And now for the mushy part

So here goes, finally a gushy post.

My sister is right now in surgery that's completely elective. She chose to have it done. She's donating her bone marrow to someone who really needs it. We of course don't know the details because they're kept strictly confidential, but she's donating her bone marrow to someone else in this world who may need it to live.

Bone marrow donations aren't exactly major surgery, but they're certainly not a cakewalk either. It will take her probably at least a week to recover, and I have no doubt it'll probably hurt. But, she's doing it because someone on the bone marrow registry was a match for her, and after a few appointments and a few vials of blood things were all scheduled for surgery. She's taking a couple of her vacation days (which are few and far between) to recover. All this so that someone might get a second shot at life.

Man am I proud of my kid sister. Love ya, even if I sometimes call you Elaine the pain the booger brain. For the record you're very thoughtful and caring and smart. I'm so glad we're sisters and friends. Will send chocolate to speed your recovery.

Happy Holidays!

We had our first of three turkey dinners today and hours later I'm still full. My mum made a full Christmas dinner for 44 people - my mum's extended family.

I haven't been feeling too much holiday spirit lately and I blame the weather. Drizzly, grey rainy days with no snow just don't make it feel like Christmas.

We're off to my parents' house early tomorrow, where we'll head to church for the service and a carol sing and then home for Christmas dinner with my family there. It'll be the first time I've ever not been home Christmas morning. We're driving to Windsor late tomorrow night then back to the 'shwa to get the house sorted out from all the painting business.

Hope you are able to have a relaxing, enjoyable holiday, surrounded by the people who love you.

Merry Christmas to you and yours from us in the 'shwa!

Scene of the Crime

On or about the 10th day of December, at the City of Oshawa, in the region of Durham the writer was investigating a mischief (well) under $5000 complaint.*

Complainant is female, and reports hearing something smash on the floor in the middle of the night last night. Upon arriving on scene, writer found no evidence of fingerprints or forced entry to the residence.

Upon entering living room writer found a Christmas tree and met with the complainant and her husband. The complainant indicated she and her husband decorated their first Christmas tree days beforehand while dancing to this song. Complainant's husband denies any dancing was involved.


The source of the breaking glass the complainant heard was easy to find - a shattered ornament landing on brick flooring. Based on earlier observation of no forced entry, writer determined this was an inside job.


Writer observed a great deal of pet hair, specifically belonging to a cat on the tree skirt and from that deduced that two suspects - cats known to reside at the complainant's residence were the likely suspects.

I first questioned Rhett, cat suspect #1 but he provided little information to aid the investigation, and was clearly more interested in food than playing games with Christmas tree bulbs. He was quickly eliminated as a suspect, but writer thinks a search warrant for catnip may be necessary given the animal's appearance (glossy eyes, disinterest in anything other than eating, sleeping and attention). Complainant apologized for obvious dust problems on lamp and cat footprints that make said dust issues evident.


When I started to examine the glass bulb on the floor a bit more closely, the prime suspect, Scarlett the cat showed a keen interest in my investigation. From this interest, it was clear to me the only remaining suspect was the culprit. My suspicions were confirmed when the complainant conceded that she had seen Scarlett bat a glass ornament around the hardwood floor with vigour the day before.


Unable to see any reason I could bring a cat before the courts, I released her with a warning. Complainant indicates she has no fears for her safety but will advise police should there be any further incidents and will move any low hanging bulbs from the reach of said cat.
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*This is not a real police report. If it was, it would be replete with (even more) spelling and grammatical errors than are currently found in the post.

Both soap box and non-soap box

Happy Birthday Sara! One of these days I'll actually make a list of all of our inside jokes. I think it's a good sign of a strong friendship when one (frequently nonsensical) phrase can cause the other person to burst out laughing and we have quite a few of them.

I found out late yesterday afternoon my dad was in a cycling accident. We're not sure how it happened (and neither is he) but after an ambulance ride we've determined he's got a concussion, broken thumb, torn calf musle, pulled hip flexor, serious road rash on hands, legs and other places he didn't know existed, and a family who is very, very, very thankful it wasn't worse.

And now for the soap-box portion of tonight's blog. If you ride a bike or rollerblade, WEAR A FREAKING HELMET. No, they're not sexy, yes, they'll flatten your hair, but that's way better than having your brains spilled on pavement. I figure with seven years of university poured into my head and its associated debts it's worth protecting. Hell, it's the only thing I've got because I'm certain I couldn't get by on looks alone (see sidebar). All it takes is one idiot driver and things are completely beyond your control.

So for the non soap-box portion of tonight's blog, I realized this morning that things were dire when I had a choice between a potato and past-their-best carrots at the bottom of the crisper for lunch options today. After having spent the weekend in Windsor for Dave's aunt's funeral we came home to a clean, but virtually grocery-free household. I managed tonight to to stock up on a few basics at the grocery store (we have fruit again! phew!) to at least tide us over to the weekend.

We spent last night planning our new kitchen at Home Depot, and think we've found a way to add more space to the kitchen which will be freaking great. Saturday before we left for the funeral the decorator who just re-did my parents' house came over to check our our digs. She's supposed to have sent us a quote but like a watched pot that never boils, my email hasn't coughed one up yet. I know having a decorator makes me sound all fancy-pants and hoity-toity. I'm self conscious about it but re had her over because some of the plaster in here needs some SERIOUS re-working and my time getting a law degree has done nothing to assist my ability to work with plaster. Also, we tend to be pretty busy of late and it's not like things are progressing here, we've totally gone stagnant and realistically I. Just. Want. It. DONE. Finally, I'm clueless as to picking a colour and figure it's better to get help with someone who can do this stuff instead of spending successive weekends pining over what colour we should use and is it the right one (and repainting when we realize that no, we definitely did not pick the right one).

We're both sick with colds (again!) and Dave was sound asleep when I got home from getting groceries at 7:15pm, so I'm thinking I'll join him very shortly with the hopes of kicking this cold once and for all.

Grandma's handiwork

We're in Windsor this weekend unexpectedly for a funeral, so here's a quick post. I'm looking forward to blogging about the meal we just had at the golden griddle. I suspect they've been doing some genetic engineering.
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I'm lucky to have had 4 grandparents and two great grandparents around for most of my life. I'm down to three grandparents now, but having known them has definitely enriched my life. My dad's mum has a number of talents that have ended up decorating our house to a degree, and I'm glad they have.

She writes in calligraphy all the time - grocery lists, cheques, notes to friends. I have a couple of poems she wrote out for me hanging in our spare room. The second one is my absolute favourite, it's a prayer by Chief Dan George from Canada Day called O great spirit (I'll post it here one day, it's a great read). I think if the house were burning down I'd grab Dave, get the animals, and grab this on my way out. It used to hang at her house, but after I admired it for so many years she gave it to me for Christmas a couple of years ago.


She also crochets (and knits! you should see the socks!), and made this blanket out of scraps of yarn to keep me warm while I was in university. It definitely did the trick.

Our wedding gift this year was this bequtiful crosstich, now hanging in our bedroom. The detail is amazing and it reminds me of the patterns of china she has and being a kid drinking tea (like a grown up) at her house.



What objects would you grab with you if your house were burning down?

Sailing with my dad

It's a warm, bright November day, and if it weren't for the lack of leaves on the trees, and the ones strewn over the lawn, you'd swear it was a warm summers' day outside judging only with your eyes.

Yesterday was my dad's birthday, and I'm fond of joking I'm the only boy in our family. As a kid I was a bit of a tomboy, and have tons of memories of dad and I going down to the lake to explore or skip rocks and explore, riding our bikes (including a few pretty good wipe-outs) and a special Saturday morning treat.

I'd go sailing with my dad.

To be clear, not the boat kind of sailing, but yard sale-ing. We weren't a yacht-owning kind of family. We weren't even a yacht-borrowing kind of family. Heck, I'm not even sure we could sail a dinghy.

We'd get ready for our sailing adventures the night before looking through the classifieds to find sales that sounded good - neighbourhood ones would be a huge volume in a small space, and usually the shorter ads would reveal better finds than big, flowery descriptive ones. Which isn't to say that the descriptive ones were skipped over - we'd check those for items we particularly needed.

Sailing was a big part of growing up in a family that was rich in other ways, but definitely not rich monetarily.

Dad and I would circle the ads we thought would be good, and set off early the next morning on our bikes with pockets laden with change to see what we could find.

Often a collectible die-cast toy would catch our eye - a friend of the family collected them and showed us what to look for when finding something valuable, other times we'd find plates that would match the so-called "unbreakable" corelle dishes to complete our set.

I mostly don't remember what we bought, but the time we spent together and the people we came across.

One lady we nicknamed a rather large and boisterous woman "BO" because of her pungent aroma. She smelled like the word "bathe" hadn't crossed her mind, and, being from a small town I think she was out pretty much every weekend and our paths crossed quite often.

It often became a social visit as well, as we'd stop by friends' houses when we were close by.

On days like today I think of the fun we had and smile. I was a lucky kid.

End of an era

It came into our lives as a four year old car. It had been owned by an elderly Welsh couple who came here after the war, had a family and built lives here and decided in their seventies to sell all their worldly possessions and move back "home" to Wales. They sold everything they had, and I think the car was one of the last things they had left to sell. Even though I met them only briefly they struck me as one of those cute old couples who seemed hopelessly bright eyed, still looking at each other like teenagers. They embarked on the adventure back home. We ended up buying their fridge, chainsaw and wheelbarrow as well.

Walter and Grace kept it spotlessly clean, stored it in their (heated, I think) garage where they kept it locked. They had records of every oil change, every time a warning light came on, and I'm sure it was cleaner than most new cars when we bought it. It had remarkably low mileage on it for its age. We even received Christmas cards from Walter and Grace from Wales for years afterward. They wrote about how much Wales had changed since they left, how they missed Canada but not our winters, and how they were enjoying their new life there.

Seven years later, the Christmas cards were still coming, but were now just from Grace - Walter had died of a stroke leaving her a widow. I remember the sadness from that card. I think we made a donation in his honour, but I'm not sure. A couple of years after that card we stopped getting Christmas cards at all from Grace, and ours were being sent back. We never knew what happened.

The car we bought from Walter and Grace was a 1988 Chev Corsica - it was a replacement car for our 1979 Datsun (If you're guessing about now that we weren't exactly wealthy you'd be right. By the time I was 6 I could remember driving two cars to the wreckers.) when it finally bit the dust. The Datsun was a putrid 1970s diarrhea brown and I'd be lying if I were to say I was sad to see it go. Even the most devil-may-care tween girl would be mortified to be seen in that car, and I was both devil-may-car and mortified to be seen in it. I think the Corsica was the newest car we'd ever owned.

Coming to our house must've been a shock for that car - Walter and Grace would never have approved of us storing it outside in the winter, exposing it to salted roads, and, in two short years, me driving it.

I mostly learned to drive in a car known as the Death Star (my parents' 1992 Grand Marquis, which is approximately the size of a planet when you're learning to parallel park), but since it was the secondary car in the family, I often got to borrow the Corsica for toodles around town. It was so much easier to manoeuvre than the Death Star, which felt like you were steering a ship, spinning the wheel to turn slightly to the right.

The Corsica was the car I excitedly drove to pick up my high school friends from the GO station when they came home from university on weekends. It was my ride to work at my crappy high school jobs. It shuddered uncontrollably if you went faster than 120 km/h. It was my first taste of freedom that went faster than my bike.

In 1998 and 1999 after my first and second year of university I had full run of the Corsica for the summer. Every day I drove 40 minutes each way up the highway for a job titled "summer project supervisor" that paid $8 an hour. For two summers I drove it 80 minutes a day, five days a week. It was my first grown-up-like job, and the Corsica was my ticket to freedom that summer. I got to know exactly when I should pull out or wait for traffic to go by, and exactly what it could do that summer.

It had its quirks, and one was particularly dangerous. If you had a quarter tank of gas or less and you were turning left, there was a very good chance the engine would stall on you completely mid-turn. This included several times turning onto a highway from a dead stop, with oncoming traffic barreling toward me at highway speeds, and yelling "SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT" as I slapped the gear shift into neutral, turned the key, and slapped it into drive as fast as I could. I would have thought I'd earned a few grey hairs from those experiences alone but since I make Dave check daily he assures me that, as yet, there are none.

One time on the way home from work the battery light came on, and I knew instinctively it was the alternator. Being at least 20 minutes away, I called my parents, and our mechanic who told me to keep driving, and that I should even have enough time to stop, deposit my paycheque at the bank, and drive over to Steve's shop so long as I didn't turn off the car. He was right, and I was right to guess the alternator. I guess that's one thing I've been good at is car diagnosis, since every car we've owned has required some major parts overhaul or another. My sister and I even pushed it home a block once.

A few years later my parents decided it was destined to be an "in town only" car, staying off the major highways, but it continued to sputter along largely without incident. It started getting age spots of rust that Walter and Grace would never approve of, and the bottom of the wheel wells started rusting away. I think it was one of the few Corsicas that didn't end up with a disastrous paint job, clear coat flaking off and bubbling. Its steel grey colour hid the fact that it was dirty most of the time.

It survived a neighbour's kid backing into the door causing $600 damage. The neighbours never owned up to it even after we pointed out it had to have been someone backing out of THEIR driveway and it was exactly the right height for their bumper. It survived a low speed slide into the curb in on black ice, and came through alright.

It had a simple speedometer and gas guage were the only thing on the instrument panel. I could spin the radio dial to hit all my favourite stations without even looking and spin back to the song I liked. The wipers were a dial on the dash, the high beams were a click forward, the lights an on-off button on the dash. It was great in the snow in winter, gripped well with its front wheel drive, and any spin-outs I had never ended in disaster. There were times I wished the windows were automatic, but it was so good on gas I couldn't complain.

We've been going to the same mechanic as far back as I can remember. If I came home from university and called Steve, he'd recognize my voice and tell me what was wrong with the cars or how long they'd take to be done without me introducing myself.

I drove it a few weeks ago when Dave and I went to visit, and still love driving it. Sure it's got lots more road noise, and felt so different from my car but I still had a good deal of affection for it.

Last week my parents called Steve to ask if it was worth having the Corsica emissions tested, and whether it was worth it to buy a sticker to put it on the road for another year. The news this time was grim. While the engine was still in good shape, evidently that was about the only thing that was; the rest of the body and parts wouldn't last a year.

My parents took the plates off it today, and took the "Corsica" decal off the side of it. The decal now sits with the decals from other cars we've driven into the ground - a Cordoba (pronounced Coooooorrrrrr-doe-baaaaa! with your 'r's rolled in our house), a nissan one from the yellow rusted out station wagon, a buick sticker from my mum's car when I was little, and the datsun as well. They're the cars from my childhood, but this was the car of my independence. My brain turns to anthropomorphizing, wondering if the Corsica is sitting at the side of the road, feeling naked without license plates and wondering why it wasn't worth fixing anymore.

I'm sad to see it go, but after 18 years and 14 with us, it owed us nothing.

Remembrance Day

I've gone ever year to remembrance day services as far back as I remember, but it's become more important to me to go since losing my grandfather. Grandpa enlisted as a Rocky Mountain Ranger in his home town of Medicine Hat, Alberta shortly after WWII started in 1939, and spent the early part of the war on Alaska's Aleutian Islands to ward off the threat of a Japanese attack. I used to love looking at the few photos he had of that time in his life and his stories during the war. I hate that there are gaps in what I know of the story. He spent time there before being shipped overseas, where he ended up meeting my grandmother. My great grandfather was gassed with mustard gas during the first world war, and while I never met him it was always a connection to my history and a time to reflect on the impact of war.

I went this year with Dave, who was dressed like a relish tree* to the remembrance day services he was participating in.

Dave met up with his battalion, and I went with a friend of his' wife and their two incredible little girls to watch the service. I held their six year old through most of the service while the ten month old cooed and entertained herself with crackers in the stroller for most of the service.

I have to tell you how adorable these kids are. The six year old is a smart, talkative, insightful and considerate kid thoughtful and loved the attention from someone other than mum (who is such a cool parent herself). I had a blast talking to her, about school (we sang some of O Canada in French), about the service and pointing out Daddy in the parade of green, and Dave marching past. She helped hold the umbrella and played with her sister to make her laugh. I can't say enough good things about their kids and loved every second of it. My ovaries were aching when I strapped her in the car. Odd how I'm finding that if we got pregnant now I wouldn't be that worried. I mean financially we have a long way to go, but man do I love kids. I hope they let us babysit.

I'll leave you with this - the video Dave made for the school assembly which he's graciously let me upload to YouTube. See if you can pick the photo of my grandfather out from it. There are also shots of Sarajevo, where Dave did a tour with the UN Peacekeeping forces. I think he did a fantastic job of it.



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*Canadian military uniforms have pixelated camouflage patterns, which look somewhat like relish, hence me referring to him in uniform as a relish tree. He'll even hold his arms up in the air to look more tree-like to amuse me. The more recent pictures show the uniform in its pixelated state.

Fam-Damily

With the American thanksgiving just weeks around the corner, and Christmas short on its heels I've been reading blog posts that talk about how much people dread big family dinners.

It seems to be a universal situation, varying only in degrees. Some family events end in fisticuffs, others hurt feelings, others great stories about how wacky things are.

There's aways the debate of whether you stay in touch with family who are rude, mean, crazy, dramatic, or whatever the case may be. Blood is thicker than water, but sanity is often priceless. The lovely Leslie, maintains that everyone has an Aunt C - yoU Next Tuesday. (I can't actually say the c-word - not even in court when I'm disputing allegations - so I'll rename my version of Aunt C). I tend to agree.

My Aunt C is more like an Aunt Crass (or Clueless, or an aunt Classless) but it's becoming less of an angry story and more of a fun story to tell.. She has companionship in the form of Uncle Knuckle-Scraper, who is an equally charming person. There have been a number of incidents over the years with them, and this wasn't the breaking one, but its one of the more memorable ones and is more fun than the he-said-she-said stories.

We aren't in contact with Aunt Crass or Uncle Knuckle-Scraper any longer. They weren't invited to our wedding and aren't part of our lives.

My dad's older sister, my Aunt Crass married her high school sweetheart Uncle Knuckle-Scraper, and in hickdom they reign, watching nothing but the FOX "news" network and American weather stations "because they're better." Never mind the forecast is for NOWHERE RELEVANT to where they live - evidently it's a better forecast so they watch it.

They are as warm and inviting as the Arctic Ocean in gale force winds, and I never really felt any connection to them, even as a kid. I can't recall them calling on a birthday or ever receiving gifts at Christmas save one year when my sister and I were given ear muffs and icy squares which I quickly discovered were an inedible form of chocolate (who knew such a thing existed?). I don't remember them asking how we were doing, or having them call in times of crisis. My Aunt Crass had always been my grandfather's favourite, but she never found the success I think he expected of her.

One year when I was about 16 or 17 my parents were hosting Christmas dinner for Dad's family, which meant having about 13 people over for dinner, including Aunt Crass and Uncle Knuckle-Scraper.

I've mentioned before my mum is a fabulous cook, but it's worth mentioning again. My mum, sister, dad and I spent a couple of days making the food for the big occasion. The house was whirring with activity to make a lovely meal. My mum can't just make yams, she has to make maple nutmeg spiced yams, usually without any kind of recipe. I have no idea how it always turns out wonderfully, but it does.

My sister and I were still setting the table as people arrived for dinner, we took coats, and offered beers (we even bought canned varieties to make them feel like home, though can crushing on the forehead was strictly discouraged) and served hors d'oeuveres, Uncle Knuckle-Scraper double dipping everything he ate.

Uncle Knuckle-Scraper launched into the inevitable discussion about his hemorrhoids, and making the various bodily sounds that tend to come with such a condition.

It never occurred to Aunt Crass to say a nice thing about anyone, and making sniping comments has always been her forte. She attacked teaching (my dad's profession) and the bodily noises from Uncle Knuckle-Scraper continued to flow.

As dinner neared being ready, my sister and I started bringing out a couple of dishes to the table - salads, veggie dishes, the ham another aunt brought. My dad was cutting the turkey in the kitchen while I made gravy. My sister was getting drinks for everyone.

Smelling food, Aunt Crass and Uncle crass, and their son decided it was time to eat and sat down at the dinner table and dished out their own plates. I don't think even all the silverware was on the table. It wasn't even five o'clock, and no one had invited them to sit down, they just dug in even though dinner wasn't ready and. They were on their second plates before dinner was ready and anyone else sat down. They ploughed through when my sister said grace and were on their third helpings as we were dishing out the firsts. I'm confident Aunt and Uncle Knuckle-Scraper could have a career winning eating contests.

Anytime we dined at my Aunt Crass's house for Christmas dinner she made coleslaw. Her version, though, could be slurped through a straw and eaten without teeth. It was paper thin slivers of cabbage and carrot that were then re-diced until it was just mounds of pale green and flecks of orange in the bowl.

A few seconds later it would become clear to us as to why Aunt Crass prepared food that way.

Our end of the dinner table was discussing how lovely the food was, how grandma and grandpa were doing, the weather, how things were going at work and school, when all of a sudden Uncle Knuckle-Scraper got up and went to the washroom. Coughing followed, but we didn't think much of it.

A few minutes passed and the coughing got higher pitched, the spitting into the toilet stopped and he turned silent. When he hadn't returned a few seconds later my dad got up from the table to investigate what was wrong.

The next thing I heard was my dad's urgent voice yelling "holy shit he's choking," and being the swimming lessons and first aid kid of the family, I knew I was the only one who knew heimlich manoevre so I ran to help. Aunt Crass waited outside the doorway, seemingly unconcerned.

My parents' first floor bathroom is really just a powder room, and it isn't very big. Uncle Knuckle-Scraper on the other hand is close to six feet tall and looks as though he swallowed a beach ball. Not a tiny one. Big choking man, small bathroom. My dad is already in there and tries to expel the food from Uncle Knuckle-Scraper, to no avail. He's silent, his airway is completely blocked. No air is getting to his lungs.

I try to do it, to show dad where his hands should be. Aside from being not strong enough to do it, I quickly realize my arms don't actually reach around Uncle Knuckle-Scraper. My dad tries again on my instructions. By this point my sister was in the doorway, having dialed 9, 1, and has her finger on the other 1. It was getting serious. His airway had already been blocked for quite a while now, and he could pass out at any minute. I have no idea where 260+ lbs would have fallen, but I don't imagine it would have gone well.

Dad gives Uncle Knuckle-Scraper another forceful heave to the gut from behind and he's sick all over the bathroom, looks puzzled, wipes his face with a towel, coughs and then his shirt, and walks past us all stunned. Aunt Crass mumbles that he "done chewed too fast again." (apparently this wasn't the first time) They head back to the dining room, laughing about it. He tells everyone on the way back to the table that the cabbage salad was to blame. Evidently serving non-pureed cabbage salad means that we were why he choked. His use of a fork as a shovel and failing to chew food before swallowing had nothing to do with his choking.

My dad and I stumbled over to the couch in the living room, horrified. If it'd been only a few seconds longer he likely would have passed out (in a room that had no room for passing out), and could very well have died. Heaven knows the one functioning synapse in his brain couldn't withstand much more damage than a few more seconds of oxygen deprivation. We had adrenaline pumping having just straddled someone across the belly and made them sick all over the bathroom in an effort to literally save Uncle Knuckle-Scraper's life. I remember both dad and I were shaking, and stunned at the experience. We'd barely eaten a couple of bites of dinner and weren't ready to go back to the table just yet.

Uncle Knuckle-Scraper wasn't phased by the situation in the least. He went from spewing the contents of his windpipe all over the bathroom, to a short walk down the hallway to the dining room and back to his dinner plate for another round while my mum cleaned the spatter off the bathroom walls, toilet, sink and floor and checked on dad and I.

Dad and I eventually returned to the table, figuring that if it wasn't traumatic for him, then we shouldn't be phased by it. Again we heard how the salad was to blame.

We spent most of the rest of the night in stunned silence, and the rest of Boxing Day bleaching down the bathroom.


Who are your Aunt Crass and Uncle Knuckle-Scraper? Anyone else performed first aid on a relative and wondered later whether it was the right thing to do?

Who knew?

Such a tiny little virus could make me feel so miserable!

I feel like someone's put that spray foam you use to insulate your house in my ear canals.

My throat feels like I've dined on prickly thorns for a week.

My tonsils feel like the big heavy bags at the gym, repeatedly punched into submission.

My nose like a snot delivery chute. You see my head is so full of it, the nose has merely become dispensing system, throwing out its contents at the most inopportune times.

My sinuses feel like a safe full of treasures as the mounting pressure dents its sides after being plunged into the briny deep. (yar!)

For a short while yesterday I think Dave was concerned he had married a man - the cold is effecting my voice which is annoyingly high pitched and fast paced on most days but now low, lethargic and raspy.

Despite my newfound manliness, Dave has been the consummate cold-feeder. He bought me ice cream and ginger beer last night when my throat was screamingly sore, and I'm enjoying the pudding he purchased as well, along with the throat drops and off-brand neo citran for which he was the midnight run driver earlier this week. He even went to bed with me at 8:00pm last night, a bedtime I haven't seen since I was eight.

If those things don't make me well, I don't know what will.

Happy Thanksgiving!

If you were to design perfect thanksgiving weekend weather, I'd say it's safe to say we have it right now. It's 20 degrees outside, the sun is strong and bright, there are no clouds in the sky, just a light breeze, and the air is crisp.

That meant perfect weather for the wedding we went to on Saturday, which included a fantastic Chinese buffet dinner. We were seated at what we ended up calling the "white kids table" but a couple of the groomsmen snuck us the real Chinese foodand it was SO good. My chopstick skills were embarassingly and uncharacteristically bad, but the food was incredible and everyone had a blast. I think I'll institute a week-long "no forks or knives" moratorium for myself soon just to brush up on my skills.

We went to church this morning with my parents, and enjoyed a fantastic turkey lunch at their house. When we got back I ran to costco to get some pictures ordered (we now have wedding pictures! in frames!) and and pick up some new plug-in toothbrushes.

I freaking love electric toothbrushes. The problem is we only had the battery powered ones which means we're constantly charging batteries and it's annoying when they don't work. So, I bought plug in ones, despite the fact our bathroom doesn't actually have a plug. (We tried to put one in but our electrician wasn't all that smart and that means we now have a big hole in the wall where a plug COULD be, but he wasn't able to fish the wire down). Ah the joys of owning an older house. I'm sure we'll figure something out.

The toothbrushes came in a BIG! ENORMOUS! box. It's one of the worst instances of overpackaging I've seen in yers. Behold the box.


Then look inside to see how much room two electric toothbrushes actually take up in the box!


I was never good at math, as my alcoholic grade 12 math teacher would slur his words to tell you (yeah, drinking peppermint schnapps in class doesn't really convince us it's just scope), but I'd say that package is 2/3 empty. Possibly 3/5. Pathetic! I get that they don't want people walking out with them up their shirts and whatnot, but this is completely wasteful and unnecessary.

While waiting for some wedding photos to get developed I found this beautiful rug. Wish I could find its twin in a bigger size. Love it, and, apparently, so did Scarlett.


We were unable to contain ourselves any longer and decided we HAD to get out and enjoy the weather, so we unleashed Hairy (our roomba) to clean the floors (I love a man who cleans) and went to the dog park. I remembered my camera this time.

Can't... keep.... secrets!

I know I really shouldn't say anything too soon.

But I've always been a wee bit impulsive, and that's overridden any superstitions I may have.

And Dave? He barely had my birthday present in the house 10 minutes last week before he was dying for me to open it. (are you gonna open it? c'mon, open it! who cares if your birthday isn't until tomorrow! open it! it's so cool! I can't wait! you gotta open it!)

The bottom line is I'm really just not good at keeping secrets. I'm an open book kinda person - there really are few things that I just won't come out and say.

So, I'll come out in say it. Kinda. Perhaps a bit of back story is helpful.

In an impulsive moment I think it's fair to say we've managed to completely change our lives. I've read about it, and am pretty sure you'd have to be nuts not to think it'll change your life.

This will be both a shock to those who know me, and to those who don't.

The funny part is that while I suck at keeping secrets, I'm a planner. I have a grocery list (usually) and keep notes of things I need to get done. I don't do things on impulse (normally).

We already have a pretty full house. I don't think it's be unreasonable to say that we also have pretty full lives.

We hadn't planned on adding to our full household until we bought a bigger house and had a bit more room. It wasn't part of the plan just yet. We're happy with life as it is - the two of us, two big dogs, and two attention-demanding cats, our jobs, and friends.

Actually, I kinda glossed over that part a bit. Our dogs are huge. Freaking huge. While they weigh just under 100 lbs, that little fact betrays them. Some labs weigh 100 lbs, but they really aren't that big. Our guys though? They're tall and lanky (an irony not lost on their short and stubby owners). That means when they lie down on their sides they can take up to 16 square feet (I've measured! Take that, impulsive side!). Not to mention the shedding of long white hairs EVERYWHERE.

On top of that, we have the two cats. Scarlett is a princess and is pretty much the boss of the house. While I should give her credit for adapting to life with giant dogs and another cat, she isn't the queen of "I love change." Rhett loves everyone and everything, such that he bites things like plants and toothpaste tubes just to get closer to them. Both think the cosiest place to sleep is not their cat beds, but on top of their owners. Have I mentioned Rhett weighs 15 lbs? (despite being restricted to a diet of vet-approved diet cat food for nearly a year)

All of this in a house that's under 1000 square feet. Probably closer to 900. Most city apartments are around this size. But, life is good, and, somehow, it's all worked out just fine. (serendipity, baby)

How would they react to a new addition to our household? How would we manage? We've been barely married a month, and right away have decided to disrupt the peace by adding to our family. It's obviously not a decision I want to take back, but it's a bit of a leap of faith.

And no, I'm not taking about renovations (though I have to admit I'm still dying to re-do our kitchen and blow out a window to make a back patio).

I can't keep it a secret anymore.



Meet the newest member of our household.







We've (I've) named him Hairy McWigglebutt. He's a Roomba - a robotic vacuum. Hairy because of the trail of hair that gets stuck in his wheels, and McWigglebutt because his rear end tends to wiggle when he's going along a straight surface.

It was starting to get to be a short trip to the looneybin when I'd sweep the floors thoroughly and methodically, top floor to bottom, only to find that 30 seconds later I'd see dust bunnies of hair come hopping through, and the next day anyone coming to visit could be forgiven for thinking that the thought of owning a broom and using it had never crossed our tiny brains.

So, when we didn't get one for the wedding, I decided to hit ebay and bought one on impulse. After much delay at customs, he arrived on Thursday night, spent a day charging, and unleashed him Saturday morning.

We hadn't swept in more than a week at that point (no judging required, thanks) and just let him rip. We sat while Hairy vacuumed our house. What a glorious concept.

This past weekend he went upstairs and down, and we were thoroughly impressed with the results. If there existed a true, gritty test for a robotic vacuum, our house is it. I think the dogs lose a pound of hair alone every week, not to mention the dirt tracked in from the park.

Hairy's presence has been met with both indifference and annoyance from the four-legged part of our house. The cats mostly stayed away, unsure what to do with this dinner plate sized noisy (but not too noisy) monstrosity bonking off various surfaces.

The dogs were innately curious about and afraid of Hairy at the same time. A few times it would bonk into their legs haphazardly and they'd jump - not in pain but in total surprise. Each time it was more hilarious, until the dogs couldn't be bothered to be either curious or upset about it, and just lay there until it got too close for comfort and they got up and moved to another location.



The floors here no longer feel like they're made of hair and sand. It's freaking awesome, and as high as my expectations were they've totally been met.

I, on the other hand, am completely in love. I can't wait to get the one that actually washes the floors, the Scooba. Our plan is to name her Sally.

Serendipity, baby

I still have some afterglow after last night's date.

Up until the very end Dave wouldn't tell me were we were going, just that I should dress up.

When we got on the highway I had narrowed it down to two places.

I had first thought we might be going to the little Italian restaurant on Danforth where he had planned to propose. As it turned out that night we were given a table in the corner, and there wasn't enough space for him to propose there. (I wondered why he was so upset about where we were sitting that night.)

My second guess, though, was right.

We paid the requisite arm and leg fee for parking, and walked toward the CN Tower.

The top floor accessible to the public is the renowned restaurant 360. For those who don't know, it's the restaurant atop the CN tower, which revolves slowly so you see the view from every angle while you enjoy the kitchen's award winning cuisine. We walked past the various cues of people and took the elevator to the top, ears popping every few seconds. We were seated at a table right next to the glass.

The noise of the other parties quickly faded behind us. We spent most of the dinner quietly gazing in each others' eyes. We didn't talk about much, both of us just seemed so relaxed and into the moment that conversation wasn't necessary. Much that was said was unspoken.

As we were seated and browsed the menu, we passed the spot where we got engaged, along the lakefront beside the Westin Harbour Castle that cold February night. We instantly recalled the view from our hotel room that weekend overlooking the sugar refinery and the lake. We pointed out other landmarks we knew, and occasionally talked about the days and years to come. We watched the ferry crossing over to the Islands and the Island airport, still, below us. We watched what looked like tiny origami boats racing across the waters.

In our relationship I'm definitely the worrier. I wonder, sometimes aloud, how is it that two people who are so different can work so well together? Dave is a captain in the military and I have a minor in peace studies. When we moved in together he had 2 giant dogs, and I had two cats who had never been around dogs. We are yin and yang. When I question how it is that we work so well together he always tells me "serendipity, baby." And, he's right. It's not the only thing that keeps us going, and it's not something we rely on, but we seem to have an inordinate amount of it around us. He landed a job in the 'shwa which was halfway between where he was living in Windsor, and where I was living in Ottawa, and I landed one a couple of weeks later. When the first house we bought didn't work out, we found one we liked better a block away. Things have aways seemed to have fallen into place and worked out for us, and I can't explain how.

As the restaurant slowly turned toward the west we had another dose of serendipity. As though it hadn't been perfect to start dinner overlooking the spot where we got engaged on a cold February night, as it turned west we were timed perfectly to watch the sun set among the clouds. The sky was painted in ribbons of pinks, reds, purples yellows and oranges with the blue clouds providing the perfect contrast at every moment. In seconds the sun sank like a rock below the horizon.

The meal itself was enjoyed slowly (though Dave still eats as though someone will eat it for him if he doesn't eat it quickly enough). The appetizer course was a tomato arugula salad with lots of peccorino cheese, and some of the best olive oil I've ever tasted. I savoured every bite.

My main course was a risotto with chanterelle mushrooms and an aged goat cheese. The risotto was good but really wasn't anything to write home about. It didn't seem to matter, though, because food really didn't feel like the focus of the night, even though we were out for dinner.

As we ate, we quietly talked of the days ahead, but not the stresses that will come with them, or the work that is to be done; only of our commitment to each other and him telling me how beautiful he knows I'll look as I walk down the aisle, or how beautiful I was that night.

We looked at land marks north of the tower, saw planes just as they descended toward the airport, or just as they were rising in the sky. We talked about our excitement that soon we'll be taking off on our first real vacation alone together.

As desert (which for me was a tower of chocolate with fruit coulis and fresh fruit) was served the restaurant had turned back to the spot where we got engaged. We held hands and sipped tea, and looked below us at the baseball game. It looked as though it was a tiny mosaic with the blue seats and the crowd watching were tiny tiles.

We sipped tea again facing the water, and strolled down to the observation deck where we could hear the game, and to the glass floor. I strolled across, heels and all, while Dave watched from the solid floor, unable to overcome years of evolution which screamed "you've got to be kidding!" at him. We lingered a while holding hands, stopping to kiss in complete ignorance of people around us. He lent me his jacket when I got cold.

I had really hoped to find a comfy leather couch and bottle of wine on the observation deck where we could just curl up together and enjoy the night, but neither were available. We took the elevator back down, I joked with the operator, and we strolled back to the car, still enjoying every moment and looking at each other starry-eyed.

I still feel starry-eyed this morning. Dave's just changed my flat tire for me so I'm off to pick up my wedding dress from its final alterations, with garbage bags in tow so he doesn't see it until I'm wearing it at the top of an asile, only three days from now.



(but I have to say the feminist and jokester in me is still screaming "who knew dinner at the top of a giant phallus could be so romantic?!")

Three rants and a laugh

Ah weddings. The happiest day of your life. What people fail to tell you is you'll be pulled a million different directions, and learn more about family politics than you ever wanted. And? People will do things to hurt your feelings! And be irrational! And need some rum punchey punchey!

So, you're guessing there's a story there? Funny enough you'd be right. Actually there are so many stories I don't know where to begin.

RANT ONE
We sent the invites out about two months ago. Aren't they pretty? No one was excluded, and before every invite was dropped in the mailbox we checked that it had postage, a return address, and checked people off on our list so no one would get accidentally forgotten in the process of addressing 155 invites. Anal, but purposeful..

We started getting response cards back right away, and were excited when people were coming.

I started to notice, though, that one side of my family we hadn't got replies from almost anyone. We did some digging around to find out why.

It turns out that one of my cousins and her husband didn't receive the invite, despite our careful checking. I know we sent it but somehow it got lost in the mail or something and hadn't arrived.

As soon as I heard my cousin (we'll call her Sue-Bob cause I like that name) didn't get one I called and left a message for her saying "I hear you didn't get an invite by mail, of course you're invited, as you know it's August 26th and we hope you can make it. If you don't get the invite in a couple days, call me at (gave number twice) and I'll send you another one. Hope to hear from you soon."

Sue-Bob never called back. I actually left 3 messages and called 5 times over the course of 2 weeks. They have call display so she knows how many times I actually tried to get in touch with her and never got a response.

Apparently what happened is that she assumed when she didn't receive an invite in the mail (despite knowing about the wedding months beforehand and actually helping to host a shower for me and me saying I was looking forward to seeing her at the wedding in my thank you card) that she didn't get invited.

Instead of saying "hmm this is odd" or "maybe I should call" she assumed she wasn't invited.

Honestly what kind of jerk do people think I am? That I'd intentionally exclude them from my wedding and invite their siblings and cousins but not them? Even after I called to clear things up a few times this was still the assumption.

Finally, my parents actually drove there and hand delivered an invite to her (a 40 minute drive away) to make sure she knew she was invited. They also drove over to smooth things over with her parents after learning they too assumed she wasn't invited (of course without asking my parents what was going on). Apparently she got the invite I initially sent in the mail the next day.

Problem solved, right? She got 2 invites and all would be well.

Apparently not. I still hadn't received a reply card so yesterday I called and left her a message asking her to call me back (again), saying I heard she got the invite finally and we hoped she and her husband could make it and were looking forward to seeing them.

She finally called me back last night to say she had already taken vacation time from work and couldn't get anyone to cover her shift so they wouldn't be coming.

After all that.

Aren't you glad I made the effort? That my parents hand delivered an invite? That I called all those times and got no response only to hear "I'm working." The funny thing it's probably still my fault in most peoples' eyes.

Why on God's Green Earth didn't we elope?

RANT TWO
When people spend money to invite you to their wedding and include a reply card with an envelope with postage on it, it's not a fridge magnet or secret decoder, it's a REPLY card. You use it to reply to the invitation! All you have to do is mark on it your name and whether you're coming (in handy little boxes no less) and then you drop it in a mailbox. Easy! No sweat! I can handle it when they're late but not having the courtesy to mail it back? Not cool. In fact? Really rude. So glad we spent the time to invite you, asshats.

RANT THREE
If you're not coming to your nephew's wedding because of a pigeon race don't have your daughter send a note saying you're too ill to come (she can't come because her mom usually dog sits and can't because her father is too ill). In my view "well enough to go to a pigeon race" to me would be "well enough to go to your nephew's wedding." I'd frankly prefer a nice dinner to being covered in bird feces, but hey! To each their own! In the end just give us the real reason you're not coming. It may make us laugh more when you get bird flu.

LAUGH:
The story is here, but I thought the picture was worth more than any story it told. Apparently this chickie decided to have a John Deere themed wedding. Nope, totally not kidding.



All I can say is Oh Deere! What was that girl thinking? She's ploughing ahead with a wedding and bridesmaids in rubber boots. I'm not sure the gears are working too well in her head. (note I never said the jokes wouldn't be horribly corny, you'll have to plough through them). Ok I'm tire-d. I'll stop now.

The next bridesmaid who says they hate the dress the bride picked out? I'd make her wear the rubber boots and Deere dress.

Hearing things

Last night Dave and I were lying in bed (don't worry, I'm not going there, you can stop recoiling in fear) last night, and I heard a noise outside.

It was faint but repetitive, and we had the window open to get fresh air now that it's warm enough outside. It's nice to have a breeze and a whiff of fragrance from the blossoms on the crabapple tree in the back yard wafting into our bedroom.

I thought the noise we'd heard was a cat fight, and that thought was based on a good deal of experience.

When I was a kid we had this completely lovable lump of a cat named Shadow. He was our first family pet.*

My sister and I were really excited to be getting a cat. There were two all black kittens left from the litter, a boy and a girl. For some reason we wanted a male cat, though the reason why escapes me now.

We asked the usual questions of the farmer about whether they had been vaccinated (they hadn't) and what their personalities were like. My sister and I were just so excited we were going home with a cat we didn't care which one we left with so long as we left with one. My grandmother had lent us an old picnic basket for the trip home.

He was really tiny so my dad asked how old he was. The farmer thought a moment and replied the kitten was "four weeks and, let me see, I guess nine days old"** to which I quizzically piped up "Dad! Dad!! DAD! Doesn't he mean FIVE weeks and TWO days old?" I was promptly told to "keep quiet."

On the way home in our 1979 diarrhea brown Datsun (not the pretty blue one here, but like it only diarrhea brown with two doors) my sister and I argued over who would hold him in the back seat most of the ride home. The kitten mewed what was quite possibly the cutest meow I've ever heard at the top of this hill on a gravel road. We stopped at the co-op on the way home to get him some food. He was so tiny he fell asleep in my ten year old hands with room to spare.

Neither my sister nor I would go into Zellers with my dad to get a litter box or scoop for him, fearing that the kitten would end up loving the other more in the impressionable first hours he was ours. We were too excited to leave the kitten in the car anyway.

The debate about what to name him raged on the whole ride home, and that night. Someone suggested we name him "Chip" because the colour of his black fur looked like the colour of a chocolate chip when he was sitting in the sun.

I, however, was none too impressed with this name. In fact I was so distraught with the idea of naming him Chip that I lay awake in bed all night and ran into my parents' room early in the morning when I thought I had a better name for him. Lucky for all involved his name became Shadow and I was celebrated for what was such a creative name for the cat.***

Shadow was allowed outside but he rarely strayed from our yard. When he did, it often ended in him being beat up by other neighbourhood cats. Shadow was the kind of cat the squirrels approached without fear, and who would come in the house after being outside with sunflower shells all over his head. He seemed to like the company of the birds, and it never occurred to him he should have some interest in attacking and eating them. Shadow was lover and not a fighter his whole life and loved nothing more than basking on the patio slabs in the sun and getting belly rubs.

The sound I heard lying in bed last night sounded like the noise that sent everyone running outside to rescue Shadow from being beat up when I was a kid. It sounded like cats off in the distance were fighting but it was faint. Our guys are indoor cats so I wasn't worried about them. I listened and tried to pinpoint where the noise was coming from.

Dave thought I was nuts though, and didn't hear the noise at first. Later he thought it wasn't cats, it was a table saw and the high pitched noise it makes when the blade spins through wood. He was convinced it was "mechanical in nature" (even though it was near midnight).

And thus, we had a stalemate.

We continued to listen, when finally, it occurred to me.

We were both wrong.

The sound we heard was a baby in a neighbour's house crying.

I don't know anyone who has an infant that young around here, but that's definitely what it was. The poor thing was testing out its lungs until the wee hours of the morning, probably leaving pacing and frustrated parents wondering how to soothe it.

And with that, I realized that if we can't tell the difference between a cat fight, a power tool, and a baby crying, we probably aren't ready for kids yet.

_________________________________________________________________

*Actually, a goldfish I had (and whose name I've since forgotten but it was probably something really cool like "goldie") when I was five was our first family pet. Sadly, it met an untimely demise when my dad was changing the water in its bowl, and filled the bowl with water from the hot tap with the fish still in the bowl. I can still remember him trying to explain why the fish was floating on its belly. I bring it up when I'm in need of political capital, "remember the time you killed my poor, helpless goldfish dad?" I even do a good impression of the goldfish in its last few moments. "Ooh good, clean water! Wait, what's this? OW! OW! It's burning my skin! Oooohhh nooOOO!" It's really quite funny, I promise. Reading it now though, I think you had to be there.

**We now realize the cat was WAY too young to leave its mother's side. The other kittens in the litter had already been adopted out so we thought it was okay and kinda figured the farmer knew what he was doing. Incidentally the girl kitten was named Cricket and we always regretted not bringing her home too. She stayed on the farm. I'm totally going to name a pet Cricket. The funny thing was that our cat Shadow LOVED eating crickets (real ones, not his sister) and ate everything but the legs. We used to find them strewn all over the garage floor.

***At least so we thought. Unfortunately this wasn't true because I think every time we took him to the vet's office in his 13 year life, there was always another animal named Shadow waiting to see the vet. So much for creativity.

I've always considered myself to be a pretty independent person. I moved out of my parents' house when I was 18 to go to university two hours away and haven't been back (save the occasional summer) since. My self-congratulations on being independent is laughable in comparison to my grandmother's life. Compared to her I look like a pathetic, coddled kid.

She grew up in the tenements in Glasgow, Scotland. The only time she spent outside the city was during the war when she was moved out to the country and worked on a farm with her siblings. Officially the cities in Britain were evacuated due to the threat of German bombers, but my grandmother has always maintained, that the city folk were essentially slave labour on farms in the countryside to keep the pots on the homefires full of food so the war effort could continue.

While most of her time during the war was spent in the countryside as free labour, she also spent some time volunteering at a canteen for foreign soldiers in Glasgow. Like many of her peers, young eligible women from the city, she met and fell in love with a Canadian soldier.

My grandfather grew up in Alberta and came to Glasgow on a break from the war in Europe. He was a twenty eight year old private in the Rocky Mountain Rangers, and his path crossed with my Grandmother's at the canteen in Glasgow where they fell in love. In August of 1945, they were married on Victory in Japan Day, just days after war had ended in Europe. She was nineteen years old the day they were married.

From what I know of it, the wedding itself wasn't fancy. My grandmother borrowed a dress to wear from a neighbour. Another friend who worked in a florist shop managed to nick some flowers for her to wear. My grandmother relishes telling me that because the war had just ended and troops were coming home, there was a run on flowers to welcome them home and not many to be had. A few roses and ferns in a corsage were all she could get, which was more than most other war brides got. She wore her mother's pearls. There was only one photo of their wedding.

Shortly after their wedding, my grandfather returned home to meet up with his brother and start a farm so they would have a place to stay.

Once he had arranged everything, my nineteen year old grandmother came across the Atlantic alone on the Queen Mary. She was six months pregnant, and was headed onto a boat that would carry her miles away from the only life she had ever known. She was leaving behind her parents, her siblings, and friends to a place she had only ever been told about. She left city life for life in rural Ontario.

I wonder how she felt getting on the boat. Was it excitement? Worry? Fear? If I'm anything like her, a small part of her was wondering what in God's name she was doing. I'm sure she had a healthy level of excitement about the life she was about to start, but I can't help but think there would be some fear in her mind about what she would find on the other side of the Atlantic. When would she see her family again? Would there be mines in the North Atlantic? Would she get sick along the way? Would she have problems finding her way to my Grandfather once she got here? Where would she be living?

I can only imagine how scary it had to have been for her.

The farm they settled on was first started by my great uncle. It was in Central Ontario, smack dab in the beginnings of the Canadian Shield. I won't presume you know Canadian Geography, but will presume that when I explain the Canadian Shield to be a ribbon of thick granite that runs just inches below the soil you too will scratch your head at the thought of starting a farm there. I'm at a loss to explain why my great uncle thought it would be a good place to farm. On top of the granite was a thin layer of acidic sand which cemented the location as one of the least hospitable areas to start a farm. Unlike the life she had known in Glasgow, there was no running water, no indoor plumbing, and they were miles away from any other people. I don't think they even had a car to get to town, several miles away. Life in Canada compared to life in Glasgow would be as different as night and day.

I'm often amazed at the changes the world has seen in the years since my gran was born. Worldwide communication is instantaneous now. Travel now is nothing like it was then. Food is plentiful, refrigerated, laid out before you in big sprawling grocery stores, and not rationed.

I think the experience of coming to Canada as a war bride shaped her life tremendously. When my grandfather used to tell me over and over again to be careful when I was leaving their house my grandmother would often scoff at him, saying in her thick, still-on-the-boat Scottish accent "ooch I was younger than she is when I got on a boat and traveled half-way around the world to be with you, I think Heather can endure the half hour drive home." He always looked sheepish after that admonition and it usually kept him from telling me to "be careful" again within earshot of her.

My gran has lived what I'd consider to be a pretty remarkable life. It's one I am only beginning to appreciate and understand more fully. Before my grandfather died a few years ago we used to talk about how they met and their early years together often. We haven't much lately, I think because it brings back memories for her that are bittersweet now that he's gone.

As I wrote this it occurred to me that I need to take every opportunity I have to get to know her better. Today was her 82nd birthday.

And the big news is....

My little sister got engaged last night! I'm looking forward to passing her my collection of my bridal porn (you know, the giant stack of wedding magazines you end up buying when you're planning a wedding).

The lucky boy's name is John, he got her a diamond and green tourmaline ring, and I think I'll be opening a bottle of wine to celebrate tonight!

I'm looking forward to being the maid of honour and putting her in meranguey and cuttlefish dresses when we go dress shopping!

Easter Weekend Part I: wherein Dave's brother should get a medal

After an exhausting day at work Thursday, we went for a walk with my parents and the dogs, and left with with cats for the weekend (that's right, pickup service from FREE cat-sitters!?), and we frantically packed our things and headed for Windsor for the weekend to see friends and family.

I'd tell you about the four hour drive down but I slept through about 75% of it. As soon as we were through Toronto I was out like a light until we dogs,r un, stopped in Woodstock, where I was awake long enough to run bleary eyed into the service centre, use the facilities, wash my hands (unlike some people who made ungodly noises and smells in the stall beside me and left WITHOUT WASHING! Aaaahhhh!), ate a Boston creme from Timmie's (mmm dinner) and was asleep again almost before we merged onto the highway.

When we arrived in Windsor, we made up the pull-out couch, let the dogs out, and promptly slept like the dead.

The next morning I went for a run (8k is easier sans dog), and we headed out to the P-A-R-K (because that word can't be said out loud without frenzied jumping of two 100lb dogs) where the dogs found (read "scare the living bejeebus out of") a tiny stray cat. Anyone who knows me knows what happened next.
Once the little kitten was happily situated in Dave's mom's bathroom with food and water we asked around to see if she belonged to anyone. No one we talked to knew anything of a missing cat. There was no lost report with the humane society, or the local no-kill shelter either. She had a weird collar, but no tag, and, after a car ride she didn't exactly love, we found out she had no microchip.

She wolfed down food like she hadn't eaten in weeks and it quickly became evident she was a really sweet-natured cat. She was around 8-10 months old, and completely adorable.

I knew we couldn't take her home, no matter how much I wanted to. We already have two HUGE dogs and two cats in our tiny house. But knowing that and actually not bringing her home was tough. I polled everyone I knew and, despite their best efforts, no one could find a home for her. I should admit that all weekend I kept telling Dave that I loved her and wanted to bring her home and name her George but he played the tough guy and saved me from the certain insanity that bringing another animal into our house would lead to.

Thanks to Dave's brother, this story has a happy ending. I think we've weaseled him into keeping her. He has almost as big a soft spot for animals as I do and I think she wormed her way into his heart. It's great to know she'll be cared for and loved. I'll help with vet bills to get her spayed. What an awesome guy to take her in!

Dave wasn't fond of George as a name for her and suggested we call her Gobi. She has a grey and sandy tone to her coat so I figured it was perfect. Gobi quickly learned to follow whatever human was in the bathroom and jumped in the shower with both Dave and I. She loves running water and ignored the bowl of water we gave her in exchange for a great romp in the sink whenever the tap was turned on. She drank from the tap at a fevered pace.
This is a video of her, narrated by an especially dorky me. Don't say you weren't warned about just how dorky I am.

We also took the dogs for a walk along the Detroit River. I'm completely amazed at the difference traveling a few hundred kilometers south makes in not only the weather but how far along spring is there. The grass is much greener, the tulips and daffodils are in bloom (or about to burst), the magnolia trees are flowering and it feels like summer. I'd guess they are easily 2-3 weeks ahead of things here. Friday definitely felt like an early summer day and we were really wishing we'd packed shorts and t-shirts instead of jeans and long sleeves (and coats!).

We enjoyed lunch at my favourite Thai restaurant (and I got my Thai iced coffee!) with Dave's brother and his girlfriend. Being a former regular it was nice that the owners recognized me and came over to say hello. We even managed to hit an Asian market and find tamarind candies (they're SO good). If you ever see any of these pick up a package, you won't regret it.

We're off to see my grandfather in hospital now; he was seriously hurt on the farm a couple of days ago and I've been wishing we were closer so I could visit all weekend. I come by my love of animals honestly, and it's mostly from him. I'm not ready to blog about it until I know things are going better. I'll finish blogging about the weekend later.

Evocative

My dad, a teacher by trade, has always tried to foster an appreciation for poetry in me, and I have to say I think he was successful. Both parents always wanted me to appreciate music as well, and I spent years learning to play piano and flute. I think it's because of their insistence that I have pretty whacky taste in music of almost every variety.

Where my dad and I disagree is that he thinks the perfet love child (my words, not his) of poetry and music is Leonard Cohen. I have to respectfully disagree.

To be fair, he is unquestionably an amazing poet. I have no objection to him writing songs as well. Where we disagree is in his performing ability. I'm of the too-blunt opinion that he has none. His voice, ravaged by years of smoking rarely changes tone. If he were billing himself as a spoken word artist, then maybe, but he's apparently a singer. And has many successful albums that will clearly show my dad is part of a loyal fan base.

That being said, there are others who sing his poetry who are incredibly evocative. k.d. lang is one of them. She sings "Hallelujah" (this one is live at NPR I gather) and "Bird on a Wire" on her "Hymns of the 49th parallel" album (written by Canadians, sung by a Canadan) and, in my estimation, it's really music you have lie down to in a dark room, exhausted after a long day to appreciate. You can listen to snips of the songs on the album (and there really isn't one I don't like) here. What I'd to to have her voice.

(And yeah, this post is pretty geeky. Whatever.)

Happy Birthday Mum!

Wow was I a lucky kid! I had a strong, thoughtful mum who was always there to help me and encourage me. I see kids everyday at work (I'm a criminal law duty counsel) who never had that, which I think is often the reason why they turned out the way they did (to say nothing of their fathers' responsibilities as well).

So to my petite, sweet natured, giving to a fault, incredible negotiator, won't take crap from anyone, unparalelled cook, and all around phenomenal person and mum - thanks and HAPPY BIRTHDAY!