It is a G-L-O-R-I-O-U-S day.
It was the same yesterday too.
Last evening I sat in the sun and tried to soak up some of the rays and got some work done and then Himself arrived home.
Feeling very sorry for himself and those like him.
Work has slowed down a lot now, and even though he's working the weekend shift there's not much to do except sit around in the lunch hut or the smoking shack and share with his colleagues.
Yesterday's sharing was all about the pissed off female partners apparently. Apparently all the lads got it in the neck from the partners when they went home Friday night. In fact, one of them had had to sleep in the truck. Such was the intensity of the domestic disharmony caused by working this one.last.weekend.I.swear.honest.guv.
Himself turned the pair of soulfuls on me.
Full blast.
Not a twinkle in them.
Just pure misery.
Pretty hard to resist they are.
And waited.
Ha, I said, Vindicated!
I can resist most things. Especially when I've spent the day washing dirty underpants and cleaning teenage bedrooms.
Where does the sand come from? Is she sleeping on the lake beach? Do I want to know?
Anyways, we're nothing if not reasonable so we assumed a negotiating position across the dining room table and hammered out a deal and then went for dinner.
Last night was so warm we spent most of it sitting in the garden with a bottle of wine. Our neightbour came over for a chat. The stars twinkled. Not a mosquito in sight yet. A little breeze swooshed in from the lake every now and then.
Bliss.
Happy days. I love it when the summer arrives here.
And the combined outrage of all the partners appears to have shifted the workers in the direction of not working any more weekends. But the male bonding has to continue, so we're all going to go out together some weekend night instead.
For the obligatory comparison and decision as to who has the hottest girl no doubt.
Himself has not told them that I am the hottest girl. Apparently that would be rude, even though it is true. Currently the boss is considered to have the hottest girl, so I will have to be produced in a subtle, offhand and low key manner that suggests that there is no inkling on Himself's part that he has the hottest girl, so as not to create an international incident.
Right.
After which I will no doubt be crowned the hottest girl.
Grand so.
But you must have said something about me, if you are all sitting around discussing your girlfriends when you are supposed to be working.
Apparently he has told his colleagues that his girlfriend is Irish and can drink them all under the table.
Christ.
Possibly. In 1995.
But not now.
I do hope his future in the company is not hanging on this assertion being proven right. You never know with those kind of guys.
Going to spend the day outside now with my stupid statistics.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
I have to talk about Fianna Fail some more...sorry...
I got too sleepy to finish this last night. And today I have to spend the day working on a presentation for Tuesday, so I don't have much time.
Himself's alarm went off at six am and he turned it off and went back to sleep. So I poked him in the back to wake him up and he got up and dressed and went to work without saying goodbye.
Bad move.
He is so not winning this sulk.
Anyways, back to style v substance.
The reason why everyone votes for Fianna Fail is because they are the big men. Flash. Lots of money. Big cars. Rounds for everyone in the pub. Massive tent at the Galway Races. Plenty of champagne. They turn up at your funeral and pay their respects and say all the right things and buy the lads a few drinks. They turn up at your sport's big occasions and forget to mention that they used to run people like you out of town for playing 'foreign' sports.
They constantly remind you that they are as eternal and unchanging as the rain.
People love that shit.
They hate intellectual lefties with dodgy backgrounds in big labour. Who make you feel guilty about the poor. I'm alright, Pat, why don't those single mothers keep their legs closed and get an effing job.
They hate Mayo muck savages in suits and big farmers who are always whinging for more money. Who in the hell wants some bogger from Mayo running the Dublin property scene?
They hate the sandals and bicycle brigade. Christ, they're trying to bring us all back to the Stone Age.
They like bright shiny objects and the allure of power and privilege that wafts around Fianna Fail, and they are comforted by the fact that this naked will to power comes wrapped in a shiny green flag and some bullshit about pragmatic socialism that is uttered whenever their Capo thinks it's timely.
I effing hate my country's people's political pragmatism. My only (mixed) comfort is that it is the same over here. And the NDP don't win here for the same reasons that Labour don't get any rural seats in Ireland.
Anyways, back to work. At least it's all over for a while now. I do hope that Labour don't go into government with Fianna Fail.
And one final thing, Mark Hennessey made a remark in the Irish Times this morning, about how the Taoiseach had to face 'what has to be said was aggressive questioning from the media' during the campaign.
DO YOU WANT AN EFFING MEDAL, MARK?
As I have said to him many many times in the past, that's your frickin job, Mark.
Himself's alarm went off at six am and he turned it off and went back to sleep. So I poked him in the back to wake him up and he got up and dressed and went to work without saying goodbye.
Bad move.
He is so not winning this sulk.
Anyways, back to style v substance.
The reason why everyone votes for Fianna Fail is because they are the big men. Flash. Lots of money. Big cars. Rounds for everyone in the pub. Massive tent at the Galway Races. Plenty of champagne. They turn up at your funeral and pay their respects and say all the right things and buy the lads a few drinks. They turn up at your sport's big occasions and forget to mention that they used to run people like you out of town for playing 'foreign' sports.
They constantly remind you that they are as eternal and unchanging as the rain.
People love that shit.
They hate intellectual lefties with dodgy backgrounds in big labour. Who make you feel guilty about the poor. I'm alright, Pat, why don't those single mothers keep their legs closed and get an effing job.
They hate Mayo muck savages in suits and big farmers who are always whinging for more money. Who in the hell wants some bogger from Mayo running the Dublin property scene?
They hate the sandals and bicycle brigade. Christ, they're trying to bring us all back to the Stone Age.
They like bright shiny objects and the allure of power and privilege that wafts around Fianna Fail, and they are comforted by the fact that this naked will to power comes wrapped in a shiny green flag and some bullshit about pragmatic socialism that is uttered whenever their Capo thinks it's timely.
I effing hate my country's people's political pragmatism. My only (mixed) comfort is that it is the same over here. And the NDP don't win here for the same reasons that Labour don't get any rural seats in Ireland.
Anyways, back to work. At least it's all over for a while now. I do hope that Labour don't go into government with Fianna Fail.
And one final thing, Mark Hennessey made a remark in the Irish Times this morning, about how the Taoiseach had to face 'what has to be said was aggressive questioning from the media' during the campaign.
DO YOU WANT AN EFFING MEDAL, MARK?
As I have said to him many many times in the past, that's your frickin job, Mark.
I took advantage of the snoring to change the cd... so we're okay now
Style v substance.
That's what it is.
Himself is asleep by the way.
In case you were interested.
I suppose some of you are rooting for Himself?
I don't care.
It's my blog.
I'll portray Him exactly as I wish to at any given moment.
That's what it is.
Himself is asleep by the way.
In case you were interested.
I suppose some of you are rooting for Himself?
I don't care.
It's my blog.
I'll portray Him exactly as I wish to at any given moment.
While we're on the question of questions...
I had to tell everyone in work today why I was excited.
Some of them vaguely remembered me talking about it once.
They're the clever ones.
Well they think they're clever.
They're not as clever as Fianna Fail.
I have that feeling again.
A sharp inhalation, painful.
The stiletto. Administered in the dark of an Irish pub at three in the morning.
A kind of gasp, and then an acceptance of the inevitability of it all.
Why am I never the one administering the stiletto?
This is the eternal question of my life.
I hope that Ray knows the answer to this one too.
Some of them vaguely remembered me talking about it once.
They're the clever ones.
Well they think they're clever.
They're not as clever as Fianna Fail.
I have that feeling again.
A sharp inhalation, painful.
The stiletto. Administered in the dark of an Irish pub at three in the morning.
A kind of gasp, and then an acceptance of the inevitability of it all.
Why am I never the one administering the stiletto?
This is the eternal question of my life.
I hope that Ray knows the answer to this one too.
I don't know what to say II......
Why is it that men always think that they can just win the argument because they're men?
I was in the pub this evening after work, celebrating Friday and the political demise of Michael McDowell, when Himself arrives in.
Sits down and tells me he's working this weekend after all.
Great.
Wouldn't be fair on the lads who worked last weekend not to.
Lovely.
Fuck the woman who cooks and cleans and raises his daughter while he's off bonding with these lads twelve hours a day. A shower of ingrates. Who are all going to be skinhounds tonight at Curly's bar in Dartmouth. And make him do all the work tomorrow.
Fantastic.
Fuck the fact that she was hoping for a bit of quality couple time this weekend, Kitty being at her mothers.
Smashing.
He could have gone to Curly's. He was invited.
Whoopie doo.
If I wasn't halfway through a bottle of wine I'd drive him over there and boot his ass out of the car into a pile of hookers myself.
Anything to get rid of the sulking heap on the couch.
Why is a man's sulk completely motionless, and still take up the whole room?
And why does a woman's sulk always result in a sparkling house?
Why do people always complain about the government and then vote for them again?
No.
Why do people get you to solve their problems and then not vote for you?
No.
Why do we let those people convince us they're going to vote for us?
That's the question.
Why do we do it?
No.
That's not it.
I know why we do it.
The question is, why do we keep doing it?
No.
There's an answer to that question.
I guess the question is, why does Ray know the answer? And I still don't?
Which of us is wrong?
Christ I hope someday if I live long enough and endure enough of this insane fucking motorbike ride we're all on that Ray and I will sit down and get drunk some night and he will tell me the answer.
And I'll remember the next day.
And it'll be true.
I sure as hell hope that I'm not right anyways.
Anyways, as if working all weekend wasn't bad enough, Himself gangs up on me in the pub about the Jared Diamond book with one of my male buddies. So they both sit there and pretend they're right and I'm wrong.
And I'm the only one of the three of us who's read the book.
So yes, why do men always think they can win the argument just because they're men?
And why did I have to read the book to even be in the argument?
Having a major 'life is not fair' moment tonight.
Bah.
I was in the pub this evening after work, celebrating Friday and the political demise of Michael McDowell, when Himself arrives in.
Sits down and tells me he's working this weekend after all.
Great.
Wouldn't be fair on the lads who worked last weekend not to.
Lovely.
Fuck the woman who cooks and cleans and raises his daughter while he's off bonding with these lads twelve hours a day. A shower of ingrates. Who are all going to be skinhounds tonight at Curly's bar in Dartmouth. And make him do all the work tomorrow.
Fantastic.
Fuck the fact that she was hoping for a bit of quality couple time this weekend, Kitty being at her mothers.
Smashing.
He could have gone to Curly's. He was invited.
Whoopie doo.
If I wasn't halfway through a bottle of wine I'd drive him over there and boot his ass out of the car into a pile of hookers myself.
Anything to get rid of the sulking heap on the couch.
Why is a man's sulk completely motionless, and still take up the whole room?
And why does a woman's sulk always result in a sparkling house?
Why do people always complain about the government and then vote for them again?
No.
Why do people get you to solve their problems and then not vote for you?
No.
Why do we let those people convince us they're going to vote for us?
That's the question.
Why do we do it?
No.
That's not it.
I know why we do it.
The question is, why do we keep doing it?
No.
There's an answer to that question.
I guess the question is, why does Ray know the answer? And I still don't?
Which of us is wrong?
Christ I hope someday if I live long enough and endure enough of this insane fucking motorbike ride we're all on that Ray and I will sit down and get drunk some night and he will tell me the answer.
And I'll remember the next day.
And it'll be true.
I sure as hell hope that I'm not right anyways.
Anyways, as if working all weekend wasn't bad enough, Himself gangs up on me in the pub about the Jared Diamond book with one of my male buddies. So they both sit there and pretend they're right and I'm wrong.
And I'm the only one of the three of us who's read the book.
So yes, why do men always think they can win the argument just because they're men?
And why did I have to read the book to even be in the argument?
Having a major 'life is not fair' moment tonight.
Bah.
I don't know what to say...
So I will start with the fact that Mike and Kate, my neighbours, are currently outside showing off their brand new compact Japanese something or other, having divested themselves of their lovely old crappy boat of a Volvo station wagon.
And I am too invested for my own liking.
I liked that old Volvo. It kind of said things to me about them. Having said that, the new car is much more energy efficient and safe. But it doesn't have the character of the Volvo.
Never mind. I'm sure they're the same people inside.
I am trying to think the same about Ireland right now.
Not working so good.
And I am too invested for my own liking.
I liked that old Volvo. It kind of said things to me about them. Having said that, the new car is much more energy efficient and safe. But it doesn't have the character of the Volvo.
Never mind. I'm sure they're the same people inside.
I am trying to think the same about Ireland right now.
Not working so good.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Vesey's Seeds
..... serving Canadian gardners since 1939.....
... seed catalogues. Last night, Lyse my neighbour dropped the Vesey's catalogue and I held it up to my face and inhaled deeply. It didn't smell the same though. It didn't smell of compost and smoke and wet damp soil.
Nevermind. I was five years old again, sitting in the shed with Paddy during a rain storm, looking through the seed catalogue. Paddy sitting on his tree stump smoking a Sweet Afton, me on an upturned bucket eating cola cubes, Bazz enthroned in the wheelbarrow, demanding a drive somewhere in it.
Paddy always focused on vegetables; cabbage, cauliflower, kale, onions, potatoes. I wanted to look at the flowers. I remember I had a thing about lupins. And sweet peas.
And snapdragons. I always wanted to buy snapdragons, because they were always part of the scenery in the Enid Blyton books I read when I was a child.
'Can I grow some flowers, Paddy, by myself?' I would always ask.
Last night I was marking seeds in the catalogue - onions, corn, beets, garlic, carrots and parsnips, peas and peppers and pumpkins. Rhubarb. Tomatoes.
The garden is dug out, we're just waiting for the frosty nights to end so we can plant.
Kitty wandered over for a look.
'Can I grow some flowers by myself?'
I had to laugh.
... seed catalogues. Last night, Lyse my neighbour dropped the Vesey's catalogue and I held it up to my face and inhaled deeply. It didn't smell the same though. It didn't smell of compost and smoke and wet damp soil.
Nevermind. I was five years old again, sitting in the shed with Paddy during a rain storm, looking through the seed catalogue. Paddy sitting on his tree stump smoking a Sweet Afton, me on an upturned bucket eating cola cubes, Bazz enthroned in the wheelbarrow, demanding a drive somewhere in it.
Paddy always focused on vegetables; cabbage, cauliflower, kale, onions, potatoes. I wanted to look at the flowers. I remember I had a thing about lupins. And sweet peas.
And snapdragons. I always wanted to buy snapdragons, because they were always part of the scenery in the Enid Blyton books I read when I was a child.
'Can I grow some flowers, Paddy, by myself?' I would always ask.
Last night I was marking seeds in the catalogue - onions, corn, beets, garlic, carrots and parsnips, peas and peppers and pumpkins. Rhubarb. Tomatoes.
The garden is dug out, we're just waiting for the frosty nights to end so we can plant.
Kitty wandered over for a look.
'Can I grow some flowers by myself?'
I had to laugh.
Friday, May 18, 2007
The Boy Wonders are here
I went to sleep last night - I'm so glad. Himself brought me for a drive. To Midleton and back. Midleton, Nova Scotia, mind, not Middleton, Co. Cork.
I am convinced I am suffering from some sort of retroactive colic/ cranky baby syndrome. Everytime I can't sleep for a while, and I get brought for a drive, I sleep.
We drove down to Midleton after he finished work to collect the Littl'un and his cousin Branden the Boy Wonder for the weekend. So we have a nineteen year old (possibly the other nineteen year old cousin too), a sixteen year old, and a ten year old in the apartment until Monday.
Also, BTBW is a very handsome youth, so the chances of half the girls from Queen Elizabeth High Grade 10 class descending on me for the afternoon are pretty high. Although it has started raining, so I might be safe.
Cue shopping this morning for: pizza, pop, crisps, chocolate chip cookies, cheese slices, chocolate milk, some godforsaken 'fruit' drink they all love, bacon, weiners, more weiners, weiner buns, tomato ketchup, eggs, more eggs, even more eggs, two board games that don't make any noise, and a blender for Queenie so she can make smoothies to counteract all of the above food groups.
And some beer for the nineteen year old of course. You can drink when you are nineteen in Nova Scotia. We are finding this very amusing, as he is only nineteen and three days, and we are used to BTBW begging us for the end of the beer can whenever we're having a beer or two. But he's a big-time hockey player, so he's not like an Irish nineteen year old. In that he doesn't think puking his rig up is part of being a man.
The weather forecast is not looking too good for the bank holiday weekend, but Littl'un and BTBW are currently playing basketball in the rain, so I am going to lie on the couch and watch an arty german movie I rented earlier in the week.
Before I start making weiner sandwiches...... eww!
I am convinced I am suffering from some sort of retroactive colic/ cranky baby syndrome. Everytime I can't sleep for a while, and I get brought for a drive, I sleep.
We drove down to Midleton after he finished work to collect the Littl'un and his cousin Branden the Boy Wonder for the weekend. So we have a nineteen year old (possibly the other nineteen year old cousin too), a sixteen year old, and a ten year old in the apartment until Monday.
Also, BTBW is a very handsome youth, so the chances of half the girls from Queen Elizabeth High Grade 10 class descending on me for the afternoon are pretty high. Although it has started raining, so I might be safe.
Cue shopping this morning for: pizza, pop, crisps, chocolate chip cookies, cheese slices, chocolate milk, some godforsaken 'fruit' drink they all love, bacon, weiners, more weiners, weiner buns, tomato ketchup, eggs, more eggs, even more eggs, two board games that don't make any noise, and a blender for Queenie so she can make smoothies to counteract all of the above food groups.
And some beer for the nineteen year old of course. You can drink when you are nineteen in Nova Scotia. We are finding this very amusing, as he is only nineteen and three days, and we are used to BTBW begging us for the end of the beer can whenever we're having a beer or two. But he's a big-time hockey player, so he's not like an Irish nineteen year old. In that he doesn't think puking his rig up is part of being a man.
The weather forecast is not looking too good for the bank holiday weekend, but Littl'un and BTBW are currently playing basketball in the rain, so I am going to lie on the couch and watch an arty german movie I rented earlier in the week.
Before I start making weiner sandwiches...... eww!
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Just call me the machinist
Last night I did not sleep for one second.
Not one. Instead I lay there listening to a spring wind storm howling round the house, rattling the windows, and shaking the trees.
All night.
I am so tired...
This happened to me once before. When I ended a long-term relationship in 2003 (I think), I didn't sleep properly for about three months. I just wandered round in a daze of exhaustion until it got too much and I fell asleep at last.
I hope it doesn't take that long this time.
Last time, I was alone during my insomnia. So I could get up, turn lights on, read or watch tv, do something to pass the time.
This time Himself is lying there of course. Himself 'has a clean soul', according to a German friend of mine. As soon as he goes to bed he gets sleepy, and about ten minutes after that he is fast asleep for seven hours at least.
So my insomnia is different this time on two levels.
Firstly, because I have to lie there quietly, so as not to disturb Himself who is working twelve hour shifts seven days a week at the moment and consequently needs to sleep, I am not actively insomniac. I descend into a strange meditative state, just by lying there not moving. I feel I am almost asleep, but I can, not quite hear but sense my brain telling my body to stay alert. Then I shift a little and realise my muscles are poised for fight or flight. So I try to relax and sink back into the state and then it happens again.
And again.
And again.
Sometimes I think I actually fall asleep even though I think I am awake. Then I have the strangest dreams, start to feel my mind pulling me out of them and I start awake again. There's this long noooooooooooooh and I start awake.
All very weird.
The other difference is the presence of a sleeping person beside you. You are aware of them, but they are not really aware of you, although Himself seems to be a little bit. If I get too squirmy, he rolls over, clamps a big arm around me and mutters poor baby try to sleep and then sinks back into whatever place he visits in his dreams.
Then it takes me about ten minutes to wriggle out from under the Grip of Iron.
I miss Himself when he's asleep. I see so little of him at the moment. Having him there but completely inaccessible is torturous.
A sleeping person is a strange thing, though isn't it. They're so vulnerable. How did we ever sleep in the wild way back when?
I just finished reading Jared Diamond's Guns, Germs and Steel, which is an evolutionary biological proposition for why Eurasians took over the world. Basically we lived in areas of the planet that had enough domesticable plants and animals for us to urbanise. Then we developed technologies faster due to the separation of work in society and the development of a political and bureaucratic class. Our close living quarters relationship with our domestic animals caused the powerful germs that destroyed our enemies, the Incas, the Mayans, the North American indigenous peoples, the Aboriginals to adapt to humans. Consequently, peoples who had no domestic animals - hunter gatherers, Mezo-Americans, Australasians - were not able to fight the infections.
It was interesting. Basically, the people who were the least adventurous in the beginning of man's development, ie, the people who stayed in the Fertile Crescent and its surrounding land mass, ended up being the most successful, as those who travelled the furthest were at a disadvantage when we set off to explore eventually.
I have been trying to figure out the moral in that story.
Stay in school, maybe!!
Or maybe, those of us who live in the quieter parts of the world are feeling the same impact now as before, we just don't realise it. People who live in more hostile environments now - North West Territories, Australia - are at the pointy end of climate change. But the drivers of that change are still in the traditional Eurasian east-west axis (and North America of course).
I don't know. I spent a lot of last night thinking about it (I know I'm supposed to empty my mind, but I CAN'T, OKAY) and I can't figure it all out.
I wish someone would so I can get some sleep.
Not one. Instead I lay there listening to a spring wind storm howling round the house, rattling the windows, and shaking the trees.
All night.
I am so tired...
This happened to me once before. When I ended a long-term relationship in 2003 (I think), I didn't sleep properly for about three months. I just wandered round in a daze of exhaustion until it got too much and I fell asleep at last.
I hope it doesn't take that long this time.
Last time, I was alone during my insomnia. So I could get up, turn lights on, read or watch tv, do something to pass the time.
This time Himself is lying there of course. Himself 'has a clean soul', according to a German friend of mine. As soon as he goes to bed he gets sleepy, and about ten minutes after that he is fast asleep for seven hours at least.
So my insomnia is different this time on two levels.
Firstly, because I have to lie there quietly, so as not to disturb Himself who is working twelve hour shifts seven days a week at the moment and consequently needs to sleep, I am not actively insomniac. I descend into a strange meditative state, just by lying there not moving. I feel I am almost asleep, but I can, not quite hear but sense my brain telling my body to stay alert. Then I shift a little and realise my muscles are poised for fight or flight. So I try to relax and sink back into the state and then it happens again.
And again.
And again.
Sometimes I think I actually fall asleep even though I think I am awake. Then I have the strangest dreams, start to feel my mind pulling me out of them and I start awake again. There's this long noooooooooooooh and I start awake.
All very weird.
The other difference is the presence of a sleeping person beside you. You are aware of them, but they are not really aware of you, although Himself seems to be a little bit. If I get too squirmy, he rolls over, clamps a big arm around me and mutters poor baby try to sleep and then sinks back into whatever place he visits in his dreams.
Then it takes me about ten minutes to wriggle out from under the Grip of Iron.
I miss Himself when he's asleep. I see so little of him at the moment. Having him there but completely inaccessible is torturous.
A sleeping person is a strange thing, though isn't it. They're so vulnerable. How did we ever sleep in the wild way back when?
I just finished reading Jared Diamond's Guns, Germs and Steel, which is an evolutionary biological proposition for why Eurasians took over the world. Basically we lived in areas of the planet that had enough domesticable plants and animals for us to urbanise. Then we developed technologies faster due to the separation of work in society and the development of a political and bureaucratic class. Our close living quarters relationship with our domestic animals caused the powerful germs that destroyed our enemies, the Incas, the Mayans, the North American indigenous peoples, the Aboriginals to adapt to humans. Consequently, peoples who had no domestic animals - hunter gatherers, Mezo-Americans, Australasians - were not able to fight the infections.
It was interesting. Basically, the people who were the least adventurous in the beginning of man's development, ie, the people who stayed in the Fertile Crescent and its surrounding land mass, ended up being the most successful, as those who travelled the furthest were at a disadvantage when we set off to explore eventually.
I have been trying to figure out the moral in that story.
Stay in school, maybe!!
Or maybe, those of us who live in the quieter parts of the world are feeling the same impact now as before, we just don't realise it. People who live in more hostile environments now - North West Territories, Australia - are at the pointy end of climate change. But the drivers of that change are still in the traditional Eurasian east-west axis (and North America of course).
I don't know. I spent a lot of last night thinking about it (I know I'm supposed to empty my mind, but I CAN'T, OKAY) and I can't figure it all out.
I wish someone would so I can get some sleep.
The rabbit got round to it eventually
So he did answer me eventually.
Q Hi Pat, Great to talk to you from Nova Scotia, where I'm following the election closely. Can you respond to the ongoing Fianna Fail threats that a Fine Gael - Labour coalition will undermine the stability of the social partnership infrastructure? Thanks
A Labour is fully committed to working and enhancing the social partnership model, just as I did in a previous existence. I believe there have been similar developments in Nova Scotia?
Ehm.... no, Nova Scotia has one of the worst union-employer relationships in the western world, but thanks for answering the question, Pat.
Q Hi Pat, Great to talk to you from Nova Scotia, where I'm following the election closely. Can you respond to the ongoing Fianna Fail threats that a Fine Gael - Labour coalition will undermine the stability of the social partnership infrastructure? Thanks
A Labour is fully committed to working and enhancing the social partnership model, just as I did in a previous existence. I believe there have been similar developments in Nova Scotia?
Ehm.... no, Nova Scotia has one of the worst union-employer relationships in the western world, but thanks for answering the question, Pat.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Don't sleep with a drip, have a beer with your neighbour instead
There are many things I love about Nova Scotia. One of them is the way neighbours interact in the summertime. Everyone just stays home and ignores each other in the winter of course.
If you find the right neighbourhood.
Which we have done now.
We are slap bang in the middle of mid-thirties, twenty-first century, work-life balance-oriented, professional/ trades suburbia heaven.
Think Slackers with gardens. Along the edge of a beautiful lake.
There are four apartments in the building. On the ground floor, James and Shelley from Cape Breton have been renting for a couple of years. They're going home for the summer, to run a famous pub in Mabou called The Red Shoe, which is owned by the Rankin Family. But they'll be back in the autumn, and for the summer they're subletting to Shane, who's also from CB and who is very nice. Albeit suffering from a broken heart at the moment.
Poor lamb needs a new girl. Never mind, I know lots of them.
Pat Rabbitte hasn't answered my question yet. I swear to God if that man ignores me yet again, this time on a live interactive internet Q&A, I will fly over there next week and vote for a Shinner.
I will.
Anyways, between James and Shelley and us are Chris and Matt. They share the apartment. Matt is older than the rest of us, but not any more mature, thank goodness. He has the loudest television in Christendom, but we can sleep through it mostly. He's an employer negotiator for the health service, so he loves to bait me. Chris manages the yacht club down the road, and is always out sailing. She's from New Brunswick, but she don't talk like she is...
How do I get someone to stop saying 'me and Shataya ain't got no money so we ain't going out tonight' and say 'Shataya and I don't have any money, so we're not going out tonight' without having to correct that person EVERYTIME they open their mouth?
Anyways, back to the neighbours.....
Above us are Lyse and Craig. They are house-hunting at the moment. :-( Lyse is an illustrator and works from home; Craig works for a car dealership. They are very involved in the Search and Rescue program here, so are constantly heading off into the wilderness to train or to find people. They have a big canoe which we all use on the lake.
Next door, Mike and Kate live with Conor (8) and Mica (5). Mike works with me too, so we hang out a lot. Mica and Conor get babysitted by Kitty a lot and they LOVE her because she lets them watch tv. Kitty and Mica go swimming in the lake a lot too.
Mike and Kate have two dogs, Molly and Minuit. Minuit is a black poodle rescue dog, who loves to bolt for freedom. Often when I am sitting on the doorstep having my coffee, I will see a flash of black curls streak by and have to give chase before he gets to the main road.
Molly is a much more sensible shepherd-lab cross. (I think, she has a shepherd's face anyway)
On the other side is the plumber and his girlfriend and his rental people, Mandy and her girlfriend. Who have an insane black lab who barks ALL THE TIME. But he's kinda sweet too.
The plumber's van has a logo: Don't sleep with a drip; call your plumber. It helps that he's very good-looking.
Nice sunny evenings are great. People tend to congregate in our garden because we have the most sunshine and chairs. We all have a couple of beers and sit around and shoot the shit with each other. Everyone just wanders in and out of each other's garden (apart from Mandy's as she has insane dog wired in securely).
It's so nice. I hated the high walls and 'let's pretend our neighbours are not there because then we'll have to talk to them and they might have more money/ less money than us' crap I had to put up with in Tenterfields and Addison Park.
If you find the right neighbourhood.
Which we have done now.
We are slap bang in the middle of mid-thirties, twenty-first century, work-life balance-oriented, professional/ trades suburbia heaven.
Think Slackers with gardens. Along the edge of a beautiful lake.
There are four apartments in the building. On the ground floor, James and Shelley from Cape Breton have been renting for a couple of years. They're going home for the summer, to run a famous pub in Mabou called The Red Shoe, which is owned by the Rankin Family. But they'll be back in the autumn, and for the summer they're subletting to Shane, who's also from CB and who is very nice. Albeit suffering from a broken heart at the moment.
Poor lamb needs a new girl. Never mind, I know lots of them.
Pat Rabbitte hasn't answered my question yet. I swear to God if that man ignores me yet again, this time on a live interactive internet Q&A, I will fly over there next week and vote for a Shinner.
I will.
Anyways, between James and Shelley and us are Chris and Matt. They share the apartment. Matt is older than the rest of us, but not any more mature, thank goodness. He has the loudest television in Christendom, but we can sleep through it mostly. He's an employer negotiator for the health service, so he loves to bait me. Chris manages the yacht club down the road, and is always out sailing. She's from New Brunswick, but she don't talk like she is...
How do I get someone to stop saying 'me and Shataya ain't got no money so we ain't going out tonight' and say 'Shataya and I don't have any money, so we're not going out tonight' without having to correct that person EVERYTIME they open their mouth?
Anyways, back to the neighbours.....
Above us are Lyse and Craig. They are house-hunting at the moment. :-( Lyse is an illustrator and works from home; Craig works for a car dealership. They are very involved in the Search and Rescue program here, so are constantly heading off into the wilderness to train or to find people. They have a big canoe which we all use on the lake.
Next door, Mike and Kate live with Conor (8) and Mica (5). Mike works with me too, so we hang out a lot. Mica and Conor get babysitted by Kitty a lot and they LOVE her because she lets them watch tv. Kitty and Mica go swimming in the lake a lot too.
Mike and Kate have two dogs, Molly and Minuit. Minuit is a black poodle rescue dog, who loves to bolt for freedom. Often when I am sitting on the doorstep having my coffee, I will see a flash of black curls streak by and have to give chase before he gets to the main road.
Molly is a much more sensible shepherd-lab cross. (I think, she has a shepherd's face anyway)
On the other side is the plumber and his girlfriend and his rental people, Mandy and her girlfriend. Who have an insane black lab who barks ALL THE TIME. But he's kinda sweet too.
The plumber's van has a logo: Don't sleep with a drip; call your plumber. It helps that he's very good-looking.
Nice sunny evenings are great. People tend to congregate in our garden because we have the most sunshine and chairs. We all have a couple of beers and sit around and shoot the shit with each other. Everyone just wanders in and out of each other's garden (apart from Mandy's as she has insane dog wired in securely).
It's so nice. I hated the high walls and 'let's pretend our neighbours are not there because then we'll have to talk to them and they might have more money/ less money than us' crap I had to put up with in Tenterfields and Addison Park.
Spearheading the Week, Franti but not frantic
I am multi-media-multi-tasking at the moment. I am writing this blog entry, following Pat Rabbitte's Q and A on the Irish Times website and downloading music from eMusic. I am also trying to listen to Michael Franti and Spearhead's album Yell Fire! album which is ROCKING MA SOUL.
Christ, he's got the sexiest voice on the planet.
And I am coughing a lot.
Me is sick....ehe, ehe, ehe...coughy, achey, painey, listlessly sick. No raging fever that prevent me from multi-media-multi-tasking or feeling guilty about being sick.
But sick nonetheless.
Yesterday I woke up and listened to my body and it said: go find a nice doctor, tell him what's going on with all of us, and tell him to get me into a state where I stop slowing you down all the time because I feel crap.
NOW.
I DON'T CARE WHAT'S GOING ON IN WORK/LIFE/BALANCE/ WHATEVER.
Cry at him if you have to.
So I did.
I cry at the drop of a hat these days anyway.
And since then body has decided to pack it all in for a week.
Poor body..... I guess keeping it all completely together for two years straight just proved too much for this one.
I am very proud of it though. So now I am going to listen to it and stay home for a bit and give it a rest.
Michael is telling me that From the East to the West... whole wide world keeps turning around.
I'm sure it will while I disembark for a quick stop.
Christ, he's got the sexiest voice on the planet.
And I am coughing a lot.
Me is sick....ehe, ehe, ehe...coughy, achey, painey, listlessly sick. No raging fever that prevent me from multi-media-multi-tasking or feeling guilty about being sick.
But sick nonetheless.
Yesterday I woke up and listened to my body and it said: go find a nice doctor, tell him what's going on with all of us, and tell him to get me into a state where I stop slowing you down all the time because I feel crap.
NOW.
I DON'T CARE WHAT'S GOING ON IN WORK/LIFE/BALANCE/ WHATEVER.
Cry at him if you have to.
So I did.
I cry at the drop of a hat these days anyway.
And since then body has decided to pack it all in for a week.
Poor body..... I guess keeping it all completely together for two years straight just proved too much for this one.
I am very proud of it though. So now I am going to listen to it and stay home for a bit and give it a rest.
Michael is telling me that From the East to the West... whole wide world keeps turning around.
I'm sure it will while I disembark for a quick stop.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Over at last!
D-day has proved to be indeed D-day.
A deal was done this morning; papers are being signed this afternoon; Himself is a free agent; we get to see the Littl'un next weekend.
I for one am glad this is over.
FINALLY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Not that a paper means it's over, but you know what I mean.
A deal was done this morning; papers are being signed this afternoon; Himself is a free agent; we get to see the Littl'un next weekend.
I for one am glad this is over.
FINALLY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Not that a paper means it's over, but you know what I mean.
D-day today!
Himself is gone to his home county today, all spiffed up, because today is D-day.
That's what we call the latest twist in his endless divorce, because today is the day it finally goes to court after a couple of years of pointless negotiations with his ex.
Of course, it is probably just the first of many appearances in front of a family court, as we finally, finally, finally start to sort out the Celtic triple knot of a mess that he has been in domestically for the last three years.
Kitty and I are staying in Halifax because today was the only day I could get an appointment for her to get her eyes tested. Her teachers said she was having problems reading; she was telling me that she was getting headaches after English class, I noticed she was reading the computer screen from about ten milimetres away. Finally the penny dropped and I asked her when she had gotten her eyes tested last.
Never, apparently.
Go figure.
So Himself is resigned to his fate; I am hopping up and down in a nervous funk, and Kitty is dreading the glaucoma puff of wind I described when I was explaining what an eye exam would be like.
Happy days all round.
Recently, I had lunch with a senior civil servant here in Halifax who has taken me under her wing to an extent and is mentoring me. I was telling her about my changed domestic circumstances and she told me that the same thing had happened her when she was my age. Except there were three of them.
And they went back to their mother after a year. And it didn't work out and they blamed her. And she felt sad and guilty forever after.
At the time, I said that I was finding the rearing/ mentoring/ feeding/ clothing/ caring aspect of the whole thing challenging but doable. What I was having trouble with was the complete opening up of my heart to a girl I didn't know very well. I have trouble with these things generally. And I was very nervous about it.
And she just laughed and said it would come. Which I have found helpful, as it helped me to stop fretting about it.
And gradually we have become closer.
Then last night, after we switched off an episode of Weeds, Kitty sat down and asked us would it be okay if she went home after school was out.
Home? Forever?
Yes.
Have you talked to your mother about it?
Yes. I asked her the other night.
I swear I heard the moon creaking across the sky, such was the stunned silence in the room.
A series of images flashed across my brain.
The special soft voice she uses with her mother on the phone. The pyjamas, three sizes too big, that she got a couple of weeks ago and wears constantly. The blog I found a couple of weeks ago, written by a girl called Kitty wondering why on earth she had ever left home.
Her sad little voice when she called late Saturday night to tell us her mom had fought with her and left her to babysit four kids until the wee hours yet again when she went home a couple of weeks ago. The pitiful bag of possessions she was allowed to take with her to our home in January. The tears on the phone most weeks when calls home.
The timing couldn't have been worse of course. We pointed this out to her. She said her mother had told her if she didn't come home now, the judge would prevent her forever today.
I pointed out that we had gone through this before and told her that the judge wouldn't do that as she was sixteen and considered capable of deciding by herself.
She stared at her feet for a while.
We asked her why she hadn't talked to us first.
She was too scared.
Too scared.
TOO EFFING SCARED.
We don't yell at her. We don't beat her. We don't drag her downstairs by the hair and throw her out of the house. We don't confiscate her things and use them ourselves. We don't take her Christmas money and spend it on alcohol. We don't read her diary and yell at her some more.
We don't call her stupid. We don't yell at her about her homework, or her marks, or her school work. We don't need to, because she doesn't fail when she's here. Because she's smart as a whip, but there are attention issues. Because she's SIXTEEN.
We don't make her stand in the corner with her arms outstretched to learn manners. We don't tie her to a chair until one in the morning because she can't figure out her maths homework.
We don't call her a fat *****. We don't ground her and invite all the local kids round to use the pool and make her watch from her bedroom window. We don't not even buy her a bra when she obviously needs one, or nice underwear, or clothes, or shoes, or a winter jacket and boots, or gloves.
We don't prevent her from seeing her brother for months at a time. We don't ground her for months on end and force her to do housework (apart from insisting she isolate the weird teenager smell in her room and remove the cause on a weekly basis!) while we go partying on the weekend. We don't put her in charge of a drop in centre for hyperactive kids whose parents go out drinking every night of every weekend.
We don't go partying period. We stay home EVERY EFFING NIGHT.
We don't prevent her from playing basketball because it would mean we'd have to drive her somewhere. We buy her a basketball and go out and train with her every night so she'll be good enough to try for the school team if she wants. And if she doesn't want that's good too. We'll just play basketball for the hell of it. Sprained thumb or not.
Too scared.
I thought her father was going to implode, such was the effort of keeping the tears of frustration inside.
You can go home if you want... we don't think it would be the best thing for you, but we can't stop you. You'll always have a home here.
That was about all he could manage. He went to bed. His heart is broken again.
We stayed up and talked a while. But her mind's made up. I can see it in her eyes. I didn't try to talk her out of it. I just tried to give her some tools to deal with what she's heading back into.
Hold back a little, I said. Keep some of your new mental strength to yourself, I said. Don't showyour strength until you have learned to control it, because people try to break you when they see you are strong. Just use it to keep yourself safe inside your head. But don't let anyone ever tell you you are stupid, because you have proved you are really really smart and responsible and creative.
She's worried she'll start failing school again.
I wanted to say Yes, yes, you must stay here and we will get you through high school and into college and you will have a qualification in four years and then your life will be full of potential in this amazing country and that's what your father and I lie in bed and talk about every night, how we're going to do this, and how great it's going to be to help you, and please please please let us do this for you. But I couldn't. It wasn't my place to say it.
I just said, you will always have a home with us. And we will help you go to college when it's time. And if anything ever happens to your parents, you will always have a home with me.
But you're going to have to keep your room tidy of course.
She finally started to smile again.
Off she went to MSN her friends to tell them god knows what because I don't monitor her private conversations with her friends.
LIKE SOME PEOPLE.
I went to bed and we lay there shattered.
Now I understand. Now I get it. Now, I finally know why people have kids.
Utter, unconditional, trusting love.
Forever.
No matter what kind of a dysfunctional selfish ***** you are.
Tempting.
Very very tempting.
All I can do is comfort myself with the thought that one day they sit there and tell you they need to go and live in a place that's full of danger and threats to them and their self-esteem and their future prospects, and there's nothing you can say or do because they have to make their own choices.
But I can't help but think how unfair it is that I have had to endure that bit without the payback.
Like my friend the civil servant said to me that day over lunch, they worm their way in, no matter how hard you try to stop them.
So true.
Still, she's sixteen. Himself was his usual optimistic self this morning. She'll change her mind, he said.
I don't think so.
The last thing she told me last night is that she's worried about her brother.
She's such a good girl. What kind of parent forces her daughter to come home because of the way she's treating her son?
One who knows that unconditional love will win the day, I suppose.
Now all our hopes are banking on a judge who has to figure all this out in a twenty minute hearing.
Then she might be able to change her mind. And stay in this new family we have built here together.
Somehow, I don't think so.
It's all about the importance of mother love in family court.
Fuck the rest of us.
That's what we call the latest twist in his endless divorce, because today is the day it finally goes to court after a couple of years of pointless negotiations with his ex.
Of course, it is probably just the first of many appearances in front of a family court, as we finally, finally, finally start to sort out the Celtic triple knot of a mess that he has been in domestically for the last three years.
Kitty and I are staying in Halifax because today was the only day I could get an appointment for her to get her eyes tested. Her teachers said she was having problems reading; she was telling me that she was getting headaches after English class, I noticed she was reading the computer screen from about ten milimetres away. Finally the penny dropped and I asked her when she had gotten her eyes tested last.
Never, apparently.
Go figure.
So Himself is resigned to his fate; I am hopping up and down in a nervous funk, and Kitty is dreading the glaucoma puff of wind I described when I was explaining what an eye exam would be like.
Happy days all round.
Recently, I had lunch with a senior civil servant here in Halifax who has taken me under her wing to an extent and is mentoring me. I was telling her about my changed domestic circumstances and she told me that the same thing had happened her when she was my age. Except there were three of them.
And they went back to their mother after a year. And it didn't work out and they blamed her. And she felt sad and guilty forever after.
At the time, I said that I was finding the rearing/ mentoring/ feeding/ clothing/ caring aspect of the whole thing challenging but doable. What I was having trouble with was the complete opening up of my heart to a girl I didn't know very well. I have trouble with these things generally. And I was very nervous about it.
And she just laughed and said it would come. Which I have found helpful, as it helped me to stop fretting about it.
And gradually we have become closer.
Then last night, after we switched off an episode of Weeds, Kitty sat down and asked us would it be okay if she went home after school was out.
Home? Forever?
Yes.
Have you talked to your mother about it?
Yes. I asked her the other night.
I swear I heard the moon creaking across the sky, such was the stunned silence in the room.
A series of images flashed across my brain.
The special soft voice she uses with her mother on the phone. The pyjamas, three sizes too big, that she got a couple of weeks ago and wears constantly. The blog I found a couple of weeks ago, written by a girl called Kitty wondering why on earth she had ever left home.
Her sad little voice when she called late Saturday night to tell us her mom had fought with her and left her to babysit four kids until the wee hours yet again when she went home a couple of weeks ago. The pitiful bag of possessions she was allowed to take with her to our home in January. The tears on the phone most weeks when calls home.
The timing couldn't have been worse of course. We pointed this out to her. She said her mother had told her if she didn't come home now, the judge would prevent her forever today.
I pointed out that we had gone through this before and told her that the judge wouldn't do that as she was sixteen and considered capable of deciding by herself.
She stared at her feet for a while.
We asked her why she hadn't talked to us first.
She was too scared.
Too scared.
TOO EFFING SCARED.
We don't yell at her. We don't beat her. We don't drag her downstairs by the hair and throw her out of the house. We don't confiscate her things and use them ourselves. We don't take her Christmas money and spend it on alcohol. We don't read her diary and yell at her some more.
We don't call her stupid. We don't yell at her about her homework, or her marks, or her school work. We don't need to, because she doesn't fail when she's here. Because she's smart as a whip, but there are attention issues. Because she's SIXTEEN.
We don't make her stand in the corner with her arms outstretched to learn manners. We don't tie her to a chair until one in the morning because she can't figure out her maths homework.
We don't call her a fat *****. We don't ground her and invite all the local kids round to use the pool and make her watch from her bedroom window. We don't not even buy her a bra when she obviously needs one, or nice underwear, or clothes, or shoes, or a winter jacket and boots, or gloves.
We don't prevent her from seeing her brother for months at a time. We don't ground her for months on end and force her to do housework (apart from insisting she isolate the weird teenager smell in her room and remove the cause on a weekly basis!) while we go partying on the weekend. We don't put her in charge of a drop in centre for hyperactive kids whose parents go out drinking every night of every weekend.
We don't go partying period. We stay home EVERY EFFING NIGHT.
We don't prevent her from playing basketball because it would mean we'd have to drive her somewhere. We buy her a basketball and go out and train with her every night so she'll be good enough to try for the school team if she wants. And if she doesn't want that's good too. We'll just play basketball for the hell of it. Sprained thumb or not.
Too scared.
I thought her father was going to implode, such was the effort of keeping the tears of frustration inside.
You can go home if you want... we don't think it would be the best thing for you, but we can't stop you. You'll always have a home here.
That was about all he could manage. He went to bed. His heart is broken again.
We stayed up and talked a while. But her mind's made up. I can see it in her eyes. I didn't try to talk her out of it. I just tried to give her some tools to deal with what she's heading back into.
Hold back a little, I said. Keep some of your new mental strength to yourself, I said. Don't showyour strength until you have learned to control it, because people try to break you when they see you are strong. Just use it to keep yourself safe inside your head. But don't let anyone ever tell you you are stupid, because you have proved you are really really smart and responsible and creative.
She's worried she'll start failing school again.
I wanted to say Yes, yes, you must stay here and we will get you through high school and into college and you will have a qualification in four years and then your life will be full of potential in this amazing country and that's what your father and I lie in bed and talk about every night, how we're going to do this, and how great it's going to be to help you, and please please please let us do this for you. But I couldn't. It wasn't my place to say it.
I just said, you will always have a home with us. And we will help you go to college when it's time. And if anything ever happens to your parents, you will always have a home with me.
But you're going to have to keep your room tidy of course.
She finally started to smile again.
Off she went to MSN her friends to tell them god knows what because I don't monitor her private conversations with her friends.
LIKE SOME PEOPLE.
I went to bed and we lay there shattered.
Now I understand. Now I get it. Now, I finally know why people have kids.
Utter, unconditional, trusting love.
Forever.
No matter what kind of a dysfunctional selfish ***** you are.
Tempting.
Very very tempting.
All I can do is comfort myself with the thought that one day they sit there and tell you they need to go and live in a place that's full of danger and threats to them and their self-esteem and their future prospects, and there's nothing you can say or do because they have to make their own choices.
But I can't help but think how unfair it is that I have had to endure that bit without the payback.
Like my friend the civil servant said to me that day over lunch, they worm their way in, no matter how hard you try to stop them.
So true.
Still, she's sixteen. Himself was his usual optimistic self this morning. She'll change her mind, he said.
I don't think so.
The last thing she told me last night is that she's worried about her brother.
She's such a good girl. What kind of parent forces her daughter to come home because of the way she's treating her son?
One who knows that unconditional love will win the day, I suppose.
Now all our hopes are banking on a judge who has to figure all this out in a twenty minute hearing.
Then she might be able to change her mind. And stay in this new family we have built here together.
Somehow, I don't think so.
It's all about the importance of mother love in family court.
Fuck the rest of us.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Bits and bobbles of spare time entertainment
I can't think what to write about. My life is very dull at the moment. Also I played basketball last night after work and I sprained my thumb (of course) so I can't type very well.
We have finished watching Rome in the evenings now. It took us a while to find a tv series that would match up to the excitement of getting the next Rome dvd in the series, but we did eventually.
And the winner is..... Weeds. I had never heard of it. But one of my colleagues recommended it and when I rented it the woman in Blockbusters raved about it.
Damn right too - great show. Mary Louise Parker plays a suburban soccer mom whose husband has dropped dead and left her in a financial mess. So she sells weed to her neighbours to pay her bills.
Geddit... weeds/ weed... hur hur...
Her suppliers are African American and the scenes between her and them are a little laboured, but the scenes between her and her neighbour, who is a DH-type beyotch, and between herself and her competition, a local teenager, are very well drawn. Parker is her usual dead pan self.
Gilmore Girls meets Desperate Housewives with a Boys in the Hood twist that doesn't really work.
Well worth a watch.
I also watched Alpha Dog at the weekend. Good movie, although it took me ages to figure out what was going on because all the dawgs looked the same. Am I getting old? I watch new, fresh, exciting movies and sit there going 'oh, he's playing Ed Norton in American Hero X', or 'he's playing a Tarantino gang leader type', or 'all those girls look like they're from the OC'.
Maybe I'm right. Maybe I'm just over-exposed to the US body of film. Maybe I need to join the arty dvd store and bring home Brazilian street movies. There are people in my house who find it difficult to read sub-titles though, not being used to it.
I also just finished reading Cat's Eye, by Margaret Atwood. Great, great novel. If I were to write a novel about a young girl growing up I would say exactly the same things. That's what so great about Atwood. Her description of personal experiences is so universal that she pulls everyone in at some point.
So talented. There was a great story in the paper yesterday when she talked about promising a young British publisher to do a reworking of a myth - Penelopeiad - to help him with his struggling business. He worked on her guilt complex - he must really understand Canadians, she said. Then she found it too difficult, so she called her agent and asked whether it would be okay to pull out.
There was a long pause and then the agent said, well I'm sure the editor would have something to say about it. Then she said, I'm going to climb Mt Kilimanjaro and when I get back we'll have a nice chat. Apparently this frightened Atwood so much she got started on the Penelopeiad and had it well underway by the time her agent got back.
I love her self-deprecating humour - it's so Canadian, but she's one of the few Canucks that is proud of it and talks about it.
The idea of being able to scare Margaret Atwood!!!
Really!!!
We have finished watching Rome in the evenings now. It took us a while to find a tv series that would match up to the excitement of getting the next Rome dvd in the series, but we did eventually.
And the winner is..... Weeds. I had never heard of it. But one of my colleagues recommended it and when I rented it the woman in Blockbusters raved about it.
Damn right too - great show. Mary Louise Parker plays a suburban soccer mom whose husband has dropped dead and left her in a financial mess. So she sells weed to her neighbours to pay her bills.
Geddit... weeds/ weed... hur hur...
Her suppliers are African American and the scenes between her and them are a little laboured, but the scenes between her and her neighbour, who is a DH-type beyotch, and between herself and her competition, a local teenager, are very well drawn. Parker is her usual dead pan self.
Gilmore Girls meets Desperate Housewives with a Boys in the Hood twist that doesn't really work.
Well worth a watch.
I also watched Alpha Dog at the weekend. Good movie, although it took me ages to figure out what was going on because all the dawgs looked the same. Am I getting old? I watch new, fresh, exciting movies and sit there going 'oh, he's playing Ed Norton in American Hero X', or 'he's playing a Tarantino gang leader type', or 'all those girls look like they're from the OC'.
Maybe I'm right. Maybe I'm just over-exposed to the US body of film. Maybe I need to join the arty dvd store and bring home Brazilian street movies. There are people in my house who find it difficult to read sub-titles though, not being used to it.
I also just finished reading Cat's Eye, by Margaret Atwood. Great, great novel. If I were to write a novel about a young girl growing up I would say exactly the same things. That's what so great about Atwood. Her description of personal experiences is so universal that she pulls everyone in at some point.
So talented. There was a great story in the paper yesterday when she talked about promising a young British publisher to do a reworking of a myth - Penelopeiad - to help him with his struggling business. He worked on her guilt complex - he must really understand Canadians, she said. Then she found it too difficult, so she called her agent and asked whether it would be okay to pull out.
There was a long pause and then the agent said, well I'm sure the editor would have something to say about it. Then she said, I'm going to climb Mt Kilimanjaro and when I get back we'll have a nice chat. Apparently this frightened Atwood so much she got started on the Penelopeiad and had it well underway by the time her agent got back.
I love her self-deprecating humour - it's so Canadian, but she's one of the few Canucks that is proud of it and talks about it.
The idea of being able to scare Margaret Atwood!!!
Really!!!
Sunday, May 06, 2007
El NaturaLista - shoes to die for!
Those of you who know me know I love my shoes. I went shoe shopping today. And 
I got the most amazing pair of shoes I've ever owned.
They're Spanish. Hand stitched in Galicia. From recycled leather, with recycled rubber shock absorbers in the heel. With the softest, softest. softest, foot-shaped, anti-bacterial insoles. Also recycled. Which lie over a recycled cork sole.
The leather is dyed with tree bark and natural extracts, then greased on with olive oil.
I shit you not.
The shoe is designed to put pressure on the reflexology points of the foot. The shoe is actually wide where your foot widens to encompass all five toes. It's like slipping your feet into bed after a long long day. When I tried them on, my back actually sort of sank into alignment with a sigh of relief.
Really funky green colour too, with cool stitching on the front.
A sort of flamenco version of the birkenstock.
Croc et all their moulded plastic buddies can kiss my ass. I am comfy, trendy, and oh so environmentally friendly.
The shoes all have funky names. My shoes are called Iggdrasil, which is the Scandinavian Tree of Life.
Here's a clip from their website. It's terribly happy clappy, but I do like websites that have green stuff and links to green organisations and congratulate staff for having babies and welcoming new members to the frog family, so I will be buying their terribly funky shoes forever:
The brand El Naturalista [The Naturalist] originates from La Rioja (Spain), a fertile, prosperous land known for its artisan shoemakers since ancient times. They know their trade, their quality and how to strike a healthy balance between tradition and modernity. Our products, however, are meant to be universal at El Naturalista we know nothing about frontiers, we are natives of the world and speak the language of plants, animals, water and stones.
Our name expresses a different way of thinking and acting. Being a “naturalist” entails respect for a rich, profound philosophy that lays its trust in life and attributes everything to Nature as a primeval driving force.
Our symbol, the frog, represents a land made fertile by water and it is meant to embody simple, worldly pleasures. In psychoanalytic theory, this animal, as an oneiric being, has a very positive connotation: agile and lively, it suggests adaptability and dynamism. The frog represents the permanent struggle against stagnation and shows the non-conforming nature of those who never shrink before difficulties.
And best of all, because I bought them in Canada, they weren't terribly expensive.
You can get them in Soulmates in Carrick on Shannon, apparently. I'd love to know how much they cost in Ireland.
And Hulit's in Princeton, NJ.
I got the most amazing pair of shoes I've ever owned.They're Spanish. Hand stitched in Galicia. From recycled leather, with recycled rubber shock absorbers in the heel. With the softest, softest. softest, foot-shaped, anti-bacterial insoles. Also recycled. Which lie over a recycled cork sole.
The leather is dyed with tree bark and natural extracts, then greased on with olive oil.
I shit you not.
The shoe is designed to put pressure on the reflexology points of the foot. The shoe is actually wide where your foot widens to encompass all five toes. It's like slipping your feet into bed after a long long day. When I tried them on, my back actually sort of sank into alignment with a sigh of relief.
Really funky green colour too, with cool stitching on the front.
A sort of flamenco version of the birkenstock.
Croc et all their moulded plastic buddies can kiss my ass. I am comfy, trendy, and oh so environmentally friendly.
The shoes all have funky names. My shoes are called Iggdrasil, which is the Scandinavian Tree of Life.
Here's a clip from their website. It's terribly happy clappy, but I do like websites that have green stuff and links to green organisations and congratulate staff for having babies and welcoming new members to the frog family, so I will be buying their terribly funky shoes forever:
The brand El Naturalista [The Naturalist] originates from La Rioja (Spain), a fertile, prosperous land known for its artisan shoemakers since ancient times. They know their trade, their quality and how to strike a healthy balance between tradition and modernity. Our products, however, are meant to be universal at El Naturalista we know nothing about frontiers, we are natives of the world and speak the language of plants, animals, water and stones.
Our name expresses a different way of thinking and acting. Being a “naturalist” entails respect for a rich, profound philosophy that lays its trust in life and attributes everything to Nature as a primeval driving force.
Our symbol, the frog, represents a land made fertile by water and it is meant to embody simple, worldly pleasures. In psychoanalytic theory, this animal, as an oneiric being, has a very positive connotation: agile and lively, it suggests adaptability and dynamism. The frog represents the permanent struggle against stagnation and shows the non-conforming nature of those who never shrink before difficulties.
And best of all, because I bought them in Canada, they weren't terribly expensive.
You can get them in Soulmates in Carrick on Shannon, apparently. I'd love to know how much they cost in Ireland.
And Hulit's in Princeton, NJ.
Friday, May 04, 2007
An alternative presents itself
An alternative to Nickelback has presented itself, in the shape of The White Stripes playing their tenth anniversary gig in Glace Bay.
I kid you not.
Those of you who follow this blog will remember that Glace Bay was the gulag I was sent to during last year's election. As in all gulags, the people were lovely; the town not so nice, the result, even worse.
And now, the White Stripes are coming. Not only that, Jack White thinks he's from Glace Bay.
Here's an article someone sent me without attribution, so apologies for the lack of it:
Jack White admits there's little that makes practical sense about the White Stripes' upcoming tour through Canada - an ambitious journey that involves stops in every province and territory, from B.C. to Newfoundland to Nunavut.
1. He doesn't expect the expansive - and expensive - trek to make any money. And in large part, it's rooted in childhood fantasies of life in the North.
"Even when it doesn't break even, it's still not the point of it, you know," White said by phone from a recording studio in Nashville, Tenn.
"As a kid, I saw some cowboy TV shows where they talked about the Yukon a lot, and the Alaskan-Yukon border. Sometimes there'd be like a bank robber or some kind of a cowboy outlaw that kind of went across the border to the Yukon side of it, and these cowboys or Lone Ranger types couldn't get to them … That was always exotic to me. I always liked that word - Yukon."
Besides, it's the rock duo's 10th anniversary this year, and to mark it, the guitarist and his drummer Meg White are on a mission to visit every region in Canada and the United States.
They start their 18-city Canadian adventure in Burnaby, B.C., on June 24 and wrap it up in St. John's, N.L., on July 16. The U.S. leg that follows includes stops in the 16 states they have yet to visit.
But the rocker with the wild dark mane is also on a quest to discover his Canadian roots. White notes that family from his father's Scottish side spent "a couple generations" in Nova Scotia before heading south to work in Detroit car factories.
"There's family all throughout there - all around Sydney Mines and Antigonish and all those places," said White, whose family background is also half Polish.
"Supposedly there's ties from me to [fiddlers] Ashley MacIsaac, Natalie MacMaster."
White admits he has no proof of this, so fans may want to take that claim with a grain of salt.
'I'd always wanted to go to Nova Scotia, I'd never been there and it landed on our 10th anniversary - it was kind of perfect.'-Jack White
After all, the man's own relationship with bandmate Meg White has long been a bone of contention since they claimed early in their career to be brother and sister. Court documents subsequently revealed them to be divorced.
White steers clear of questions that get too personal, but nevertheless insists that a highlight of the tour is a stop in Glace Bay, N.S., on July 14 - the band's 10th anniversary. White said the confluence of that landmark date with the Maritime province was a happy coincidence.
"I'd always wanted to go to Nova Scotia, I'd never been there and it landed on our 10th anniversary - it was kind of perfect," White said.
"We found this beautiful theatre, it's all red and white and black inside, and it seemed to be a 'God-bless-the-moment.' Hopefully it'll be a good show."
Most of the Stripes' other Canadian stops involve provincial capitals, but there are also smaller communities often ignored by rock itineraries.
For a time, larger centres like Montreal and Toronto were left off the Whites' list altogether.
"I first started off saying I don't want to play the major cities in Canada," White said.
"That's where my head's at. Let's just play everywhere else in Canada that we can. But, you know, you got to make the tour work, you got to pay for the bus and the truck that's got your gear in it. There's got to be something that makes sense business-wise, I suppose."
Tour economics aside, White insists that smaller shows tend to equal bigger fun. They often draw diverse crowds that are more appreciative of the performance, he said.
"Playing in a smaller club is better than playing in a big arena, playing in a small town is better than playing in a big town, and playing in a town that is on the outskirts that people don't usually go to is, of course, way better than playing a huge, major city in any country," he said.
"You're always going to have better shows because people are just more involved. In the bigger towns, sometimes you'll find crowds that kind of go to rock 'n' roll shows and kind of treat it like they're going to watch a movie or sit in front of a television. They're not involved actively in any way, and it's disappointing. Because the show, it could be so much better if people would sort of put forth some energy. Sometimes you're dying up there. You need a helping hand."
'Heavy record" set for release
The White Stripes' sixth studio album, Icky Thump, comes out June 19.
White said the name is derived from the expression "ecky thump," a traditional phrase from northern England that his wife, model Karen Elson, would use.
"I was just saying it out loud when we were writing the song and it sort of summed up that song and it started to sum up the entire album, and that sort of started to sum up the whole 10 years we've been together … It just felt right every time the word got written or said."
White said fans can expect "a heavy record" that touches on a wide range of genres including Scottish music, mariachi music, speed metal and southern American country music.
Amid all the tour planning, White is also hard at work on his second Raconteurs disc. He said they've put down about 20 tracks so far.
I kid you not.
Those of you who follow this blog will remember that Glace Bay was the gulag I was sent to during last year's election. As in all gulags, the people were lovely; the town not so nice, the result, even worse.
And now, the White Stripes are coming. Not only that, Jack White thinks he's from Glace Bay.
Here's an article someone sent me without attribution, so apologies for the lack of it:
Jack White admits there's little that makes practical sense about the White Stripes' upcoming tour through Canada - an ambitious journey that involves stops in every province and territory, from B.C. to Newfoundland to Nunavut.
1. He doesn't expect the expansive - and expensive - trek to make any money. And in large part, it's rooted in childhood fantasies of life in the North.
"Even when it doesn't break even, it's still not the point of it, you know," White said by phone from a recording studio in Nashville, Tenn.
"As a kid, I saw some cowboy TV shows where they talked about the Yukon a lot, and the Alaskan-Yukon border. Sometimes there'd be like a bank robber or some kind of a cowboy outlaw that kind of went across the border to the Yukon side of it, and these cowboys or Lone Ranger types couldn't get to them … That was always exotic to me. I always liked that word - Yukon."
Besides, it's the rock duo's 10th anniversary this year, and to mark it, the guitarist and his drummer Meg White are on a mission to visit every region in Canada and the United States.
They start their 18-city Canadian adventure in Burnaby, B.C., on June 24 and wrap it up in St. John's, N.L., on July 16. The U.S. leg that follows includes stops in the 16 states they have yet to visit.
But the rocker with the wild dark mane is also on a quest to discover his Canadian roots. White notes that family from his father's Scottish side spent "a couple generations" in Nova Scotia before heading south to work in Detroit car factories.
"There's family all throughout there - all around Sydney Mines and Antigonish and all those places," said White, whose family background is also half Polish.
"Supposedly there's ties from me to [fiddlers] Ashley MacIsaac, Natalie MacMaster."
White admits he has no proof of this, so fans may want to take that claim with a grain of salt.
'I'd always wanted to go to Nova Scotia, I'd never been there and it landed on our 10th anniversary - it was kind of perfect.'-Jack White
After all, the man's own relationship with bandmate Meg White has long been a bone of contention since they claimed early in their career to be brother and sister. Court documents subsequently revealed them to be divorced.
White steers clear of questions that get too personal, but nevertheless insists that a highlight of the tour is a stop in Glace Bay, N.S., on July 14 - the band's 10th anniversary. White said the confluence of that landmark date with the Maritime province was a happy coincidence.
"I'd always wanted to go to Nova Scotia, I'd never been there and it landed on our 10th anniversary - it was kind of perfect," White said.
"We found this beautiful theatre, it's all red and white and black inside, and it seemed to be a 'God-bless-the-moment.' Hopefully it'll be a good show."
Most of the Stripes' other Canadian stops involve provincial capitals, but there are also smaller communities often ignored by rock itineraries.
For a time, larger centres like Montreal and Toronto were left off the Whites' list altogether.
"I first started off saying I don't want to play the major cities in Canada," White said.
"That's where my head's at. Let's just play everywhere else in Canada that we can. But, you know, you got to make the tour work, you got to pay for the bus and the truck that's got your gear in it. There's got to be something that makes sense business-wise, I suppose."
Tour economics aside, White insists that smaller shows tend to equal bigger fun. They often draw diverse crowds that are more appreciative of the performance, he said.
"Playing in a smaller club is better than playing in a big arena, playing in a small town is better than playing in a big town, and playing in a town that is on the outskirts that people don't usually go to is, of course, way better than playing a huge, major city in any country," he said.
"You're always going to have better shows because people are just more involved. In the bigger towns, sometimes you'll find crowds that kind of go to rock 'n' roll shows and kind of treat it like they're going to watch a movie or sit in front of a television. They're not involved actively in any way, and it's disappointing. Because the show, it could be so much better if people would sort of put forth some energy. Sometimes you're dying up there. You need a helping hand."
'Heavy record" set for release
The White Stripes' sixth studio album, Icky Thump, comes out June 19.
White said the name is derived from the expression "ecky thump," a traditional phrase from northern England that his wife, model Karen Elson, would use.
"I was just saying it out loud when we were writing the song and it sort of summed up that song and it started to sum up the entire album, and that sort of started to sum up the whole 10 years we've been together … It just felt right every time the word got written or said."
White said fans can expect "a heavy record" that touches on a wide range of genres including Scottish music, mariachi music, speed metal and southern American country music.
Amid all the tour planning, White is also hard at work on his second Raconteurs disc. He said they've put down about 20 tracks so far.
Lots of dinosaurs in the news today
Nickelback are playing in Halifax on Canada Day.
I hate Nickeback. They stand for everything I despise in music - generic anthemic rock; songs about lost love that stick in my head and drive out all the good music I know; bloated tours and raaawk venues that involve the usual over-priced tickets, drunken louts, and standing around in a field for ten hours.
I prefer to go camping on Canada Day.
Guess I'll be going to Nickelback though. Seeing as the rest of them can speak of nothing else at the moment.
And not even Arcade Fire supporting them. They'll be off playing the European festivals no doubt.
And of course, I'm the one has to get up on Saturday morning to buy the tickets.
Sigh.
Of course, I could always forget to get up.....
_______________________________
I see the British Tories did for Labour a bit but not as much as they should've, and the Lib Dems are going under in the scramble for the new Britain.
Good. I hate the Lib Dems. How dare they fire Charles Kennedy, he was the only interesting thing about them. Menzies Campbell for chrissakes.
__________________________________
And Fianna Fail are going to abolish stamp duty for first time buyers. Thanks Bertie. That will just increase the price of semi-detached houses and destroy the apartment market, I'd imagine.
As accent monkey says, Ireland is hateful because you know the bastards are going to get back in, because the default setting in my home country is 'did I say I'd do that? Well I've changed my mind'.
Sigh.
I hate Nickeback. They stand for everything I despise in music - generic anthemic rock; songs about lost love that stick in my head and drive out all the good music I know; bloated tours and raaawk venues that involve the usual over-priced tickets, drunken louts, and standing around in a field for ten hours.
I prefer to go camping on Canada Day.
Guess I'll be going to Nickelback though. Seeing as the rest of them can speak of nothing else at the moment.
And not even Arcade Fire supporting them. They'll be off playing the European festivals no doubt.
And of course, I'm the one has to get up on Saturday morning to buy the tickets.
Sigh.
Of course, I could always forget to get up.....
_______________________________
I see the British Tories did for Labour a bit but not as much as they should've, and the Lib Dems are going under in the scramble for the new Britain.
Good. I hate the Lib Dems. How dare they fire Charles Kennedy, he was the only interesting thing about them. Menzies Campbell for chrissakes.
__________________________________
And Fianna Fail are going to abolish stamp duty for first time buyers. Thanks Bertie. That will just increase the price of semi-detached houses and destroy the apartment market, I'd imagine.
As accent monkey says, Ireland is hateful because you know the bastards are going to get back in, because the default setting in my home country is 'did I say I'd do that? Well I've changed my mind'.
Sigh.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
The Housework Rules!
I feel a certain sense of shame that I have to post this latest addition to our household, which is going up on the (dirty) fridge tonight, but I am tired of being the immigrant maid, so maybe a public shaming of certain people will result in more help around the house.
DEFINITION: The Housework is what is done IN ADDITION to cleaning up after ourselves. Cleaning up after ourselves shows basic good manners. Not cleaning up after ourselves will result in a fruit fly infestation this summer and more growling from me.
· If you eat/ drink/ prepare food – CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF!
· Put lids back on bottles, tie bread bags with ties, and put food away
· Keep bedrooms clean and tidy; bring dirty plates/ cups/ etc. to kitchen
· Put dirty dishes/ cutlery/ cups/ etc IN THE DISHWASHER.
· If the dishwasher is full of clean dishes, UNLOAD IT!
· If the dishwasher is full of dirty dishes PUT IT ON, at the eco-setting.
· Replace the empty toilet paper roll with a full one!
· If you dirty the towels in the bathroom, change them for clean ones and put dirty towels in the laundry basket.
· DON’T LEAVE YOUR SMELLY SOCKS IN THE LIVING AREA!!!
This diatribe of frustration is followed by a colour-coded chart outlining responsibilities, including sweeping, cleaning, cooking, tidying, in various rooms of the house. All with names after them. And times. And expected occurances, eg weekly, daily, etc.
Which I spent my lunch hour preparing....
I have turned into soviet pop!!
DEFINITION: The Housework is what is done IN ADDITION to cleaning up after ourselves. Cleaning up after ourselves shows basic good manners. Not cleaning up after ourselves will result in a fruit fly infestation this summer and more growling from me.
· If you eat/ drink/ prepare food – CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF!
· Put lids back on bottles, tie bread bags with ties, and put food away
· Keep bedrooms clean and tidy; bring dirty plates/ cups/ etc. to kitchen
· Put dirty dishes/ cutlery/ cups/ etc IN THE DISHWASHER.
· If the dishwasher is full of clean dishes, UNLOAD IT!
· If the dishwasher is full of dirty dishes PUT IT ON, at the eco-setting.
· Replace the empty toilet paper roll with a full one!
· If you dirty the towels in the bathroom, change them for clean ones and put dirty towels in the laundry basket.
· DON’T LEAVE YOUR SMELLY SOCKS IN THE LIVING AREA!!!
This diatribe of frustration is followed by a colour-coded chart outlining responsibilities, including sweeping, cleaning, cooking, tidying, in various rooms of the house. All with names after them. And times. And expected occurances, eg weekly, daily, etc.
Which I spent my lunch hour preparing....
I have turned into soviet pop!!
Blue jays out in force this morning
The sun came up and shone a stream of wild orange through my window this morning and forced me to open my eyes even though I didn't feel like it. So I got up. Himself is gone to work; his seventeenth consecutive day. He's starting to feel the pain of it.
Never mind, I said. Divorce pre-hearing next Wednesday so you'll get a day off.
I'm nothing if not positive about these things.
So I'm sitting here hoping the day will be nice as it has rained for five days straight. Four of those days I was off, and I'm back to work this morning, so the chances of it being nice are pretty high.
I'm nothing if not realistic about these things too.
The blue jays are out in force this morning.
Queegh; queegh; queegh they are screaming at each other. I wonder what they are saying?
They always make me think of Queequeg in Moby Dick.
I don't want to go to work today.
Ah well... who does I suppose...
I have decided that there has been too much focus on things that are duty and not fun, so I will have to think of some fun stuff to do this evening.
After I tidy the house and cook supper.
I had another tussle with Kitty yesterday. After she left yesterday morning I had to clean the kitchen and tidy everything away. Then when she came home and had a tuna sandwich I had to do it again.
I got very effing annoyed.
You don't pull your weight I said.
She got all weepy; I don't think she got any sleep last weekend when she was home.
I do a lot of work you don't see.
What, I said.
Sweepin' 'n' stuff, she sniffled.
Well, why is the floor filthy then, I asked.
I have about eleven letters after my name, I said, and so I am not really qualified to be your maid.
You said I didn't have to do too much housework, she countered.
PUTTING THE EFFING LID BACK ON THE MAYONNAISE JAR AND PUTTING IT IN THE FRIDGE IS NOT WORK, OKAY!
Okay! Okay! Okay!
Work is sitting in an office trying to think of something intelligent to write about for the week. It's far more pointless than putting the mayonnaise back in the fridge.
Anyways, our communications maven is returning to the fold today after a year's leave of absence, so at least that's something to look forward to.
I think I need a holiday...
Never mind, I said. Divorce pre-hearing next Wednesday so you'll get a day off.
I'm nothing if not positive about these things.
So I'm sitting here hoping the day will be nice as it has rained for five days straight. Four of those days I was off, and I'm back to work this morning, so the chances of it being nice are pretty high.
I'm nothing if not realistic about these things too.
The blue jays are out in force this morning.
Queegh; queegh; queegh they are screaming at each other. I wonder what they are saying?
They always make me think of Queequeg in Moby Dick.
I don't want to go to work today.
Ah well... who does I suppose...
I have decided that there has been too much focus on things that are duty and not fun, so I will have to think of some fun stuff to do this evening.
After I tidy the house and cook supper.
I had another tussle with Kitty yesterday. After she left yesterday morning I had to clean the kitchen and tidy everything away. Then when she came home and had a tuna sandwich I had to do it again.
I got very effing annoyed.
You don't pull your weight I said.
She got all weepy; I don't think she got any sleep last weekend when she was home.
I do a lot of work you don't see.
What, I said.
Sweepin' 'n' stuff, she sniffled.
Well, why is the floor filthy then, I asked.
I have about eleven letters after my name, I said, and so I am not really qualified to be your maid.
You said I didn't have to do too much housework, she countered.
PUTTING THE EFFING LID BACK ON THE MAYONNAISE JAR AND PUTTING IT IN THE FRIDGE IS NOT WORK, OKAY!
Okay! Okay! Okay!
Work is sitting in an office trying to think of something intelligent to write about for the week. It's far more pointless than putting the mayonnaise back in the fridge.
Anyways, our communications maven is returning to the fold today after a year's leave of absence, so at least that's something to look forward to.
I think I need a holiday...
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