you are the Best. Mother. In. The. Whole. World." she added. (and yeah, I am also the Worst. Most. Terrible. Mother. In. The. Whole. World. too sometimes. Often in the same day.)

So I asked Rae, in a joking sort of way, "Am I really the best mother in the whole world?" "Yes," she said, nodding solemnly, before pausing and adding, "except for the Christmas concert. Do you remember the Christmas concert? And the football helmet with the head in it. Oh, and the train station. Apart from that, you are the best mother in the world." Then she patted me on the arm and added, "And those really weren't all your fault. [longer pause] Well, the concert one wasn't."

So there are three reasons that Rachel will end up in therapy that are only partially my fault: the Christmas concert, the football helmet, and the train station.

The Christmas concert:

When Rachel was in junior kindergarten (4 years old), I missed her Christmas concert. The very first Christmas concert of her school career. We had flown down to Phoenix to visit my dad in early December, and so Rae was not at school on the day the memo about the time and date for the concert was sent home. Compounding the problem was the fact that a substitute teacher was on duty the day they were handed out, and thus didn't know to keep a copy for Rachel when she returned. And unlike her older sister, who gave me a daily countdown to her class Christmas concert when she was in JK, along with a set list complete with demonstrations, Rae didn't say a word. So imagine my surprise when my daycare provider phoned me one December afternoon and asked why I hadn't attended -- Rae was crying at her house because all the other kids' parents had been at the concert. Every last one. Except me.

When I rushed to pick her up at the end of the day, in tears myself, she looked at me sadly and said, "I kept waiting and waiting for you to come. And then I saw your purple jacket, and I was so happy, but it was only Grace's mother. But it's OK. After we sang, when we all got to have snacks with our parents and show them our artwork, Cameron's mum and dad let me sit with them. And they gave me a donut." Ummm, Mother fail.

The football helmet:

I have a pretty busy life. With work, the commute, the girls, the girls' activities, the house, the yard, etc., etc., and no one to backstop me, I need my little pleasures. Like ~~vast amounts of red wine~~ Thursday night TV. I'm not a big TV watcher, but I do watch C.S.I. and Grey's Anatomy on Thursday nights. And one Thursday, Rae wasn't feeling well. She wanted cuddles and reassurance, and I really, really did not want to miss C.S.I. So I decided to multitask. I put her in my bed at 7:30 with the bedroom TV on and cuddled with her. She dropped off to sleep in about 20 minutes. I extricated myself from her, and popped out to the kitchen to make a drink and a snack, and arrived back in the room to find her sitting up and watching the TV.

C.S. I. had just started, and a football helmet was bouncing down the road in slow motion to an orchestral arrangement of The Blue Danube. Just as I reached the bed and went to grab the remote to turn off the TV, the camera zoomed in to show, as you might have guessed (though Rae didn't), that the helmet contained a gory, bloody, severed head. Cue screams, tears and a nightmare. Mother fail.

The train station:

A couple of years ago, the girls and I took the train down to Windsor, where my family lives. The trip involved a rather lengthy stopover in Toronto's Union Station where we had to change trains. This was made more lengthy when the train we were transferring to was delayed coming out of Montreal. We were all on edge waiting, and I had staked out a position at the very front of the line so that the girls and I could get one of the seating areas on the train where four seats were arranged with two seats facing two seats, so that none of us would have to be in a different row from the others.

The line got longer and longer. Finally a boarding call was made, along with an announcement that we would be boarding from a gate on the opposite side of the concourse to the one we'd been waiting at. The crowd turned and headed for the new gate. I had Rae by one hand and was pulling a suitcase on wheels in the other, with duffle bags and a purse hanging from my shoulders. "Keep up with me," I yelled to Leah, and took off at a run, in order not to lose my spot at the head of the line.
"Mum!" said Leah, with some urgency.
"Not now, Leah," I snapped. "Just keep up with me."
"But Mum...."
"Leah, no talking. Running."
"But Mum, Rachel's fallen down."
I stopped and looked down. Sure enough, I'd pulled her off her feet and she was lying face down on the floor, crying. I was so concerned with getting a good seat, and was already carrying so much weight, that I didn't even notice that I was was dragging her across the wide marble floor, practically dislocating her shoulder in the process. Uh, yeah, Mother fail.

She still brings these up occasionally, when she's been bad, to try to make me feel sorry for her. It almost never works. I just remind her of the time she wandered away from me at the Carp Farmers' Market when she was three years old and scared five years off my life. I figure we're even.

Heroes Aren't Born, They're Built. (And they come with ballgowns and anthropomorphic cats.)

2010-05-16T22:18:00.006-04:00

Did you ever decide you needed a night off?

A night where you planned on indulging in a little red wine and Robert Downey Jr.?

And, by happy coincidence, did this night occur when both of your children had been invited on sleepovers?

And, did you ever settle down happily on your bed in your flannel PJs, with the pillows plumped up just right behind your head, a glass of Sangiovese in your hand, and Iron Man in the DVD player?

And just when you were sighing in relaxation and enjoyment, as the movie started and you took that first ruby sip of your wine, did you ever hear the front door opening?

And did you ever spring from the bed, wondering who was walking into your house?

And did you ever run to the front door, a heavy flashlight held in one hand and your wineglass in the other, because you didn't think to put it down?

And then, did you discover that it was your younger daughter, being returned by the sleepover mother due to a "stomach ache" (cough*homesickness*cough) and quickly hide the flashlight behind your back?

And then, instead of spending your evening watching an insanely hot arms manufacturer/superhero, did you ever spend the rest of the evening cuddling a weepy seven-year-old and watching Barbie: Princess and the Pauper?

If you're a mom, chances are that you have.

Sock mystery: solved!

2010-05-13T12:16:00.007-04:00

I bought new socks a couple of months ago, in the winter. I got rid of my old worn out socks and bought a few packages of new crew length socks (longer than ankle socks, but shorter than knee socks) in various colours. I bought black ones, charcoal grey ones, white ones, pale blue ones, mid-blue ones, and navy blue ones. About 12 pairs in all. And now, in May, all I can find are the mid-blue ones. And I seem to have more pairs of the mid-blue ones now than when I purchased them.

WTH?

How could that be? Shouldn't the dryer just be eating one sock of each colour, leaving me with one black, one grey, one white, one pale blue, etc.? But no. There are about 4 or maybe 5 pairs of mid-blue socks in the clean laundry.

I've thought long and hard, and I think I've figured out what's going on.

Seasonal colour transition.

No, really. It all makes sense now. The socks are reacting to the lengthening days, and pigments in their skin are changing to camouflage them against the more colourful summer clothing palette.

It's just nature at her most resourceful. After all, I do live in the northern hemisphere, where wildlife has evolved seasonal colour variations in order to hide themselves from predators (e.g. hares) or prey (e.g. foxes):

There's a Nobel prize for biology, right?

Moonlight sonata

2010-05-04T13:28:00.014-04:00

The spring night was magical.

Warm breezes, scented with a hint of the barely open lilac blossoms on the bush outside my open bedroom window, swayed the filmy pink curtains softly to and fro.

The just-past-full moon lit the yard and turned everything silver and black -- the lawn, the trees, and a raccoon hurrying by on some solitary errand.

Stars blazed and wheeled in the night sky, a Van Gogh canvas come to life.

Coyotes yipped and howled down along the river, the sound of their revelry carried up the ridge and through my window on the night wind.

And I was awake at 2 a.m, 3:17 a.m, and 4:03 a.m. to enjoy all this freaking nocturnal beauty because the freaking cat kept jumping up on the bed and standing up on his hind legs to look out the window, sniff the breeze, and growl at the passing fauna -- while using my head as a conveniently positioned standing platform.

And using his claws for balance, of course.

Recipe for disaster

2010-04-27T12:14:00.004-04:00

Mowing the lawn

+

Bad hay fever attack

+

Droopy, ill-fitting sweat pants with stretched-out waistband

+

Silky undies with little or no coefficient of friction

=

Unintended partial striptease in the back yard

How to tell when you need glasses

2010-04-17T22:44:00.023-04:00

The girls and I headed over to the library on Thursday evening. Rachel needed a book for a book report due next week, and Leah and I had finished reading all our library books. I was in the children's section helping Rachel pick out a French book for her report and ended up standing next to the revolving rack that holds the VHS tapes and DVDs.

I glanced over at the rack and noticed two Law and Order tapes on the rack -- with the unmistakeable picture of Jerry Orbach on both spines.

Hmmm, those seem to be shelved in the wrong place, I thought to myself. I better take them to the front desk and get them put back in the adult section. Or maybe I'lll check them out. I like the old Law and Order shows best, the ones with Jerry Orbach and Chris Noth before he became Mr. Big on Sex and the City. I picked the first one up and turned it over to see which episodes were on it. This is what I saw when I squinted at it:

I'll be making an appointment with the optometrist on Monday.

Why I don't ski

2010-04-14T11:31:00.049-04:00

This is Ashleigh McIvor. She is a skier.

This is me (on the right -- just in case you thought I was one of the hot young things). I am not a skier. See the wineglass in my hand? Drinker, not skier.

A month or so ago, Jen posted about her adventures in skiing. I laughed and laughed. And then I remembered why it is that I don't ski.

Growing up in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, I did a lot of cross-country skiing with my mum and sister:

It was fun and good exercise and almost obscenely healthy, but not really that exciting.

While in high school, in Windsor, Ontario, I went on a class ski trip to Pine Knob, Michigan. I was a total newbie on rented skis. While my expert skier friends went off to more advanced slopes, I grimly headed to the bunny hill to teach myself to ski. It didn't start off very auspiciously. I watched the skiers ahead of me effortlessly grab the tow rope that led up the beginner hill, and ride it up to the top. ' Right. I can do this', I thought. I came up to the tow rope and grabbed on tightly, like I'd been told. My ski mitts were immediately ripped from my hands and thrown 10 metres uphill, while I stood there, not moving.

After several attempts and several mitt retrievals, I managed to get to the top of the bunny hill and began a slow snowplow downwards. I didn't fall more than 5 or 6 times on the first descent. And after snowplowing down a few more times more successfully, I decided that maybe going fast would be fun. So instead of angling my skis towards each other, I stood with them parallel, then crouched slightly and pushed off. I skied speedily down the bunny hill, past the chalet, into the parking lot and into the side of a Jeep Cherokee.

FAIL.

It was a number of years before I tried skiing again. Fast forward to the early nineties. I was living in Toronto, and a group from work organized a day trip to Holiday Valley in Ellicotville, NY. Several carloads were going and meeting there. So, at O dark thirty in the morning, I crawled into a car with my co-workers Dave (old university friend), Glenn, and a gorgeous, funny Aussie girl with dual citizenship (her parents were Canadian, but she'd been in Australia all her life). I can't remember her name for sure, but I think it was Jill.

The fun started at the border crossing into Buffalo. We pulled up to the guard kiosk, our ID at the ready, and when the surly male border officer asked our citizenships, Dave, the driver, answered "All Canadian". This was apparently not good enough for Mr. Officious. We each had to say our citizenship out loud. This is what followed:

"Canadian"
"Canadian"
"Canadian"
"Ca-nye-dian"

"What?"

"Ca-nye-dian"

"Identification, please."

He really didn't like that Jill had a Canadian passport and an Australian accent, but grudgingly had to accept it -- after doing everything but X-raying it to ensure it was legitimate.

When we arrived at Holiday Valley, I skied the bunny slopes with my friend Trudy, who had come in a different car. After a while doing that, I felt brave enough to graduate to the next level of slope, which necessitated taking the ski lift halfway up the hill. I was doing pretty well, but was skiing about as conservatively as I possibly could -- wide sweeping turns that were using the entire width of the slope each time -- you know, so I could avoid going faster than a brisk walk and peeing my pants in fear:

Trudy zipped down the slope, waiting patiently a few times for me to catch up, and after ~~wasting~~ spending a couple of hours hanging out with me, she left to ski some of the more advanced runs. I kept on keepin' on. Wide, snowplow-y turns taking me from ditch to ditch, seeing if I could ski very slowly without actually stopping (and keeping an eye out for Jeeps). It was the end of the afternoon and the light was starting to fade. It had begun to snow. And then, this one time ~~(at band camp)~~, I miscalculated and didn't make the turn in time.

I skied over the edge and tumbled into the ditch. I landed on my back with my feet further up the hill than my head. My butt broke through the ice covering the stream that was flowing down the ditch, and so I was lying there on the ice with my ass in the water, unable to get up. One of my poles was just out of reach, but the other was still strapped to my wrist. I lay there for a couple of minutes, in shock, but then the cold trickle of water soaking into my nether regions convinced me that I needed to do something soon. I struggled, but couldn't get up. With my remaining ski pole I stabbed ineffectually at the release mechanism, so I could get my skis off and get to my feet. But it was hard, trying to raise my head up and look uphill at my feet. In the snow and decreasing light.

And then I heard the first shout from above. "Are you OK????" I looked up. Yes, I had fallen in the ditch that was directly under the ski lift. The situation looked something like this, only I was lying in a stream, which is too hard to draw, even for someone with my amazing Microsoft Paint skills:

And so for the next 15 minutes, it went something like this:

Alison flails about like a landed salmon trying to take off her skis.

"Are you OK?"someone calls down from the ski lift as they pass over her.

"I'm fine!", Alison yells and flails for 1.7 minutes, which is the time period between ski lift chairs passing directly overhead.

"Are you OK?" calls the next good Samaritan from the next ski lift chair.

"I'm fine!" Alison yells with forced good cheer and flails around for another 1.7 minutes.

Hysterical laughter from Dave and Kevin as they pass over on the ski lift.

Alison manages to release one ski and works on the other for 1.7 minutes.

"Are you OK?" calls the next good Samaritan from the next ski lift chair.

"I'm fine!" Alison yells and starts stabbing at the other ski boot, finally freeing herself and dragging her tired, cold (and wet) self out of the ditch to meet Dave and Kevin, who have skied down to help.

I decided that I was finished skiing for the day. Or maybe for my lifetime. I'm thinking that maybe it's better that I don't ski again. I'd hate to be responsible for some poor family having photos like this of their ski trip:

You know, when they get out of the hospital and have recovered enough to upload them.

Tim, or, A Girl and her Spider

2010-04-07T11:36:00.017-04:00

I don't think it has been a secret on this blog that I don't like spiders. I think I've made it clear once or twice before. But I'm trying really hard not to pass on my neuroses to my children. And I think it's working, because Leah adopted a spider in the basement and named him Tim.

Tim was a smallish black spider, just inside the size category that I'm OK with, who was sitting very still on a shiny white expanse of baseboard that showcased his blackness to full effect. Rae wanted to squash him, but Leah, my tender heart, rebelled. "I want him," she announced. "His name is Tim, and he's MY spider." Even Rae backed off when faced with this vehemence. Tim sat on his piece of baseboard for a while, and then wandered off to do whatever spiders do in recently renovated, hopefully bug-free basements. Leah was upset that he was gone, and responded only grudgingly to the logic that there wasn't a whole lot to do or to eat on the baseboard, and that Tim had probably gone looking for a meal.

The girls pulled out the barbies and set up a game on the basement floor. A few minutes later, I heard an excited cry of "Tim! Mummy, I found Tim!". I went downstairs to see an appreciably larger, grey spider, not at all in the size category that I'm comfortable with, on the floor. Leah was very happy. Me? Not so much. "Can I squish him?" Rachel asked hopefully. And while I secretly thought Rae's idea was aces, Leah's anguished cries quickly made me realize that I had to figure some way out of this mess that didn't involve squishing the new and improved Tim #2.

Leah had captured him with a sheet of paper and a plastic cup, but wanted to let him go to live in the basement. I had to think quickly. I pointed out that now the basement was finished and clean, there were no bugs for Tim to eat, plus, he was hard to see against the carpet and might accidentally get stepped on. If she really liked Tim, the best thing to do was to set him free outside where he could catch bugs to eat.

This did not go down well. There were tears and heartfelt declarations of affection for this new pet. Eventually, logic won out, and Tim was released into the wild out of the sliding glass doors at the back of the house, where he paused a moment and then disappeared down between the deck boards, where I hope he's living a life full of buggy deliciousness. Leah was inconsolable for 10 minutes or so, and then she and Rachel went out the front to ride their bikes on the driveway.

Leah came in all smiles a half hour later. "Guess what? I just saw Tim," she said. "He crossed the driveway while we were out there playing. Can you believe that he came all the way around the house just to see us?"

At least Tim #3 had the sense to stay outside.

That'll keep you regular

2010-03-24T06:24:00.013-04:00

For an assignment in her English class, Rachel had to design a cereal box for a new cereal, and then write a letter to a cereal company and convince them to buy and market it. The idea was to teach the students to write persuasively and to use facts or reasons to back up their statements. The letters had to have an opening statement, three reasons why the company should buy the cereal, and a closing statement.

Of course, designing the box and naming the cereal was the fun part. I present to you, Wizerd Crunch! (The 'a' in Cranch was a mistake, I'm assured by the designer.) Produced by Magic inc, it prominently features 'games on the back' of the box. Cool! (Click picture to enlarge.)

But this is what caught my eye:

Yep, 568 grams of fiber. Yipes! The super-duper bran cereal that I sometimes ~~choke down~~ eat for breakfast has 13 grams of fiber. Sorry: fibre. (Rae needs some remedial Canadian spelling work.) I can only imagine that if you ate some Wizerd Crunch for breakfast you wouldn't want to wander too far from the bathroom. Or you might need a magic wand for cleanup.

Well, I'm glad we've got that settled

2010-03-16T13:56:00.010-04:00

Overheard last night, coming from the bathroom where the girls were brushing teeth and getting ready for bed.

Leah: "No, no, no, no, no. You're weird and I'm odd."

Rachel: "Oh. Sorry. I keep getting that mixed up."

*************************

Rachel, while watching me cover the smoke alarm with plastic wrap to stop it going off after I accidentally melted some plastic on a stove element (I'd reset it, and then it would go off, over and over again, which was very annoying while I was trying to cook dinner):

"Sometimes you're a nut and sometimes you're a genius, and I don't know which one you are right now."

Lair of the evil ninja assassin cat

2010-03-12T15:35:00.011-05:00

I am ignoring you, Large One.

You have no respect for my majesty. You do not respect the killing edge of my fangs. You do not respect the razor kiss of my claws. You pick me up and toy with me as if I weren't the manifestation of bloody death. You shall pay. Oh, you shall pay.

You think I'll overlook the many wounds to my dignity simply because you bring me a terrain de jeu...a play structure...a cat tree? Surely you jest. My disdain knows no bounds and words cannot convey my sarcasm.

I will not lower myself to set paw on this.....this....abomination.

Though it is plushy and soft. And it has many enticing levels where one may keep an eye on one's prey.

And the small fur mouse is intriguing.

I will ignore it totally!

Yes. Totally!

Except it has a mousie.

And a lair! I've always wanted a lair, it befits my assassin role. No one can see me in here. I shall swoop out and inflict death from above. Fear me, mortals!

And the rope thingie. To practice my martial arts and improve my lightning reflexes.

Alright, human, I shall accept your paltry gift.

Behold! The lair of the evil ninja assassin cat!

(Thank you, Natalie, the ENAC loves his cat tree - Alison)

O Canada, our home and home-like land

2010-03-04T09:26:00.036-05:00

Among the many promises to balance the books and deal with the deficit in yesterday's throne speech by Governor General Michaelle Jean, one thing that raised eyebrows was the Conservatives' plan to ask Parliament "to examine the original gender-neutral English wording of the national anthem."

Let's see how that might be accomplished. Imagine, if you will, a grey committee room somewhere in a grey government office building where a couple of low-level functionaries are drafting a briefing note for Parliament.

"OK, let's get this done. Which line are we changing?"

"True patriot love in all thy sons command." It's sexist. No mention of women."

"Well, what are we changing it to? How about 'In all our kids command?' 'In all our people command'?"

"Apparently the original line from 1908 is 'True patriot love thou dost in us command'."

"Dost?? WTF is 'dost'?

"Ummm" [tapping furiously on laptop] "It's the archaic singular form of the present tense (indicative mood) of the the verb 'do'."

"Yeah, that's gonna fly. NOT."

[Sighs] "I know. But that's what they want. I guess we're done here."

"Heeeey, you know, if we make this change to make it more gender-neutral, you just know we're going to have to go back in later and make it more PC for other groups. Why don't we just be proactive, and..."

"I hate when you say 'proactive.' You're gonna start saying 'stakeholder' next, aren't you?"

"Shut up. Why don't we look at the rest of the lyrics and see if we can see any other trouble spots now? We can save time and put them all in this briefing note."

"Cool."

[Singing to himself] "'O Canada, our home and native land'...RED FLAG."

"Yeah, 'native'. Hmmmm. 'Our home and indigenous land'?"

"'Our home and aboriginal land'?"

"Or should we use 'First Nations'?"

"I don't think it's being used like that. I think it's 'native' like belonging to the land, you know, like native plants. People whose home Canada is."

"OK, how's this, 'O Canada, our home and home-like land'?"

"Now you're talking."

"K, next line's taken care of."

"I still think 'dost' sucks."

"Get over it. 'With glowing hearts, we see thee rise'. What do they mean by 'glowing hearts'?"

"I dunno, healthy hearts?"

"Is that going to be a problem? There are a lot of seniors with heart problems - number one killer of Canadians, etc., etc., blah, blah, blah. Do we want to alienate the seniors? They vote. A lot."

"I see your point. We don't want to give the impression that only people with good undamaged hearts are patriotic. Even someone with a myocardial infarc can be a loyal Canadian."

"Yeah, and why single out the heart? I think other organs can be patriotic. God knows we need a strong Canadian liver to deal with all the beer we drink."

"Good, good....I've got it: 'With competent organs, we see thee rise'."

"Bazinga! That's genius! They don't have to have healthy organs, just competent ones, and if the organs aren't even competent, well, they're not around to be or not to be patriotic, and ergo, can't complain about the lyrics. You're good.....Wait, something's still off. 'We see thee rise'? That totally excludes the visually impaired."

"Damn, you're right. 'With competent organs, we perceive thee rise'? That takes in all the senses, right?

"Yep. Good work. Next: 'The true north strong and free.' Not all Canada is north. Windsor, Ontario is actually south of Detroit. I'm thinking we lose the southwestern Ontario vote if we leave 'north' in. They're the geographically-challenged Canadians.

"How do we get around that one?"

"'The true north (and areas to the south of north) strong and free.'?

"It's not going to fit in with the music."

"They'll have to sing faster."

"OK. Moving on: 'From far and wide, O Canada'...is 'wide' a problem? We're not being weightist are we?"

"Nope, it's the country that's wide.'

"That's a relief."

"'We stand on guard for thee'. Can you believe it? The Paralympics are about to start, and everyone will be singing the anthem that excludes people with physical disabilities. Not everyone can stand, you know."

"I know. I can't believe that one got past people for this long."

"Let's make this positive: 'We accomplish being on guard for thee'. It side-steps the whole 'standing' issue and stresses accomplishment. "

"I like it."

"What's next?"

"'God keep our land, glorious and free.' Hello? Separation of church and state, anyone?"

"Yeah, maybe we should take 'God' outta there. But what do we put in instead?"

"'Something keep our land, glorious and free,' it's PERFECT. That way, the atheists can argue that 'Something' is ourselves and our secular moral values, while religious Canadians can see that 'Something' represents their deity of choice. It's the perfect word. It has diversity and can mean something different to each singer. We've added diversity. It's a good thing."

"OK, Martha, let's bring this baby home. We reprise with 'O Canada we accomplish being on guard for thee'."

"Love. It. So, from the top:

'O Canada, our home and home-like land,
True patriot love, thou dost in us command.
With competent organs, we perceive thee rise,
The true north (and areas to the south of north) strong and free.
From far and wide, O Canada,
We accomplish being on guard for thee.
Something keep our land, glorious and free,
O Canada, we accomplish being on guard for thee.
O Canada, we accomplish being on guard for thee.'"

"Epic!"

"What's next?"

"The Lord's Prayer"

"Damn."

(Disclaimer (because, you know, I'm Canadian [and a low-level government functionary to boot]): This is just my tongue-in-cheek way of saying, "Please don't mess with the lyrics, they are fine the way they are now. People searching for evidence to judge how women are treated in Canadian society should look at Canadian society, at the Governor General and women in every walk of life, and in every conceivable job in the workplace, and in the provincial and federal legislatures, and not at one small word, 'sons', in the national anthem. Seriously. Get a grip, people.)

So. Proud.

2010-03-01T10:27:00.017-05:00

Photos courtesy of Google. Extreme national pride courtesy of all the amazing Canadian athletes. Thank you.

I'm not sure, I think they might be cheering for Slovakia

2010-02-21T08:49:00.023-05:00

I wrote this blog last week, long before anyone knew that Canada's men's hockey team would be playing Slovakia in the semifinals. I was just looking for a country whose national colours are sort of similar to Canada's. You know, for comic effect. No one at our house is going to be cheering for Slovakia tonight. Really.

We've been watching a lot of Olympics at chez Party of 3.

It's been amazing. While we are cheering for Canada, of course, we have been blown away by the awe-inspiring performances of the Americans, the Swiss, the Germans, the Norwegians, and the Koreans, to name but a few.

It has been a dream come true to watch the best athletes from all over the world compete and win gold here in Canada.

But fair warning: when it comes to hockey, the women's and the men's, let us make one thing perfectly clear -- it's our game.

GO, CANADA, GO!!!

A moment in time

2010-02-17T12:40:00.003-05:00

The Hacienda Hotel, Old Town, San Diego. A warm November night. Two friends and colleagues, their hair still in wind-blown disarray from a shoreline geology field trip of San Diego Bay on a boat, full and happy from margaritas and a wonderful Mexican dinner, are heading to their respective rooms.

So, your talk is right after lunch tomorrow?

Yep. The start of the second technical session.

And you have a Powerpoint presentation?

Nope. Linda, I *know* this stuff. I can give this talk with just speaker's notes. I don't need a slideshow.

You need a slideshow. Come on, we can make one right now.

[sort of pouting] But I'm tired.

Come on, Alison....I'll bring the laptop out to the table in the courtyard in front of my room and we'll work on it outside. [wheedling] I have a bottle of wine....Let's see if these California reds are anything to write to you about.

'Write home about'.

Merci. 'Write home about'.

[sighing] OK.

Some night-blooming flowers are scenting the air. The fountain on the courtyard wall splashes softly in the background. A lot of laughing accompanies the work on the laptop. The wine is very, very good.

Thanks, Linda. The talk will be better with a slideshow.

No problem.

You know, I could get used to this.

Which, Alison? The working out of doors? Or the wine? [grins]

All of it. Seriously, this is the way to live. Very civilized. Could you imagine doing all our work outside, with a glass of wine? We'd either be super-productive, or very liver-damaged.

[laughing] We couldn't do this in Ottawa though. I don't know if you would get people to participate into meetings outside in November.

Probably not. Here. Fill me up. [giggles] Hey, let me take a photo of this: "Linda, working hard at her laptop."

You are too funny. Wait, let me hold the bottle up. For effect. [grins]

Linda Guay
1963-2010
Tu me manques, mon amie.

This is what 10 looks like

2010-02-15T12:30:00.024-05:00

This is what a pile of girlfriends looks like:

This is what tobogganing on a snowy afternoon looks like:

This is what a happy birthday girl looks like:

This is what excitement looks like:

This is what airborne looks like:

This is what an Olympic-inspired obstacle course looks like:

This is what damn near a whole can of aerosol whipped cream and lots of sprinkles on top of a carefully iced birthday cake looks like:

This is what blowing out the candles looks like:

This is what I love you, Leah looks like:

Happy 10th birthday, Big Girl.

Are you there chocolate? It's me, Alison.

2010-02-11T10:20:00.013-05:00

Some days just defy description. On some days, you'd be just so much better off if you barricaded yourself in your bedroom with several bars of premium dark chocolate, a bottle of Bailey's, some trashy gossip mags and season one of Torchwood on DVD.

Some days find you realizing that Calgon just isn't going to cut it, and you start thinking, "Smirnoff, take me away!"

Some days find your daughter informing you that the next day is 100th Day at school and her project is due, a project that you vaguely remember reading about in the class newsletter several weeks previously, but didn't do anything about, like write "do a 100th Day project" on the kitchen calendar, leading to you finding yourself up at 4 a.m. hot gluing 100 googly eyes to a teeshirt, and 6 or 7 to your fingers.

Some days find you blearily noticing the blinking light on the electric toothbrush recharger in the predawn hours and thinking to yourself, "I'd better check my messages."

Some days find you filling the coffee maker with water, but forgetting the "put ground coffee in the filter" part of the process, resulting in a mug of hot, slightly brown-tinted water.

Some days find you talking on the phone early in the morning to a man with a sexy voice, but he's the CAA operator who's sending someone on a service call to your house because your car won't start.

Some days find you cursing at your inability to unlock your office door and then realizing that it's because you're using your house key.

Some days find you writing "Upwords, for Nat" on your hand in a vain attempt to remember to bring in a board game for the friend at work who always brings you home-baked muffins, and then washing it off and thus forgetting the game you *promised* to bring in, and then arriving at work and finding a note on your desk that says, "I brought you some home-made soup, it's in the fridge. N."

Some days find you sitting at your desk noticing that the two black socks you put on in the darkness of your bedroom are, in reality, a plain black sock, and a navy blue sock with a noticeable texture pattern.

I really wish all those some days wouldn't be all in the same week. Give a girl a break. And some more chocolate.

I got nothing

2010-02-04T12:31:00.006-05:00

Except a new camera! (Thanks, Dad!)

I opened it up and started playing with it while I was at home and the girls were at school, so, the only family member available for portrait work was Max.

I'm working on a post about the 2010 Paralympic Canadian Men's Sledge Hockey team, who we saw play in Carp this week, and one about skiing, but they aren't done yet.

So you get cat pictures.

I'd say sorry, but he's pretty cute. Especially when he's not gnawing my leg.