There's an argument going on in the New York Times at the moment about this subject. They are using the Boxall list, which is divided thematically.
Queenie is not going to reprint 1001 book titles as that would ruin her front page, but here for the delectation of readers is the list of sixty nine books on the list that were published in the 2000s.
Queenie has read twenty eight of them, approximately 40 per cent.
How many have you read?
Never Let Me Go – Kazuo Ishiguro Q
Saturday – Ian McEwan Q
On Beauty – Zadie Smith Q
Slow Man – J.M. Coetzee Q
Adjunct: An Undigest – Peter Manson
The Sea – John Banville Q
The Red Queen – Margaret Drabble
The Plot Against America – Philip Roth
The Master – Colm Tóibín Q - not quite finished
Vanishing Point – David Markson
The Lambs of London – Peter Ackroyd
Dining on Stones – Iain Sinclair
Cloud Atlas – David Mitchell Q
Drop City – T. Coraghessan Boyle
The Colour – Rose Tremain
Thursbitch – Alan Garner
The Light of Day – Graham Swift
What I Loved – Siri Hustvedt
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time – Mark Haddon Q
Islands – Dan Sleigh
Elizabeth Costello – J.M. Coetzee
London Orbital – Iain Sinclair
Family Matters – Rohinton Mistry Q
Fingersmith – Sarah Waters Q
The Double – José Saramago Q
Everything is Illuminated – Jonathan Safran Foer Q
Unless – Carol Shields Q
Kafka on the Shore – Haruki Murakami Q
The Story of Lucy Gault – William Trevor Q
That They May Face the Rising Sun – John McGahern Q
In the Forest – Edna O’Brien
Shroud – John Banville
Middlesex – Jeffrey Eugenides Q
Youth – J.M. Coetzee Q
Dead Air – Iain Banks
Nowhere Man – Aleksandar Hemon
The Book of Illusions – Paul Auster
Gabriel’s Gift – Hanif Kureishi
Austerlitz – W.G. Sebald Q
Platform – Michael Houellebecq
Schooling – Heather McGowan
Atonement – Ian McEwan Q
The Corrections – Jonathan Franzen Q
Don’t Move – Margaret Mazzantini
The Body Artist – Don DeLillo Q
Fury – Salman Rushdie
At Swim, Two Boys – Jamie O’Neill Q
Choke – Chuck Palahniuk
Life of Pi – Yann Martel Q
The Feast of the Goat – Mario Vargos Llosa
An Obedient Father – Akhil Sharma
The Devil and Miss Prym – Paulo Coelho
Spring Flowers, Spring Frost – Ismail Kadare
White Teeth – Zadie Smith Q
The Heart of Redness – Zakes Mda
Under the Skin – Michel Faber
Ignorance – Milan Kundera
Nineteen Seventy Seven – David Peace
Celestial Harmonies – Péter Esterházy
City of God – E.L. Doctorow
How the Dead Live – Will Self
The Human Stain – Philip Roth Q
The Blind Assassin – Margaret Atwood Q
After the Quake – Haruki Murakami
Small Remedies – Shashi Deshpande
Super-Cannes – J.G. Ballard
House of Leaves – Mark Z. Danielewski
Blonde – Joyce Carol Oates Q
Pastoralia – George Saunders
Friday, May 23, 2008
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Galway Bay rocks Russia
"How a Champions League final commentary has turned into extended musings upon Peig Sayers' life is a mystery to me," writes Rob Cotter. "Never mind Man Utd or Chelsea, nostalgic Toasted Heretic fans are the real winners here tonight."
'Xactly.
Thanks Baz. You write good commentary.
Your sister, Queenie.
And thanks Queen Mum for clearing up the strawberry flower pinching issue.
Families and technology.
They're the greatest.
'Xactly.
Thanks Baz. You write good commentary.
Your sister, Queenie.
And thanks Queen Mum for clearing up the strawberry flower pinching issue.
Families and technology.
They're the greatest.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Fruity goings on today
So Himself always has a project or twenty on the go.
Which I like in a man with whom I am sharing a life.
Himself also has the attention span of a Jack Russell with a big territory to mind.
Which has its benefits. But also its downsides.
By that I mean that he's very organised of course.
I just asked Himself if he minded if I described him as a Jack Russell with a big territory to mind and he said okay, eventually.
Kitty wanted to know whether it was a rabbit.
Kitty is on a canihavearabbitificleanthekitchen kick at the moment.
No.
You cannot have a rabbit, nor a Jack Russell, which is not a rabbit.
Jack Russells don't get the attention they deserve over here. Pity.
Anyways, the sun has come out, which means we have moved into the yard on a semi-permanent basis.
The first project was the canoe.
We bought the canoe and built a platform for it.
And Himself bought the necessary tools to grind the fibreglass off the canoe and redo it.
And the sun shone really brightly one weekend and we had a lovely weekend with Himself grinding the canoe (which was a bit loud) and Queenie starting to clear the vegetable patch.
Then Himself decided that the grinding tool (a palm sander) wasn't up to the job.
So he had to get A REAL GRINDER.
Which we have now.
But then he needed to get the right sandpaper.
And then it rained.
So I have a half-ground canoe and no canoeing done yet this year.
Meanwhile, Queenie read her gardening book and bought seeds and started talking about compost etc. Because Queenie has just the one project in the summer, which is the garden.
This year I am planting elephant garlic, onions, carrots, beets, potatoes, tomatoes, spinach, chives, lettuce, and herbs - rosemary, sage, basil, parsley, dill and thyme.
Things I like to eat.
No radishes this year.
I bought corn, but I don't have enough room to grow it I think.
I am also planting pole runner beans, which have red flowers that attract hummingbirds apparently, and some other grass type thingy which has big yellow flowers that attract butterflies.
This year I am not planting the dill next to the carrots.
This year I swear I am going to find marigolds. Shelley downstairs, who is a horticulturist, says it is really hard to get them. I'm sure they have seeds in Ireland.
HINT HINT.
Shelley is going to grow zucchini and squash.
And flowers.
So last weekend we went to the garden centre to get mega earth and compost and lime (having figured out that the garden is acidic).
If your radishes are rockin' and everything else is crap, your soil is acidic.
The Northern Gardener, by Jennifer Bennett (1982), page 121. Yard sale, Halifax, last summer. The best thing I have ever bought at a yard sale.
Ever.
Thank you Jennifer Bennett, whoever you are. You have saved my garden.
Anyways, we were at the garden centre, and Queenie looked at the flowers for a long time, but the world needs food, and she has totally bought into the whole 'grow things to eat not to look at' thing since she was about five, so she compromised and bought herself a fern.
A nice fiddlerhead for the dark corner by the path to the lake.
You can eat them in the spring. Very tasty they are too. They only appear in the supermarket for one week and won't it be cool to have our own.
That's all it took.
Five seconds of Queenie wondering aloud about a companion plant for the fiddlerhead.
I turned round and he had a raspberry cane. And a rhubarb plant.
Fair enough.
I like raspberries.
And I love rhubarb.
But now it's Himself's gardening project of course.
And it's all about fruit.
Last year it was all about tomatoes. Which nearly didn't happen, except for the Queen Mum flew over from Ireland to pinch the flowers off, Queenie and Himself having forgotten about that crucial part of the cycle.
Upon which we had about three hundred tomatoes in the same week.
That was Saturday.
Sunday it rained, so I brought Kitty and her friend to the shopping mall to buy sweatshirts.
When I came back, Himself had been BACK to the garden centre.
Now we had megatonnes of mega earth.
And two blueberry bushes.
And some strawberry plants.
The sun came out on Monday afternoon and because it was Himself's project we dug out the garden PROPERLY and removed an entire rockery of rocks and some bricks (so we were right about the acid) and tore into the poor garden and murdered the poor parsnips that had made it through the winter.
And last night it was still nice out, so Himself dug two big holes in the lawn and planted the blueberry bushes, beside each other so they can pollinate.
Plants having sex in the garden. How nice.
And this evening, we planted the fern and the rhubarb in the corner, and made a little box garden for the raspberry cane, and moved an old tree trunk over to that corner to add some fungal touches.
And we planted the strawberries along the wall of the house.
Himself was wondering whether the Queen Mum would know whether you have to pinch strawberry flowers or not. The people in The Northern Gardener are from the Paddy Egan school of gardening - lots of cabbage and other green stuff - so they don't talk about strawberries at all. So a text on that subject would be most welcome.
And we've turned the soil and put the earth and compost in, and limed the bad part, and put the grass barrier in, and turned it again, and again, and put the sod down on the rock wall, and built a rockery, and cut back the elephant ears, and we're ready to plant.
We ripped up the crappy pallets at the back of the house and Shelley is making a flower bed there.
Everyone in the house chipped in and bought six new garden chairs and Kitty painted the table and the dog house so they look useable again, and all the kindling for the bonfire is in the dog house staying dry and all the wood is stacked neatly against the back fence ready for an excuse to have a bonfire.
Roll on Friday though.
On Friday, Queenie has the day off work and Kitty and Himself don't.
On Friday it will be MY GARDEN again.
Saturday, we'll be back at the canoe if it's not raining.
Of course, the solar lighting project is proving extremely interesting right now.
Where will we place them for maximum nuance.
And the new design for the hammock holder is interesting.
Which needs to be built.
With two by fours.
And the bird house needs to be put up.
And the squirrel feeder.
And we need to find a spot for the wind chimes.
Like I said.
A Jack Russell with a big territory has a lot on the go.
But he gets it all done eventually.
Thankfully it's only May and it's not even warm yet.
We gotta get all this done before the washer toss season starts.
We're having a pig roast on Canada Day by the way.
If you're not doing anything.
Which I like in a man with whom I am sharing a life.
Himself also has the attention span of a Jack Russell with a big territory to mind.
Which has its benefits. But also its downsides.
By that I mean that he's very organised of course.
I just asked Himself if he minded if I described him as a Jack Russell with a big territory to mind and he said okay, eventually.
Kitty wanted to know whether it was a rabbit.
Kitty is on a canihavearabbitificleanthekitchen kick at the moment.
No.
You cannot have a rabbit, nor a Jack Russell, which is not a rabbit.
Jack Russells don't get the attention they deserve over here. Pity.
Anyways, the sun has come out, which means we have moved into the yard on a semi-permanent basis.
The first project was the canoe.
We bought the canoe and built a platform for it.
And Himself bought the necessary tools to grind the fibreglass off the canoe and redo it.
And the sun shone really brightly one weekend and we had a lovely weekend with Himself grinding the canoe (which was a bit loud) and Queenie starting to clear the vegetable patch.
Then Himself decided that the grinding tool (a palm sander) wasn't up to the job.
So he had to get A REAL GRINDER.
Which we have now.
But then he needed to get the right sandpaper.
And then it rained.
So I have a half-ground canoe and no canoeing done yet this year.
Meanwhile, Queenie read her gardening book and bought seeds and started talking about compost etc. Because Queenie has just the one project in the summer, which is the garden.
This year I am planting elephant garlic, onions, carrots, beets, potatoes, tomatoes, spinach, chives, lettuce, and herbs - rosemary, sage, basil, parsley, dill and thyme.
Things I like to eat.
No radishes this year.
I bought corn, but I don't have enough room to grow it I think.
I am also planting pole runner beans, which have red flowers that attract hummingbirds apparently, and some other grass type thingy which has big yellow flowers that attract butterflies.
This year I am not planting the dill next to the carrots.
This year I swear I am going to find marigolds. Shelley downstairs, who is a horticulturist, says it is really hard to get them. I'm sure they have seeds in Ireland.
HINT HINT.
Shelley is going to grow zucchini and squash.
And flowers.
So last weekend we went to the garden centre to get mega earth and compost and lime (having figured out that the garden is acidic).
If your radishes are rockin' and everything else is crap, your soil is acidic.
The Northern Gardener, by Jennifer Bennett (1982), page 121. Yard sale, Halifax, last summer. The best thing I have ever bought at a yard sale.
Ever.
Thank you Jennifer Bennett, whoever you are. You have saved my garden.
Anyways, we were at the garden centre, and Queenie looked at the flowers for a long time, but the world needs food, and she has totally bought into the whole 'grow things to eat not to look at' thing since she was about five, so she compromised and bought herself a fern.
A nice fiddlerhead for the dark corner by the path to the lake.
You can eat them in the spring. Very tasty they are too. They only appear in the supermarket for one week and won't it be cool to have our own.
That's all it took.
Five seconds of Queenie wondering aloud about a companion plant for the fiddlerhead.
I turned round and he had a raspberry cane. And a rhubarb plant.
Fair enough.
I like raspberries.
And I love rhubarb.
But now it's Himself's gardening project of course.
And it's all about fruit.
Last year it was all about tomatoes. Which nearly didn't happen, except for the Queen Mum flew over from Ireland to pinch the flowers off, Queenie and Himself having forgotten about that crucial part of the cycle.
Upon which we had about three hundred tomatoes in the same week.
That was Saturday.
Sunday it rained, so I brought Kitty and her friend to the shopping mall to buy sweatshirts.
When I came back, Himself had been BACK to the garden centre.
Now we had megatonnes of mega earth.
And two blueberry bushes.
And some strawberry plants.
The sun came out on Monday afternoon and because it was Himself's project we dug out the garden PROPERLY and removed an entire rockery of rocks and some bricks (so we were right about the acid) and tore into the poor garden and murdered the poor parsnips that had made it through the winter.
And last night it was still nice out, so Himself dug two big holes in the lawn and planted the blueberry bushes, beside each other so they can pollinate.
Plants having sex in the garden. How nice.
And this evening, we planted the fern and the rhubarb in the corner, and made a little box garden for the raspberry cane, and moved an old tree trunk over to that corner to add some fungal touches.
And we planted the strawberries along the wall of the house.
Himself was wondering whether the Queen Mum would know whether you have to pinch strawberry flowers or not. The people in The Northern Gardener are from the Paddy Egan school of gardening - lots of cabbage and other green stuff - so they don't talk about strawberries at all. So a text on that subject would be most welcome.
And we've turned the soil and put the earth and compost in, and limed the bad part, and put the grass barrier in, and turned it again, and again, and put the sod down on the rock wall, and built a rockery, and cut back the elephant ears, and we're ready to plant.
We ripped up the crappy pallets at the back of the house and Shelley is making a flower bed there.
Everyone in the house chipped in and bought six new garden chairs and Kitty painted the table and the dog house so they look useable again, and all the kindling for the bonfire is in the dog house staying dry and all the wood is stacked neatly against the back fence ready for an excuse to have a bonfire.
Roll on Friday though.
On Friday, Queenie has the day off work and Kitty and Himself don't.
On Friday it will be MY GARDEN again.
Saturday, we'll be back at the canoe if it's not raining.
Of course, the solar lighting project is proving extremely interesting right now.
Where will we place them for maximum nuance.
And the new design for the hammock holder is interesting.
Which needs to be built.
With two by fours.
And the bird house needs to be put up.
And the squirrel feeder.
And we need to find a spot for the wind chimes.
Like I said.
A Jack Russell with a big territory has a lot on the go.
But he gets it all done eventually.
Thankfully it's only May and it's not even warm yet.
We gotta get all this done before the washer toss season starts.
We're having a pig roast on Canada Day by the way.
If you're not doing anything.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Reading is a young person's game
I worked it out recently, if I live to be 75, and I read one book a week until then, then I only have about 1,900 books left (John, if you still read this blog, you might want to check my math on this again!! :)).
So I am trying to up it to three books a fortnight at the moment.
Life just keeps getting in the way.
I used to read on the bus.
Now I have Kitty for company on the bus in the morning, as she is back in the city and going to Citadel High now. Although we are both usually so groggy we don't talk much, just listen to the conversations on the bus and roll our eyes at each other.
Mostly we listen to the teenagers talk about music.
What happens is, two teenagers get on the bus, share an iPod, crank it right up so everyone on the bus can hear it and then discuss the music loudly over the music.
It drives all the oldarses on the bus CRAAAAAZZZZZYYYY.
So in true Nova Scotia fashion, they all just sit there and glare at them.
The other day a particularly bad couple were discussing how they'd replicate the sound, which sounded a bit like Sleator-Kinney but I can't be sure.
The woman sitting in front of me nearly broke her neck swivelling to GLARE.
But of course it wasn't having any effect, as teenagers don't actually register any humans over the age of twenty five.
So, trying to be helpful, I turned round and mouthed 'can you turn the music down' at the guy.
He poked the girl with the iPod.
"WHAT?"
"I JUST GOT YELLED AT FOR HAVING THE MUSIC TOO LOUD"
"I did not yell at you", I said, "I asked you nicely!"
So they turned it up of course.
And everyone on the bus spent the rest of the journey GLARING at me.
Sigh.
Anyways, back to reading..
I just finished Ismail Kadare's The Successor. Kadare is a Man Booker International winner and Albania's greatest living author, apparently.
It was a grim book. A carefully worded atmospheric tale of the death of Prime Minister Mehmet Shehu, who was Hoxha's successor, and who 'killed himself' in mysterious circumstances in the later years of Hoxha's reign. I couldn't put it down, it was so circular and layered that at the end you are completely confused about what was going on, in a way that was redolent of living during those times I imagine.
I am definitely going to read more of Kadare.
Before that I read Arturo Perez Reverte's second novel in the Captain Alatriste series, Purity of Blood. Also good in terms of its description of the dying days of the Spanish Empire, but a bit stilted and not Reverte's usual high standard.
I have started going to Chapters because I realised that they have a great sale bin. It's chock full of European and Asian literary fiction, discounted down to as low as $1 a book, because nobody knows who the writers are.
I have quite the collection now, although I have taken to selling my books on these days.
I have enough stuff.
And this way, I can justify three books a fortnight to myself.
The guy in the United Bookstore, to whom I sell my books, enjoys it when I come in I hope. I know I enjoy my trips in. I review each book for him, and we have a right old natter about all things literary - plus he knows some people in the CanLit industry so he always has a little snippet of gossip for me.
It's gratifying to buy a top class European novel for $1, read it, scrape the discount sticker off it, and sell it to him for one third the cover price. Then wait to see how long it is before someone else buys it.
Currently, I'm finally reading The Master. I tend to avoid Colm Toibin until he turns up in the bargain bin: I don't know why, because I always enjoy his books. But I got a hardback 1st American edition for six bucks that I shall probably keep - I am trying to hold onto some of the good ones for the summer visitors to browse.
I am a big Henry James fan, and always wondered how he got his prose so narrow yet evocative, so it is very interesting to read Toibin's theories in this fictionalised biography. Plus it's a ripping good yarn, albeit in a very Jamesian style.
It is interesting that Toibin has set himself up as the Irish James by writing about James. No doubt he was helped by David Lodge trying to do the same thing and failing (according to accepted wisdom, I haven't read his). Lodge is a wonderful writer, but he's more Trollope than James. So that makes Toibin's proposition more biddable.
I have just finished a Colin Thubron I didn't even know existed (oh, the excitement, I was all a-tremble in Schooner Books when I found it). Mirror to Damascus is a history of the city, a homage to its place in history, and a travelogue of the year Thubron spent there researching the book.
It is early Thubron, so it has some of the enthusiasm for place that he has lost a little as he ages. Also, the research he did then must have sent him east across the Silk Road, as I came across a lot of the stuff on little known muslim sects and warrior tribes that come up in his later books. In this book he is just learning about them. In later books, such as Shadow of the Silk Road, he visits their homelands. In Damascus, he visits their imprint on the city.
I have to stop typing now and go pick up kitty's friends so they can hang out in our house this evening....
Life gets in the way...
Hopefully, the presence of friends will mean uninterrupted blogging time, so I will be back presently.
Actually, I have just been told that I have to wait until the friends have sorted out their arrangements.
Like a good chauffeur.
Sigh.
But it's so nice to have a second chance to travel a bit of the way with her that I am prepared to put up with some of the stereotypical behaviour that's back in the house. Having said that, we're all a year older and wiser and it's the summer so the behaviour is not so annoying.
I have made the following promises to myself:
This time I will not see the mess. If I see the mess, then I will just have to clean it up.
This time I will be more patient. With myself, with everyone else, and with the moment.
This time I will not make the rules, that's her father's job, and he knows that girl's heart better than I do.
This time I will not protect my heart from possible unmendable fractures by hiding it behind headless chickenness.
So I am trying to up it to three books a fortnight at the moment.
Life just keeps getting in the way.
I used to read on the bus.
Now I have Kitty for company on the bus in the morning, as she is back in the city and going to Citadel High now. Although we are both usually so groggy we don't talk much, just listen to the conversations on the bus and roll our eyes at each other.
Mostly we listen to the teenagers talk about music.
What happens is, two teenagers get on the bus, share an iPod, crank it right up so everyone on the bus can hear it and then discuss the music loudly over the music.
It drives all the oldarses on the bus CRAAAAAZZZZZYYYY.
So in true Nova Scotia fashion, they all just sit there and glare at them.
The other day a particularly bad couple were discussing how they'd replicate the sound, which sounded a bit like Sleator-Kinney but I can't be sure.
The woman sitting in front of me nearly broke her neck swivelling to GLARE.
But of course it wasn't having any effect, as teenagers don't actually register any humans over the age of twenty five.
So, trying to be helpful, I turned round and mouthed 'can you turn the music down' at the guy.
He poked the girl with the iPod.
"WHAT?"
"I JUST GOT YELLED AT FOR HAVING THE MUSIC TOO LOUD"
"I did not yell at you", I said, "I asked you nicely!"
So they turned it up of course.
And everyone on the bus spent the rest of the journey GLARING at me.
Sigh.
Anyways, back to reading..
I just finished Ismail Kadare's The Successor. Kadare is a Man Booker International winner and Albania's greatest living author, apparently.
It was a grim book. A carefully worded atmospheric tale of the death of Prime Minister Mehmet Shehu, who was Hoxha's successor, and who 'killed himself' in mysterious circumstances in the later years of Hoxha's reign. I couldn't put it down, it was so circular and layered that at the end you are completely confused about what was going on, in a way that was redolent of living during those times I imagine.
I am definitely going to read more of Kadare.
Before that I read Arturo Perez Reverte's second novel in the Captain Alatriste series, Purity of Blood. Also good in terms of its description of the dying days of the Spanish Empire, but a bit stilted and not Reverte's usual high standard.
I have started going to Chapters because I realised that they have a great sale bin. It's chock full of European and Asian literary fiction, discounted down to as low as $1 a book, because nobody knows who the writers are.
I have quite the collection now, although I have taken to selling my books on these days.
I have enough stuff.
And this way, I can justify three books a fortnight to myself.
The guy in the United Bookstore, to whom I sell my books, enjoys it when I come in I hope. I know I enjoy my trips in. I review each book for him, and we have a right old natter about all things literary - plus he knows some people in the CanLit industry so he always has a little snippet of gossip for me.
It's gratifying to buy a top class European novel for $1, read it, scrape the discount sticker off it, and sell it to him for one third the cover price. Then wait to see how long it is before someone else buys it.
Currently, I'm finally reading The Master. I tend to avoid Colm Toibin until he turns up in the bargain bin: I don't know why, because I always enjoy his books. But I got a hardback 1st American edition for six bucks that I shall probably keep - I am trying to hold onto some of the good ones for the summer visitors to browse.
I am a big Henry James fan, and always wondered how he got his prose so narrow yet evocative, so it is very interesting to read Toibin's theories in this fictionalised biography. Plus it's a ripping good yarn, albeit in a very Jamesian style.
It is interesting that Toibin has set himself up as the Irish James by writing about James. No doubt he was helped by David Lodge trying to do the same thing and failing (according to accepted wisdom, I haven't read his). Lodge is a wonderful writer, but he's more Trollope than James. So that makes Toibin's proposition more biddable.
I have just finished a Colin Thubron I didn't even know existed (oh, the excitement, I was all a-tremble in Schooner Books when I found it). Mirror to Damascus is a history of the city, a homage to its place in history, and a travelogue of the year Thubron spent there researching the book.
It is early Thubron, so it has some of the enthusiasm for place that he has lost a little as he ages. Also, the research he did then must have sent him east across the Silk Road, as I came across a lot of the stuff on little known muslim sects and warrior tribes that come up in his later books. In this book he is just learning about them. In later books, such as Shadow of the Silk Road, he visits their homelands. In Damascus, he visits their imprint on the city.
I have to stop typing now and go pick up kitty's friends so they can hang out in our house this evening....
Life gets in the way...
Hopefully, the presence of friends will mean uninterrupted blogging time, so I will be back presently.
Actually, I have just been told that I have to wait until the friends have sorted out their arrangements.
Like a good chauffeur.
Sigh.
But it's so nice to have a second chance to travel a bit of the way with her that I am prepared to put up with some of the stereotypical behaviour that's back in the house. Having said that, we're all a year older and wiser and it's the summer so the behaviour is not so annoying.
I have made the following promises to myself:
This time I will not see the mess. If I see the mess, then I will just have to clean it up.
This time I will be more patient. With myself, with everyone else, and with the moment.
This time I will not make the rules, that's her father's job, and he knows that girl's heart better than I do.
This time I will not protect my heart from possible unmendable fractures by hiding it behind headless chickenness.
May Bank Holiday weekend...
... or the beginning of summer as they call it here.
It is raining of course.
Himself has gone fishing.
Up at 7.30am this morning, tearing the apartment apart looking for his tackle.
fnar
It was in the car of course. Queenie remembered when the noise brought her to enough to ask what the noise was about.
"I never get to do nuthin! Goddamn, never!"
Queenie and Himself have had a few scheduled events cancelled on us by life recently, hockey games and gigs and weekends off and fishing trips etc., so Himself was convinced this weekend's fishing wouldn't happen.
Queenie was determined that it would. So she forced her brain to wake up enough to find whatever it was that was standing between her man and his day to Himself.
When a man's had a day out on a lake in a canoe with two buddies and a chance to catch some fish he's a whole different kind of man when he gets home.
Which is good for Queenie.
"Why do you never get to do anything, pet? What can't you find?"
Rumble, mutter, growl, sound of the storage closet being rearranged by a maniac was all I got.
"Oh for chrissake, why are you disturbing the whole building at this hour of the morning?"
That worked.
"I can't find my tackle."
I resisted the urge to tell him to look in his underpants. That I was sure I had spotted it there not ten minutes before.
"I think it's in the car, dear."
"I looked in the car."
"It's in the cooler in the car."
"Why the hell did you put it in the cooler?!"
"I didn't put it in the cooler dear."
"Oh."
Stomp, mutter, clunk, clunk down the stairs.
He didn't come back up and Fat Albert is gone from the front yard, so I assume he's gone fishing.
I went for lunch with a friend I hadn't seen in months and we talked about everything, and then saw a movie, The Visitors. Good movie, same director as The Station Agent. Same theme, loneliness in the crowd and finding a new way to have a family. This film dealt with illegal immigrants, rather than physical disability.
Then we went downtown to look at the new lululemon store.
Utter chaos.
There were thirty five people lined up at the checkout to pay for the same pair of yoga pants.
So we gave up and went to worship at the Starbuck's shrine to consumerism instead, then went round the corner to Elsie's consignment store, where Elsie had a fantastic selection of shoes, bags and unique clothes. And I got an Anne Taylor preppy red and blue print skirt and a pair of matching sparkly red ballet pumps for the same price as a tank top in lululemon. And my friend got a Betty (somebody, not Jackson, the one with the stores with the chandeliers) cashmere bolero for not much more.
A nice female city afternoon.
I haven't had a nice female city afternoon since the day I went shopping with Colombo in Dublin last new year's.
Tonight Kitty and I will get a gourmet pizza and chill out and wait for the fisherman to come home with his booty.
Assuming he got some booty with his tackle.
Hopefully the sun will come out tomorrow.
Then we can clean up the debris from last night's welcome to the summer bonfire.
It is raining of course.
Himself has gone fishing.
Up at 7.30am this morning, tearing the apartment apart looking for his tackle.
fnar
It was in the car of course. Queenie remembered when the noise brought her to enough to ask what the noise was about.
"I never get to do nuthin! Goddamn, never!"
Queenie and Himself have had a few scheduled events cancelled on us by life recently, hockey games and gigs and weekends off and fishing trips etc., so Himself was convinced this weekend's fishing wouldn't happen.
Queenie was determined that it would. So she forced her brain to wake up enough to find whatever it was that was standing between her man and his day to Himself.
When a man's had a day out on a lake in a canoe with two buddies and a chance to catch some fish he's a whole different kind of man when he gets home.
Which is good for Queenie.
"Why do you never get to do anything, pet? What can't you find?"
Rumble, mutter, growl, sound of the storage closet being rearranged by a maniac was all I got.
"Oh for chrissake, why are you disturbing the whole building at this hour of the morning?"
That worked.
"I can't find my tackle."
I resisted the urge to tell him to look in his underpants. That I was sure I had spotted it there not ten minutes before.
"I think it's in the car, dear."
"I looked in the car."
"It's in the cooler in the car."
"Why the hell did you put it in the cooler?!"
"I didn't put it in the cooler dear."
"Oh."
Stomp, mutter, clunk, clunk down the stairs.
He didn't come back up and Fat Albert is gone from the front yard, so I assume he's gone fishing.
I went for lunch with a friend I hadn't seen in months and we talked about everything, and then saw a movie, The Visitors. Good movie, same director as The Station Agent. Same theme, loneliness in the crowd and finding a new way to have a family. This film dealt with illegal immigrants, rather than physical disability.
Then we went downtown to look at the new lululemon store.
Utter chaos.
There were thirty five people lined up at the checkout to pay for the same pair of yoga pants.
So we gave up and went to worship at the Starbuck's shrine to consumerism instead, then went round the corner to Elsie's consignment store, where Elsie had a fantastic selection of shoes, bags and unique clothes. And I got an Anne Taylor preppy red and blue print skirt and a pair of matching sparkly red ballet pumps for the same price as a tank top in lululemon. And my friend got a Betty (somebody, not Jackson, the one with the stores with the chandeliers) cashmere bolero for not much more.
A nice female city afternoon.
I haven't had a nice female city afternoon since the day I went shopping with Colombo in Dublin last new year's.
Tonight Kitty and I will get a gourmet pizza and chill out and wait for the fisherman to come home with his booty.
Assuming he got some booty with his tackle.
Hopefully the sun will come out tomorrow.
Then we can clean up the debris from last night's welcome to the summer bonfire.
Friday, May 16, 2008
This week's horoscope
I do love Rob Brezny's Free Will Astrology, which appears every week in Halifax' weekly newspaper The Coast. This week it says:
As part of the arrangement your soul entered into before you were born, you were given the mission to accomplish five specific miracles. Three of these you have not yet even guessed the nature of. Why? For one thing, none of your elders or teachers ever named them for you while you were growing up. Secondly, you have been overly timid about imagining what you're capable of. That's the bad news, Cancerian. The good news is that you're very close to the mystery spot where one of those undiscovered dreams has been moldering.
Hmmmm......
Any ideas, folks?
Himself's horoscope is spot on:
The complexity of your current astrological aspects almost overwhelmed me. I couldn't see how to compose a meaningful oracle in the face of such rich and confounding prospects. I was stumped. Then, as my deadline approached, the unthinkable happened: I decided to goof off. Fleeing my office, I wandered down to the beach, where I strolled aimlessly and emptied my mind. At one point I spied a fortune cookie perched absurdly on top of a fence post. The moment I broke it open and read the fortune inside, I knew I'd found the perfect message for you. It said, "If you have a difficult task, give it to a lazy man. He will find an easier way to do it."
Not that Queenie is insinuating for one second that Himself is a lazy man, ohnosireebob.... it's just that when the shit hits the fan, Queenie's approach is to run around in ever-decreasing circles and Himself's approach is to let the shit slide off the fan.... slowly... and then clean up what's left when the fan stops moving.
A far superior approach.
But hey, I may be a headless chicken, but I'm a miracle-working headless chicken.
SO THERE!!
As part of the arrangement your soul entered into before you were born, you were given the mission to accomplish five specific miracles. Three of these you have not yet even guessed the nature of. Why? For one thing, none of your elders or teachers ever named them for you while you were growing up. Secondly, you have been overly timid about imagining what you're capable of. That's the bad news, Cancerian. The good news is that you're very close to the mystery spot where one of those undiscovered dreams has been moldering.
Hmmmm......
Any ideas, folks?
Himself's horoscope is spot on:
The complexity of your current astrological aspects almost overwhelmed me. I couldn't see how to compose a meaningful oracle in the face of such rich and confounding prospects. I was stumped. Then, as my deadline approached, the unthinkable happened: I decided to goof off. Fleeing my office, I wandered down to the beach, where I strolled aimlessly and emptied my mind. At one point I spied a fortune cookie perched absurdly on top of a fence post. The moment I broke it open and read the fortune inside, I knew I'd found the perfect message for you. It said, "If you have a difficult task, give it to a lazy man. He will find an easier way to do it."
Not that Queenie is insinuating for one second that Himself is a lazy man, ohnosireebob.... it's just that when the shit hits the fan, Queenie's approach is to run around in ever-decreasing circles and Himself's approach is to let the shit slide off the fan.... slowly... and then clean up what's left when the fan stops moving.
A far superior approach.
But hey, I may be a headless chicken, but I'm a miracle-working headless chicken.
SO THERE!!
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Where's me sofa?
I see that Habitat has closed its two stores in Ireland, due to serious downturn in business.
Laydeez are calling the radio wondering where their EU3,700 sofas are.
Oh dear.
Apparently, the credit card companies can't give them their money back.
YES I SAID THE CREDIT CARD COMPANY.
What in Jays' name are they doing putting a EU3,700 sofa on a credit card?
Yes, I know I put a house deposit on a credit card one time, but it was only for one day because it was a Sunday and at ten am on Monday I got the money out of the bank.
I'm sure they'll get their sofas at some point. They were never going to be delivered on time anyways, Habitat sofas having a habit of being late. And tat.
Geddit?
We should just give the laydeez their money back, put the sofas in the National Museum and label them the day the tiger died.
Thanks to everyone whose conspicuous consumption made the last thirteen years so much fun that I had to rip my life up and move to a different continent to get away from it.
Maybe we can all grow up and get some brains now.
Maybe, shock horror, people will be able to recycle furniture, cars, clothes, etc. without being made to feel like they're some kind of pre-famine troll.
Maybe it's for the best.
Let's just hope that everyone has a nice soft washable cream velour landing.
Laydeez are calling the radio wondering where their EU3,700 sofas are.
Oh dear.
Apparently, the credit card companies can't give them their money back.
YES I SAID THE CREDIT CARD COMPANY.
What in Jays' name are they doing putting a EU3,700 sofa on a credit card?
Yes, I know I put a house deposit on a credit card one time, but it was only for one day because it was a Sunday and at ten am on Monday I got the money out of the bank.
I'm sure they'll get their sofas at some point. They were never going to be delivered on time anyways, Habitat sofas having a habit of being late. And tat.
Geddit?
We should just give the laydeez their money back, put the sofas in the National Museum and label them the day the tiger died.
Thanks to everyone whose conspicuous consumption made the last thirteen years so much fun that I had to rip my life up and move to a different continent to get away from it.
Maybe we can all grow up and get some brains now.
Maybe, shock horror, people will be able to recycle furniture, cars, clothes, etc. without being made to feel like they're some kind of pre-famine troll.
Maybe it's for the best.
Let's just hope that everyone has a nice soft washable cream velour landing.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Crusher Cowen gets the top job
From The Irish Times:
"This is the biggest day Offaly ever saw.”
Meanwhile, as the crowd at the gates unfolded an endless FF banner, awaiting the drive past of the new Taoiseach, chanting endless choruses of The Offaly Rover, they challenged anyone to say that Offaly is not the cradle of civilisation, citing Millennium Man (“a dashing wing back”), the Taoiseach, and Barack Obama as evidence.
Plus thwarting Kerry’s five in a row in 1982 with a Séamus Darby goal, added Mary Guiney.
When a Kilkenny garda could take it no more and wondered aloud about the precise depth of their hurling skills, they threatened to have him transferred to Craggy Island with their potent local influence.
Then they wrapped a tricolour feather boa around him, danced The Offaly Rover, and banged on the roof of the brand new Taoiseach’s flat, shiny Merc as he drove off to the Áras.
So. No more pure mule, thank you.
A Taoiseach and quite possibly an American President in the same year... who'da thunk!
G'wan the Faithful!!
"This is the biggest day Offaly ever saw.”
Meanwhile, as the crowd at the gates unfolded an endless FF banner, awaiting the drive past of the new Taoiseach, chanting endless choruses of The Offaly Rover, they challenged anyone to say that Offaly is not the cradle of civilisation, citing Millennium Man (“a dashing wing back”), the Taoiseach, and Barack Obama as evidence.
Plus thwarting Kerry’s five in a row in 1982 with a Séamus Darby goal, added Mary Guiney.
When a Kilkenny garda could take it no more and wondered aloud about the precise depth of their hurling skills, they threatened to have him transferred to Craggy Island with their potent local influence.
Then they wrapped a tricolour feather boa around him, danced The Offaly Rover, and banged on the roof of the brand new Taoiseach’s flat, shiny Merc as he drove off to the Áras.
So. No more pure mule, thank you.
A Taoiseach and quite possibly an American President in the same year... who'da thunk!
G'wan the Faithful!!
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Lobster got himself a girl
One time, oh maybe bout five years back, it was coming up to Hallowe'en and Lobster was home sitting by moma while she let his costume out again.
Lobster loved his costume. It was a fireman's costume of course. It had a nice dark jacket and gold buttons all down the front. With a big shiny hat. Which he loved to fill up with all the candy he could find on Hallowe'en night.
Lobster didn't go looking for candy of course, that was for kids. He was right sad when pappy told him that. He loved to go collecting candy. But Lobster was nearly a man now. So it had to stop.
But sometimes, if he asked nice, the kids would tip some of their candy pillows into his shiny hat and he'd have himself a right haul.
He loved Gummy Bears the best.
Anyhows, he was home sitting by moma when pappy comes in from baiting trawl and says, Lobster, there's a dance on down the Legion tonight and you should go! It'll be good for you to get out and maybe meet a nice girl.
So down he went, all cleaned up and shaved right, with his costume all snug on his hips and his hat all shined up.
My, but the Legion was full of the weirdest kinda folks that night. You couldn't tell who was who, with all the costumes and the lights flashing from the discotheque.
And there were witches everywhere: witches on the dancefloor boogiein' on down, witches knocking back shots and smoking cigarettes, witches playing pool, witches going in the washroom and coming out, all in gangs of black with big pointy hats.
There were even witches playing on the machines, with witches standing behind them waiting their turn.
My it was some witchy convention that night.
How was Lobster ever going to find a nice girl, what with all the girls cackling and grinning and hiding themselves under their cloaks?
He needed a beer to set himself up to decide. So he went on up to the bar and there she was.
A witch to be sure, but perched up there on her pointy black hat she had the biggest, brightest, shiniest red light he ever saw on a girl. There it was, just as jaunty as could be, winking on and off and justa callin' to him.
What'll your poison be, the witch said.
Her big red light winked at him.
On. And off. And on. And off.
Lobster felt the world spinning around him.
He got himself a beer and went and sat and just watched the bright new light in his life for a while.
Later on, he was coming out of the washroom and there it was, right in front of him, justa winking at him like there was no other fireman on earth knew what it wanted.
He grabbed ahold of his courage with both his hands and said, 'who in the hell are you now, missy, with your big red light, that makes me spin round and round. I do love it so.'
Don't you know me, she said, all shy and quiet.
Well, I wouldn't be asking if I knew, now would I, Lobster replied.
A light came in her eyes right then, like Lobster'd said the right thing, and she leaned in close under his chin and stared into his eyes.
The big red light winked right at him.
On. And off. And on. And off. And on.
Why don't you come into my witch's garage with me, she said, and I'll whisk you away on my broomstick.
Oh my.
Before Lobster knows it, he's in the broom closet with the witch.
There's a couple of other couples in there, justa groanin' anda moanin' in the dark, but the big red light cleared them all out in no time and then they were alone.
Just the two of them.
And the big red light.
On. And off. And on. And off.
Lobster tried to look past the light into her eyes.
Tell me your name, little witch he said, real quiet and nice.
Well, why don't you call me Right Eager, she said.
What kinda name is that, said Lobster.
That's what they call me round here, she said.
Will you fly me through the sky on your broomstick, Lobster asked.
Why yes, she said, all quiet and nice.
Not like a witch should be at all.
And the big red light will show us the way, Lobster thought.
Won't pappy be proud...
Lobster loved his costume. It was a fireman's costume of course. It had a nice dark jacket and gold buttons all down the front. With a big shiny hat. Which he loved to fill up with all the candy he could find on Hallowe'en night.
Lobster didn't go looking for candy of course, that was for kids. He was right sad when pappy told him that. He loved to go collecting candy. But Lobster was nearly a man now. So it had to stop.
But sometimes, if he asked nice, the kids would tip some of their candy pillows into his shiny hat and he'd have himself a right haul.
He loved Gummy Bears the best.
Anyhows, he was home sitting by moma when pappy comes in from baiting trawl and says, Lobster, there's a dance on down the Legion tonight and you should go! It'll be good for you to get out and maybe meet a nice girl.
So down he went, all cleaned up and shaved right, with his costume all snug on his hips and his hat all shined up.
My, but the Legion was full of the weirdest kinda folks that night. You couldn't tell who was who, with all the costumes and the lights flashing from the discotheque.
And there were witches everywhere: witches on the dancefloor boogiein' on down, witches knocking back shots and smoking cigarettes, witches playing pool, witches going in the washroom and coming out, all in gangs of black with big pointy hats.
There were even witches playing on the machines, with witches standing behind them waiting their turn.
My it was some witchy convention that night.
How was Lobster ever going to find a nice girl, what with all the girls cackling and grinning and hiding themselves under their cloaks?
He needed a beer to set himself up to decide. So he went on up to the bar and there she was.
A witch to be sure, but perched up there on her pointy black hat she had the biggest, brightest, shiniest red light he ever saw on a girl. There it was, just as jaunty as could be, winking on and off and justa callin' to him.
What'll your poison be, the witch said.
Her big red light winked at him.
On. And off. And on. And off.
Lobster felt the world spinning around him.
He got himself a beer and went and sat and just watched the bright new light in his life for a while.
Later on, he was coming out of the washroom and there it was, right in front of him, justa winking at him like there was no other fireman on earth knew what it wanted.
He grabbed ahold of his courage with both his hands and said, 'who in the hell are you now, missy, with your big red light, that makes me spin round and round. I do love it so.'
Don't you know me, she said, all shy and quiet.
Well, I wouldn't be asking if I knew, now would I, Lobster replied.
A light came in her eyes right then, like Lobster'd said the right thing, and she leaned in close under his chin and stared into his eyes.
The big red light winked right at him.
On. And off. And on. And off. And on.
Why don't you come into my witch's garage with me, she said, and I'll whisk you away on my broomstick.
Oh my.
Before Lobster knows it, he's in the broom closet with the witch.
There's a couple of other couples in there, justa groanin' anda moanin' in the dark, but the big red light cleared them all out in no time and then they were alone.
Just the two of them.
And the big red light.
On. And off. And on. And off.
Lobster tried to look past the light into her eyes.
Tell me your name, little witch he said, real quiet and nice.
Well, why don't you call me Right Eager, she said.
What kinda name is that, said Lobster.
That's what they call me round here, she said.
Will you fly me through the sky on your broomstick, Lobster asked.
Why yes, she said, all quiet and nice.
Not like a witch should be at all.
And the big red light will show us the way, Lobster thought.
Won't pappy be proud...
Friday, May 02, 2008
First of three
First day off.
Of three.
No irritating schedule interruptions.
Yet.
Apart from my continuous interruptions to my blogging. Which are mostly self-administered.
I have been looking at old photos from Trinity in the late eighties, posted on Facebook. Very nostalgic. Very nice photos too. Would make a great book.
I have done all the chores I needed to today, so all I have to is eat, shower, dress and then go looking for the Roberto Bolano book recommended on Colour of Memory recently.
Then I will attempt to clean the bathroom.
Which is beyond acceptable, having waited patiently for Himself to notice the dirt, which is not happening, due to the fishing season being open and the Stanley Cup in full flow.
It may take a while.
If I find the book.
Life is more important than a clean bathroom.
Until life involves having guests.
Guess I have another month then.
Of three.
No irritating schedule interruptions.
Yet.
Apart from my continuous interruptions to my blogging. Which are mostly self-administered.
I have been looking at old photos from Trinity in the late eighties, posted on Facebook. Very nostalgic. Very nice photos too. Would make a great book.
I have done all the chores I needed to today, so all I have to is eat, shower, dress and then go looking for the Roberto Bolano book recommended on Colour of Memory recently.
Then I will attempt to clean the bathroom.
Which is beyond acceptable, having waited patiently for Himself to notice the dirt, which is not happening, due to the fishing season being open and the Stanley Cup in full flow.
It may take a while.
If I find the book.
Life is more important than a clean bathroom.
Until life involves having guests.
Guess I have another month then.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Percy's Depressed becomes Chocolate Court
I've been thinking about this for some time.
It's time to decide to be here.
So I'm here now.
For now.
So why Chocolate Lake?
I don't know.
When I googled it, this is the most relevant hit I got. My neighbour, Ms Maggie Beach (don't ask, she picked the name, it's her porn name apparently) used to work in the Armdale Yacht Club, which is just down the road.
In the 1920's young men like Jack Buckley, Jim Egan, and Walter Piers led the way to the incorporation of the Armdale Yacht Club. First from a location close to Jubillee Road, then from 'Mosey' Stoneman's Armdale Boat House and the Edmonds ground, AYC set itself up on Melville Island.
A 1930's challenge with those who raced on Chocolate Lake brought others to the Arm. The 'Siskin' was an early power boat. During the prohibition era she knew about "rum running". Louis 'Tookie' Murphy (AYC's 2nd Commodore) later became Siskin's proud owner. Jim Egan, AYC's first Commodore, was the owner of the other power boat 'Comber'.
Now that it's all about Chocolate and not about Percy, I shall try to find out why it's called Chocolate Lake. I heard that there used to be a chocolate factory by the lake, where the hotel is now. But I don't know if that's true.
It's time to decide to be here.
So I'm here now.
For now.
So why Chocolate Lake?
I don't know.
When I googled it, this is the most relevant hit I got. My neighbour, Ms Maggie Beach (don't ask, she picked the name, it's her porn name apparently) used to work in the Armdale Yacht Club, which is just down the road.
In the 1920's young men like Jack Buckley, Jim Egan, and Walter Piers led the way to the incorporation of the Armdale Yacht Club. First from a location close to Jubillee Road, then from 'Mosey' Stoneman's Armdale Boat House and the Edmonds ground, AYC set itself up on Melville Island.
A 1930's challenge with those who raced on Chocolate Lake brought others to the Arm. The 'Siskin' was an early power boat. During the prohibition era she knew about "rum running". Louis 'Tookie' Murphy (AYC's 2nd Commodore) later became Siskin's proud owner. Jim Egan, AYC's first Commodore, was the owner of the other power boat 'Comber'.
Now that it's all about Chocolate and not about Percy, I shall try to find out why it's called Chocolate Lake. I heard that there used to be a chocolate factory by the lake, where the hotel is now. But I don't know if that's true.
My obsession with Blogger posts continues
I tried to talk about this recently but I was too tired to make any sense.
Because Himself and I are both on gmail and Facebook and share a computer, there's a certain amount of typing in of passwords and user names that goes on when we change over from Kijiji stalking to blogging of an evening.
So regularly I have to go through the Blogger home page or whatever it is.
And it annoys me.
For a number of reasons.
It's a workaday page, so it's really clunky and difficult to get around.
There are posts which are generally too erudite for me to understand about meta stuff etc.
And then, recently, there was a post about some guy called Eric, who left.
And the whole thing was tagged.
And it turned out it was a puff piece for him, his mates, and his new job.
WHICH IS FINE.
I'm all for previous employers giving the good ship entrepreneurship a big push off the wharf.
It's the least they can do for you after you worked your nads off for them for five years.
But why did they make him sound like such a loser?
And why was the photo all about the chick with the hoodie? And not Eric?
I think I may have tracked her down.
Her name is ELLETM (I can't make the TM go up where it should be, because I can't write code).
Why is there a woman called Elle trade marking her name?
ARE YOU STOOPID?
THAT'S NOT COOL.
THAT'S STOOPID.
Okay, I'm going to stop bitching about the landlord now.
Nice Google..... nice...
Because Himself and I are both on gmail and Facebook and share a computer, there's a certain amount of typing in of passwords and user names that goes on when we change over from Kijiji stalking to blogging of an evening.
So regularly I have to go through the Blogger home page or whatever it is.
And it annoys me.
For a number of reasons.
It's a workaday page, so it's really clunky and difficult to get around.
There are posts which are generally too erudite for me to understand about meta stuff etc.
And then, recently, there was a post about some guy called Eric, who left.
And the whole thing was tagged.
And it turned out it was a puff piece for him, his mates, and his new job.
WHICH IS FINE.
I'm all for previous employers giving the good ship entrepreneurship a big push off the wharf.
It's the least they can do for you after you worked your nads off for them for five years.
But why did they make him sound like such a loser?
And why was the photo all about the chick with the hoodie? And not Eric?
I think I may have tracked her down.
Her name is ELLETM (I can't make the TM go up where it should be, because I can't write code).
Why is there a woman called Elle trade marking her name?
ARE YOU STOOPID?
THAT'S NOT COOL.
THAT'S STOOPID.
Okay, I'm going to stop bitching about the landlord now.
Nice Google..... nice...
Three. Blessed. Days. Off. In. A. Row.
I don't ask for much.Three days in a row once a month.
That's all.
Thank you new-ish job.
We have modified hours, so if you work thirty minutes extra every day, you get a day off every three weeks.
Often I have to work anyways.
But this week I don't.
So I have Three. Days. Off. In. A. Row.
Blissful.....
What shall I do?
Actually, I shouldn't say that, because every time I say that on my blog my life jumps up and bites me in the ass and I end up having to do something I don't want to do.
I see Spike Lee told Rev. Wright to shut up.
I'd say that will work alright.
He accused him of being paid to say these things.
By some nefarious being.
A woman no doubt.
Maybe the sub-text was 'or I'll stop giving you money, because you're not saying what I want anymore'.
Sounded like that to my jaded ear.
Oh, oh, oh, I know what I'll be doing for part of the next three days.
I'll be watching the hockey.
Finally, after almost three years, Himself has turned into hockey dude.
It was bound to happen sooner or later.
Almost three years together is about time to start doing all those things you did when you were on your own and you could scratch your bollox whenever you wanted without having to check whether anyone was looking.
Queenie has no problem with the hockey at all. There being nothing else on tv at the moment.
Unfortunately, Himself likes to do stuff with Queenie in the evening, it being the only part of the day when they're together and she's not mainlining coffee in an attempt to wake up.
So Queenie is expected to watch the hockey too.
Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwnnnnnnnn.
I told him I'd watch on condition I could have a crush on a player and ooh and aah everytime he played.
That was deemed acceptable (I was a bit surprised at that, generally Himself doesn't like my crushes, they being too feminine for him. Or something.)
So then of course, I had to find one.
Yaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwwwnnnnnnnnnsummore.
They're a bit hairy, hockey players, and they're all so young, too young for me really (hence all the acne-covering hair).
And you can't really see anything, what with the big shirts and the shoulder pads and the baggy shorts and the tights (actually, I was told last night they were socks - they look like those woolly tights you wear in the winter) and the helmets.
Nice butts mostly, but.
Very nice butts, acchewerly.
Much nicer than hurler's arse.
Less rounded.
More sculpted.
Must be the skating.
Or maybe it's the lack of Guinness.
So I just went for the best butt and hoped to god that the face was okay too.
Actually, as you can see, he's a cross between early Bjorn Borg and Viggo Mortensen in Hidalgo.
Not bad at all.
And he was born in 1973.
So that puts him in the ballpark. I mean, if he were in his twenties, that would be a bit ewww.
Not that I'm picking on people with boytoys on my blog, ohgodno. I'm all for love's strange iterations, I am.
There he is above, falling on his impeccable ass.
Wait till I tell himself he was born in 1973, is 6'2" and weighs 222lbs.
He plays for the Montreal Canadiens, which are my new team.
Because, as I said last night:
- they are from Montreal, so they speak French and are cool;
- my new heart-throb Kovy plays for them;
- they are not the effing Maple Leafs;
- they are the only Canadian team left in the play offs
No, the effing Pittsburgh Penguins don't count. I don't care what the guys in your work have decided.
Because they are from America, that's why.
No, I don't care that if they win the play-offs that maybe Sydney Crosby, the pride of the
Bluenosers will bring the Stanley Cup to Nova Scotia.
Because that would be like Tipperary getting off in Tullamore to show us Liam on the way home to Thurles, that's why. (yes, I know it's a different train, poetic licence, okay)
I don't care that you don't understand that simile.
It's deep, okay man.
Friggin' Nova Scotians, why do they perpetuate these pathetic fallacies when Ontario is about to enter the equalization program?? Why?? They should do like the Newfoundlanders and offer to send food packages!!
Why do I live in a place where the people are called Bluenosers?
Anyways, the Stanley Cup is on.
I don't understand the rules of the competition.
I do know that every team has to play another team seven times in about two weeks.
That's called a series.
It's actually really good. Very exciting. Three periods of twenty minutes. Lots of goals if you're lucky and a few fights at the end, when one team realises it's in trouble.
Also, in the last few minutes, the losing team takes their goalie off the ice and so there's always the chance there'll be a sneaky goal. That happened last night.
There are four or five series' going on at any one time.
Games are on at a reasonable time. Or really late.
So every evening there's a game YOU GOTTA WATCH.
Because that's all anyone talks about at work.
I knew something the guys in work didn't know today.
I knew where Avery of the lacerated spleen was from.
How does one lacerate one's spleen?
That fact was greeted by a stunned silence.
he he he.
Anyways, we're in some kind of second round of seven game series right now, I think, because all the series I could remember have changed now.
Well, let me start at the beginning.
Hockey starts in August or September. Teams have pre-season games. So you're walking down the street one day in summer and suddenly everyone you know heads down to the Metro Centre because the Maple Leafs are playing the Mooseheads in a pre-season game (a friendly we'd call it, with all the second tier players that entails).
No one comes to your BBQ.
And you have no idea why.
Because the only sports page you read is your brother's and he doesn't do ice hockey.
Then the season starts.
I think it's some kind of a league.
A television programme called Hockey Night in Canada starts to appear on the schedule.
I think this is September/ October, but I'm not sure.
Psycho Bruce used to watch it all the time, for those of you who remember back that far in the blog.
Oooh, ooh, ooh, I forgot to tell you all, I was in the Lawton's Drug Store on Spring Garden Rd a while back, browsing in the baby card section - I forget which baby - and suddenly, I heard a voice that froze me and sent a ripple of fear up my spine. I slid one of my eyes around and there he was stacking shelves behind me, PsychoB of the boiled chicken sandwiches. Wearing a tie though, so he must be management finally. I slid on out of there and haven't been back since.
I digress.
So the League, or the NHL as it's called drones on and on for a while. And then sometime after Christmas, Himself starts talking about how Toronoto (the Maple Leafs, which is his team) aren't going to make the play offs. (The official term is post-season play I believe. If it's post-season, why is it the most important part of the season?)
So we generally have to watch the game (not match, game) where they get dumped out of the League.
And Himself is sad. And curses the luck that makes him a Leafs fan. Without actually telling me why he is a Leafs fan.
Maybe it's a Canadian citizen lottery or something. Like the Vietnam draft. I haven't figured that out yet.
About a week after that, the League turns into the Cup.
I don't know how that happens.
And then everyone watches hockey all the time for about a month.
There's been a lot of pretty much ignored hockey for a while, so I don't know why it gets so exciting now.
But it's around the time the winter ends yet it's still too cold for BBQ and beer, so maybe it's a cultural holding pattern for Canadian males who have been cooped up with their partners all winter.
I keep trying to figure out what's going on.
But Himself is no Queen Dad.
When I was a teenager I would watch rugby and soccer with the Queen Dad on a Wednesday night
when The Queen Mum was playing bridge, or on a Saturday.
And I would ask him questions.
Which he would totally ignore.
Until the ad break.
During which he would explain what was going on. In typical Queen Dad precise detail.
So I know my soccer. And my rugby.
But the Queen Dad went to a hockey game in Vancouver a year ago and deemed the sport a pointless excuse to eat hot dogs in public (Himself was CRUSHED, they're called weiners and they're lovely), so there'll be no help from that quarter.
Himself is happy to talk all the way through the game (not match).
Which bodes well for the future.
But he's not very good at explaining things.
Because he just knows.
Actually, I'm hoping this post will incite music snob into a tutorial.
Speaking of ad breaks, there's one every seven minutes.
WTF?!
Something to do with wages, I'm told.
How come there aren't ads during the European Cup then, heh, heh, heh, huh???!!!!
Anyways, I'm set for the Cup this year.
I has my team, which is about to get dumped out by the nasty Philadelphia Flyers.
And soon I will know what in the name of jebus is going on on the ice.
Soon.
Big big big big shout out to Luke M whose film is going out on the Irish airwaves tonight.
Monday, April 28, 2008
The Grange Prize
The best of Canadian and contemporary photography.
Apparently.
I do love the winner's work.
http://www.thegrangeprize.com/index.html
Apparently.
I do love the winner's work.
http://www.thegrangeprize.com/index.html
Sunday, April 27, 2008
The Adventures of Lobster Gump
Once upon a time, there was a little boy. Name of Lobster Gump. He lived on a little island far far away. And he drove a little red fire truck. Every time his pappy said he could.
He loved to ring the bell.
Brrrrring, brrrring!! Outa my way, everyone, I'm a headin' her for the fire!
When he was nearly growed up, his pappy let him turn on the big red light on the big red fire truck.
He loved to watch it spin round and round.
One day, when there was a real fire, Lobster Gump watched the real fire dept go by in the big red truck and he jumped up and down so hard in his anger that he stomped on his own little red fire truck.
He was sad after that.
He didn't mean to do that.
He just loved the big red fire truck so much.
And so his pappy let him join the Fire Dept.
And he became a man.
He got himself a girl.
She's right eager for him.
And he got himself a truck.
And pappy done gave him a licence plate for the truck.
That says Deppity Fire Chief.
He shines it every day.
When he can get off the cot.
Pappy says when he's all growed up next year and married, he can drive the big red fire truck.
Lobster can't wait for that day.
He's a gonna drive that truck all the way to the liquor store.
Get himself a two four.
And drink it all in one go.
In the meantime, he's a just sitting on the cot, waiting to get married.
It'll happen one of these days.
And when it does, him and Mrs. Gump'll take off forever.
All the way up north.
In the big red fire truck.
That's almost two hundred miles.
Lobster hopes the price of gas don't go up too much while he's waitin' to git married.
Else he'll never get away.
Before they go, they'll stop to Beautiful Cove for an hour or two.
He'll ring Mrs. Gump's bell a coupla times.
Brrrng, brrring.
He loves to watch her spin round and round.
Under the big red light.
Won't that be a fine day.
When's Lobster gettin' married?
He don't know.
His girl tells him it's the government stopping them.
Nasty mean stoopid people. Always looking in your business.
All lawyered up, yakkin' their mouths off.
Lobster reckons she's probly right.
Least she tells him she is.
Anyhow, enough said for now.
Lobster's gotta go down the Legion tonight for the Sunday bowlin.
He loves to go down there and have a beer and watch the bowlin on the tv.
Did you know, when Lobster became a man, as well as getting him a spot on the big red fire truck, pappy got him a spot as the deppity president of the Legion?
Ain't no finer institution.
He's a good pappy.
Pappy and mumma sure wish Lobster would get married soon.
They're lookin' forward to havin' little tinkers running around the yard.
'Specially since the fishery's gone to hell this year.
We need all the tinkers we can get, pappy says.
Pappy's funny...
Lobster's gotta go watch the bowlin' now. Can't miss it.
But he'll be back to talk to y'all real soon.
Be sure to let us know if you want to hear more about the adventures of Lobster Gump.
He sure loves to talk.
But he's kinda shy in company.
He loved to ring the bell.
Brrrrring, brrrring!! Outa my way, everyone, I'm a headin' her for the fire!
When he was nearly growed up, his pappy let him turn on the big red light on the big red fire truck.
He loved to watch it spin round and round.
One day, when there was a real fire, Lobster Gump watched the real fire dept go by in the big red truck and he jumped up and down so hard in his anger that he stomped on his own little red fire truck.
He was sad after that.
He didn't mean to do that.
He just loved the big red fire truck so much.
And so his pappy let him join the Fire Dept.
And he became a man.
He got himself a girl.
She's right eager for him.
And he got himself a truck.
And pappy done gave him a licence plate for the truck.
That says Deppity Fire Chief.
He shines it every day.
When he can get off the cot.
Pappy says when he's all growed up next year and married, he can drive the big red fire truck.
Lobster can't wait for that day.
He's a gonna drive that truck all the way to the liquor store.
Get himself a two four.
And drink it all in one go.
In the meantime, he's a just sitting on the cot, waiting to get married.
It'll happen one of these days.
And when it does, him and Mrs. Gump'll take off forever.
All the way up north.
In the big red fire truck.
That's almost two hundred miles.
Lobster hopes the price of gas don't go up too much while he's waitin' to git married.
Else he'll never get away.
Before they go, they'll stop to Beautiful Cove for an hour or two.
He'll ring Mrs. Gump's bell a coupla times.
Brrrng, brrring.
He loves to watch her spin round and round.
Under the big red light.
Won't that be a fine day.
When's Lobster gettin' married?
He don't know.
His girl tells him it's the government stopping them.
Nasty mean stoopid people. Always looking in your business.
All lawyered up, yakkin' their mouths off.
Lobster reckons she's probly right.
Least she tells him she is.
Anyhow, enough said for now.
Lobster's gotta go down the Legion tonight for the Sunday bowlin.
He loves to go down there and have a beer and watch the bowlin on the tv.
Did you know, when Lobster became a man, as well as getting him a spot on the big red fire truck, pappy got him a spot as the deppity president of the Legion?
Ain't no finer institution.
He's a good pappy.
Pappy and mumma sure wish Lobster would get married soon.
They're lookin' forward to havin' little tinkers running around the yard.
'Specially since the fishery's gone to hell this year.
We need all the tinkers we can get, pappy says.
Pappy's funny...
Lobster's gotta go watch the bowlin' now. Can't miss it.
But he'll be back to talk to y'all real soon.
Be sure to let us know if you want to hear more about the adventures of Lobster Gump.
He sure loves to talk.
But he's kinda shy in company.
The Greatest Band on Earth. More Bands
Inuit Panda etc. forgot to mention Sonic Youth.
My but we are being stoopid, as Queenie forgot about them too.
Accent Monkey said Prince then, Prince. Because nobody else has voted for him yet, and because I love him.
Polly said The Kings of Leon are the most interesting and entertaining thing to come along in quite a while... I know they only have three albums, but they are very good albums and they are a seriously excellent live act. There, taste defended. exhale. :-)
You're allowed have an opinion on this blog, Polly. Freedom of speech still reigned in Canada last time I checked. Even though the woman who threatened to punch me in the face today (for the sixth time, I really should go talk to a police officer about this and give him my notes, times, dates, locations, etc) told me that I was FUCKED.
That's right FUCKED, because of my blog.
I wonder if people with a criminal record can become RCMP officers?
Worth checking into.
Oh that's right, I already have.
I'm just too nice to do stuff like that.
But nice doesn't really seem to be working seeing as I'm going to be FUCKED anyway.
Well, when I say FUCKED, it may not have been that loud but her face was about two inches from mine while she was saying it (I was sitting down at the time) so it felt kinda loud.
I better not say who the woman is, in case I would be FUCKED as a result. But let's just say, she would be married forever.
I wonder what her favourite band is?
Oh hang on, I'll ask her long suffering husband! Who is in the kitchen making my lobster dinner right now.
Himself says it would have to one of them old Legion bands there, uhm, can't think of any of them now, let's see, oh what's his name.... I don't know, Queenie, I always called them old Legion bands.
Now he's singing 'I seen her over in the corner with another man, but she'll come home with me I'm sure' in a country twang.
So we'll go with Garth Brooks.
My but we are being stoopid, as Queenie forgot about them too.
Accent Monkey said Prince then, Prince. Because nobody else has voted for him yet, and because I love him.
Polly said The Kings of Leon are the most interesting and entertaining thing to come along in quite a while... I know they only have three albums, but they are very good albums and they are a seriously excellent live act. There, taste defended. exhale. :-)
You're allowed have an opinion on this blog, Polly. Freedom of speech still reigned in Canada last time I checked. Even though the woman who threatened to punch me in the face today (for the sixth time, I really should go talk to a police officer about this and give him my notes, times, dates, locations, etc) told me that I was FUCKED.
That's right FUCKED, because of my blog.
I wonder if people with a criminal record can become RCMP officers?
Worth checking into.
Oh that's right, I already have.
I'm just too nice to do stuff like that.
But nice doesn't really seem to be working seeing as I'm going to be FUCKED anyway.
Well, when I say FUCKED, it may not have been that loud but her face was about two inches from mine while she was saying it (I was sitting down at the time) so it felt kinda loud.
I better not say who the woman is, in case I would be FUCKED as a result. But let's just say, she would be married forever.
I wonder what her favourite band is?
Oh hang on, I'll ask her long suffering husband! Who is in the kitchen making my lobster dinner right now.
Himself says it would have to one of them old Legion bands there, uhm, can't think of any of them now, let's see, oh what's his name.... I don't know, Queenie, I always called them old Legion bands.
Now he's singing 'I seen her over in the corner with another man, but she'll come home with me I'm sure' in a country twang.
So we'll go with Garth Brooks.
A true animal lover
is someone who's not afraid to save Rusty!!
Posting from the twin cities....
We have a neighbor two blocks away that has a cat. Now, first off, I like cats. We don't have a pet right now because we have three kids and the last thing I need is another thing to watch. The previous owner of the house we live in had about five cats and they used a lot of potpourri to hide the smell when we looked at the house. The smell was really bad the first year we were here and even today, seven years later, you can still smell them at times. Also when we first moved in, our neighbors had a cat that, due to the smell of the cats that were here, crapped in our garden all the time. That kitty met his demise at the hands of a raccoon in 2002
We started noticing Rusty coming into our yard early last summer. We found he had a tag on his neck and called the owner. The owner is one creepy dude. He came, took his cat and left. A week later, Rusty was back. Some times I would call the owner, other times he would leave on his own. We started finding cat crap in the yard and in the gardens and our neighbors actually had to take their sandbox out because Rusty thought it was his. I started to ask my other neighbors how many times they had called to get Rusty picked up and it was at least ten times combined. One neighbor's dog was bitten by Rusty and another neighbor had Rusty destroy half of her plants. I really started to dislike Rusty's owner when in September, I called him one day, told him I didn't appreciate the unwillingness to control Rusty and the very next day, at Evelyn's birthday party, here comes Rusty again, jumping on our outdoor table and nearly eating Evelyn's cake.
We have definitely seen a decrease in the amount of birds in the area, but my concern is really for the cat. The raccoons still live in the area and so do fox. We have a lot of street traffic and 169 is five blocks away. And I have heard enough neighbors say that if they corner the cat, and no one is watching, they will take care of Rusty the old fashion way. I started to research the laws of Hopkins to see where I stood as a property owner. It said if you have a nuisance dog that you can turn them into a local vet who acts as a pet impound. The next time Rusty came over, I put him into a cage and took him the the vet. He said we don't take cats, you need to go to the police. When I brought him there, the police told me there are no ordinances in regards to cats in the city of Hopkins, just dogs, and that the owner could technically charge me with theft. I asked him if I was in my yard, and Rusty was scratching my kids and I picked him up to help the kids, the minute I held the cat, could I be charged with theft? He said yes. The police went to the owner and said to keep control of the cat and that's the last we saw of the cat until this spring.
The minute it warmed up, I was outside and here comes Rusty. I called the owner for the tenth time and said I've had it. I said I'd called him enough and he just didn't seem to care about the welfare of the cat. The next time Rusty is in my yard, I will take him to the Humane Society .
The creepy owner then tells me, "well he likes to be outside on a leash." I ask then why is the cat running free at all. He shrugged. I told him again that the cat would go to the Humane Society and he said alright. I then went to the Hopkins City Council and pleaded with them to amend the city laws to account for cats the same way they account for dogs. Many of the city council agreed that the property owner does deserve some protection or recourse in a case like this.
Over the next week, I found the cat in my yard three more times. I really was having a lot of mixed feelings about this. On Wednesday night, I came home from a getogether with former co-workers to find the cat in the yard again. I said, this guy seems to be daring me to do this. We got, what we thought, was a sturdy box and placed Rusty in it. Taped it shut (he had breathing holes) and put him in the car. I had to drive about ten miles to the Humane Society and headed out with Rusty riding shotgun. I am guessing that Rusty must have had a hulk like reaction to Gamma radiation in his past because about three miles down the road, Rusty decided he wanted out of the box. He shredded the side of the box facing me and looked at me. It was go time. So here I am wrestling with this cat as I'm driving 65 MPH down the highway in a car with manual transmission. I managed to get off the road and get Rusty back in the box while receiving only one really bad scratch on my arm. Rusty realized his fate was sealed and just "meow-howled" the rest of the way there. I dropped him off and walked away.
The next day, I got a call from the Hopkins City Manager saying that they felt that the nuisance laws currently on the books would be applicable to the cat and vowed to send a cease notice to the owner. Also, I called the Humane Society to explain why a tagged cat was dropped off and they seemed to agree with me, especially when it comes to the safety of the cat. They never reveal how an animal gets to their facility and it costs him $25 bucks to get the cat out. So far, I have not heard anything from either Rusty or the creepy owner. This is what keeps me amused in my life.
Matthew, animal lover.
Hey Matthew, maybe Rusty is your karma? Ever thought of that?
- Queenie
Also, Himself having read this blog entry, says buy a super soaker water pistol and use it on every cat that gets into your yard and within a month you will have a cat-free zone.
Himself is usually right about these things.
- Queenie again
Great story but. We laughed our asses off.
- Queenie yet again.
Posting from the twin cities....
We have a neighbor two blocks away that has a cat. Now, first off, I like cats. We don't have a pet right now because we have three kids and the last thing I need is another thing to watch. The previous owner of the house we live in had about five cats and they used a lot of potpourri to hide the smell when we looked at the house. The smell was really bad the first year we were here and even today, seven years later, you can still smell them at times. Also when we first moved in, our neighbors had a cat that, due to the smell of the cats that were here, crapped in our garden all the time. That kitty met his demise at the hands of a raccoon in 2002
We started noticing Rusty coming into our yard early last summer. We found he had a tag on his neck and called the owner. The owner is one creepy dude. He came, took his cat and left. A week later, Rusty was back. Some times I would call the owner, other times he would leave on his own. We started finding cat crap in the yard and in the gardens and our neighbors actually had to take their sandbox out because Rusty thought it was his. I started to ask my other neighbors how many times they had called to get Rusty picked up and it was at least ten times combined. One neighbor's dog was bitten by Rusty and another neighbor had Rusty destroy half of her plants. I really started to dislike Rusty's owner when in September, I called him one day, told him I didn't appreciate the unwillingness to control Rusty and the very next day, at Evelyn's birthday party, here comes Rusty again, jumping on our outdoor table and nearly eating Evelyn's cake.
We have definitely seen a decrease in the amount of birds in the area, but my concern is really for the cat. The raccoons still live in the area and so do fox. We have a lot of street traffic and 169 is five blocks away. And I have heard enough neighbors say that if they corner the cat, and no one is watching, they will take care of Rusty the old fashion way. I started to research the laws of Hopkins to see where I stood as a property owner. It said if you have a nuisance dog that you can turn them into a local vet who acts as a pet impound. The next time Rusty came over, I put him into a cage and took him the the vet. He said we don't take cats, you need to go to the police. When I brought him there, the police told me there are no ordinances in regards to cats in the city of Hopkins, just dogs, and that the owner could technically charge me with theft. I asked him if I was in my yard, and Rusty was scratching my kids and I picked him up to help the kids, the minute I held the cat, could I be charged with theft? He said yes. The police went to the owner and said to keep control of the cat and that's the last we saw of the cat until this spring.
The minute it warmed up, I was outside and here comes Rusty. I called the owner for the tenth time and said I've had it. I said I'd called him enough and he just didn't seem to care about the welfare of the cat. The next time Rusty is in my yard, I will take him to the Humane Society .
The creepy owner then tells me, "well he likes to be outside on a leash." I ask then why is the cat running free at all. He shrugged. I told him again that the cat would go to the Humane Society and he said alright. I then went to the Hopkins City Council and pleaded with them to amend the city laws to account for cats the same way they account for dogs. Many of the city council agreed that the property owner does deserve some protection or recourse in a case like this.
Over the next week, I found the cat in my yard three more times. I really was having a lot of mixed feelings about this. On Wednesday night, I came home from a getogether with former co-workers to find the cat in the yard again. I said, this guy seems to be daring me to do this. We got, what we thought, was a sturdy box and placed Rusty in it. Taped it shut (he had breathing holes) and put him in the car. I had to drive about ten miles to the Humane Society and headed out with Rusty riding shotgun. I am guessing that Rusty must have had a hulk like reaction to Gamma radiation in his past because about three miles down the road, Rusty decided he wanted out of the box. He shredded the side of the box facing me and looked at me. It was go time. So here I am wrestling with this cat as I'm driving 65 MPH down the highway in a car with manual transmission. I managed to get off the road and get Rusty back in the box while receiving only one really bad scratch on my arm. Rusty realized his fate was sealed and just "meow-howled" the rest of the way there. I dropped him off and walked away.
The next day, I got a call from the Hopkins City Manager saying that they felt that the nuisance laws currently on the books would be applicable to the cat and vowed to send a cease notice to the owner. Also, I called the Humane Society to explain why a tagged cat was dropped off and they seemed to agree with me, especially when it comes to the safety of the cat. They never reveal how an animal gets to their facility and it costs him $25 bucks to get the cat out. So far, I have not heard anything from either Rusty or the creepy owner. This is what keeps me amused in my life.
Matthew, animal lover.
Hey Matthew, maybe Rusty is your karma? Ever thought of that?
- Queenie
Also, Himself having read this blog entry, says buy a super soaker water pistol and use it on every cat that gets into your yard and within a month you will have a cat-free zone.
Himself is usually right about these things.
- Queenie again
Great story but. We laughed our asses off.
- Queenie yet again.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
A true Canadian
... is someone who can make love in a canoe.
I was told that once by a Cowboy Junkie.
Goddamn huge, wide, heavy things.
Any normal person could do it, I'm sure.
Anyways, after weeks of Kijiji-stalking, we found an old sixteen footer, with lovely wooden trim and the original seats still intact.
Not so sure we'll be portaging it through the wilderness anytime soon.
But it'll be great for fishing and camping. And pottering round Chocolate Lake spying on the neighbours.
So, yard cleaned up .... check.
Washer toss game unearthed from under the doorstep ... check.
New garden chairs .... check.
Lake canoe ... check.
Let the summer commence.
I was told that once by a Cowboy Junkie.
Goddamn huge, wide, heavy things.
Any normal person could do it, I'm sure.
Anyways, after weeks of Kijiji-stalking, we found an old sixteen footer, with lovely wooden trim and the original seats still intact.
Not so sure we'll be portaging it through the wilderness anytime soon.
But it'll be great for fishing and camping. And pottering round Chocolate Lake spying on the neighbours.
So, yard cleaned up .... check.
Washer toss game unearthed from under the doorstep ... check.
New garden chairs .... check.
Lake canoe ... check.
Let the summer commence.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
This greatest thing is going to be tough
Some more picks from people.
The Clash
The Who
Tom Waits
Bob Dylan
and, I dunno, Ella Fitzgerald era Duke Ellington band just to make sure that everyone thinks I'm a music snob.
Then again Led Zed is pretty good too.
Yes, Mike, us music snobs have got to stick together in this crazy world of cock rockk.
Polly is taking your "bands" thing literally and thus leaving out
Stevie Wonder (and the reason you would put him in is????? Sorry, hate SW)
Elvis Presley
Van (the man I assume)
David Bowie
so...
Led Zeppelin
The Kings of Leon
The Beatles
Fleetwood Mac
The Rolling Stones (which Luke has also voted for)
I have a feeling the kings of cock are going to run away with this one.
The Clash
The Who
Tom Waits
Bob Dylan
and, I dunno, Ella Fitzgerald era Duke Ellington band just to make sure that everyone thinks I'm a music snob.
Then again Led Zed is pretty good too.
Yes, Mike, us music snobs have got to stick together in this crazy world of cock rockk.
Polly is taking your "bands" thing literally and thus leaving out
Stevie Wonder (and the reason you would put him in is????? Sorry, hate SW)
Elvis Presley
Van (the man I assume)
David Bowie
so...
Led Zeppelin
The Kings of Leon
The Beatles
Fleetwood Mac
The Rolling Stones (which Luke has also voted for)
I have a feeling the kings of cock are going to run away with this one.
Born to Run in the USA
'I think that your entire life is a process of sorting out some of those early messages that you got.' - Bruce Springsteen.
I love The Boss.
He should be on the list for Greatest Band in the World ever.
And on the list of Greatest Dudes in the World ever too.
His music got me through the eighties and the nineties.
And I love his take on life.
Usually.
But he and I have diverged on the issue of the best Democratic Candidate in the World Right Now.
I suppose I shall have to give in finally.
Admit defeat.
But I am sad.
There was a great sketch on SNL last night (although I think it was a repeat). Obama calls Hilary at 3am and cries down the phone at her about his problems.
Which she sorts out.
And then she explains how to get the circuit breaker working again.
So I suppose I am not sad in a way, because she will still be around.
Politics is a dirty business.
I love The Boss.
He should be on the list for Greatest Band in the World ever.
And on the list of Greatest Dudes in the World ever too.
His music got me through the eighties and the nineties.
And I love his take on life.
Usually.
But he and I have diverged on the issue of the best Democratic Candidate in the World Right Now.
I suppose I shall have to give in finally.
Admit defeat.
But I am sad.
There was a great sketch on SNL last night (although I think it was a repeat). Obama calls Hilary at 3am and cries down the phone at her about his problems.
Which she sorts out.
And then she explains how to get the circuit breaker working again.
So I suppose I am not sad in a way, because she will still be around.
Politics is a dirty business.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
The greatest band on earth
And so it begins...
Chocolate Socialist quite rightly pointed out that I got the lyrics to The Smiths entry assways.
Apologies for that.
I had most of a bottle of wine in me.
Rottenhat contributed in a positive way.
The Fall
Roxy Music
And a vote for The Smiths from his wife.
So the voting list is as follows right now:
Himself's Picks
Led Zeppelin
Nirvana
BB King
Neil Young - based on Harvest
Jimi Hendrix
Theory of a Deadman
Kris' Picks
U2
The Doors
Coldplay
Stone Temple Pilots
The Smiths
Agreed Picks
The Cult
The Cure
The Who
Queenie's Picks
Radiohead
Low
My Bloody Valentine
Chocolate Socialist quite rightly pointed out that I got the lyrics to The Smiths entry assways.
Apologies for that.
I had most of a bottle of wine in me.
Rottenhat contributed in a positive way.
The Fall
Roxy Music
And a vote for The Smiths from his wife.
So the voting list is as follows right now:
Himself's Picks
Led Zeppelin
Nirvana
BB King
Neil Young - based on Harvest
Jimi Hendrix
Theory of a Deadman
Kris' Picks
U2
The Doors
Coldplay
Stone Temple Pilots
The Smiths
Agreed Picks
The Cult
The Cure
The Who
Queenie's Picks
Radiohead
Low
My Bloody Valentine
Friday, April 18, 2008
I am the sun and the earth
Kris is listening to 'How soon is now?' by The Smiths.
Where would you put this song?
In the 'Greatest Band in the World' canon.
It is just a song.
But still.
It is at the point in the evening when Kris wants me to type the words of the song out while it's playing.
Why do I always have to do the typing?
Himself is asleep with his head on the table.
He talked the whole way through Radiohead.... then fell asleep.
I am the song. I am the earth
Of a shyness that is criminally broken
Tum ti tum ti tum
You shut your mouth. How can you say
That I go about things the wrong way
I am human and I want to be loved
Just like everybody else does.
I am the sun. I am the earth
Of a shyness that is criminally broken
At this point, Himself woke up to say that that is it really for him with that song.
I thought it was pretty good...
What would you pick?
Where would you put this song?
In the 'Greatest Band in the World' canon.
It is just a song.
But still.
It is at the point in the evening when Kris wants me to type the words of the song out while it's playing.
Why do I always have to do the typing?
Himself is asleep with his head on the table.
He talked the whole way through Radiohead.... then fell asleep.
I am the song. I am the earth
Of a shyness that is criminally broken
Tum ti tum ti tum
You shut your mouth. How can you say
That I go about things the wrong way
I am human and I want to be loved
Just like everybody else does.
I am the sun. I am the earth
Of a shyness that is criminally broken
At this point, Himself woke up to say that that is it really for him with that song.
I thought it was pretty good...
What would you pick?
The Last Snowflake
Kris, Himself and I are starting the summer debate.
This year's debate is: 'Who is the greatest band ever?'
'Besides Led Zeppelin', says Himself.
This is a simple ploy on Himself's part to try to make sure he picks the winning band.
In case Nirvana doesn't win.
Kris is hedging her bets.
She's changed her mind twice, but I love all her choices so far.
U2
The Doors
Coldplay
Stone Temple Pilots
And one more, she can't remember.
You can pick four bands.
You can change them as many times as you like.
At the end of the summer we will agree on the best band in the world.
We are listening to Nirvana, right now, we started with Santana and Coldplay.
And we don't have a gun.
Says Himself.
And later, I'll get Radiohead on.
Because I'm doing the typing, that's why!
We cannot wait to hear what you think.
Ta ta , says Himself, broadcasting from a free Melwood.
This year's debate is: 'Who is the greatest band ever?'
'Besides Led Zeppelin', says Himself.
This is a simple ploy on Himself's part to try to make sure he picks the winning band.
In case Nirvana doesn't win.
Kris is hedging her bets.
She's changed her mind twice, but I love all her choices so far.
U2
The Doors
Coldplay
Stone Temple Pilots
And one more, she can't remember.
You can pick four bands.
You can change them as many times as you like.
At the end of the summer we will agree on the best band in the world.
We are listening to Nirvana, right now, we started with Santana and Coldplay.
And we don't have a gun.
Says Himself.
And later, I'll get Radiohead on.
Because I'm doing the typing, that's why!
We cannot wait to hear what you think.
Ta ta , says Himself, broadcasting from a free Melwood.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Have I given people too much despair?
I don't know what to make of Nuala O Faoilean's interview about her terminal illness, which took place on Marian Finucane's show last week. (go to 6 mins 50 seconds to start it).
It ends with Nuala's whispered question, 'have I given people too much despair?'
I suppose it depends on the person, Nuala.
I found it deeply comforting and positive to be able to listen to two of the most influential Irish women of my lifetime discussing how it feels for one of them to face her own death. This pair have been a major part of the running commentary that takes place in Ireland, and have expressed views on pretty much everything that I have thought about in the last thirty five years or so. Death is one such topic, one that I seem to bump into a lot more these days, as you do when you age, so it is fitting that they tackled it.
There was beauty (which is the antidote to despair) in it as Nuala, despite her insecurities about it, is a deep thinker and she delivers her thoughts in a knitted wooly hat type of intellectual way that has always resonated with me as a similar kind of citified agnostic country catholic.
And there were flashes of the old Nuala, the Nuala that wrote for the Irish Times when I was a teenager and took no prisoners and taught me how to do it: the wry acceptance of how unimportant a mere woman at the edge of a small country on a small planet in a vast universe really is, followed up with a 'to hell with it, I'm going to voice my opinion anyway' speech.
Being faced with Nuala's desperate longing for a reprieve, her desolation at knowing life is finite, and her decision to share her despair with us was difficult. Why? To make it easier? To record it as a journalist? To get sympathy and attention?
It was hard to know what she wanted from us as listener.
Marian didn't wobble once which is probably testament to her work with the hospice movement, but she ended the interview very abruptly, I thought. Maybe she was going to cry.
She was very concerned about people with cancer and their families getting upset by conversations about death from cancer when there's great hope around nowadays.
Which I thought was a bit of a red herring. After all, she was interviewing a woman who was pulling back the veil of silence across the issue of death by cancer while dying of cancer.
Dying.
Not praying for some of the great hope there is nowadays.
But Marian is nothing if not reflective of the Irish love of a good red herring. That's why she's so successful. And why we don't talk about death by cancer generally.
Other people I know who listened to it have talked about the part of the interview that was most poignant for them. It's interesting. Some people were upset about Nuala leaving her room behind. Others were upset because she said she was glad she didn't have children. Another was upset by the way she didn't want to rear the fourteen year old girl she mentioned at the beginning of the interview. And everyone noticed the smoking thing of course.
There's a reason why we hear certain things of course.
I was interested in her current attitude to her earlier, oft-proclaimed view that passion was what counted.
Passion can go take a running jump at itself right now, apparently.
Marian asked her about love.
Well I always used to get love and passion mixed up, Nuala said, with one of her little laughs.
I always suspected that was the case. I never agreed with you about passion, Nuala. But I could never prove you wrong in my head, because I couldn't figure out what passion really was.
I think passion is an emotion you can feel about anything or anyone and yeah, it's great, but nowadays its meaning has been corrupted so much that we mistake it for other things.
I am passionate about photography.
They have a passionate relationship.
He is passionate about football.
etc.
I'm just noticing how stupid the word passionate looks by the way.
The above are all examples of what most people would consider the various forms of passion that exist.
And of course, when you grow up an Irish Catholic, the first encounter you have with the word is The Passion of Christ.
Here passion is a condition rather than an emotion, full of pain, suffering, misery, desolation, with the promise of elation at the end of it. Or elevation.
A heady mix.
And then you grow up and cast off the shackles of Catholicism and say thank Christ that's over, now I can have some fun and go out into the world.
And the world tells you that passion is actually, really about those things, just not necessarily on behalf of mankind, or indeed anyone else. Passion should be focused on the self: it can involve sacrifice (for yourself and your loved ones) to achieve greatness in your field, or a heady mixture of suffering and elation in a difficult (but emotionally and of course physically satisfying relationship), or even the loneliness (and moral sanctimoniousness) of a crusade.
To my mind, the world is difficult enough without having to try to have an obsessive, sacrificial relationship with it.
I told passion to go take a running jump at itself years ago.
Wry objectivity is a much easier approach. Or even self-piteous subjectivity, when it's that time of the month.
However, I've since found that passion sneaks back in. And when you let passion sneak into your soul, rather than grabbing at what you think it might be, it unveils itself.
A glance at the profile of the person you love makes you catch your breath yet again.
Why?
What makes that face do that to you?
Memorising all the lines radiating from their eyes, and wondering what caused them; the tinge of stubble on their jaw, the shine in their hair, and the swerve of their nose. The way the hairs lie across the shadow of the muscles of their arm.
Because you'd forgotten for a second how beloved their face is.
In case some day they don't come home.
To see how long you can do it before they sense that you are.
And then they catch your look. And it makes them feel great.
Why?
What makes that look do that to them?
That's passion. Right there.
The rest of it, all the moaning and groaning (as the Queen Mother would say) and focus and sacrifice and elation/ despair polarities is just obsession which is so prized in this world that is being run into the ground by obsessive people, it has been rebranded as passion.
I am wondering if Nuala did not mix up passion and obsession.
The way most of us catholic country girls have done at one time or another.
We are who we are.
Desolation doesn't change us.
It just makes us truer to our unique selves.
As Nuala would say.
When she wondered aloud how it was possible that she would be gone and all she knows gone with her I wanted to shake her, tumours and all.
You are a woman who taught two generations of Irish women how to think in their own way.
Thank you, Nuala.
It ends with Nuala's whispered question, 'have I given people too much despair?'
I suppose it depends on the person, Nuala.
I found it deeply comforting and positive to be able to listen to two of the most influential Irish women of my lifetime discussing how it feels for one of them to face her own death. This pair have been a major part of the running commentary that takes place in Ireland, and have expressed views on pretty much everything that I have thought about in the last thirty five years or so. Death is one such topic, one that I seem to bump into a lot more these days, as you do when you age, so it is fitting that they tackled it.
There was beauty (which is the antidote to despair) in it as Nuala, despite her insecurities about it, is a deep thinker and she delivers her thoughts in a knitted wooly hat type of intellectual way that has always resonated with me as a similar kind of citified agnostic country catholic.
And there were flashes of the old Nuala, the Nuala that wrote for the Irish Times when I was a teenager and took no prisoners and taught me how to do it: the wry acceptance of how unimportant a mere woman at the edge of a small country on a small planet in a vast universe really is, followed up with a 'to hell with it, I'm going to voice my opinion anyway' speech.
Being faced with Nuala's desperate longing for a reprieve, her desolation at knowing life is finite, and her decision to share her despair with us was difficult. Why? To make it easier? To record it as a journalist? To get sympathy and attention?
It was hard to know what she wanted from us as listener.
Marian didn't wobble once which is probably testament to her work with the hospice movement, but she ended the interview very abruptly, I thought. Maybe she was going to cry.
She was very concerned about people with cancer and their families getting upset by conversations about death from cancer when there's great hope around nowadays.
Which I thought was a bit of a red herring. After all, she was interviewing a woman who was pulling back the veil of silence across the issue of death by cancer while dying of cancer.
Dying.
Not praying for some of the great hope there is nowadays.
But Marian is nothing if not reflective of the Irish love of a good red herring. That's why she's so successful. And why we don't talk about death by cancer generally.
Other people I know who listened to it have talked about the part of the interview that was most poignant for them. It's interesting. Some people were upset about Nuala leaving her room behind. Others were upset because she said she was glad she didn't have children. Another was upset by the way she didn't want to rear the fourteen year old girl she mentioned at the beginning of the interview. And everyone noticed the smoking thing of course.
There's a reason why we hear certain things of course.
I was interested in her current attitude to her earlier, oft-proclaimed view that passion was what counted.
Passion can go take a running jump at itself right now, apparently.
Marian asked her about love.
Well I always used to get love and passion mixed up, Nuala said, with one of her little laughs.
I always suspected that was the case. I never agreed with you about passion, Nuala. But I could never prove you wrong in my head, because I couldn't figure out what passion really was.
I think passion is an emotion you can feel about anything or anyone and yeah, it's great, but nowadays its meaning has been corrupted so much that we mistake it for other things.
I am passionate about photography.
They have a passionate relationship.
He is passionate about football.
etc.
I'm just noticing how stupid the word passionate looks by the way.
The above are all examples of what most people would consider the various forms of passion that exist.
And of course, when you grow up an Irish Catholic, the first encounter you have with the word is The Passion of Christ.
Here passion is a condition rather than an emotion, full of pain, suffering, misery, desolation, with the promise of elation at the end of it. Or elevation.
A heady mix.
And then you grow up and cast off the shackles of Catholicism and say thank Christ that's over, now I can have some fun and go out into the world.
And the world tells you that passion is actually, really about those things, just not necessarily on behalf of mankind, or indeed anyone else. Passion should be focused on the self: it can involve sacrifice (for yourself and your loved ones) to achieve greatness in your field, or a heady mixture of suffering and elation in a difficult (but emotionally and of course physically satisfying relationship), or even the loneliness (and moral sanctimoniousness) of a crusade.
To my mind, the world is difficult enough without having to try to have an obsessive, sacrificial relationship with it.
I told passion to go take a running jump at itself years ago.
Wry objectivity is a much easier approach. Or even self-piteous subjectivity, when it's that time of the month.
However, I've since found that passion sneaks back in. And when you let passion sneak into your soul, rather than grabbing at what you think it might be, it unveils itself.
A glance at the profile of the person you love makes you catch your breath yet again.
Why?
What makes that face do that to you?
Memorising all the lines radiating from their eyes, and wondering what caused them; the tinge of stubble on their jaw, the shine in their hair, and the swerve of their nose. The way the hairs lie across the shadow of the muscles of their arm.
Because you'd forgotten for a second how beloved their face is.
In case some day they don't come home.
To see how long you can do it before they sense that you are.
And then they catch your look. And it makes them feel great.
Why?
What makes that look do that to them?
That's passion. Right there.
The rest of it, all the moaning and groaning (as the Queen Mother would say) and focus and sacrifice and elation/ despair polarities is just obsession which is so prized in this world that is being run into the ground by obsessive people, it has been rebranded as passion.
I am wondering if Nuala did not mix up passion and obsession.
The way most of us catholic country girls have done at one time or another.
We are who we are.
Desolation doesn't change us.
It just makes us truer to our unique selves.
As Nuala would say.
When she wondered aloud how it was possible that she would be gone and all she knows gone with her I wanted to shake her, tumours and all.
You are a woman who taught two generations of Irish women how to think in their own way.
Thank you, Nuala.
Monday morning, grey again
The thing about the Canadian winter is that it usually ends.
Unlike the Irish winter.
One day you're up to your oxters in snow and wind and freezing rain and the next you're not.
The animals and birds get up and stretch and go about the business of procreation in the loudest possible manner and us humans smile at the sound of it.
Then we all sit around and wait for the leaves to appear.
Nothing yet.
tum ti tum ti tum.
No. Nothing.
One day in May, I will wake up and they will be here.
The leaves.
They do it every time.
A burst of energy.
Now though, we have a period of sun followed by rain followed by sun followed by etc.
It's called Spring.
It's nice.
But I would like for the sun to be out when I'm off work.
Not when I'm in work.
But I've never managed to find a country to live in that does that.
My Irish friends are discussing the camping arrangements for Electric Picnic.
This type of stuff makes me sad.
Nova Scotia is not noted for its live music scene. Which is a pity, because the chances of it raining in Nova Scotia the weekend of Electric Picnic are slim. Whereas in Ireland they are wider than slim.
Oh, I wish I could rearrange the world to suit myself.
Doesn't everyone...
Now I have to shower and dress because the woman I am waiting to call me is obviously not going to do that until I get in the shower. And then I shall go do my errands.
How grown up of me.
Unlike the Irish winter.
One day you're up to your oxters in snow and wind and freezing rain and the next you're not.
The animals and birds get up and stretch and go about the business of procreation in the loudest possible manner and us humans smile at the sound of it.
Then we all sit around and wait for the leaves to appear.
Nothing yet.
tum ti tum ti tum.
No. Nothing.
One day in May, I will wake up and they will be here.
The leaves.
They do it every time.
A burst of energy.
Now though, we have a period of sun followed by rain followed by sun followed by etc.
It's called Spring.
It's nice.
But I would like for the sun to be out when I'm off work.
Not when I'm in work.
But I've never managed to find a country to live in that does that.
My Irish friends are discussing the camping arrangements for Electric Picnic.
This type of stuff makes me sad.
Nova Scotia is not noted for its live music scene. Which is a pity, because the chances of it raining in Nova Scotia the weekend of Electric Picnic are slim. Whereas in Ireland they are wider than slim.
Oh, I wish I could rearrange the world to suit myself.
Doesn't everyone...
Now I have to shower and dress because the woman I am waiting to call me is obviously not going to do that until I get in the shower. And then I shall go do my errands.
How grown up of me.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Grey day
boring sunday morning.
Our landlord stopped by yesterday with a notice that he is increasing the rent.
So I wouldn't sign off on it until he agreed to fix the stairs and change the carpet and fix the enormous hole in the yard.
But he still managed to leave without promising to do anything about it.
He's a slippery individual our landlord.
I'm standing there looking at him not meeting my eyes, in his playboy yachtie clothes and his expensive moccasins, thinking 'why the hell am I paying for his nice wardrobe?'
Time for a new strategy, I think.
In other domestic news, our grandchild cried all weekend apparently.
he he he he he he he....
Our landlord stopped by yesterday with a notice that he is increasing the rent.
So I wouldn't sign off on it until he agreed to fix the stairs and change the carpet and fix the enormous hole in the yard.
But he still managed to leave without promising to do anything about it.
He's a slippery individual our landlord.
I'm standing there looking at him not meeting my eyes, in his playboy yachtie clothes and his expensive moccasins, thinking 'why the hell am I paying for his nice wardrobe?'
Time for a new strategy, I think.
In other domestic news, our grandchild cried all weekend apparently.
he he he he he he he....
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Summer in Dublin
This summer, from July 4th-20th, George's Dock in the Dublin Docklands will be transformed into a "tropical seaside oasis", dotted with palm trees and beach cabanas, and will play host to activities such as yoga, tai chi, chess, volley ball and sandcastle building.
Bring your own beach towel, or relax on a sun-lounger and watch the world go by. Just hope that the weather plays ball or "tropical seaside oasis" could be words the organisers may regret using. - Irish Times
WTF? Are we thinking we're Paris now?
Bring your own beach towel, or relax on a sun-lounger and watch the world go by. Just hope that the weather plays ball or "tropical seaside oasis" could be words the organisers may regret using. - Irish Times
WTF? Are we thinking we're Paris now?
Friday, April 11, 2008
So I popped by Blogger today...
... on my way into my blog.
If this is just not like the beginning of a turf war with the neighbour then I don't know what it is.
But anyway.
I am the type of consumer that if, I am accosted by a service provider. And forced to make a choice between a relationship and money.
I will always choose the most cost-effective solution.
Because I am not well off to do otherwise.
But I expect options.
For my freedom.
Dare I ask what is the price of freedom nowadays?
If this is just not like the beginning of a turf war with the neighbour then I don't know what it is.
But anyway.
I am the type of consumer that if, I am accosted by a service provider. And forced to make a choice between a relationship and money.
I will always choose the most cost-effective solution.
Because I am not well off to do otherwise.
But I expect options.
For my freedom.
Dare I ask what is the price of freedom nowadays?
Nova Scotia
is the beginning of the rest of the world.
It could be an Arcadia.
It was once.
It was Acadie.
I met a woman tonight.
Who is a Valley Baptist.
And she and I sat in a bar.
Uncomfortably.
That I, of course, had picked.
But we had a good chat.
We are all the same, us women in the office.
That's what I love about this job.
It's just a pile of women on a big floor of an office building.
And if I am anything.
Which I have never yet even believed that i could be.
But if i were
despite myself
i would be a leader of women
because that is the hardest job in the world.
and anyone who can do it
whether they are female or male or not sure
has my total respect.
It could be an Arcadia.
It was once.
It was Acadie.
I met a woman tonight.
Who is a Valley Baptist.
And she and I sat in a bar.
Uncomfortably.
That I, of course, had picked.
But we had a good chat.
We are all the same, us women in the office.
That's what I love about this job.
It's just a pile of women on a big floor of an office building.
And if I am anything.
Which I have never yet even believed that i could be.
But if i were
despite myself
i would be a leader of women
because that is the hardest job in the world.
and anyone who can do it
whether they are female or male or not sure
has my total respect.
Fuck the timelords...
... the librarians are going to win.
I don't follow technology, because they immigrate numbers into the language and that is foreign to me and I am rule-bound (which may or may not be my fault)
but it's all a spectrum.
So you talk to the people next to you.
Like in a cinema queue.
But hopefully a Leonard Cohen gig.
Paul Watts in Ireland,
has a ticket to Leonard Cohen,
who is canadian,
and is playing in halifax,
where queenie lives,
and she can't get a ticket,
episode 28,
in queenie's,
... lives her life again...
... in (the usually),
ever decreasing circles,
etc.
I don't follow technology, because they immigrate numbers into the language and that is foreign to me and I am rule-bound (which may or may not be my fault)
but it's all a spectrum.
So you talk to the people next to you.
Like in a cinema queue.
But hopefully a Leonard Cohen gig.
Paul Watts in Ireland,
has a ticket to Leonard Cohen,
who is canadian,
and is playing in halifax,
where queenie lives,
and she can't get a ticket,
episode 28,
in queenie's,
... lives her life again...
... in (the usually),
ever decreasing circles,
etc.
Himself is a Grampy at forty four
So Himself has become a Grampy.
At forty four.
Which makes me a step-grandma.
At thirty seven.
Which is a bit young.
But it's just for the weekend.
Phew!
Kitty has one of those rubber babies home for the weekend. It cries and does all the baby stuff and is supposed to teach her responsible behaviour (which includes not producing a real one I assume) and the stress of parenthood etc.
I'm a mom for the weekend! She announced on the phone.
Granny decided not to travel this weekend and by a serendipitous stroke, is missing the baby.
Hurrah!
Kitty was not appreciative of my glee at missing the baby.
I explained it would be shit if I were there.
Why?
Well, I would just stand looking over your shoulder all weekend telling you that you were doing it wrong.
True, she said.
She wasn't meant to say that out loud of course, but it's true what I said was true, so I shall just have to deal with it I suppose.
I am in two minds about a plastic baby being a contraceptive device, if that is what it is.
Maybe they work.
I think a distinct lack of suitable boys is a far better one myself.
Worked for me when I was young.
Plus the terror.
Of knowing.
That I would have to tell the Queen Parents.
That was the main barrier method in my life.
All the experts tell me that terror is a bad way to rear children.
And it is, absolutely.
But there is nothing wrong with sharing your dreams with your children.
It is the way that you articulate them that is fraught with danger.
That's why it takes a village to rear a child.
My grandchild will be fine tonight so.
Down on the island, with her great grandparents and her uncle and her grandfather.
Who assured me that if it cried during the night that it would get thrown out the window.
I asked him whether he had thought of a name yet.
So he changed the subject.
And told me another story of someone leaving the island.
I wonder why we all move around so much.
We get bored of each other I suppose.
It is the way we live now.
But it is very hard to say goodbye.
And as you get older, it gets harder to say hello as well.
And then Facebook starts making you do it.
Bah.
At forty four.
Which makes me a step-grandma.
At thirty seven.
Which is a bit young.
But it's just for the weekend.
Phew!
Kitty has one of those rubber babies home for the weekend. It cries and does all the baby stuff and is supposed to teach her responsible behaviour (which includes not producing a real one I assume) and the stress of parenthood etc.
I'm a mom for the weekend! She announced on the phone.
Granny decided not to travel this weekend and by a serendipitous stroke, is missing the baby.
Hurrah!
Kitty was not appreciative of my glee at missing the baby.
I explained it would be shit if I were there.
Why?
Well, I would just stand looking over your shoulder all weekend telling you that you were doing it wrong.
True, she said.
She wasn't meant to say that out loud of course, but it's true what I said was true, so I shall just have to deal with it I suppose.
I am in two minds about a plastic baby being a contraceptive device, if that is what it is.
Maybe they work.
I think a distinct lack of suitable boys is a far better one myself.
Worked for me when I was young.
Plus the terror.
Of knowing.
That I would have to tell the Queen Parents.
That was the main barrier method in my life.
All the experts tell me that terror is a bad way to rear children.
And it is, absolutely.
But there is nothing wrong with sharing your dreams with your children.
It is the way that you articulate them that is fraught with danger.
That's why it takes a village to rear a child.
My grandchild will be fine tonight so.
Down on the island, with her great grandparents and her uncle and her grandfather.
Who assured me that if it cried during the night that it would get thrown out the window.
I asked him whether he had thought of a name yet.
So he changed the subject.
And told me another story of someone leaving the island.
I wonder why we all move around so much.
We get bored of each other I suppose.
It is the way we live now.
But it is very hard to say goodbye.
And as you get older, it gets harder to say hello as well.
And then Facebook starts making you do it.
Bah.
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