For Accent Monkey - hope they can fit it all on the plane!!!
(I jest, we will provide all except sleeping bags)
Accommodation Gear
Tent x 2
Sleeping bags x 2
Air mattress and blanket
Comforter and blanket
Pillows (Lorraine’s camping pillow)
Night lamp
Head Torches x 2
Tent lights
Wind up radio
Hammock and rope
4 x camping chairs
Cooking Gear
Stove and propane tank
Burner and propane tank
Kettle and coffee pot
BBQ tool bag
Cooking bag – frying pan, saucepans, 5 x plates, 5 x glasses, 5 x cups, 5 x cutlery, chopping board, sharp knife, corkscrew, can opener, wine cork,
Condiments cooler - salt, pepper, olive oil, BBQ sauce, tomato sauce, pickle, mayonnaise, mustard, margarine, jam/ honey, soy sauce, hot sauce
Wash up bowl - w-up liquid, kitchen towel, recycle, garbage bags
Washing bucket - soap, shampoo, shaving foam and razor, toothpaste and brushes
Food Cooler – burgers, hot dogs, sausages, bacon, eggs, mushrooms, bread, apples, oranges, grapes, cheese slices, ham slices, burger buns, hot dog buns, tomatoes, lettuce, onions, tinned beans, tinned soup, tinned fruit, box of rice, box of cereal, coffee, teabags, sugar, granola bars, peanuts, chips, hummus/ dips and pita wraps
Drinks Cooler– 4L water bag, beer, wine, pop, milk, juice packs (lots of)
Miscellaneous Gear
Swimsuits, life-jackets, towels
Basketball/ rings game/ pack of cards
Sweaters and long pants for evening
Off/ anti-mossie spray, Sunscreen
Hiking boots/ socks, Wind-breaker
Backpacks, Water bottles, thermos’
First Aid pack
band-aids, topical cream, needle (for splinters), ibuprofen, motilium, gauze, bandages, anti-histamine, cotton buds, cotton pads, sterile spray, insect relief, tweezers, scissors, electrolytes, sunburn cream, Optrex
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Garden's all planted as well
My, don't you get a lot done when there's no teenager in the house needing to be fed and clothed and entertained and nagged and lectured. The day Kitty left for a trip down home Himself and I wandered aimlessly around the apartment for hours.
Couldn't figure out why.
Turned out nothing needed to be put away, no laundry needed to be done, no meals needed to be prepared, no shopping needed to be undertaken, no life lessons needed to be taught.
Nothing.
It took me one day to find stuff to do. There being a bit of a backlog.
Saturday was a bit of a washout what with it pouring rain all friggin' day. But at least we had the house warming/ shivering. As a result of the rain, however, most of the people left the housewarming early and it was up to us to keep the host company while he got drunk and turned his shed stereo up to eleven to welcome himself to the neighbourhood. Then we walked home. Down the dark bendy road (you'd swear we lived in the country, but we live in Armdale, which is very shady and treelined) past the house where the Red Chair Man lives.
Four tipsy adults and the urban myth of the Red Chair Man = silly time had by all.
Red Chair Man sits in a red chair in his yard all day smoking cigarettes and drinking tea. The chair is placed in the centre of his driveway which is a little odd. However, what is worrysome is the bag hanging from the tree on his lawn. The bag is an oblong, grey sac, that bulges.
It could be an alien breeding pod.
It could contain the skulls of his victims (Canada is currently living through the horrific trial of Willie Pickton, accused serial killer of down and out women in Vancouver, so the mind jumps to these conclusions currently).
It could be full of rotten fruit.
It could be his dirty laundry.
Whatever it is, what is it doing in the tree?
Lyse announced herself petrified of Red Chair Man and the contents of his bag. Lyse doesn't drink, I'd like to point out by the way.
Himself and Craig decided to open the bag and see for themselves.
It being one am and Saturday to boot.
Himself and Craig like to drink of course.
Off they 'tiptoed' across RCM's lawn. They neglected to notice that RCM was standing in his front room looking at them, so when he turned on his outside light to get a closer look at the intruders, they fell over themselves in shock and lay rabbit-in-headlights for a bit, trying to decide whether they'd make it to the bag before he murdered.
That's what they told me anyway. After they ran down the hill and round the corner.
Lyse and I were bent into each other laughing under the trees on the other side of the road.
Next day, I had to walk up the hill BY MYSELF to collect the car. Red Chair Man was sitting in the red chair in his driveway, smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of tea. Rather than the scary looking older man I was imagining, he's about Himself's age, with nothing going on apart from a mullet. A slightly seedy looking blonde was sunbathing on the lawn UNDER THE OBLONG BAG.
They both looked at me as I scurried by.
I don't know what to think.
They looked normal enough.
It's the three word name that gives it away of course. Red. Chair. Man.
Anyways, when I got to Lyse's house, she had a load of seeds for me, so instead of having to go to the garden centre we got straight to it, planted our garden finally and hopefully, the horse manure I put in a month ago will do the trick.
We have:
Lettuce
Peas
Beans
Radishes
Tomatoes
Chives
Parsnips
Beets
Squash, summer and winter
Sage
Oregano
Thyme
Basil
Echinecea
Dill
and Sunflowers and Nasturtiums.
Just gotta get some carrots and some garlic and we're set.
Couldn't figure out why.
Turned out nothing needed to be put away, no laundry needed to be done, no meals needed to be prepared, no shopping needed to be undertaken, no life lessons needed to be taught.
Nothing.
It took me one day to find stuff to do. There being a bit of a backlog.
Saturday was a bit of a washout what with it pouring rain all friggin' day. But at least we had the house warming/ shivering. As a result of the rain, however, most of the people left the housewarming early and it was up to us to keep the host company while he got drunk and turned his shed stereo up to eleven to welcome himself to the neighbourhood. Then we walked home. Down the dark bendy road (you'd swear we lived in the country, but we live in Armdale, which is very shady and treelined) past the house where the Red Chair Man lives.
Four tipsy adults and the urban myth of the Red Chair Man = silly time had by all.
Red Chair Man sits in a red chair in his yard all day smoking cigarettes and drinking tea. The chair is placed in the centre of his driveway which is a little odd. However, what is worrysome is the bag hanging from the tree on his lawn. The bag is an oblong, grey sac, that bulges.
It could be an alien breeding pod.
It could contain the skulls of his victims (Canada is currently living through the horrific trial of Willie Pickton, accused serial killer of down and out women in Vancouver, so the mind jumps to these conclusions currently).
It could be full of rotten fruit.
It could be his dirty laundry.
Whatever it is, what is it doing in the tree?
Lyse announced herself petrified of Red Chair Man and the contents of his bag. Lyse doesn't drink, I'd like to point out by the way.
Himself and Craig decided to open the bag and see for themselves.
It being one am and Saturday to boot.
Himself and Craig like to drink of course.
Off they 'tiptoed' across RCM's lawn. They neglected to notice that RCM was standing in his front room looking at them, so when he turned on his outside light to get a closer look at the intruders, they fell over themselves in shock and lay rabbit-in-headlights for a bit, trying to decide whether they'd make it to the bag before he murdered.
That's what they told me anyway. After they ran down the hill and round the corner.
Lyse and I were bent into each other laughing under the trees on the other side of the road.
Next day, I had to walk up the hill BY MYSELF to collect the car. Red Chair Man was sitting in the red chair in his driveway, smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of tea. Rather than the scary looking older man I was imagining, he's about Himself's age, with nothing going on apart from a mullet. A slightly seedy looking blonde was sunbathing on the lawn UNDER THE OBLONG BAG.
They both looked at me as I scurried by.
I don't know what to think.
They looked normal enough.
It's the three word name that gives it away of course. Red. Chair. Man.
Anyways, when I got to Lyse's house, she had a load of seeds for me, so instead of having to go to the garden centre we got straight to it, planted our garden finally and hopefully, the horse manure I put in a month ago will do the trick.
We have:
Lettuce
Peas
Beans
Radishes
Tomatoes
Chives
Parsnips
Beets
Squash, summer and winter
Sage
Oregano
Thyme
Basil
Echinecea
Dill
and Sunflowers and Nasturtiums.
Just gotta get some carrots and some garlic and we're set.
Pat the phish, the neon paparazzi, Pee and Dee
In all the chaos that is my life these days I forgot to tell you all that I finally replaced Alexa and Peter, my goldfish, who slipped away one after t'other a few months back, leaving me bereft of animal company.
Well, replaced is a strong word. They are irreplaceable.
I finally got my act together one day and bought some fish.
A scarlet ghourami, two hatchet fish, and four neon tetras.
Put them in the tank. Watched them for a bit.
No personality emerged, so I ignored them, apart from feeding them the required amounts.
Very boring. No names jumped out at me or anything.
In fact, they just made me miss Alexa and Peter more. (I know, it's sad, but they had personality and liked music and all kinds of things. Plus I didn't know many people then).
Anyways, after a couple of weeks I was bored one night, so I watched them for a bit.
I don't like the ghourami. He's a big reddish fish with a pot belly and long whiskers dangling down either side of his pout. He swims around the bowl like he owns it. In fact, he reminds me of Pat Rabbitte a bit in his gait. (Except I like Pat).
And he was bullying the tetras. The four of them were huddled together in a corner of the bowl quivering as he sailed around imperiously.
I decided to call them the meeja.
So anyways, time passed and suddenly we were at the housewarming for our neighbours who just bought a house up the road. Which took place last Saturday in the pouring rain, so it wasn't really a warming, more a shivering under the gazebo on the patio avoiding the clumps of water falling from the sky.
Or an Irish Barbeque, as we call it at home.
Happily though, I ended up sitting beside a molecular biologist from Carolina called Amy, who had dressed for the Carolinas in June, not the Maritimes in June, but who was nonetheless interested in my fish dilemma. 'Buy another ghourami', she advised me, 'one about the same size'.
I considered that for a moment, and was trying to think of how I'd explain about how there was only one Pat Rabbitte the phish really and that wouldn't work because he'd take lumps out of another similar fish, when she sensed my hesitation and said I could buy a rake more tetras, so they'd have safety in numbers.
So now the meeja have turned into the paparazzi, and Pat Rabbitte the phish is the one skulking in the undergrowth.
Serves him right for scaring them.
I have two hatchet fish as well. I decided to call them Pee and Dee, because there's only two of them, he he, he. (People from Canada will not get this, Irish political Humour, d'ya see).
So there you go, the menagerie is complete again.
Well, replaced is a strong word. They are irreplaceable.
I finally got my act together one day and bought some fish.
A scarlet ghourami, two hatchet fish, and four neon tetras.
Put them in the tank. Watched them for a bit.
No personality emerged, so I ignored them, apart from feeding them the required amounts.
Very boring. No names jumped out at me or anything.
In fact, they just made me miss Alexa and Peter more. (I know, it's sad, but they had personality and liked music and all kinds of things. Plus I didn't know many people then).
Anyways, after a couple of weeks I was bored one night, so I watched them for a bit.
I don't like the ghourami. He's a big reddish fish with a pot belly and long whiskers dangling down either side of his pout. He swims around the bowl like he owns it. In fact, he reminds me of Pat Rabbitte a bit in his gait. (Except I like Pat).
And he was bullying the tetras. The four of them were huddled together in a corner of the bowl quivering as he sailed around imperiously.
I decided to call them the meeja.
So anyways, time passed and suddenly we were at the housewarming for our neighbours who just bought a house up the road. Which took place last Saturday in the pouring rain, so it wasn't really a warming, more a shivering under the gazebo on the patio avoiding the clumps of water falling from the sky.
Or an Irish Barbeque, as we call it at home.
Happily though, I ended up sitting beside a molecular biologist from Carolina called Amy, who had dressed for the Carolinas in June, not the Maritimes in June, but who was nonetheless interested in my fish dilemma. 'Buy another ghourami', she advised me, 'one about the same size'.
I considered that for a moment, and was trying to think of how I'd explain about how there was only one Pat Rabbitte the phish really and that wouldn't work because he'd take lumps out of another similar fish, when she sensed my hesitation and said I could buy a rake more tetras, so they'd have safety in numbers.
So now the meeja have turned into the paparazzi, and Pat Rabbitte the phish is the one skulking in the undergrowth.
Serves him right for scaring them.
I have two hatchet fish as well. I decided to call them Pee and Dee, because there's only two of them, he he, he. (People from Canada will not get this, Irish political Humour, d'ya see).
So there you go, the menagerie is complete again.
Oooh, I do love to go camping
Himself is cooking supper and singing 'We're goin' campin' this weekend, we're goin' to have sooo much fun!' while he works. Himself is happy, because he is making hamburgers and because we are going camping this weekend.
This weekend is Canada Day weekend. Start of the camping season. Hoorah!! We found an amicable compromise this weekend. While we both like wilderness camping, Himself wants to fish this weekend and that involves a lot of black fly this time of year if you are in the wrong sort of spot. And Queenie will have Lady Moonbeam visiting (there ain't nuthun in this world worse than eco-friendly wilderness camping with Lady Moonbeam and a swarm of black fly in tow). So I kinda put the foot down this year, having done back country camping last year in similar circumstances.
Himself was bitterly disappointed when I did, as was I really, as the provincial park campsites here are expensive and liquor free and most of the private sites are full of ATV wankers. There was a bit of a grump going on last night, about how Himself never gets to do what he wants. But happily a bit of interweb research this morning found the Bear Falls Wilderness eco-camping site, run by Eli Shannon. So I called Eli and he had a site or two left and booked us into one right on the river where there are some nice trout for Himself and handy access to an outhouse for Queenie.
And then I showed it to Himself who deemed it suitable, so we're set. In fact, Himself is very excited that it might be good, and then we'll have a handy weekend spot for the summer. Routine is nice, isn't it.
The campsite is just outside the Tobeatic Wilderness in Queens County, which is a wonderful part of the province that we haven't really explored yet. And it beats staying in Kejji, the big park there, which is run by the Official Anti-Fun Police.
So now the preparations begin. Preparations for the first camping trip of the year are intense and take about three evenings. First we have to take the stove apart and clean it and put it back together again (one person one evening swearing, other person half an evening assisting). Then we have to assemble the gear, which involves finding the gear, cleaning and fixing the gear (although I am pretty good about storing things clean), remembering the new gear we got during the year (mental note to self - hammock, new chairs, new burner, new wind up radio, new lamps). That will take another evening (one person), while the other has to go and get the canoe and lifejackets from Leonard.
Finally, we have to get the provisions ready. Food, liquor, kindling, games, clothes, tents, bedding, cooking and eating equipment (two people falling over each other in apartment, one evening).
Eli says not to worry about firewood, there's loads there. That's the kind of campsite owner you like to talk to.
After about the third trip it gets easier. Because it all gets dumped in a corner of the apartment until the next time.
Then there is the obsessive checking of the weather forecast all week. So far the five day forecast is good for Saturday and blank. Tomorrow will reveal more.
Oooh, I do love camping. The neighbours are thinking about coming too.
I wonder if there are any bears in Bear Falls? There have been a lot of black bears spotted this year in Nova Scotia so far.
Ooooh, shiver.
This weekend is Canada Day weekend. Start of the camping season. Hoorah!! We found an amicable compromise this weekend. While we both like wilderness camping, Himself wants to fish this weekend and that involves a lot of black fly this time of year if you are in the wrong sort of spot. And Queenie will have Lady Moonbeam visiting (there ain't nuthun in this world worse than eco-friendly wilderness camping with Lady Moonbeam and a swarm of black fly in tow). So I kinda put the foot down this year, having done back country camping last year in similar circumstances.
Himself was bitterly disappointed when I did, as was I really, as the provincial park campsites here are expensive and liquor free and most of the private sites are full of ATV wankers. There was a bit of a grump going on last night, about how Himself never gets to do what he wants. But happily a bit of interweb research this morning found the Bear Falls Wilderness eco-camping site, run by Eli Shannon. So I called Eli and he had a site or two left and booked us into one right on the river where there are some nice trout for Himself and handy access to an outhouse for Queenie.
And then I showed it to Himself who deemed it suitable, so we're set. In fact, Himself is very excited that it might be good, and then we'll have a handy weekend spot for the summer. Routine is nice, isn't it.
The campsite is just outside the Tobeatic Wilderness in Queens County, which is a wonderful part of the province that we haven't really explored yet. And it beats staying in Kejji, the big park there, which is run by the Official Anti-Fun Police.
So now the preparations begin. Preparations for the first camping trip of the year are intense and take about three evenings. First we have to take the stove apart and clean it and put it back together again (one person one evening swearing, other person half an evening assisting). Then we have to assemble the gear, which involves finding the gear, cleaning and fixing the gear (although I am pretty good about storing things clean), remembering the new gear we got during the year (mental note to self - hammock, new chairs, new burner, new wind up radio, new lamps). That will take another evening (one person), while the other has to go and get the canoe and lifejackets from Leonard.
Finally, we have to get the provisions ready. Food, liquor, kindling, games, clothes, tents, bedding, cooking and eating equipment (two people falling over each other in apartment, one evening).
Eli says not to worry about firewood, there's loads there. That's the kind of campsite owner you like to talk to.
After about the third trip it gets easier. Because it all gets dumped in a corner of the apartment until the next time.
Then there is the obsessive checking of the weather forecast all week. So far the five day forecast is good for Saturday and blank. Tomorrow will reveal more.
Oooh, I do love camping. The neighbours are thinking about coming too.
I wonder if there are any bears in Bear Falls? There have been a lot of black bears spotted this year in Nova Scotia so far.
Ooooh, shiver.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
eMusic morning
Himself is still asleep, even though I have bribed him with the four yard sales that are on in the area this morning if he gets up. Himself prefers sleep to almost anything. Which is bad, because he lives with the early morning fairy.
So I amused myself for a while downloading my monthly quota from eMusic. This month I finished downloading the Elliot Smith album, New Moon, then I downloaded some random Malian music, because I do like it to be interspersed with everything else I listen to. Finally, I downloaded Mavis Staples, We'll Never Turn Back which is her performance of all the old civil rights music she sang in the sixties. This time, however, it is produced by Ry Cooder.
Most excellent. You should get the album.
Currently, I am listening to High Times, by Elliot Smith, whom I only discovered after he was dead. Like many other people I suppose.
It's quiet. Kitty has gone home for a while seeing as it is the summer and she is off school. So there is no television blaring or hip hop music blasting from her room.
Anyways, Himself has emerged so it's time to go yard-saling.
So I amused myself for a while downloading my monthly quota from eMusic. This month I finished downloading the Elliot Smith album, New Moon, then I downloaded some random Malian music, because I do like it to be interspersed with everything else I listen to. Finally, I downloaded Mavis Staples, We'll Never Turn Back which is her performance of all the old civil rights music she sang in the sixties. This time, however, it is produced by Ry Cooder.
Most excellent. You should get the album.
Currently, I am listening to High Times, by Elliot Smith, whom I only discovered after he was dead. Like many other people I suppose.
It's quiet. Kitty has gone home for a while seeing as it is the summer and she is off school. So there is no television blaring or hip hop music blasting from her room.
Anyways, Himself has emerged so it's time to go yard-saling.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Back again at last. I'd say hooray but that would be unCanadian
Oh that's right, I'm not Canadian.
Hooray!!
I see Mary McAleese and the Irish contingent with her were amazed at how self-effacing Canadians are and how they look at their feet rather than accept a compliment.
Well, yes, that's Canader for yer.
Denis Staunton has a long article in the Irish Times today giving out about how Canadians have it all and they can't see it. He lists the enormous resource wealth of the country and medicare as two reasons to celebrate.
Then he mentions the treatment of Aboriginal peoples and the equalisation funding mess as two reasons why they might be depressed. He neglected to mention that the day before yesterday was National Aboriginal Day. He probably didn't realise. Most people here don't.
The reason that Canadians are self-effacing and depressed is because they elected a right wing idealogue as Prime Minister and now they can't get rid of him while he tears the country apart, pits rich provinces against poor and ignores the environmental issues that are starting to be a big problem here. He ripped up the Atlantic Accord (equalisation), the Kelowna Accord (aboriginal rights), and the Kyoto Accord because he can.
That's why they're all so self-effacing. They're bloody ashamed.
Hooray!!
I see Mary McAleese and the Irish contingent with her were amazed at how self-effacing Canadians are and how they look at their feet rather than accept a compliment.
Well, yes, that's Canader for yer.
Denis Staunton has a long article in the Irish Times today giving out about how Canadians have it all and they can't see it. He lists the enormous resource wealth of the country and medicare as two reasons to celebrate.
Then he mentions the treatment of Aboriginal peoples and the equalisation funding mess as two reasons why they might be depressed. He neglected to mention that the day before yesterday was National Aboriginal Day. He probably didn't realise. Most people here don't.
The reason that Canadians are self-effacing and depressed is because they elected a right wing idealogue as Prime Minister and now they can't get rid of him while he tears the country apart, pits rich provinces against poor and ignores the environmental issues that are starting to be a big problem here. He ripped up the Atlantic Accord (equalisation), the Kelowna Accord (aboriginal rights), and the Kyoto Accord because he can.
That's why they're all so self-effacing. They're bloody ashamed.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Got up early...
... to blog and got suckered into wasting half an hour on Facebook!
DAMN!
But I found Yoichi.
WOW!
DAMN!
But I found Yoichi.
WOW!
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Robbie Williams is hiding in my basement
This blog is older than I am.
In blog years anyway.
I wonder will people study blogs in the future, the way they study diaries nowadays when they find them in dusty libraries.
I hope they do. I keep meaning to read more blogs, to see if there are many good ones out there, but I don't want to spend that much time on the computer every day. It wears me out. I am suffering from ICT fatigue I think. I cannot concentrate on computer work for long periods of time anymore. I flick over and back between mails and other programs.
Tis very annoying.
Anyways, I don't want to think about work tomorrow. I want to think about the weekend. Which was great.
We eventually got up today and lay around for a few hours. Man, it was the first time I had done that in sooooo looooong. Just lay around. And then go back to bed for a nap. And then when I got up again the sun was out, so we went down and sat in the yard for a couple of hours and chatted to Sean, who wouldn't come into the garden last night because he had to work the next day, and his friend Neville, who used to be the drummer in a punk rock band.
Sean is a Cape Breton version of Robbie Williams. In fact, I think the real Robbie Williams is not in a rehab centre at all, he's actually given up the fame game and is now living in my house and training to be a hotel junior manager.
So Himself has his guitar jamming buddies now. Which he has been seeking out for some time. And they're going to set up the PA system in the yard and jam in the evenings.
We'll be getting ducks next.
Himself used to have ducks in his pond on the island and when he and his buddy would play guitar in the evening by the pond, the ducks used to line up and sway to the music. And sometimes they would waddle over and gently pluck the guitar strings with their bills.
We'll have to get punk ducks.
That's what they can call the band: The Ducks. A seventies-retro-post-punk three piece with Robbie Williams on vocals.
And so at last, the summer begins to widen out before us.....
In blog years anyway.
I wonder will people study blogs in the future, the way they study diaries nowadays when they find them in dusty libraries.
I hope they do. I keep meaning to read more blogs, to see if there are many good ones out there, but I don't want to spend that much time on the computer every day. It wears me out. I am suffering from ICT fatigue I think. I cannot concentrate on computer work for long periods of time anymore. I flick over and back between mails and other programs.
Tis very annoying.
Anyways, I don't want to think about work tomorrow. I want to think about the weekend. Which was great.
We eventually got up today and lay around for a few hours. Man, it was the first time I had done that in sooooo looooong. Just lay around. And then go back to bed for a nap. And then when I got up again the sun was out, so we went down and sat in the yard for a couple of hours and chatted to Sean, who wouldn't come into the garden last night because he had to work the next day, and his friend Neville, who used to be the drummer in a punk rock band.
Sean is a Cape Breton version of Robbie Williams. In fact, I think the real Robbie Williams is not in a rehab centre at all, he's actually given up the fame game and is now living in my house and training to be a hotel junior manager.
So Himself has his guitar jamming buddies now. Which he has been seeking out for some time. And they're going to set up the PA system in the yard and jam in the evenings.
We'll be getting ducks next.
Himself used to have ducks in his pond on the island and when he and his buddy would play guitar in the evening by the pond, the ducks used to line up and sway to the music. And sometimes they would waddle over and gently pluck the guitar strings with their bills.
We'll have to get punk ducks.
That's what they can call the band: The Ducks. A seventies-retro-post-punk three piece with Robbie Williams on vocals.
And so at last, the summer begins to widen out before us.....
Barbeque leftovers
Just Himself and Queenie and a few bits of chicken. That's all that's left of the barbeque.
The sun came out and blazed down just in time yesterday for us to set out the barbeque and all the food and plates and cutlery before people started to arrive. That meant everyone could relax outside and enjoy the heat, go for a swim in the lake and watch the kids get to know each other. The teenagers even deigned to join us for a minute.
Himself and I managed to feed everyone with the minimum of fuss. I do like entertaining with him, he's so laid back about everything and just gets on with the grilling. We only ever argue about his compulsion to cover everything in hickory smoke BBQ sauce - not everyone on the planet likes the taste of hickory smoke BBQ sauce, I explain. He just looks at me like I'm insane when I do. I think he doesn't believe me. I even caught him putting it on the potato wedges!! But he's great - he cleaned up everything and had the dishwasher on before I could stir myself, so there was nothing to do today but pick up the glasses and bottles left out overnight.
After a stint of cooking and chopping, we fed everyone eventually, who happily all got on with each other, and then when it got dark and a little chilly we built a fire in the old cast iron stove in the garden and sat round watching the kids toast marshmallows and Himself rummage around in the woods for more fuel.
All dead wood obviously.
Eventually our neighbours got up to leave, picked up the comforter that the children had fallen asleep on and carried them home without a murmur. I hadn't even realised they were there, they were so soundly asleep.
Superfun night was had by all. There were three left when I went to bed, arguing about whether to wait for the sun to come up or not.
Our garden is really a small piece of heaven... where else would we have a lovely green space surrounded by trees, a lake just beyond for that country feel, nice neighbours to hang out with and our apartment just upstairs when it's time for bed.
The sun came out and blazed down just in time yesterday for us to set out the barbeque and all the food and plates and cutlery before people started to arrive. That meant everyone could relax outside and enjoy the heat, go for a swim in the lake and watch the kids get to know each other. The teenagers even deigned to join us for a minute.
Himself and I managed to feed everyone with the minimum of fuss. I do like entertaining with him, he's so laid back about everything and just gets on with the grilling. We only ever argue about his compulsion to cover everything in hickory smoke BBQ sauce - not everyone on the planet likes the taste of hickory smoke BBQ sauce, I explain. He just looks at me like I'm insane when I do. I think he doesn't believe me. I even caught him putting it on the potato wedges!! But he's great - he cleaned up everything and had the dishwasher on before I could stir myself, so there was nothing to do today but pick up the glasses and bottles left out overnight.
After a stint of cooking and chopping, we fed everyone eventually, who happily all got on with each other, and then when it got dark and a little chilly we built a fire in the old cast iron stove in the garden and sat round watching the kids toast marshmallows and Himself rummage around in the woods for more fuel.
All dead wood obviously.
Eventually our neighbours got up to leave, picked up the comforter that the children had fallen asleep on and carried them home without a murmur. I hadn't even realised they were there, they were so soundly asleep.
Superfun night was had by all. There were three left when I went to bed, arguing about whether to wait for the sun to come up or not.
Our garden is really a small piece of heaven... where else would we have a lovely green space surrounded by trees, a lake just beyond for that country feel, nice neighbours to hang out with and our apartment just upstairs when it's time for bed.
Saturday, June 09, 2007
I wish I was in this photo! Or, how to age gracefully...
So there wasn't a peep out of anyone from Ireland for a few days and I couldn't figure out what it was until I clicked on accentmonkey's blog this morning and saw the pictures from the wedding.
Ah yes, of course.. Portumna will never be the same, I'm sure.
So I looked through all the pictures. And then I looked through them all again. All those familiar faces. Familiar faces that are gradually changing.
Mixed feelings...
Two years away from all those faces. Yet I still feel very strongly connected. Even though all the experiences are second hand for me now. Still, they are part of every day thanks to the wonders of technology.
Christ we're all starting to look a teensy bit middle-aged but!
In a perverse way I was glad to see it, as I had spent part of the morning panicking about getting old, it coming up on my thirty seventh birthday (what kind of an effing birthday is thirty seven!! Other than depressing!). Plus we had spent the previous evening in the company of Himself's work colleagues, who are all about twelve years old and MARRIED. Well, actually some of them are already divorced, which is even scarier.
We were celebrating my second anniversary in Canada. Well, what was really going on was that after almost six months of responsible living and parenting and with a night off due to Kitty staying with a friend, Himself announced we were going to go out and get liquored up. So I created a hook to hang the liquor on, not being able to face a night out without a reason anymore.
So I scored six tickets to the Nova Scotia Liquor Corporation Annual Summer Drinks party and off we went. Queenie, Himself, Alex and Tristan, and Eric and Gillian.
The NSLC parties are amazing concepts. Three hours of free samples of everything they sell in their stores. With food and a band. It's like a big wedding. They have three a year - summer, a new wines fling in the spring, and a winter whiskey party.
I went to the whiskey one in my first year here. I remember watching everyone standing around sipping slowly and chatting and thinking that if they had these parties in Ireland, there would be a triage unit set up in the middle of the room.
A very sedate affair.
The Summer Beach party is a whole different kettle of fish.
And I realised finally that I am getting middle-aged.
There was so much skin on view. Oceans and oceans of pale skin, bad fake tan jobs, leathery wizened tan jobs. Mostly with long, bleached, straightened, sprayed fake blond hair.
Alex and Tristan spent the first half an hour running around in pointless alcohol and women free circles, shouting 'girls', 'liquor', 'ohmygod thankyou Queenie', until Himself pointed out that there was liquor to be had. Himself had worked his way up the wine stalls and was introducing himself to the Captain (Captain Morgan's rum - staple drink of Cape Breton) at that point.
I was stupified with shock. As well as the flesh and the hair, there were arses everywhere. Acres of arses. Whole prairie-widths full of them, poured into leggings atop stiletto mules.
I saw Paris Hilton from behind. It was definitely her. A little see through baby doll dress and long legs (mahogany) slipped into little pink slipper mules. A dog under her arm. Long silvery blonde hair. Then she turned round.
Fifty. At least fifty. Life lines etched into her mahogany face like runes on a granite pillar.
Whatthefuck?
All the men looked the same; khakis or shorts with a polo shirt and sandals or flip flops. Standard Canadian summer wear no matter what you're doing. Or what age you are.
All the women looked the same too; leggings or skinny jeans with a little strappy top and wobbly mules. Standard Canadian party wear no matter what age you are.
Except it does of course.
Why does wearing clothes designed for a twenty year old not work when you're an ageing woman and work just fine when you're an ageing male?
Because the frigging women's clothes are so ludicrous in the first place.
Queenie was wearing her jeans and her green long-sleeved top that she's had for seven years and her black zip up biker jacket that she's had for six and her flat pumps. You could see nothing but my face and hands.
Less is more after twenty five, ladies, less is more.
So it struck me how great everyone looked in the photos of the wedding. How all the men and women looked so confident and attractive and comfortable in their skins and how all their smiles were so relaxed and happy. Not a stiletto mule in sight, so no grimaces of pain, see.
There's a lot to be said for an uncertain climate!! And a lifetime of partying in a field.
And then I immediately felt better about getting older. Because all the people I will be getting old with are so cool.
And as Himself said this morning as we peeled our eyes open to survey the events of the night before, we may be getting old but we are the coolest old farts in Halifax according to Alex and Tristan.
Hmmm, he didn't look too cool when he was getting thrown out of Cheers pub at one am this morning.
His crime?
He asked where the bathroom was.
Apparently, if you don't know where the bathroom is then you shouldn't be there in the first place. They are lucky I wasn't with him when it happened. Although, I got thrown out of there once before for refusing to let them put my ID card in a scanning device unless they told me where the data went.
The bouncers of course don't have a clue where the data goes, or why data going somewhere would be a bad idea in a country that pretends to be free, so they barred me for life for having a bad attitude.
Anyways, Himself is barred now as well for wanting to have a pee in the bathroom. The official reason is that he was intoxicated.
Ehm, yes.. we paid six dollars to get in to a place that serves alcohol, and patiently allowed our bags and persons to be searched by a gimp, and then paid over-priced prices for drinks so yes... he was slightly intoxicated.
We weren't off our heads on drugs like everyone else in the place appeared to be but.
Anyways, we headed down to Gingers with Hotspurr to have a drink in a bar that 'spects you to get liquered up'....
... yes dear...
As we were leaving, Tristan and Alex came running out. Well, Tristan was trying to stand up and run at the same time. They were outraged at the treatment Himself had endured, so Himself suggested they all go back in and take on the bouncers. He's such a provocateur sometimes.
They were horrified!!
Young fellas... they had spent the entire evening telling me about this guy and that guy they were going to smash his head in yadda yadda. But a trio of bouncers with scanning devices? Nosireebob.
So Himself pretended to leave in a huff.
We were relieved really. Gingers is so much more enjoyable than a heaving throb of twenty something pheromes. Even if it doesn't have a seventies dinosaur guitar band doing Duran Duran covers in the back bar.
Hungry like the wolf.... time for breakfast... we are supposed to be having a barbeque today, but Mr. Sun has not appeared yet.
Ah yes, of course.. Portumna will never be the same, I'm sure.
So I looked through all the pictures. And then I looked through them all again. All those familiar faces. Familiar faces that are gradually changing.
Mixed feelings...
Two years away from all those faces. Yet I still feel very strongly connected. Even though all the experiences are second hand for me now. Still, they are part of every day thanks to the wonders of technology.
Christ we're all starting to look a teensy bit middle-aged but!
In a perverse way I was glad to see it, as I had spent part of the morning panicking about getting old, it coming up on my thirty seventh birthday (what kind of an effing birthday is thirty seven!! Other than depressing!). Plus we had spent the previous evening in the company of Himself's work colleagues, who are all about twelve years old and MARRIED. Well, actually some of them are already divorced, which is even scarier.
We were celebrating my second anniversary in Canada. Well, what was really going on was that after almost six months of responsible living and parenting and with a night off due to Kitty staying with a friend, Himself announced we were going to go out and get liquored up. So I created a hook to hang the liquor on, not being able to face a night out without a reason anymore.
So I scored six tickets to the Nova Scotia Liquor Corporation Annual Summer Drinks party and off we went. Queenie, Himself, Alex and Tristan, and Eric and Gillian.
The NSLC parties are amazing concepts. Three hours of free samples of everything they sell in their stores. With food and a band. It's like a big wedding. They have three a year - summer, a new wines fling in the spring, and a winter whiskey party.
I went to the whiskey one in my first year here. I remember watching everyone standing around sipping slowly and chatting and thinking that if they had these parties in Ireland, there would be a triage unit set up in the middle of the room.
A very sedate affair.
The Summer Beach party is a whole different kettle of fish.
And I realised finally that I am getting middle-aged.
There was so much skin on view. Oceans and oceans of pale skin, bad fake tan jobs, leathery wizened tan jobs. Mostly with long, bleached, straightened, sprayed fake blond hair.
Alex and Tristan spent the first half an hour running around in pointless alcohol and women free circles, shouting 'girls', 'liquor', 'ohmygod thankyou Queenie', until Himself pointed out that there was liquor to be had. Himself had worked his way up the wine stalls and was introducing himself to the Captain (Captain Morgan's rum - staple drink of Cape Breton) at that point.
I was stupified with shock. As well as the flesh and the hair, there were arses everywhere. Acres of arses. Whole prairie-widths full of them, poured into leggings atop stiletto mules.
I saw Paris Hilton from behind. It was definitely her. A little see through baby doll dress and long legs (mahogany) slipped into little pink slipper mules. A dog under her arm. Long silvery blonde hair. Then she turned round.
Fifty. At least fifty. Life lines etched into her mahogany face like runes on a granite pillar.
Whatthefuck?
All the men looked the same; khakis or shorts with a polo shirt and sandals or flip flops. Standard Canadian summer wear no matter what you're doing. Or what age you are.
All the women looked the same too; leggings or skinny jeans with a little strappy top and wobbly mules. Standard Canadian party wear no matter what age you are.
Except it does of course.
Why does wearing clothes designed for a twenty year old not work when you're an ageing woman and work just fine when you're an ageing male?
Because the frigging women's clothes are so ludicrous in the first place.
Queenie was wearing her jeans and her green long-sleeved top that she's had for seven years and her black zip up biker jacket that she's had for six and her flat pumps. You could see nothing but my face and hands.
Less is more after twenty five, ladies, less is more.
So it struck me how great everyone looked in the photos of the wedding. How all the men and women looked so confident and attractive and comfortable in their skins and how all their smiles were so relaxed and happy. Not a stiletto mule in sight, so no grimaces of pain, see.
There's a lot to be said for an uncertain climate!! And a lifetime of partying in a field.
And then I immediately felt better about getting older. Because all the people I will be getting old with are so cool.
And as Himself said this morning as we peeled our eyes open to survey the events of the night before, we may be getting old but we are the coolest old farts in Halifax according to Alex and Tristan.
Hmmm, he didn't look too cool when he was getting thrown out of Cheers pub at one am this morning.
His crime?
He asked where the bathroom was.
Apparently, if you don't know where the bathroom is then you shouldn't be there in the first place. They are lucky I wasn't with him when it happened. Although, I got thrown out of there once before for refusing to let them put my ID card in a scanning device unless they told me where the data went.
The bouncers of course don't have a clue where the data goes, or why data going somewhere would be a bad idea in a country that pretends to be free, so they barred me for life for having a bad attitude.
Anyways, Himself is barred now as well for wanting to have a pee in the bathroom. The official reason is that he was intoxicated.
Ehm, yes.. we paid six dollars to get in to a place that serves alcohol, and patiently allowed our bags and persons to be searched by a gimp, and then paid over-priced prices for drinks so yes... he was slightly intoxicated.
We weren't off our heads on drugs like everyone else in the place appeared to be but.
Anyways, we headed down to Gingers with Hotspurr to have a drink in a bar that 'spects you to get liquered up'....
... yes dear...
As we were leaving, Tristan and Alex came running out. Well, Tristan was trying to stand up and run at the same time. They were outraged at the treatment Himself had endured, so Himself suggested they all go back in and take on the bouncers. He's such a provocateur sometimes.
They were horrified!!
Young fellas... they had spent the entire evening telling me about this guy and that guy they were going to smash his head in yadda yadda. But a trio of bouncers with scanning devices? Nosireebob.
So Himself pretended to leave in a huff.
We were relieved really. Gingers is so much more enjoyable than a heaving throb of twenty something pheromes. Even if it doesn't have a seventies dinosaur guitar band doing Duran Duran covers in the back bar.
Hungry like the wolf.... time for breakfast... we are supposed to be having a barbeque today, but Mr. Sun has not appeared yet.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Irish property market in trouble - says AIB
And Queenie says back to Allied Irish Banks plc, 'whose effing fault is that?"
Giving people 100 per cent mortgages to buy overpriced little boxes all squished up together in fields sixty miles from the city...
Of course, people who do that also voted for Fianna Fail.
So at least they are going to have to preside over the ensuing meltdown.
Anyone want to buy an overpriced little box next to a cemetery??!!
Giving people 100 per cent mortgages to buy overpriced little boxes all squished up together in fields sixty miles from the city...
Of course, people who do that also voted for Fianna Fail.
So at least they are going to have to preside over the ensuing meltdown.
Anyone want to buy an overpriced little box next to a cemetery??!!
Monday, June 04, 2007
Coming up on two years in Canader...
I realised today that Friday will be my second anniversary in Canada.
I was trying to think what I was doing this time two years ago.
I think I was in Springtown.
Hang on, I'll check...
Yes I was.
Blogs are great, aren't they.
I was thinking about Springtown today because it rained all day here. Dark hanging clouds with no sunlight breaking through and everywhere the sound of water gurgling. Just like home.
It's funny though, because Himself and I are finally thinking about this old place as home.
We went to his island for the weekend to open his house for the summer and when we got back last night we unpacked and cooked the lobsters we'd been given and sat on the couch eating them and thought... home...happy sigh...
It's not that we don't like the island - we do. Particularly in the summer, when the lobster season is over and everyone's relaxed and up for a barbeque or a bonfire.
It's just always such a hassle at the same time.
The joys of your life partner's past coming up to bite you on the ankle.
Himself's past is not much taller than my ankle and every time I encounter her I feel that if I take my eyes off her for a second she'll bite me. Not because I'm paranoid, but because she has threatened to beat me up so often I'm resigned to the fact that some day she'll finally do it. And I'll have to let her because I'm the sane smart one of the two of us.
So I spend the weekends down there looking over my shoulder, wondering when she'll turn up.
It can be tricky. I like to get it over with early on so I can relax and enjoy the weekend, but then again, it drives Himself crazy and he spends the rest of the weekend moaning about it.
If she turns up too early, that can often mean we get more than one visit. If she doesn't turn up, I am watching and waiting all the time. Sometimes she's on a bender for the weekend and we don't see her at all, just her car speeding to and from the pub.
Those weekends of course can be the worst, because she tends to pack the children off somewhere we can't find them. Which makes Himself pace around muttering for hours. Until I drag him into the woods to walk it off.
We had one minor encounter on Saturday which I ignored because I was in the house (and Himself always charges out into the yard when the car comes up the hill - to head her off at the pass), so I thought we were fine. And then yesterday, when we were on the ferry waiting for it to bring us to the mainland it happened. A shadow flickered over me as I sat in the car. I looked up and there she was, yelling and yammering about something.
I pressed the button and let the window slide down.
She wasn't making any sense, and I can't be arsed arguing with someone as stupid and irrational as her, so I pressed the button again and let it close.
Really slowly. Just the way she hates it.
Unfortunately, this time I was too smart for my own damned good and had forgotten to lock the door, so she pulled it open and told me she was going to punch me in that smart mouth of mine.
I hadn't said a word at this stage. But I've been told there's a look I get on my face when I'm really mad that maybe does it to her.
Plus, with her frizzy plum perm and her thick black eyeliner she reminds me so much of a rabid raccoon cartoon character that I sometimes have to try not to laugh.
At this stage, I am so used to her tantrums and screaming I can keep my face completely calm (for me) and not react. But inside my stomach is churning with rage that I am being subjected to this kind of intimidation by someone I completely despise, beng subjected to something to which I can't react at all.
And I'm nothing if not reactionary to anger.
I found it difficult to relax into the moment, but I can do it now.
Anyways, she eventually moved back enough that I could close the car door without cutting her hand off. Bereft of an audience she demanded her daughter open the back door of the car so she could yell at her for a while. Kitty opened the window, but didn't react either, so she yelled at the back of my head some more.
I wiped the back of my neck like she'd spat on me (really slowly, etc) and she suddenly stopped and ran off the ferry which could then get going.
Sometimes something as simple as that (wiping the back of my neck) can bring her to. She suddenly realises what a show she is making of herself there in front of half the island and stops.
Sometimes the unearthly silence the island creates to contain one of her tantrums filters into her head and she stops to listen to it and suddenly calms down when she realises the entire village has stopped hammering and mowing and is standing enjoying the show.
Sometimes she's so far into the rage you just have to sit there and let her yell herself into satisfaction.
Sometimes that takes a long time.
There is a Chinese saying I repeat to myself when I am being humiliated in public by the cheap slut who broke up Himself's family for a twenty two year old lawnmower repair man, who destroyed his home and his life and stole all his money and took away his children for two years, who still tries to turn them against him and who is trying in her own pitiful, tragic way to destroy my life now because she is so miserable inside she can't bear anyone but herself to appear to be happy.
I say it over and over like a mantra, to keep me in the calm quiet place in my head where I don't want to rip her stupid head off with my bare hands and throw it over the side of the ferry in one monstrous therapeutic moment of life-altering rage.
It says, if you sit by the river long enough, the body of your enemy will float past you.
I'd say that'll take some time this time but!
It always amazes me how much crap I am capable of putting up with.
I try to understand why it's happening so I can deal with it and I take it until I realise it's not me, it's just happening, and then I put up with it for so long.
And then one day I say it has to stop and if it doesn't I just walk away from it.
And I never go back.
Himself is the same.
As the ferry pulled into the wharf on the mainland we gave each other a look that said that day is fast approaching.
Which is a pity, because I love Long Island and the people who live there so much. They hold a memory of me when I was free and happy and unencumbered by life that very few other people have. And they watched Himself and I fall in love and engineered the situation slightly because they knew we were right for each other.
I was trying to think what I was doing this time two years ago.
I think I was in Springtown.
Hang on, I'll check...
Yes I was.
Blogs are great, aren't they.
I was thinking about Springtown today because it rained all day here. Dark hanging clouds with no sunlight breaking through and everywhere the sound of water gurgling. Just like home.
It's funny though, because Himself and I are finally thinking about this old place as home.
We went to his island for the weekend to open his house for the summer and when we got back last night we unpacked and cooked the lobsters we'd been given and sat on the couch eating them and thought... home...happy sigh...
It's not that we don't like the island - we do. Particularly in the summer, when the lobster season is over and everyone's relaxed and up for a barbeque or a bonfire.
It's just always such a hassle at the same time.
The joys of your life partner's past coming up to bite you on the ankle.
Himself's past is not much taller than my ankle and every time I encounter her I feel that if I take my eyes off her for a second she'll bite me. Not because I'm paranoid, but because she has threatened to beat me up so often I'm resigned to the fact that some day she'll finally do it. And I'll have to let her because I'm the sane smart one of the two of us.
So I spend the weekends down there looking over my shoulder, wondering when she'll turn up.
It can be tricky. I like to get it over with early on so I can relax and enjoy the weekend, but then again, it drives Himself crazy and he spends the rest of the weekend moaning about it.
If she turns up too early, that can often mean we get more than one visit. If she doesn't turn up, I am watching and waiting all the time. Sometimes she's on a bender for the weekend and we don't see her at all, just her car speeding to and from the pub.
Those weekends of course can be the worst, because she tends to pack the children off somewhere we can't find them. Which makes Himself pace around muttering for hours. Until I drag him into the woods to walk it off.
We had one minor encounter on Saturday which I ignored because I was in the house (and Himself always charges out into the yard when the car comes up the hill - to head her off at the pass), so I thought we were fine. And then yesterday, when we were on the ferry waiting for it to bring us to the mainland it happened. A shadow flickered over me as I sat in the car. I looked up and there she was, yelling and yammering about something.
I pressed the button and let the window slide down.
She wasn't making any sense, and I can't be arsed arguing with someone as stupid and irrational as her, so I pressed the button again and let it close.
Really slowly. Just the way she hates it.
Unfortunately, this time I was too smart for my own damned good and had forgotten to lock the door, so she pulled it open and told me she was going to punch me in that smart mouth of mine.
I hadn't said a word at this stage. But I've been told there's a look I get on my face when I'm really mad that maybe does it to her.
Plus, with her frizzy plum perm and her thick black eyeliner she reminds me so much of a rabid raccoon cartoon character that I sometimes have to try not to laugh.
At this stage, I am so used to her tantrums and screaming I can keep my face completely calm (for me) and not react. But inside my stomach is churning with rage that I am being subjected to this kind of intimidation by someone I completely despise, beng subjected to something to which I can't react at all.
And I'm nothing if not reactionary to anger.
I found it difficult to relax into the moment, but I can do it now.
Anyways, she eventually moved back enough that I could close the car door without cutting her hand off. Bereft of an audience she demanded her daughter open the back door of the car so she could yell at her for a while. Kitty opened the window, but didn't react either, so she yelled at the back of my head some more.
I wiped the back of my neck like she'd spat on me (really slowly, etc) and she suddenly stopped and ran off the ferry which could then get going.
Sometimes something as simple as that (wiping the back of my neck) can bring her to. She suddenly realises what a show she is making of herself there in front of half the island and stops.
Sometimes the unearthly silence the island creates to contain one of her tantrums filters into her head and she stops to listen to it and suddenly calms down when she realises the entire village has stopped hammering and mowing and is standing enjoying the show.
Sometimes she's so far into the rage you just have to sit there and let her yell herself into satisfaction.
Sometimes that takes a long time.
There is a Chinese saying I repeat to myself when I am being humiliated in public by the cheap slut who broke up Himself's family for a twenty two year old lawnmower repair man, who destroyed his home and his life and stole all his money and took away his children for two years, who still tries to turn them against him and who is trying in her own pitiful, tragic way to destroy my life now because she is so miserable inside she can't bear anyone but herself to appear to be happy.
I say it over and over like a mantra, to keep me in the calm quiet place in my head where I don't want to rip her stupid head off with my bare hands and throw it over the side of the ferry in one monstrous therapeutic moment of life-altering rage.
It says, if you sit by the river long enough, the body of your enemy will float past you.
I'd say that'll take some time this time but!
It always amazes me how much crap I am capable of putting up with.
I try to understand why it's happening so I can deal with it and I take it until I realise it's not me, it's just happening, and then I put up with it for so long.
And then one day I say it has to stop and if it doesn't I just walk away from it.
And I never go back.
Himself is the same.
As the ferry pulled into the wharf on the mainland we gave each other a look that said that day is fast approaching.
Which is a pity, because I love Long Island and the people who live there so much. They hold a memory of me when I was free and happy and unencumbered by life that very few other people have. And they watched Himself and I fall in love and engineered the situation slightly because they knew we were right for each other.
Friday, June 01, 2007
It's that time of year again...
DEPT OF NATURAL RESOURCES--Help Avoid Bear Encounters
-----------------------------------------------------------------
After hibernating through the long winter months, it is time for Nova Scotia's black bears to be out and about, constantly looking for food.
Storing garbage inside or in metal bear-proof containers and keeping your barbecue grill clean and grease-free are just some of the things that can prevent bear encounters at your home or cottage.
"Bears have the potential to be dangerous and more than 500 nuisance bear situations were reported last year," said Department of Natural Resources Minister David Morse. "Use caution when in an area where bears may be expected, and be sure to report all bear encounters."
While there is often an abundance of natural foods, bears are known to search for food from other sources, including rural backyards. Bears are attracted to garbage, compost, green bins, pet food and bird feeders. There are specific precautions home and cottage owners, campers and hikers should take to reduce the likelihood of attracting bears.
To find out how to prevent bear incidents and what to do when seeing a black bear, visit the department website: www.gov.ns.ca/natr/wildlife/Nuisance/bears.htm.
Bear sightings in communities and near homes should be reported to the Department of Natural Resources. Trained and experienced staff will determine the appropriate action. During business hours, call a local Natural Resources office.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
After hibernating through the long winter months, it is time for Nova Scotia's black bears to be out and about, constantly looking for food.
Storing garbage inside or in metal bear-proof containers and keeping your barbecue grill clean and grease-free are just some of the things that can prevent bear encounters at your home or cottage.
"Bears have the potential to be dangerous and more than 500 nuisance bear situations were reported last year," said Department of Natural Resources Minister David Morse. "Use caution when in an area where bears may be expected, and be sure to report all bear encounters."
While there is often an abundance of natural foods, bears are known to search for food from other sources, including rural backyards. Bears are attracted to garbage, compost, green bins, pet food and bird feeders. There are specific precautions home and cottage owners, campers and hikers should take to reduce the likelihood of attracting bears.
To find out how to prevent bear incidents and what to do when seeing a black bear, visit the department website: www.gov.ns.ca/natr/wildlife/Nuisance/bears.htm.
Bear sightings in communities and near homes should be reported to the Department of Natural Resources. Trained and experienced staff will determine the appropriate action. During business hours, call a local Natural Resources office.
Friday at last
And I shouldn't really be blogging, I should be packing. We are travelling down to the island this weekend. So although I have packed the food, there only being one crappy shop on said island, I also have to pack all the cleaning products. For to clean the house. Which has not been opened in six months.
There will be a lot of spiders I'm thinking.
And we'll have to rehook the water up.
And start a fire to wake up the spiders.
And Lady Moonbeam arrived with the full moon last night.
Never mind.
Later tonight we will be sitting on the deck looking out over the village and past it to the sea, and the moon will be huge and sitting directly in front of us, accompanied by all the stars.
And there might even be a whale or two!!
So it will be worth the packing and the four hour drive. And the cleaning.
I had an action-packed day yesterday. Firstly I had my immigration medical. I got all the paperwork ready and was waiting at the bus stop for the one bus that would bring me to the clinic when I realised I didn't have the form. Ran back to the apartment. Not there. Damn damn, left it at work. Called a taxi to drive me to work, wait for me to get forms, and drive me to the clinic. The taxi driver could sense my stress. Was I late for work? I explained. Turns out he was an Iranian Kurd, a refugee, who translated for other refugees at the clinic. The international brotherhood of Canadian immigrants kicked in and by the time he got me to the clinic (in time) I was no longer stressed and we had had a great chat about Kurdistan. I won the prize for passenger who knew most about Kurdistan.
Not a difficult prize to win in Nova Scotia, where the only place everyone (thinks they) know about is Scotland.
So I had my weight, height, sight, hearing, blood pressure, urinalysis and blood work done at the clinic, along with a lot of questions about my lifestyle that I didn't answer completely truthfully, but who does! Then it was off to the hospital for my chest x-ray. The whole thing was over in ninety minutes.
Out-patient queue chaos rules Nova Scotia, my ass!!
Then it was back to work for the rest of the day.
Sigh.
There is a growing contempt and lack of respect for staff in our workplace that is really starting to bug me. It stems from some recent appointments; a combination of the personalities involved and their interaction with other senior managers. To be truthful, I don't care who's in charge of the treehouse; so long as my contribution to the workplace is respected, and simple phrases like please and thank you and how is your day going remain the currency of the place.
The reason I don't care is because politics is a collaborative process and so there are no superstars (well, maybe the leader, but certainly not staff superstars). Unfortunately, self-indulgent macho bullshit appears to be gaining a foothold.
In the spirit of everything I've ever done in my life before and everything I will ever do in the future, and with the power invested in me by Lady Moonbeam (ie a grinding backache and consequent foul temper) I called it yesterday and told the ringleader he was to stop being a prick.
He didn't bat an eyelid before he said he was what he was and he wasn't going to change.
He is what he is all right. But I am not having it.
Nosirreebob.
It might be okay to pull this crap in the provincial backwaters of the world, but some of the rest of us have worked in places where this type of thing is not acceptable any more. And I for one am going to drag this workplace into the late twentieth century if it kills me.
In the full knowledge that it probably will kill me.
I just need a plan.
A plan, anyone?
In the absence of a plan as to how to put an end to it at the moment, though, I am going to invoke the spirits of the Stoics, as outlined in Farmer Brown's blog.
Cross-posting rocks, doesn't it!
There will be a lot of spiders I'm thinking.
And we'll have to rehook the water up.
And start a fire to wake up the spiders.
And Lady Moonbeam arrived with the full moon last night.
Never mind.
Later tonight we will be sitting on the deck looking out over the village and past it to the sea, and the moon will be huge and sitting directly in front of us, accompanied by all the stars.
And there might even be a whale or two!!
So it will be worth the packing and the four hour drive. And the cleaning.
I had an action-packed day yesterday. Firstly I had my immigration medical. I got all the paperwork ready and was waiting at the bus stop for the one bus that would bring me to the clinic when I realised I didn't have the form. Ran back to the apartment. Not there. Damn damn, left it at work. Called a taxi to drive me to work, wait for me to get forms, and drive me to the clinic. The taxi driver could sense my stress. Was I late for work? I explained. Turns out he was an Iranian Kurd, a refugee, who translated for other refugees at the clinic. The international brotherhood of Canadian immigrants kicked in and by the time he got me to the clinic (in time) I was no longer stressed and we had had a great chat about Kurdistan. I won the prize for passenger who knew most about Kurdistan.
Not a difficult prize to win in Nova Scotia, where the only place everyone (thinks they) know about is Scotland.
So I had my weight, height, sight, hearing, blood pressure, urinalysis and blood work done at the clinic, along with a lot of questions about my lifestyle that I didn't answer completely truthfully, but who does! Then it was off to the hospital for my chest x-ray. The whole thing was over in ninety minutes.
Out-patient queue chaos rules Nova Scotia, my ass!!
Then it was back to work for the rest of the day.
Sigh.
There is a growing contempt and lack of respect for staff in our workplace that is really starting to bug me. It stems from some recent appointments; a combination of the personalities involved and their interaction with other senior managers. To be truthful, I don't care who's in charge of the treehouse; so long as my contribution to the workplace is respected, and simple phrases like please and thank you and how is your day going remain the currency of the place.
The reason I don't care is because politics is a collaborative process and so there are no superstars (well, maybe the leader, but certainly not staff superstars). Unfortunately, self-indulgent macho bullshit appears to be gaining a foothold.
In the spirit of everything I've ever done in my life before and everything I will ever do in the future, and with the power invested in me by Lady Moonbeam (ie a grinding backache and consequent foul temper) I called it yesterday and told the ringleader he was to stop being a prick.
He didn't bat an eyelid before he said he was what he was and he wasn't going to change.
He is what he is all right. But I am not having it.
Nosirreebob.
It might be okay to pull this crap in the provincial backwaters of the world, but some of the rest of us have worked in places where this type of thing is not acceptable any more. And I for one am going to drag this workplace into the late twentieth century if it kills me.
In the full knowledge that it probably will kill me.
I just need a plan.
A plan, anyone?
In the absence of a plan as to how to put an end to it at the moment, though, I am going to invoke the spirits of the Stoics, as outlined in Farmer Brown's blog.
Cross-posting rocks, doesn't it!
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Finally it's all about being hot!
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.
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.
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.
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