Snow Joke

I'm pretty sure my Christmas shopping is now done. My knee still aches, but younger daughter's physical check-up found us within striking distance of stores for the Resident Fan Boy's present, and I had an added incentive: we're being threatened with two major snowstorms this weekend, and the second may bring freezing rain. Snow I can cope with, but freezing rain is a whole different can of horrible, and this weekend before Christmas offers few opportunities for hiding in the house.

It could be worse. We could be in Toronto.

Here's a classic Rick Mercer sketch featuring CBC reporter Linden MacIntyre (an alumnus of the journalism programme at the University of King's College in Halifax from which elder daughter is graduating this spring) and actress Sonja Smits who is from the Ottawa area. If you're not Canadian, twenty centimetres of snow is eight inches -- a reasonably heavy snowfall, but pretty standard for winter in most parts of Canada.

The pendulum is the pits

When January began, we were still in the midst of the twelve days of Christmas.  The snow people made by neighbourhood children grew under layers of new snow.  I can't ever remember snowmen lasting beyond a day or two.  These lasted for weeks.  However, the pitiless pendulum of the new year has been swinging back and forth between piles of white, and pewter freezing rain.

Last week, I carefully picked my way around the slick streaks and solid slippery puddles along Iris Crescent and saw that the cheerful and slightly askance couple who seemed to be cautiously watching to see what the Accent Snob would do last month had been reduced to emaciated pillars this month.

The pendulum swung again, and a truck-cum-snow-plough was trapped on Bertrand Street one Saturday evening.  Someone had drawn a triumphant smile in the blade-devouring drift.

This week, we've had hip-high hills of white washed away (nearly) by rain which was dried (nearly) by howling winds this morning before the temperatures dropped, freezing treacherous smears across the sidewalks.  And we've still got February to come.  March and April usually aren't that much better here in Hades.

This is my tenth NaBloPoMo.  I began with February 2009, followed by September that same year. In 2010,  I did March, August, and November. I blogged for the whole months of April and October in 2011, and my NaBloPo-months for 2012 were May and July.  For almost each month in which I've participated, I've gone through my diaries to see what patterns emerged over my years of journalling.  Looking over past Januarys was rather depressing.  It's such a damn dark month, mostly in various hues of grey.  I seem to have had rather more friends die in January than other times of the year, but I don't feel like checking, thank-you very much.  I suppose January has usually been a time for facing reality for me.  Too bad the light is so poor.

 I plan to NaBloPoMo in June.  I'll still be blogging in the meantime, but not nearly as regularly. I'm tired, and there are things that need doing before I come out swinging again.

Sidewalk smarts

I made a quick trip down to the mailbox to mail what I hope are the last of this season's Christmas cards. (Fat hope. Invariably something comes in during the twelve days of Christmas which makes me moan "Oh damn!" in that charitable holiday style I have and hastily fill out another card and envelope.)

Within seconds, I'm slowing down and picking my way over and, where possible, around stretches of black and white ice, marvelling at my fellow pedestrians striding by, some on phones, some absorbed in texting. I only see one of them slip, but it doesn't seem to be an edifying experience.

I manage my errand and the Resident Fan Boy helps me force Yaktrax over the soles of my sneakers for the long trek up the hill to the library. I may not have street smarts, but I have sidewalk smarts and trembling on the brink of my thirteenth winter in this godforsaken city, I know there will wide, solid, slippery streams frozen in mid-flow from the driveways intersecting the pavement. Yaktrax may not save me there (Ice on a slant? Are you mad?); I'll walk around that, thank-you, but it will help me stand a chance -- literally -- on those treacherous stretches in front of condo-buildings where the inhabitants resolutely expect the city to clear and salt for them. I learned this the hard way but then, I got all my sidewalk smarts the hard way.

It's a bit nerve-wracking making my way up a hill that is just short of a kilometre in the icy dark, juggling a bag of library books, a bag of poop, and the jittery Accent Snob who isn't that fond of walks in ideal daylight weather. I spend the uphill trek crankily snapping at the dog as he attempts to convince me to go back by frequent stops to look longingly over his shoulder, and the downhill trek compensating for the inexorable pull of gravity and the slightly more exorable pull of the Accent Snob who recognizes that I've finally come to my senses and turned homeward. I compensate by walking like Groucho Marx, knees bent, slouching gait, the whole effect helped, I'm sure, by the cigar-sized flashlight I'm holding out to make out ice patches in the dim glow of the posh Rockcliffe Park street lights. Also the moist gleam of my philtrum, resulting from my runny nose.

There are beautiful Christmas lights on the way, but it's difficult to appreciate them under these circumstances. A winter storm is on its way and the trees are beginning to moan ominously. I just pray it is actually a winter storm. If it's more bloody freezing rain, I just may be more in favour of the end of the world which is supposedly occurring at about 6 am our time.

See you later. Maybe.

Kicking off (and trying not to skin my toes)

Earlier this week, we left the house in the silvery grey half-light of the early January dawn and noticed that the Christmas lights up and down our street have diminished. Many Ottawans spent the weekend dismantling their Christmas trappings -- including us. I averted my eyes from the black forms of the Christmas trees on their snowy biers awaiting the chipper truck. When I returned home a couple of hours later, there were only scatterings of dull green needles showing where the trees had been, which means only one thing:

Lots of vacuuming. Oh yes, and high time I drop-kicked the blog into the new year (and not the new decade, you clods, that's next year). By way of a feeble excuse, it's been damned difficult to get to the computer at all because elder daughter is frantically finishing "summatives" (major term-end projects, essays, and presentations). Since January is named for the two-faced god Janus, who looks both forward and backward, I thought I'd give a quick rundown of our Hadean Christmas. Last year, I focused on the Twelve Days of Christmas, and this year, I'm focusing on a slightly different twelve:

Twelve Days of Demeter: My mother's visit was dictated by the availability of seat sales, so she arrived December 16th and departed December 28th. I managed to shove out of my consciousness the fact that this is her final Christmas visit to Hades. She has declared that after five Ottawa Christmases, she's had enough, and, as she has also survived the first nine Edmontonian Christmases of my childhood and at least five Prince George Christmases with my sister, who can blame her? However, on the eve of her departure, I went to bed and unsuccessfully wrestled the unpleasant notions that a) this may be our last Christmas together ever, as getting out to British Columbia for two weeks in the winter is prohibitively expensive and complicated; and b) elder daughter will in all likelihood be at university in another city, province, or even country....

Eleven Doses of David Tennant: Or thereabouts. I know that a rabid British DT fan with absolutely nothing else to do or consider could have treated herself to David Tennant something like seventy-five times over the holidays. That's a bit rich even for my blood, but thanks to the BBC Radio web site, YouTube, Bit Torrents, and the fact that the Space Channel had a marathon showing of all five most recent Doctor Who specials, we got close to satiation. Our Region Two copy of Hamlet from Amazon.uk should land on our doorstep sometime this week; I am not waiting until April...

As a bit of an aside, I understand that at least one person wants to know what I thought of the Doctor Who finale. Elder daughter downloaded each part after it transmitted in the UK (yes, we could have waited until January 2nd for the marathon, but that was with commercials, people, and parts usually get edited out to make room for them --- we've ordered the DVDs, Auntie Beeb...)

Fan wank, I thought, while watching the first part of the finale. As both my husband and elder daughter glanced at me in startlement, I then thought: Whoops. Did I say that out loud?

As of this writing, I have seen all five of the past year's specials at least twice. I never thought I would say this, but I'm rather relieved to see both Russell T Davies and David Tennant go. The specials were not awful, but none of them came anywhere near the quality of the best of the New Who regular seasons.

Now, let this be understood: RTD is a remarkable writer. Bob and Rose is one of the best things I've ever seen on television; Casanova was a great deal of fun, and above all, Davies regenerated Doctor Who from oblivion. However. He tries to do too much with each episode, leaving loose ends and inconsistencies strewn everywhere. Paraphrasing the very words he gave Donna in the closing moments of The Runaway Bride (which, you may be surprised to learn, I liked), he needs someone to stop him. Or at least edit him.

Case in point: What's wrong with this picture? This is a man (okay, a regenerating-type alien) who has fallen many many feet from a diving spacecraft, through a glass dome, landing face down on a marble floor. This has resulted in a half dozen sores evenly distributed across his handsome mug and artfully torn shoulders on his suit. He has been able to struggle to his feet and aim a gun (let's not get into whether this incarnation of the Time Lord would use a gun) at a whole bunch of presumably able-to-regenerate Time Lords and each time he dramatically whirls to point it, he somehow needs to cock the pistol with a loud "click". Just before the mad and doomed Time Lord behind him drives the quintet of power-hungry and melodramatic Time Lords back into the hell of the Time War (again, let's not get into the utter ridiculousness and repetitiveness of Gallifrey closing in on Earth), the Doctor spots his mother (RTD has confirmed this). When the one who "will knock four times" is revealed to be Wilf (which wasn't that much of a surprise to me), the Doctor has recovered sufficiently from the shock of seeing his long-lost mother pushed into Hell by the Master to spend a few minutes wailing about his own demise at the expense of Wilf's life.

That said, I enjoyed myself for the most part. Even got a bit choked up during the long goodbyes. (Elder daughter watched the finale for the first time by herself at 3am in front of the computer and reports that she wept copiously.) However, I'm ready for Matt Smith now, and even more ready for Steven Moffat.

Now. Where was I? (Geez. Maybe somebody needs to stop me...)

Ten So-Called Christmas "Letters": Well, twelve actually, because one person sent me her Christmas newsletters from the past three years, presumably because she's only got around to completing them this year and thinks I want to actually read them. Four years ago, she sent me four years' worth. I write this in the full confidence that she will never read this nor hear of this: No one's life is that interesting. (And yes, I realize this is an ironic statement, coming from a blogger.)

On the up-side, we got fewer newsletters than usual because everyone wants to save on stamps and so are sending mass email mailings of their newsletters which are easily deleted. I repeat these immortal words of wisdom on the subject from cartoonist Sandra Boyton: "If you, too, are contemplating writing fiction for a hostile public..."

Nine Bags of Chocolate: Sent as separate gifts to all four of us. Yet somehow, I consumed more than my share. I plead Purdy's.

Eight Deli Shifts: Elder daughter graduated from babysitting to working at our local supermarket this fall. Although she got four days off (Christmas Day, Boxing Day and the third and fourth days of Christmas), she actually had to ask us to turn off CBC Radio's Christmas music on Christmas morning because she has been Musak'ed into the ground. Retailers crank up the Christmas-related fare even before Remembrance Day and her place of work kept playing "Last Christmas" by George Michaels over and over and over...

Seven Ways of Using an IPod: My big Christmas surprise from my family this year, meant to mitigate some of the 4½ hours (minimum) I spend on OC Transpo each day. I was stunned. (So was Resident Fan Boy, who was convinced Demeter would let the cat out of the bag -- never involve her in the planning of surprise parties.) As I'm dragged kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century, I'm slowly figuring out how to work this thing. So far, I can watch videos on it, use it as a camcorder, listen to several CD's either as albums or in shuffle, listen to CBC Radio Two (much better signal than my Walkman), tell time, use it as a pedometer, and record memos to myself. When it unplugs the toilet, I'll be really impressed.

Six Pounds Gained: I suspect this may have something to do with the nine bags of chocolate. And the egg nog. And the mince tarts. And the taking Demeter out to lunch. And the extremely large bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream. And...

♪Five Tourtières♫: We tripled the recipe because elder daughter wanted to do these for her French presentation. Five is too many, even when two go to school and one goes to the office Christmas Eve party.

Four Christmas Carols: In addition to Alistair Sim and Mr Magoo (neither of which we would be without), the Ottawa theatre community (and beyond) offered several versions of Dicken's best-known novella. We took in the National Arts Centre English Theatre's version starring Stephen Ouimette (the ghost in Slings and Arrows, if you're familiar with that gem) which featured narrative devices similar to the RSC's 1980's version of Nicholas Nickleby, along with some fabulous singing. Demeter thought it was amazing. Less amazing was The Farndale Avenue Housing Estate Town Women's Guild Dramatic Society's Production of A Christmas Carol
at the Gladstone Theatre. The acting (and quite possibly the writing) wasn't quite up to it. What can we say? Comedy is hard.

Three Bags of Popcorn: We also saw three movies. We took in the HD "live" version of the Royal Ballet's The Nutcracker
which is actually quite wonderful. We took younger daughter to see the latest Disney flick The Princess and the Frog which returns to "traditional animation" to re-tell the fairy tale in an oddly desegregated New Orleans of the 1920s. However, as far as younger daughter was concerned, it was a cartoon; there was jazz music; what's not to like? Finally, our New Year's Day film this year was Young Victoria. The only issues I really had with it were a) the film-makers' need to bloody up Prince Albert in the assassination attempt on his wife (yes, he did fling himself over her; no, he didn't get shot, but apparently that wasn't dramatic or cinematic enough); and b) that gosh-awful pop song playing under the closing credits. I've included the link, but really, only if you're curious. Oh yes, and Prince Albert didn't attend Victoria's coronation. (I've been reading Elizabeth Longford's biography of Victoria. Could you tell?)

Two Days of Freezing Rain:As pretty as freezing rain is, it is a pain in the butt, and I'll take a -35 wind chill over freezing rain any time. Okay, not in May.

One Christmas a Year: Which should be enough, shouldn't it? I always thought so, until younger daughter's challenges became apparent. Oh darling. If I could keep Christmas the year round, you know I would. All we can do is try to keep the Christmas spirit burning feebly into this cold new year, especially in the face of distressing news coming from places like Haiti. That is my wish for her, and for you.

Dreams and nightmares

Freezing rain ("freezing bane" is more like it) fell early this morning. The Resident Fan Boy had been worshipping at the altar of Environment Canada throughout Sunday, so I really hadn't bothered to fix younger daughter's school lunch. When word came that the school buses had been cancelled, we knew there was little point tackling the treacherous sidewalks for slightly-less-than-one kilometre uphill to school. I phone the school's absence line and tuned the television to Sesame Street. (Elder daughter and the RFB must brave the elements for the sake of marks and money.)

While I've given up going outside in freezing rain (don't; not if you can help it), I have been making an attempt to do other things I've been nervous about. One of these is taking younger daughter to an evening ballet performance. Elder daughter, despite my best brain-washing attempts, has sworn off ballet, and Ottawa only offers matinées of The Nutcracker. Since younger daughter had made it quite happily through an evening performance of a musical review put on by a local theatre company over the Christmas holidays, I thought I'd finally make a stab at it when Les Ballets de Monte-Carlo showed up in town with their production of Le Songe. Ah, A Midsummer Night's Dream, I thought: slapstick, fairies, Mendelssohn.... perfect for younger daughter.

Well, it wasn't a total disaster. This was very, very French, that is, heavy on whimsy, preciousness, and what the Resident Fan Boy called "A-a-a-a-a-rt!" (as in Gonzo the Great playing Mozart in a vat of oatmeal with bagpipes). Younger daughter, whom we'd carefully prepared, sat between us with Ballerina, the stuffed chocolate-coloured lab and Jeffrey her dog-puppet. She enjoyed training her opera glasses on the members of the audience waiting for the curtain. I was seated next to Mr. Elbows, and the RFB was seated next to Monsieur Appreciator of French Art who was a dead ringer for Mick Fleetwood (down to his build and wardrobe) and chuckled appreciatively throughout the performance. The ballet was a mixture of sort of Commedia dell'Arte (the band of mechanicals), traditional ballet (the lovers, conveniently labelled in large letters), and modern ballet (scary fairies). Of the last, these were probably rather Shakespearean fairies: not fluffy and ethereal, but earthy and erotic, all "holes and poles". Titania's white body stocking was decorated with aqueous circles emphasizing her breasts, belly and pudenda, while Oberon sported a sort of pearl saddle horn on his belt (and yeeowtch! what a physical hazard for his dancing partners!). All of this innuendo would go flying over younger daughter's head, and truth to tell, the choreography of the fairy section was by far the most interesting of the ballet, which spent rather too much time on the story of the four lovers (which, let's face it, is usually the most tedious part of the play). Three quarters of the way through the first act, younger daughter was asleep.  The Resident Fan Boy and I exchanged glances as the lights came up for intermission and gathered up our coats. While waiting for a taxi in the lobby, we saw a family with a four-year-old boy making an exit and, so help me, we heard a baby crying in the orchestra section at the beginning of the ballet...

I don't know if the evening would have been better if I hadn't been battling a persistant headache resulting from a 3+ hour shopping expedition to seek out a "dressy" outfit for elder daughter's European class trip next week. First off, I am not, in any sense of the term, a fashion consultant (that would be eldest daughter's best friend who was sick this weekend). Secondly, my limit for shopping malls is just under 90 minutes. Thirdly, elder daughter had no idea what she wanted, being a jeans-and-tee girl herself. So it was my worst nightmare: 90 minutes in boutiques and waiting outside and inside fitting rooms, followed by 90 minutes of bloody Payless Shoes where I've never been and I never wish to revisit. Then she said she needed a bag. What did I think? I carry everything in cloth book bags, I told her, slumping off to sit on a shoe-fitting bench while she quizzed the salesgirl....

Next attempt: Broadway Across Canada season tickets. I'm praying there are matinées. And no dress code.