Stevyn Colgan can sleep sound tonight

What does your drawing say about YOU?

I just stole this from Volly's blog. Frankly, I think the same effect can be achieved by imagining a splendid landscape (such as that I can't create) and answering the questions about it, rather than actually drawing this travesty. Now, I might point out that this was done with a computer mouse, but who am I kidding? Had I the finest drawing pencils in the world, it wouldn't have looked much different. (G'wan, Stevyn, do it! Just to embarrass me...)

Oh, and apparently: The results of your analysis say:

You tend to pursue many different activities simultaneously. When misfortune does happen, it doesn't actually dishearten you all that much.
You are a thoughtful and cautious person. You like to think about your method, seeking to pursue your goal in the most effective way.
You like following the rules and being objective. You are precise and meticulous, and like to evaluate decisions before making them.
You have a sunny, cheerful disposition.

Of the four statements, second and third, about right; fourth, not so much; first, bosh.

The wee small gremlins of the morning

If I should wake sometime between 2 am and 6 am, the gremlins usually come and find me. Sometimes it's a global warming gremlin, sometimes it's a killer comet gremlin. Or the world financial situation. Or Yellowstone National Park blowing us all sky high. (Oh, don't bother me about that last one; go ask Bill Bryson...) Or worse, there are the gremlins of things I'm failing to accomplish in my day-to-day existence such as helping younger daughter in her daily struggles or maintaining exercise resolutions. This morning, I woke from a fitful dream of taking photographs in a haunted library (which involved climbing a ladder and so slowed down my escape from the spectres), and a really nasty gremlin had me by the guts. The Resident Fan Boy returned from the bathroom to find me in a sweat: "If you die, I'm screwed! What will become of the girls? I don't know where the will is, or how to pay the mortgage, or where to send your body...."

Now, this is probably not something a husband wants to hear at the best of times, certainly not at five thirty in the morning of the day he's due to set off on a four-day business trip to Québec City. Add this to the fact that I'm addressing my concerns to the one of the chief Worrywarts of the Western World. This is a man who has spent days pacing and wondering why he hasn't received his free golf towel from the local pub. (He doesn't golf.)

Anyway, to give him his due, he held me close and whispered tenderly, "The first thing you do is notify the bank, and the second thing you do is notify my office." Of course, then I wondered about the wisdom of this because a) the bank would immediately freeze his accounts; and b) I only have his work number which leads to his voice mail ("Uh, hi darling, you're dead, so will your boss check this?"). However, I decided to leave such questions for the morning. Or slightly later in the morning, as RFB's alarm clock then went off and he had to get up. I went back to sleep and dreamt I was at some sort of Jerry Falwell camp and I needed to pack, take a shower and clean out some drawers that were full of grey muddy grunge.

In case I've worried any of you out there (I know there's at least five or six of you who check in here), we emailed our lawyer in Victoria for copies of our wills (because we can't find them); we phoned the insurance company (which has changed hands twice since we took our our policy); and we located the local branch of the Memorial Society (because our membership in the BC Memorial Society is unlikely to do us much good). The last has a fabulous web site which actually has a check list of "what to do when death occurs" --- in case you too were wondering. So if the Resident Fan Boy meets with tragedy in Québec City (say, if someone discovers his last name while he's touring the Plains of Abraham and takes umbrage)....well...I'm still screwed, but at least I have an idea of what to do.

Catch a falling star leaf

Are all superstitions delusions or proof of impossibly magical thinking? I think superstitions can be useful metaphors. Take lucky pennies (and I do, at every opportunity). I found five last weekend, and I saw them because I was not rushing, I happened to look down, and I was willing to stoop to scoop them up. The Resident Fan Boy is fond of saying that luck is preparation plus opportunity. A lucky penny illustrates that nicely. If I'm with someone, I hand it to them, saying: Find a penny, give it away; have good luck for the rest of the day. That's not magical thinking; that's a reminder.

So every autumn, I try to catch falling leaves. It's actually devilishly difficult. If the wind is high, they whoosh above my head. If the wind is low, there are few leaves that appear to drift lazily down, but dip and slip off in a random directions even as I reach. Others fall in scores just where I'm not standing. See, I read in a book in the school library that every leaf caught while falling is good for a wish. I aim for six leaves each year, three leaves per the two most desperate desires from my own personal Mirror of Erised. (Check Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets if you don't catch that reference. That J.K. Rowling knows some dark truths about the human psyche.)

Thus, every tree becomes a tree of dreams: fiery ones, crimson and scarlet ones


and golden ones.

And what prevents me from catching leaves? Sometimes someone is approaching me and I feel too self-conscious, sometimes I simply don't have the speed or agility, sometimes I don't want to trespass or get run over, sometimes my arms are full, and sometimes a child is holding my hand. See? It is a metaphor...

This morning, I made the time to catch leaves, but I always seemed to be standing in the wrong place. As I made my way down the hill, a gust blew a shower of them across the street, and I swept my arms towards my chest, looked down and two golden maple leafs were clutched to my left collarbone. I kissed each and made my wishes, tucking them in my breast pocket. A few minutes later, an ash leaf sailed by and I simply reached out and snatched it from the air. This brings my total to four because last week when I was taking most of these pictures (in fact, it was while I was taking this very picture), a leaf swooped down and landed on my left shoulder. I tell you, my friends, in all my years of leaf-catching and wish-snatching, that has never happened before. Nor is likely to happen again.

Oh, and as for my Mirror of Erised wishes? They may be on their way, but no signs yet. And if I tell you what they are, everyone knows they'll never come true. (No, nothing to do with David Tennant...)

Identity crisis

We're heading into High Autumn now, and this particular one is reaching the high and colourful standards of the fall of 2001 when we first came to Hades, which, come to think of it, also followed on the damp heels of an unseasonably rainy summer. So this morning, for the first time since 2001, I saw the striped sidewalk effect, due to the droppings of three particularly vivid maples lined up the next block up from our house. It looks like the Doctor's scarf; too bad the effect was spoiled by this morning's clutter of garbage cans and recycling bins, delayed by yesterday's Thanksgiving holiday.

Today is Election Day, and while all true Canadians whinge about the weather and government, they cannot rightfully do the latter, in my opinion, unless they've bothered to vote, no matter how futile it may seem. Particularly at our house this year. I'm voting with my conscience, even though I find all four leadership candidates depressingly unprepossessing; the Resident Fan Boy is voting strategically, even though our riding has gone to the same party since 1974.
"When are you going in to cancel my vote, darling?" I call to the RFB as he heads out for work. Oh well.

Now, the challenge in voting for the past couple of years lies in the new identification rules. Apparently, even with sinking voting participation with each election, there are fears of illegal voting. (I wish I thought people cared that much. I wish I thought I cared that much.) This means perusing a rather large pamphlet with long lists of combinations of IDs which will be acceptable at the polling place. Most people can get away with their driver's license, but I'm a militant non-driver. This means I need a piece of government ID (a birth certificate or a passport), and (here's the rub) something on the approved list that shows my address. Up until recently, that was my health card, but it came up for renewal last April and the new ones don't bear addresses for "privacy reasons". A utility bill is also acceptable, but I just paid my bills last week and the bit with the address on it is what's returned with the cheque. I email the Resident Fan Boy for the location of our Canada Child Tax Benefit statement and he tells me that he shreds them. Oh dear. I have a letter from my mum but the stamp isn't cancelled, and letters are not on the lengthy list. Fortunately, Resident Fan Boy hasn't paid the hydro bill yet, and that bears both our names. Whew. I stride down to the United Church, where two lovely Indo-Canadian ladies tell me that everything is in order. "You mean I get to vote?" I cry with mock-glee. Fortunately, these ladies are not "election day Hitlers" and they laugh, and hand me my ballot.

Now I'm going to find somewhere to blot out the world. The Resident Fan Boy may be an election coverage junkie, but I'm not. This year, the polls don't close until 9:30, so I have the option of retreating to bed and watching Gavin and Stacey. I wonder if DVD rentals spike on Election Night...

Today's goal

Once the Resident Fan Boy has finished with this morning's pancakes, I will reclaim and clean the kitchen (which should take about 45 minutes), then embark upon creating the pastry for my famous pumpkin pie. (Last year's is shown.) This year's challenges: 1) our blender (our last surviving mechanical wedding gift --- RIP) died while I was trying to make pumpkin pie for last week's house-guest. Pumpkin pie made with an electric beater simply doesn't cut it. This means I am using the new blender for the first time. On Thanksgiving. Is this wise? 2) The Resident Fan Boy and elder daughter went out yesterday to procure whipping cream, as our supermarket will be closed for today's holiday. There is none to be had, neither in spray can, nor whip-it-yourself form. (Also, the half-decent vanilla ice cream is sold out.) They plan to re-check the convenience stores today, on the basis of a vague promise from a shady proprietor. So we face the prospect of pumpkin pie sans whipped cream. Younger daughter is in despair.

I blame this on the coming Aries full moon which hits full strength tomorrow. On Election Day. God save us.

Anyhow, with some trepidation, I wish a Happy Thanksgiving to all my Canadian lurkers. Say "hello" to me sometime, will you?

As the granddaughter of an entomologist, I'm ashamed of myself

So, I'd just waved bye-bye to our house guest who has departed after a pleasant three-day stay. I sauntered into the kitchen to fix myself lunch, and while bent over the counter, felt a light brushing at the nape of my neck. Without thinking, I reached back and...yow! My pinkie was really pink! Something had stung me. Well, folks, I totally lost it. In a blind panic, I turned on the tap full blast and started splashing water over my head, too terrified to reach back again with my fingers. I snatched up a tea-towel and frantically batted the back of my head. It then occurred to me that whatever it was...

This?

This??

...may have fallen down the back of my top, so I feverishly undid oh, I dunno, twelve buttons and ripped it off, shaking it vigorously. (Much later, it dawned on me that our kitchen has no curtains.) Clutching my top and the tea-towel to me and using very unscientific language, I barreled upstairs, and leaving a trail of clothes scattered in the hall, immersed myself in a warm shower, having finally summoned the courage to yank out my scrunchy. While shampooing, periodically examining my pink pinkie, I noticed that the water was getting colder and colder. I managed a rinse, and giving my clothes some final cautionary shakes, re-robed and descended the stairs, shivering from shock and cold. I discovered I'd left the kitchen tap on at full blast which explained my very refreshing shower.

Somehow, I think my grandfather (a noted researcher of the tsetse fly, if you must know) would have thought my behaviour extremely silly. I felt even sillier while watching the Rick Mercer Report last night.

If you click on the link this week (October 7th to October 14th), it will take you right to the video in question. Otherwise, the video will be on the list to your right and it's entitled (shudder) "Beard of Bees".

Okay, nobody can accuse me of courage when it comes to bugs. And there's a dead mouse lying by our front path. I'll bet this is going to be a great month for vermin... (And yes, I know house centipedes are great for controlling much nastier household insects. They're still creepy. Leave me alone.)

Sudoku (sudo-something-you're-actually-supposed-to-be-doing)

Elder daughter has been on the computer a lot lately. She has to keep a journal for World Religions, do character studies for Candida, prepare a class presentation for Pride and Prejudice, design a tee-shirt for Media Studies...

This means I should tackle my other projects, like say, booting the house into some kind of order before entertaining a particularly A-type personality house guest this weekend. But nooooo.... I'm trying to master Sudoku. (You know what I'm talking about: nine grids of nine numbers, and each grid must contain the numbers one to nine, plus each horizontal line and each vertical line must contain the numbers one to nine, with no repeats within any grid or line.)

One evening last summer, we had set up lawn chairs in a designated spot in the Butchart Gardens. Because Victoria is actually quite a bit further north than Ottawa, we then had to wait five hours for the sun to set and the fireworks to start. We took turns strolling off to look at the gardens, to stand in line for ice-cream cones, to visit the washroom, etc. Elder daughter pulled out a book of Sudoku puzzles and, to my complete mystification, filled them out. She'd put numbers down, seemingly randomly. She wrote a number, glanced over at my bewildered face and smiled smugly: "Do you have any idea why I put that there?" "No-o-o..." She explained. I didn't get it. She chuckled like a sixteen-year-old sphinx. I decided to concentrate on my book. But couldn't stop myself looking over, just in time to see her write down three more numbers, in widely divergent places. And I had no idea why. I put it down to my ancient numerophobia. The fireworks blew it from my mind:


...until a few weeks later, when I find myself back in Hades with no access to the computer and piles (literally) of things I should be dusting, sorting, putting away. Having completed the "Canadian Cyberquotes" (you just figure out what letter of the alphabet stands for another letter of the alphabet to decode a quotation from a famous Canadian --- see, I can do these...), I tackle the Sudoku puzzle. Dammit, if I learned how to cut-and-paste on the computer, surely I can master this. And besides, there's the matter of keeping my rapidly aging brain in trim. Demeter, heartbroken over her sister's recent decline into dementia, has invested in one of those computer game thingies to muscle up her memory. The trouble is, her pre-cataract-surgery eyes can't quite make out the screen. The Baby Boomers, taking a break from their yoga and Tai Chi, are fighting the slide into senility cybernetically and with crosswords, declaiming along with King Lear: O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven,
Keep me in temper: I would not be mad.

I call elder daughter away from the computer: "Is this right?" She reads my face carefully and fills in two numbers. "Okay," I wail. "And that's because....? She sighs heavily. "There's already a 6 here and here, so I can't put it here or here, but there's a 6 missing here, so...." She reads my face again. "Did that make any sense? "Uh, I think so..." I manage to fill out two of the nine grids and flush with triumph, check the vertical and horizontal lines. Elder daughter examines the crumpled and cast-aside newspaper page after dinner. "Maybe you should be filling it in with pencil, mum."

The Ottawa Citizen's daily Sudoku has a four-star rating. On the weekend, it was a five-star. How the dickens am I to learn? No! Wait! Here's today's paper, and it's... a one-star.... Oh, do you think?

You know, it really would be easier to just tackle the damn housework...

A kind of September

Try to remember a kind of September/ When life was slow and oh so mellow

Listen, does this describe any one's September? Even if you're out on the farm, aren't you madly harvesting? Furthermore, I think most of us, with or without children, in school or long since graduated, are still bound inextricably to the rhythm of the school year. September means a re-shouldering of burdens, and, at our house, a few false starts at getting the hang of the new schedule.

Younger daughter and I have resumed the daily pilgrimage up the hill to school. We join the parade of parents-determined-to-not-drive-children-to-school (at least until the first big rain or snow, not an option for us, not having a car in the first place); parents-determined-to-bike-with-their-tykes-to-school (usually with parent on road and tyke on sidewalk; parent reminding tyke to ring his bell to signal you to leap out of his way); and dogs accompanying both aforementioned categories, much to younger daughter's delight.

After leaving younger daughter to the tender mercies of the staff and her schoolmates (please, dear God, some kindness this year), I make my way down the suddenly much emptier streets, encountering later rising dog walkers and large, sidewalk-encompassing strollers containing blond children pushed by Caribbean or Philippina ladies. It's that kind of neighbourhood. Occasionally a line of black SUV's with tinted windows slips by me. It's not a funeral cortege; it's the Prime Minister, off to work after dropping his vote-winning children off at school. (Gosh, I hope he loses this election, but I'm not holding my breath.)

When you were a tender and callow fellow...

Mid-afternoon, and I climb the hill again. Occasionally, I encounter the principal for some cheerful words about the weather or a spot of micro-managing: "It's looking pretty good for (younger daughter)," he informs me. "Has she told you that (Dutch Girl) has moved? No? Well, (Guardian Angel) is still here, so that's good..." I don't tell him that Dutch Girl actively snubbed younger daughter and Guardian Angel for the second half of the last school year when she took up with Unkind Russian Prodigy who besides instigating the snubbing, thought filling younger daughter's boots with snow was a huge joke and is the prime suspect for the Case of the Disappearing Indoor Shoes of last winter. What would be the point?

...When no one wept except the willow

And each afternoon, younger daughter and I descend the hill, being narrowly missed by sidewalk cyclists (fully helmeted of course, although we're not). Sometimes we're witness to after-school mini-dramas: 1) Two young boys sprint past us, slowing now and then to scan the horizon behind them with wide eyes. Not long after this, another young boy, clad in a camouflage tee-shirt with a huge red back-pack, trots by us, not exactly like Pepé Le Pew, but with a relaxed sort of speed. He catches up with the fleeing duo about half-a-block ahead of us; cuffs one and yanks the ear of the other, before almost serenely resuming his trot down the hill. Anxious duo (one rubbing his cheek, the other gingerly fingering his ear) balances on the curb of the street which is busier than usual with after-school pickups and school buses, before crossing to hurry down the other side. They vanish around the next corner. Seconds later, Pepé Le Pew emerges from around the other corner where he has evidently been lying in wait, and trots after them...

Without a hurt, the heart is hollow...

Or: 2) As the sky turns a greenish sort of grey, various clusters of homeward bound kids and families hurry past us. I glance down the hill and see the storm moving toward us, heralded by leafs whirling like protons and neutrons. Beyond, I can see the horizontal rain, a gift from the tail end of Hurricane Ivan which is now exhausting itself over Eastern Canada. I push younger daughter into a driveway to search out and hoist our umbrellas, out of the way of rushing pedestrians, and a large dog indignantly barks at us while a lady restrains him and calls an unheard reassurance over the howling wind. Younger daughter shrieks in delight as our umbrellas twist in our hands. Some of the family groups who had passed us earlier are taking shelter against fences and under trees. The wind changes directions and ambushes us from behind. My blouse is clinging icily to my back when we make the haven of the front porch. Even our underwear needs changing. Our heads, however, are dry....

Although you know the snow will follow...

Nice song, that. From the musical The Fantasticks. However, I have to wonder what Messrs Harvey Schmidt and Tom Jones were on about. The September they describe is like no September I've ever remembered...

Adventures in book borrowing

The crossing guard outside the Catholic school en route to younger daughter's school tells me we're being grazed by the edge of what's left of Hurricane Gustav, so Friday night, the sky blackened and the trees tossed fitfully, and Saturday brought steady rain.

Elder daughter, who spent the earlier part of this first week back at school declaring that her course on World Religions was a terrible mistake, has now revised her opinion and is directing her vitriol at this year's drama teacher. I'm beginning to understand why. On Friday, this teacher announced that she was dividing the class into groups and assigning a play to each. Elder daughter's group got George Bernard Shaw's Candida, and was airily told to bring a copy of the play to class on Monday. "Oh, there's plenty of copies at the public library," said ill-advised drama teacher. I take it she hasn't checked. There are not many copies within the system, some are out, and those that are in are at far-flung branches. A hold will deliver the play to one's local library -- after Monday.

I placed a cautionary hold, then elder daughter and I shouldered our brollies and hiked the kilometre up the hill to see if we couldn't scare up a copy that way. If we'd been in Victoria, Demeter would have lent us her copy, but if we were in Victoria, we wouldn't be dealing with this ill-advised teacher. Candida? For sixteen-year-olds? This isn't exactly one of Shaw's most accessible plays. She assigned another group Strindberg's Miss Julie, for cripe's sake. Never mind the fact that this is a Drama class and not a literature class; is alienation her goal?


Anyway, no dice at the library. I suggested we try Books on Beechwood, our charming local bookstore (long may it reign). So back down the hill, past our house, to the main drag. We skulked around a bit, then approached the charming proprietor. She shook her head, considered us for a moment, then said: "I could lend you a copy..." Well, it turns out that her house is always getting mail meant for our house, and vice versa. Every month or so, I take a small detour from the trek to retrieve younger daughter from school, and deliver wayward catalogues and envelopes to the townhouse that shares our house number on swish Rideau Terrace. She phoned up her husband, interrupting his championing of Federer in the US Open, and told him where her Shaw anthology was. We thanked her profusely, promised faithfully to take excellent care of the book (after all, she knows where we live!), and started the climb up the hill again.

"Now, there's a Victoria moment in Ottawa," remarked elder daughter.

I don't know what to do about ill-advised teacher. Sometimes you just have to suck it up. But, do, if you love books, go and support your local independent bookstore when you can. And if you live in Hades, buy a book from Books on Beechwood. Evidently, it's a classy establishment!

I'm so. . .proud. . .

I am chuffed (really!) to have received a special award for Most Interesting Back Story at Jaywalker's remarkable "Village Fête". Go check it out immediately (my "back story" is in the comments there; please don't make me repeat it)-- and rest assured, Peevish's Back Story is way more interesting than mine. But don't tell Cake Wrecks; it's not often I get such a confirmation of my baking skills, and my heart would break if they took my award away...