tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343550202024-03-12T19:08:02.270-04:00Party of 3alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.comBlogger488125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-81236222093742550192015-06-11T13:46:00.001-04:002015-06-11T16:56:32.485-04:00According to Rachel: Kingston Pen edition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So, Rachel's class went on the annual Grade 7 end-of-year day trip to Kingston, down on the St. Lawrence Seaway. They visited <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fort_Henry,_Ontario">Fort Henry</a>, a military outpost built to repel those pesky Americans during the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/War_of_1812">War of 1812</a>.<br />
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They also visited <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kingston_Penitentiary">Kingston Penitentiary</a>, a now-closed, but iconic Canadian prison. They weren't allowed into the prison, but toured the Corrections Canada Prison Museum across the street.<br />
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<span style="text-align: start;">On the way home from school after the bus had dropped them off, Rae and I chatted in the car.</span><br />
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<span style="text-align: start;">Rae: "And we went to the prison too."</span><br />
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<span style="text-align: start;">Me: "Kingston Pen?"</span><br />
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<span style="text-align: start;">Rae: "I don't know. Some old prison, but we didn't get to go in."</span><br />
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<span style="text-align: start;">Me: "Probably Kingston Pen. It's a famous prison. That's too bad. It would have been fun to go into the cells."</span><br />
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<span style="text-align: start;">Rae: "Yeah, it would've. But we went to this museum and got to see stuff from the prison. There was a whole shelf of shivs." </span><br />
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Me: [marvelling a bit that the school would show stuff like that to what are essentially children] "Wow. <a href="http://itsjustapie.blogspot.ca/2011/08/canada-and-us-are-still-friends-and-we.html">Shivs</a>."</div>
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Rae: "They made them out of all kinds of things. Toothbrushes, spoons. One shiv was even made out of a <i>hammer</i>. Why would anyone do that?" </div>
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Me: [smiles at my daughter's revulsion towards the violence inherent in making a shiv]</div>
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Rae: "Just hit the guy with the hammer. [shakes head] Efficiency, dude."</div>
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Me: .......</div>
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<br />alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-34504734946479612802015-04-28T22:56:00.000-04:002015-04-29T09:25:06.468-04:00Sorry, Horatio<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Leah, my 15-year-old, and I were out walking the dog this evening.<br />
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Leah: "So, Tiana and I were late for Math, we walked in after everyone was already there, but the teacher turned a blind eye and didn't say anything."<br />
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Me: "Do you know where that saying comes from? 'Turn a blind eye?'"<br />
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Leah: "I hope to God you're going to tell me it's from Mad Eye Moody."<br />
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Me: .......<br />
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Me: "Never mind, it's nowhere near that cool."alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-52466616830963940922015-03-29T13:16:00.000-04:002015-03-30T11:38:07.420-04:00Sign #431 we watch way too much C.S.I. around hereWhile drying my hair yesterday, I managed to bang the back of my hand into the corner of the vanity in my bathroom. It hurt. I stood there, feeling it throb and watching the blood pool under the skin, a pale bluish dome with a small bloody scrape on top.<br />
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Me: "Leah, come and look. I've got a hematoma!"</div>
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Leah: "Cool! Subdural?"</div>
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Me: "Nope. Not a head injury, just a regular hematoma."</div>
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*comes into bathroom*<br />
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*looks at my hand*<br />
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*makes appraising face*</div>
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Leah: "Nice."<br />
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Me: "I know, right?"</div>
alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-79759558159942640502015-02-26T14:00:00.002-05:002015-02-26T15:56:37.230-05:00Dispatches from the Arctic<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Early January 2015:</b></span><br />
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It's cold. I mean really cold. Oh well, good excuse to hang out indoors and watch some Netflix. It's kinda nice to have to stay indoors and cocoon. Bring on the cold weather!! We love winter!!!!♥!!<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Late February 2015:</b></span><br />
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It's a wonder we're all still sane. Or alive really. No one goes outside anymore unless they need to -- except the dog, and he has to pee fast or the stream will freeze up and stick him to the deck. We have to dress like this to go to work and school:</div>
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Even indoors we dress in more layers than a Winchester. We lurch around the house like Joey wearing all of Chandler's clothing. </div>
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We are all pale and tired-eyed from too much TV. We have watched seven seasons of Friends, four seasons of The Walking Dead, and have nearly exhausted our Netflix show options. God help us, this is up next:</div>
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We are not only pale, we are dry and scaly and chapped. I am even tempted to take this guy up on his offer.</div>
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I gave up wearing makeup a couple of weeks ago. Walking into the frigid and never-ending polar winds getting from my car to my office turned my eyes into small crow's-footed Niagara Falls, and I'm damned if I'm going to let my tears wash off $5 worth of Yves Rocher every day.</div>
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Ottawa Catch-22: It's so cold the ice conditions on the Canal are perfect. It's so cold that anyone actually skating on the canal is quickly captured and placed on a 48-hour psych hold.</div>
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The days blur into each other. We get quite inordinately excited when the daily high goes up to -9, but our hopes are cruelly dashed when the windchill makes it feel like -22 anyway. We begin to wonder if this winter will ever end.</div>
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"Friends" post pictures of their tropical escape vacations online, or pictures of where they live their carefree snowless lives. </div>
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We hates them. We hates them <i>forever</i>.</div>
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We descend into a scary hell of bad 1980s sit-coms and barely repressed profanity. In fact, our feelings for winter can best be expressed like this. </div>
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We no longer love winter. We wait patiently for Spring. Or death. Or the next season of House of Cards.</div>
alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-14440684266856257112015-02-16T13:25:00.000-05:002015-02-16T13:25:50.246-05:00In which I live-tweet Saturday night at the pub. In sarcastic font.<br />
I went out Saturday night. This is a relatively rare event for me, but I was invited to my friend Madeleine's birthday celebration, and it sounded like it was going to be fun.<br />
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And it was. Fun. So much fun. We were all crowded into a small pub in the Glebe, drinking beer on tap and dancing to <a href="http://pleasurecraftband.com/">Pleasure Craft</a>, a retro 70s band. They were great. The crowd was really into it, and the vibe was infectious. I danced my ass off, ricocheting off the other people on the tiny dancefloor.<br />
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The crowd was.....interesting. I was unable to rein in my snarkiness. I blame the Church-Key Scotch Ale. I probably shouldn't be allowed access to Twitter when under the influence of alcohol and sarcasm.<br />
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'Peg' not 'Meg'. Stupid autocorrect.</div>
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After wishing Madeleine and the rest of the party goodnight at 1 a.m., I headed back to where I was parked, humming Steely Dan to myself as I walked the snowy sidewalks, lost in memories of high school.</div>
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I started my car and let it warm up while I brushed the newly fallen snow off the windshield. Sam Smith's 'Stay With Me' on the radio vaulted me back into 2015, and I drove home, tired and happy.</div>
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Thanks, Madeleine. I had a blast.</div>
alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-36767625090284808352015-02-12T20:41:00.002-05:002015-02-12T22:26:37.381-05:00Trying to educate her palate<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The drive home tonight was awful.The Senators are playing at home and so the highway was crowded. It snowed on and off all day, so the roads were greasy and slippery, a horrible commute. I stopped at the grocery store for a few items and decided to pick up a bottle of wine at the wine shop there, instead of going to the liquor store for my usual Malbec-Shiraz. I bought a bottle of merlot that I had never tried before.<br />
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At home, I poured myself a glass. It was very good. Dark red and tasting of cherries and berries. I offered Leah (my almost 15-year-old) a sip.<br />
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Me: Here, try this if you want. It's good. It tastes of cherries.<br />
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Leah takes a tiny sip, holds it in her mouth. Considers.<br />
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Me: Well, what do you think of the taste? It tastes like cherries, don't you think?<br />
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Leah: It tastes like peroxide on an open wound.<br />
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Me:.....<br />
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Me: But with an aftertaste of cherries, right?alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-42274840660113373582015-02-02T13:00:00.000-05:002015-02-03T09:30:43.707-05:00Sorry about your date, hope you got lucky anywayWell, I saved my pennies and went with a bunch of girlfriends to <a href="http://www.lenordik.com/en/homepage/">Le Nordik</a>, a Nordic spa in Chelsea, Quebec, about an hour's drive from my place.<br />
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We like to do this once a year, in January or February, when the excitement of Christmas is over and spring still seems like it's a long, long way away. We rent the lodge for one night of wine and Indian food, and spend two days in the baths, going from sauna to steam room to hot pool, braving the subzero temperatures in our bathing suits, robes, and flip-flops.</div>
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I like it best at night. We try to stay late at the baths on the Friday night before heading back to the lodge. My favourite place is the infinity pool, it's built high on a hill and there's a lovely view of Ottawa and Gatineau in the distance, plus it's one of the places where you are allowed to talk. (Most of the spa is zoned as no talking, so that it's soothing and serene.) So, after dinner and a few glasses of wine at our lodge, we headed back for a sauna and a swim/soak in the infinity pool.<br />
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It was cold. Very cold. Probably around -25C. And a brisk wind was not helping. Giggling like 12-year-old boys because a wet towel that was hung on a hook and froze into a long cylinder with a rounded end kept its shape when I picked up and waved it around, we flip-flopped up to the infinity pool.<br />
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The cold wind was whipping up billows of steam from the surface of the hot pool. We put our towels in the heated hut, and ran to the pool, kicking off our flip-flops and squealing down into the blessedly hot water. We had the pool almost to ourselves -- a few other women down one end, and a couple, their heads very close together above the water, were languidly kissing at the other end. It was undoubtedly a romantic setting. At least until we got there.<br />
<br />
So I would like to offer the following apology:<br />
<br />
Dear Le Nordik Lovers,<br />
<br />
I am really, really sorry about your date.<br />
<br />
Look, you did everything right. I can't think of a more romantic setting. The sky was a black velvet background lit by the brilliant half-full moon. Jupiter was pinned against it like a flawless diamond and a scattering of stars blazed above the necklace of lights that was Ottawa on the horizon. Smooth jazz was playing over hidden speakers, and you and your girlfriend were half hidden in the steam, pressed together, clad only in bathing suits. Yep, A+ on foresight and planning. You were in like Flynn.<br />
<br />
It wasn't your fault that a pack of middle-aged women, with a few glasses of wine under their belts, yelping from the cold and still cackling about the towel erection, splashed down into the middle of your seduction.<br />
<br />
And the one woman, who had lagged behind a bit in the heated hut, so that she was separated from her pack mates and disoriented by the gauzy billows of steam, and ended up yelling "Marco" so that the others would answer "Polo" and everyone was reduced to helpless giggles? Well, she is really most sincerely sorry. <br />
<br />
We tried to behave. Really we did.<br />
<br />
I hope the rest of your evening went as planned.<br />
<br />
Fondly,<br />
<br />
Alison<br />
<br />alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-45822605564995609542014-11-20T16:35:00.000-05:002014-11-21T14:23:12.184-05:00Don't you wish you could have dinner with us?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Our conversation during dinner last night.<br />
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The actual speakers have been left unidentified so that you can appreciate that the weirdness is pretty evenly spread out amongst the three of us.<br />
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At Harvey's, a burger joint, having a quick bite before shopping for badly needed winter boots:<br />
<br />
"'Hiving' <i><b>is</b></i> <i><b>too</b></i> a word."<br />
<br />
"Well, OK, but not how you're using it. It doesn't mean 'having hives all over your body'. You can't say, 'Crap, I'm hiving today.'"<br />
<br />
"Mum, is 'hiving' a word?"<br />
<br />
"Yep, but it doesn't mean 'breaking out in hives', you can say something is hived off from something else, and it means 'separated out.'"<br />
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"Oh. I thought 'hiving' was a thing." [side-eyes her sister] "Like hearing something out of [breaks out the air quotes] 'the corner of your ear.'"<br />
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"<b>'THE CORNER OF YOUR EAR' IS TOTALLY A THING</b>!!! I looked it up on the Urban Dictionary. It's a <i><b>thing</b></i>. [calming down and becoming thoughtful] Though I did used to think toothpicks were called 'picksticks' and that's not a thing."<br />
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"That kinda makes sense though because mostly you stick them in cakes to see if they're done or to pick up things like cheese squares."<br />
<br />
"It's not a cheese square, it's a cube. Three dimensions."<br />
<br />
"Square, cube, same thing."<br />
<br />
"No. It isn't. A square is two dimensional, a cube is three dimensional. If you ate the cheese, it's 3D. If you draw a square on a piece of paper, then it's in two dimensions --"<br />
<br />
"But what about the pencil lead being left on the paper when you draw? It's a couple of atoms thick, so, three dimensional."<br />
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[rolls eyes] "Well, technically. [stops to regroup and launch new logic attack] OK, so how about a square drawn on a computer monitor in pixels?"<br />
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"Computer monitors are three dimensional."<br />
<br />
[sighs] "But the <i><b>surface</b></i> of the computer monitor is a plane, so, two dimensional."<br />
<br />
"I don't think so."<br />
<br />
"Me either, I'm with you." [gestures at sister with a french fry] "I vote that it's still three dimensional."<br />
<br />
"You can't vote on that.<b> PHYSICS IS NOT A DEMOCRACY</b>."<br />
<br />
"Yes it is."<br />
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[dripping sarcasm] "Oh really. I don't care how many people vote, you can't stop gravity and levitate your butt out of that chair."<br />
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"Wooooo-ooooo-ooo!" [eerie noise accompanied by butt shimmying up and out of chair]<br />
<br />
[explosive laughter]<br />
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<br />alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-60885659456001183522014-08-26T22:54:00.004-04:002015-02-19T12:33:56.862-05:00According to Rachel: Dogs and dubious drug references edition<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Apparently, today is National Dog Day. I'm assuming that's in the States. But just in case it's also a quasi-holiday here in the Great White North, this is my Rocky: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px;">A.k.a. Rocket Man, Rockstar, Rocky Raccoon, Little Rock Arkansas, and on occasion, BaRock Obama.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: start;">Yes, we're lame like that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Rocky is a very sweet dog. A Chihuahua-Dachshund cross who acts like he's a Doberman. We love him.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He has some quirks, however. He gets car sick to the point of throwing up, so the vet told us that if we were travelling long distances, we should give him a small dose of children's Benadryl half an hour before we leave to calm him and make him sleep. </span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We visited family in southern Ontario two weeks ago.</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;">Getting ready to leave my sister's place for home:</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;">Me: "Do you have your iPad?"</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;">Rae: "Yes."</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;">Me: "Did you pack your bathing suit?"</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;">Rae: "Yes."</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;">Me: "Did you --"</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;">Rae: "Did you roofie the dog yet?"</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;">Me: ...... "Wait, what?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">One roofied dog.</span></div>
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</a>alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-5433290865464889092014-06-06T19:49:00.000-04:002014-06-06T19:49:33.594-04:00How the sugar bowl lid got broken. Or, I really ought to just sit down and not move around, like at all.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I don't think it's any secret that I am not the world's most graceful person. </div>
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I am 5'10" with long gangly arms and legs. I also have balance issues that would lead any competent physician to suspect inner ear problems. So. Cut to the chase: Not graceful. Clumsy. Awkward. I'm hoping to use this to my advantage somehow.</div>
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So there I was, clearing up in the kitchen, listening to my latest, most favourite <a href="http://youtu.be/FHc_j2roK1s">jam</a> on repeat on my iPhone, earbuds in, because I like it loud. I was dancing up a storm, feeling very sure that this is what I looked like:</div>
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In actuality, I probably looked a lot more like this:</div>
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Only slightly less hairy. </div>
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You'll have to imagine the general flailing and tipping too far to one side followed by the over-correction as I attempted to right myself, knocking an empty gym water bottle off the counter with my elbow. I didn't see where it landed, I have a blind spot around my feet because...boobs. So of course I immediately stepped on the water bottle, which sent me hurtling to the floor. It's a good thing the dog is quick. It's the only thing that saved him from becoming crushed into a small, furry latke stuck to the tile floor. </div>
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I got up slowly, and leaned a bit on the counter near the edge of the sink to push myself upright. My earbud cord snagged on a spatula that was sitting in a pot of water in the sink, lifting it up and dropping it neatly on my toes. The resultant hopping around dislodged the lid of the sugar bowl and, as if in slow motion, accompanied by my "Nooooooooo" it bounced on the tiles and separated into four pieces:</div>
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<u>Shopping List</u></div>
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Crazy glue - for sugar bowl lid</div>
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Bubble wrap - for all hard surfaces in kitchen</div>
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Baby gate - to keep dog/cats out of squash zone</div>
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Mirrors and duct tape - for blind spot</div>
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Vodka - to help with the 'sitting down not moving around' thing</div>
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alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-34986947401641452152014-04-02T15:53:00.000-04:002014-04-02T21:58:07.924-04:00Insomnia thoughts, or, I wonder if I'm parking next to a crack houseThis is what insomnia looks like:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBY5aW_9Exlb5OjX9LmSOesWANp0Ypa6e48_ERG7r3xeNCZj-PcOvuP89ofyOxLI258JvA656vnQqZBt1yqNFjOhTVZOwy2Q4o6u9KLe1LfnLA_PXBEuXDzW2ikRntDZhQjwr1/s1600/Insomnia-can-damage-your--010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBY5aW_9Exlb5OjX9LmSOesWANp0Ypa6e48_ERG7r3xeNCZj-PcOvuP89ofyOxLI258JvA656vnQqZBt1yqNFjOhTVZOwy2Q4o6u9KLe1LfnLA_PXBEuXDzW2ikRntDZhQjwr1/s400/Insomnia-can-damage-your--010.jpg" height="240" osa="true" width="400" /></a></div>
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Well, that's what insomnia looks like in a normal, tidy house with no pets and an attractive woman with normal hair.</div>
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This is what insomnia looks like in my house:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Qcb2qO_Bx6RCt0oLoEno9Q6Xo2bsZTXP_I73bsbLJSrTuzUEVUwfa4FN_w7D7t_pzuR1ssMX7S6ni02iP5ppa-z5LXm3UrqbHlQ7qDGc36ONm_4DGWkiPUqtxZ17yp7zTzhi/s1600/Insomnia1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Qcb2qO_Bx6RCt0oLoEno9Q6Xo2bsZTXP_I73bsbLJSrTuzUEVUwfa4FN_w7D7t_pzuR1ssMX7S6ni02iP5ppa-z5LXm3UrqbHlQ7qDGc36ONm_4DGWkiPUqtxZ17yp7zTzhi/s400/Insomnia1.jpg" height="240" osa="true" width="400" /></a></div>
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I share my bed with a cat, a dog, various dog toys, a book, at least one pair of glasses, and then there's the hair. (THE HAIR. I could write an entire blog post about the hair. But, I digress.) So you'd think that there's a lot that I could occupy myself with when insomnia strikes. Like that glass of wine on the night stand. Turns out, not so much.</div>
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On those occasions when I can't sleep, it seems that my neurons are determined to have one of those tequila parties where, when you clean up the next day, you find someone's bra under the kitchen table, miniature marshmallows everywhere, and that someone has drawn a moustache on the cat with a Sharpie. They (the neurons) drunkenly skitter through all the sensory input of the day (and with the internet and Netflix, there's a lot of input) and compose a list of random thoughts with which to torment me. </div>
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Like last night -- here's a running commentary of what was going through my head:</div>
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<ul>
<li>At work, I think I'm parking next to a crack house. </li>
<li>Sketchy neighbourhood? Check. Sketchy house? Double-check. Sketchy-looking people coming and going all the time? Check. Check. Check.</li>
<li>If it<i> isn't</i> a crack house, what else could it be? </li>
<li>I heard about <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/british-columbia/only-in-vancouver-marijuana-oil-infused-pizza-on-the-menu-1.2591380?cmp=fbtl">pizza in Vancouver</a> that's drizzled with marijuana oil. To quote my friend <a href="http://www.ramblingnotebook.com/">Sasha</a>, "Munchies: the problem and the solution all wrapped up in ooey gooey goodness. Duuude." But, wouldn't this just be a self-perpetuating rollercoaster? Eat the pizza, get the munchies, eat more pizza, get more munchies. I guess as business plans go, you could do worse.</li>
<li>Maybe it isn't a crack house. Maybe it's a.....I don't know. Craps game? Bible study? Recurring Pampered Chef party?</li>
<li>If I could create one piece of legislation, it would be to institute jail time for not returning your shopping cart to the shopping-cart corral at the grocery store. Criminalize selfish laziness, I always say.</li>
<li>Beards without moustaches. I don't get those. I don't get those at all. Seriously, who thinks those look attractive? I mean unless you're Amish, </li>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzWKJxUhe0W09UWjdaRtUHr8hEn__cMuZYy9N9fBJD0vTD6oaLQ03iiO4Wx9Apfl9t8oIaU3LsE7jrKvF9ZxcWV9P06SJJpkBrLAM_I5mRzI-pNwoQkoA64CoZbUjgfDdMrMva/s1600/0905-amish_full_600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzWKJxUhe0W09UWjdaRtUHr8hEn__cMuZYy9N9fBJD0vTD6oaLQ03iiO4Wx9Apfl9t8oIaU3LsE7jrKvF9ZxcWV9P06SJJpkBrLAM_I5mRzI-pNwoQkoA64CoZbUjgfDdMrMva/s1600/0905-amish_full_600.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
or Captain Ahab,<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJJpHcz-hbO27YISIDRdJGfShG7J6uNu9qBjW9UC5-ySpCEUSYG-q5dHj7M7_7u-QgPQsXyekYV5dAVntRKmoj24h1CVr0sCMCOiCZJU_IoOvMISEGnqa9gY9XbwMIdt_UE75N/s1600/gregory-peck-as-captain-ahab-moby-dick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJJpHcz-hbO27YISIDRdJGfShG7J6uNu9qBjW9UC5-ySpCEUSYG-q5dHj7M7_7u-QgPQsXyekYV5dAVntRKmoj24h1CVr0sCMCOiCZJU_IoOvMISEGnqa9gY9XbwMIdt_UE75N/s320/gregory-peck-as-captain-ahab-moby-dick.jpg" height="400" osa="true" width="306" /></a></div>
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or Abraham Lincoln.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-NsV-ijLlo0kZIiZrclKS8cAaaI6uw8mEhID5B0eQonCImwYg3PXfTuRNSyp0qzh9fROeKkKNfsbnI-JCyuJpJVMHnqQrbBmym_Hc4svuWQrd4RgBHvUxz5697yWeOJpZciBn/s1600/lincolnbeard.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-NsV-ijLlo0kZIiZrclKS8cAaaI6uw8mEhID5B0eQonCImwYg3PXfTuRNSyp0qzh9fROeKkKNfsbnI-JCyuJpJVMHnqQrbBmym_Hc4svuWQrd4RgBHvUxz5697yWeOJpZciBn/s1600/lincolnbeard.bmp" height="320" osa="true" width="315" /></a></div>
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Why bother? And even he would have looked better if he'd added a moustache. See?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcm2Smmt2U6QvojPrJMWd0ZaJ6dTOdSL3ztBvocyUYrn3oyOYDYC0KDwmzjrBr2VJFOIHlnVt9ArbmzOl7XhHMEHe8FivDReEgsLAzdu_vNcTu_XvKi8hTjILQING4fU8_jOwK/s1600/lincolnbeardmo.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcm2Smmt2U6QvojPrJMWd0ZaJ6dTOdSL3ztBvocyUYrn3oyOYDYC0KDwmzjrBr2VJFOIHlnVt9ArbmzOl7XhHMEHe8FivDReEgsLAzdu_vNcTu_XvKi8hTjILQING4fU8_jOwK/s1600/lincolnbeardmo.bmp" height="320" osa="true" width="315" /></a></div>
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Debonair, right?</div>
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<ul>
<li style="text-align: left;">Do cats have the capacity for sarcasm?</li>
<li style="text-align: left;">Did I close the garage door?</li>
<li style="text-align: left;">Poutine. I want some. But at 2:43 a.m. it's not going to happen. Peanut butter on crackers is a REALLY SUCKY substitute.</li>
<li style="text-align: left;">Wait, I think I fell asleep there for a minute. CRAP, I just <strong><em>thought</em></strong> <i><b>too loud</b></i> and woke myself up. </li>
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Eventually, of course, I do fall asleep. Usually about half an hour before the alarm goes off and I have to get up and get ready for work. And parking next to the crack house.</div>
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alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-77518757487219744212014-02-14T11:44:00.000-05:002014-02-14T11:46:34.752-05:00We still miss you, LindaYesterday a group of us went out to lunch. La Favorita on Preston Street -- Linda's favourite restaurant. Pizza was eaten, and wine drunk in her honour. It's been four years since Linda passed away from breast cancer on Valentine's Day 2010, and the annual memorial lunch is a happy time now, rather than sad. We remember her vivaciousness, her energy and good humour. We toasted her memory and kept track of the score of the Canadian Olympic men's hockey team's game against Norway. Linda would have been cheering along with us.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"><b>A Moment in Time</b></span><br />
(originally posted in February 2010)<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic;">The Hacienda Hotel, Old Town, San Diego. A warm November night. Two friends and colleagues, their hair still in wind-blown disarray from a shoreline geology field trip of San Diego Bay on a boat, full and happy from margaritas and a wonderful Mexican dinner, are heading to their respective rooms.</span><br />
<br />
So, your talk is right after lunch tomorrow?<br />
<br />
Yep. The start of the second technical session.<br />
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And you have a Powerpoint presentation?<br />
<br />
Nope.... Linda, I *know* this stuff. I can give this talk with just speaker's notes. I don't need a slideshow.<br />
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You need a slideshow. Come on, we can make one right now.<br />
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[sort of pouting] But I'm tired.<br />
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Come on, Alison....I'll bring the laptop out to the table in the courtyard in front of my room and we'll work on it outside. [wheedling] I have a bottle of wine....Let's see if these California reds are anything to write to you about.<br />
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'Write home about'.<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Merci</span>. 'Write home about'.<br />
<br />
[sighing] OK.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Some night-blooming flowers are scenting the air. The fountain on the courtyard wall splashes softly in the background. </span><span style="font-style: italic;">A lot of laughing accompanies the work on the laptop.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> The wine is very, very good.</span><br />
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Thanks, Linda. The talk will be better with a slideshow.<br />
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No problem.<br />
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You know, I could get used to this.<br />
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Which, Alison? The working out of doors? Or the wine? [grins]<br />
<br />
All of it. Seriously, this is the way to live. Very civilized. Could you imagine doing all our work outside, with a glass of wine? We'd either be super-productive, or very liver-damaged.<br />
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[laughing] We couldn't do this in Ottawa though. I don't know if you would get people to participate into meetings outside in November.<br />
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Probably not. Here. Fill me up. [giggles] Hey, let me take a photo of this: "Linda, working hard at her laptop."<br />
<br />
You are too funny. Wait, let me hold the bottle up. For effect. [grins]<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwCBjlMpQP1Xv5jeZIqxjzztWO5K3ZOXCNKkv1WLOIdqSzf9TmM_8lSpX7_bhaDDZFApqQw5azEx-cmjd2oZDHqLmUv_5xhwJSG5ZeXIVJ2Vi8gmL3tGSF8Kg3L6h6V8mHSvjE/s1600-h/LindaCalifornia.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwCBjlMpQP1Xv5jeZIqxjzztWO5K3ZOXCNKkv1WLOIdqSzf9TmM_8lSpX7_bhaDDZFApqQw5azEx-cmjd2oZDHqLmUv_5xhwJSG5ZeXIVJ2Vi8gmL3tGSF8Kg3L6h6V8mHSvjE/s400/LindaCalifornia.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439265661474155042" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Linda Guay<br />
1963-2010<br />
Tu me manques, mon amie.</div>
alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-35314215347931080432014-02-13T11:36:00.000-05:002014-02-13T11:36:46.777-05:00Going for it in Sochi<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well the Olympics are here again (yay!) and we are off to a good start, what with <a href="http://www.theglobeandmail.com/sports/olympics/dufour-lapointe-sisters-share-the-spotlight-in-sochi/article16772560/">sisters Justine and Chloe Dufour-Lapointe winning gold and silver</a> in moguls, and Charles Hamelin earning gold in 1500 metre short-track speed skating.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not to mention Canadian feel-good stories like <a href="http://www.torontosun.com/2014/02/12/morrison-wins-olympic-speed-skating-silver-for-canada">the speed skater who gave up his spot in the finals to a team-mate, who went on to win silver</a>; and the <a href="http://rt.com/news/canadian-coach-ski-russian-689/">cross-country coach who gave a ski to a Russian competitor</a> who had broken his. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At noon, I'll be at a memorial lunch for my friend <a href="http://itsjustapie.blogspot.ca/2010/02/moment-in-time.html">Linda</a>, who passed away during the last winter Olympics, and won't be checking in on our boys as they meet Norway in men's hockey, but my heart will be with them. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This post, from the last Olympics in Vancouver, kind of sums up our feelings towards the Olympics and Olympic hockey in particular.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="color: red; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>GO TEAM CANADA!</b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #e69138; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;">I'm not sure, I think they <i>might</i> be cheering for Slovakia </span><br />
(originally posted February 21, 2010)<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">I wrote this blog last week, long before anyone knew that Canada's men's hockey team would be playing Slovakia in the semifinals. I was just looking for a country whose national colours are sort of similar to Canada's. You know, for comic effect. No one at our house is going to be cheering for Slovakia tonight. Really. </span></div>
<br />
We've been watching a lot of Olympics at chez Party of 3.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQnhHoePgeoN7IUamEiZv_kMQs8BQTGL4RsS4QjpbLSZX320sj7jTDR__cfnQklDF352JaFLvSd2uUshPiBAlsMK2UQr5UY0AQLvDuKMQVRZ3eDLFNgKGMl8vuG5KKVqS2VHVH/s1600-h/003.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQnhHoePgeoN7IUamEiZv_kMQs8BQTGL4RsS4QjpbLSZX320sj7jTDR__cfnQklDF352JaFLvSd2uUshPiBAlsMK2UQr5UY0AQLvDuKMQVRZ3eDLFNgKGMl8vuG5KKVqS2VHVH/s320/003.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440695875805331282" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
It's been amazing. While we <em>are</em> cheering for Canada, of course, we have been blown away by the awe-inspiring performances of the Americans, the Swiss, the Germans, the Norwegians, and the Koreans, to name but a few.<br />
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It has been a dream come true to watch the best athletes from all over the world compete and win gold here in Canada.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW3_5IWjsnDHvzER1J0AYztz7T2gD0huQsxfdUftzpplteU-jN-uzmveoRx0YYVakd10tFF5dqnyO6nLt_xyUd4FbjZlCYsW26s7bbh9bDYa6lebYr2F_FWiPVywz1NtPLsndM/s1600-h/008.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW3_5IWjsnDHvzER1J0AYztz7T2gD0huQsxfdUftzpplteU-jN-uzmveoRx0YYVakd10tFF5dqnyO6nLt_xyUd4FbjZlCYsW26s7bbh9bDYa6lebYr2F_FWiPVywz1NtPLsndM/s320/008.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440694349350188706" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
But fair warning: when it comes to hockey, the women's and the men's, let us make one thing perfectly clear -- it's <strong>our</strong> game.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin1cKONILji34Tkf1zS5xECYE1GPTHl4fy69W5zYocwgoMho3Kzl-V9LLMlUARl6cyO2hTgSKGnFkIH63N8pzB9jK9FT91VgVN7GK0TOa5TfTE42WYofTs6Bh0UxfyO16Kz64B/s1600-h/012.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin1cKONILji34Tkf1zS5xECYE1GPTHl4fy69W5zYocwgoMho3Kzl-V9LLMlUARl6cyO2hTgSKGnFkIH63N8pzB9jK9FT91VgVN7GK0TOa5TfTE42WYofTs6Bh0UxfyO16Kz64B/s320/012.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440707271119727250" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYcWi4MvtKGVw6h5uZ2NHGbjChG7j7UUEufdGWf7qSkAMBB-GVPOWlWljCR7svY22RbrK1gLKwEyH0Nl4UMa1ouYTGpsaQ0L6e3KhBeXLtIpynHNrOaevHEM0atyz6J_COb3KL/s1600-h/013.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYcWi4MvtKGVw6h5uZ2NHGbjChG7j7UUEufdGWf7qSkAMBB-GVPOWlWljCR7svY22RbrK1gLKwEyH0Nl4UMa1ouYTGpsaQ0L6e3KhBeXLtIpynHNrOaevHEM0atyz6J_COb3KL/s320/013.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440772869614814258" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /> </a></div>
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<span style="color: red; font-size: 180%;">GO, CANADA, GO!!!</span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicxiW_2O0GPL_oqjjxz_HCg6U8ZIXVZWkA0lNjtzuGtxgBfGdLCZcwXX55zUntYbu219BV1KYb0K5UVzKbyfVxUZIbt3Ostfo65D_R5emiqIZ1tuUJcQSAjbmxWP2z-GLFtw9m/s1600-h/016.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicxiW_2O0GPL_oqjjxz_HCg6U8ZIXVZWkA0lNjtzuGtxgBfGdLCZcwXX55zUntYbu219BV1KYb0K5UVzKbyfVxUZIbt3Ostfo65D_R5emiqIZ1tuUJcQSAjbmxWP2z-GLFtw9m/s320/016.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440773630290940338" style="display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCvGOdQTJ5l87P4l3vlTC40phIv2jWJ0t_F7p_MabroLOyslqpgtrguGGWELemAIDDWmqfgxZsSeG0czuE4STmZJ8omaTY2Ba3LalTisbrYa4HU2guaZaKQbJcy8ihpSpjNHax/s1600-h/017.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCvGOdQTJ5l87P4l3vlTC40phIv2jWJ0t_F7p_MabroLOyslqpgtrguGGWELemAIDDWmqfgxZsSeG0czuE4STmZJ8omaTY2Ba3LalTisbrYa4HU2guaZaKQbJcy8ihpSpjNHax/s320/017.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440781384230108162" style="display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a>alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-38038570514072518082013-12-16T15:25:00.001-05:002013-12-16T15:46:14.782-05:00Bring on the Santa cats<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVLvxMl4NcqVWojQbrakO658kqHyaD2VnFRCnokPil6d5ya1vR3vSZ25zeiNdjPO5NWPFw9_fkp83UEzogf70LcWSPGa7Yx7tfiQph6EINxrMsOZIn24yDpJvK3KzeULbt7o8s/s1600/hd-desktop-pictures-1366x768-christmas-cats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" closure_lm_167057="null" dua="true" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVLvxMl4NcqVWojQbrakO658kqHyaD2VnFRCnokPil6d5ya1vR3vSZ25zeiNdjPO5NWPFw9_fkp83UEzogf70LcWSPGa7Yx7tfiQph6EINxrMsOZIn24yDpJvK3KzeULbt7o8s/s400/hd-desktop-pictures-1366x768-christmas-cats.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I'm having a bit of trouble hanging onto the Christmas spirit this year. I was hoping that cats in Santa hats would do it. So far, so good. Mrs. G. would be proud.</div>
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It's been a weird couple of days around here, complete with a home invasion, canine gastrointestinal distress, saw wounds, and possible narcolepsy. Intrigued? I thought you'd be. Pull up your chairs, children, and I'll tell you a story. Or at least subject you to a disjointed stream-of-consciousness attack.</div>
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Friday evening we had a home invasion. Canadian-style. I was in my bedroom on the computer, Leah was in her room, and Rae was watching TV in the living room. I heard the front door open and close, and the dog going ballistic. I figured Rae had either gone out to the car for something, or a friend had dropped over. I called out, "Rae, who's at the door" and Rae showed up in my room, all confused, and told me there was a stranger in the house. I jumped up, not even bothering with the three-hole punch for a defensive weapon, and rushed to the front door where a guy in his early twenties was standing in the entryway taking off his boots. (This reassured me immensely. I was sure that if he was breaking in on the false assumption that we had scads of drugs or money lying around, then he probably wouldn't be overly fastidious about making boot marks on the rug.) I picked up Rocky, who was still barking his head off, and said to the guy, "Hi?" He smiled at me and said, "Is Ryan here?" I answered, "No, no one named Ryan lives here." </div>
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"Oh. I was supposed to meet Ryan here to help him move." </div>
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"You've got the wrong address."</div>
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"I'm so sorry. My bad. Let me get my boots back on and leave you guys alone. That sure is a good watch dog you have there."</div>
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"Yes, he's very vicious and he bites." (That was a lie, but I figured it was ok in the circumstances. I mean, in Florida I would have been within my rights to shoot him. Lying doesn't seem all that bad in comparison.)</div>
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"Sorry again. Have a nice night."</div>
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"You too. I hope you find Ryan."</div>
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And then I locked the front door, which is something I don't usually do until bedtime. </div>
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Saturday I had planned on getting a tree and decorating the house. A good plan, but one that was not destined to happen. Because I hadn't made arrangements to get my snow tires put on, oh in late October like smart people do, I was left with plan B which was going to Canadian Tire and waiting in line with all the other <strike>idiots</strike> people who had put off putting their snow tires on, as the mechanics change tires on a first come, first served basis. I came prepared with a book, because I knew that I'd be waiting a while. It was warm in the waiting room, and the recliner chairs were very comfy. Despite the suspenseful book, my eyes were very heavy. I didn't sleep long though. I managed to snore loudly enough to wake myself up. The other customers were polite enough to pretend that they hadn't been laughing at me, but I know they totally were. </div>
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Later that evening we went out to pick up a tree. Much to Leah's disgust, we didn't trek out to a tree farm, the one with the real reindeer and the camp fire around which you can sit and drink hot chocolate and eat hot dogs. But the farm has to put the cost of reindeer upkeep and hot chocolate supplies into the price of its trees, and I'm not subsidizing anyone else but me (and the LCBO) this year. So, we drove to Loblaws and scored a nice Fraser fir. Sunday morning I got the tree stand up from the basement and got the saw out to make a nice clean cut at the bottom of the Christmas tree trunk. It took about ten minutes and I only sawed my hand open once. And it barely needed a band-aid, let alone stitches. New record. </div>
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We had to run off before decorating the tree as we had our annual Christmas cookie decorating and dinner date at my cousin's. It was fun as usual. Knowing that the dog would be lonely while we were gone, I pulled a marrow bone out of the freezer and gave it to him to gnaw on. (This may seem apropos of nothing, but it comes in later in the story.) </div>
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Monday morning. Five-thirty. The alarm goes off and I reluctantly get out of bed. I had only taken a few steps in my bare feet on the hardwood floor, when I started sliding, windmilling my arms and one leg as I hydroplaned across the floor, my foot in a cold, wet, pile of dog vomit. Apparently the marrow from inside the bone had not agreed with Rocky. At all. It did wake me up in a hurry though.</div>
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It's hard to feel Christmassy when your day starts with stepping in dog sick, and then hitting all the red lights on the way to work, and then finding no coffee in the lunch room when you arrive at work.</div>
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Fortunately, what's stopping me from being curled in a fetal position at the computer, throwing back the cheap Argentinian shiraz and watching<i> Once Upon a Time</i> fan video mashups set to sad Coldplay songs on Youtube, is the fact that there's a lot to look forward to: watching the girls open their presents, Christmas dinner with my friend Julie and her family, the Boxing Day trip to Windsor to be with family and friends for a whole week. I feel the Christmas spirit starting to come back.</div>
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Bring on the Santa cats.</div>
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alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-89790443561684922732013-11-29T12:01:00.000-05:002015-02-19T12:34:25.135-05:00According to Rachel: Hedley inspiration editionSorry there's another Rachel post in a row, especially as I'm seeing this blog more as a personal blog and less as a mommy blog, but this made my brain itch enough to actually open Blogger and type something, which has been a long time coming. I think my blog block might be over and I hope to post soon about my birthday trip, my Halifax-PEI trip, and why I shouldn't try to emulate Michael Phelps.<br />
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In the meantime, let me share the conversation Rae and I had on the way home from buying little, tiny elastics at Giant Tiger.<br />
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We were listening to (the clean radio edit of) Hedley's 'Anything' on the radio:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/RkhSuK0w5KY?rel=0" width="420"></iframe>
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(Note: the original video has a fair bit of nudity and swearing, and is not quite as inspirational as it sounds on the radio, lol.)<br />
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A section of the lyrics go like this:<br />
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<span style="color: blue;">Everybody said</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">You'd better stay in school</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">Get a real job boy</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">Don't be a fool</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">Burn that guitar</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">You can never be a star</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">I can, I can, I can so.</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">A thousand disbelievers couldn't keep me on the ground</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">I've invented a momentum that'll never slow me down</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">I believe it 'cause I feel it and I shout it out loud</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">I can, I can, I can so.
</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">Everybody said boy don't go any higher</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">(Uh uh, forget that)</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">I can do anything</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">Never push the limit and don't play with fire</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">(Uh uh, forget that)</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">I can do anything.
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Me: That's kind of an inspirational song, isn't it? I like the message.<br />
Rae: Yah. I like that it says that you can do anything. Except that one part.<br />
Me: Which part?<br />
Rae: The part where they're telling him 'don't play with fire.' That's probably good advice. You shouldn't play with fire, it's dangerous. [a few seconds of silence] Unless you're a magician. Then you can do whatever the hell you want.<br />
<br />alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-62359842333092893062013-10-10T14:54:00.000-04:002013-10-10T14:54:46.261-04:00According to Rachel: 'How Boys Think' editionRachel, calling me at work when she got home to share some exciting news:<br />
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"You know those farm animals that we made in art class?? Well the class voted on whose to enter in the Carp Fair, and mine won! The girls told me that mine were soooo good. Rebecca and Aliya and Kate said they were good and Kate said that she heard that even the <i><b>boys</b></i> thought they were good, and it’s pretty rare for boys to like art, they mostly just care about Minecraft and inappropriate things and mud."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEkXaIZl_9KOpr194IYdbI0yXdYApTNnfFpPtr4i6p-RDbU5UWzebIWubbuFoCl1wxi__4E-bVEXWy6IInMXkg3fFy9FRbIyVHGZQiOFlp9H0HRYx-0tLWsn732vT04rGqFsSJ/s1600/animals.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEkXaIZl_9KOpr194IYdbI0yXdYApTNnfFpPtr4i6p-RDbU5UWzebIWubbuFoCl1wxi__4E-bVEXWy6IInMXkg3fFy9FRbIyVHGZQiOFlp9H0HRYx-0tLWsn732vT04rGqFsSJ/s400/animals.PNG" width="268" /></a></div>
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(Sadly, the cow's nose fell off. Perhaps that factored into the judges' decision to award her only a participant's ribbon.)</div>
alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-11075689054945471972013-10-07T15:47:00.001-04:002013-10-07T15:47:41.364-04:00Just 3 steps?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKwCstHqe0TyATQznWjg5QSmZegZKW8jbUZRnxczvwGisZ4T5kkrnBTToEufdsxyw9RGhYSth5X2SGOQdSTMDS9nF02_CDrTfzv6OxGfSJgVuj4YEIPOs1srnEXh4UoF16JRoQ/s1600/3+ways.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKwCstHqe0TyATQznWjg5QSmZegZKW8jbUZRnxczvwGisZ4T5kkrnBTToEufdsxyw9RGhYSth5X2SGOQdSTMDS9nF02_CDrTfzv6OxGfSJgVuj4YEIPOs1srnEXh4UoF16JRoQ/s400/3+ways.jpg" width="362" xsa="true" /></a></div><br /><br />
As near as I can figure, from this helpful illustration that popped up on Facebook, the '3 Steps to Make a Man Love You' are as follows: <br /><br />
1. Move to a futuristic city with amazingly long fenced-in walkways and no signs of highways capable of supporting vehicular traffic.<br /><br />
2. Fashion some underwear/hotpants and an asymmetric crop top out of aluminum foil.<br /><br />
3. Convince a large number of young men to a) line up along the walkway, b)remove their shirts, and c) eat the undercooked chicken that you've prepared, so that salmonella causes them to fall in artful piles of jeans-clad masculinity.<br /><br />
I'm on it.<br /><br />
Just as soon as I stop at Loblaw's for more foil.alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-35660788672598409602013-06-26T15:40:00.001-04:002013-06-26T15:40:50.566-04:00Treadmills are Evil<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have a question for you.<br />
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Suppose, just for the sake of discussion, that you started an exercise program at the YMCA/YWCA in your community. And you designed a twice-a-week workout consisting of about a half hour of very fast walking on a treadmill followed by an hour of weights.<br />
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And suppose on a Monday evening, you were on a treadmill, very busy talking to your friend on the next treadmill, and somehow lost your footing, causing you to flail around like the subject in a nerve-gas experiment, and, instead of jumping off, you inexplicably tried to climb back on with your left foot while your right foot was on the floor, leading to a very ungainly galloping motion which quickly ended in an epic faceplant onto the moving belt which then shot you off the back of the machine until you stopped with your shoulder still touching the belt which then proceeded to sand off a couple of layers of skin.<br />
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And suppose that you went to work on the Tuesday morning wearing a sleeveless dress because a) it was hot out, and b) you didn't want anything touching your ouchy, oozing shoulder, shining under a thin layer of Polysporin.<br />
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And suppose your co-workers exclaimed in horror at your bruised and road-burned shoulder and asked you how it happened, what would you say?<br />
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<strong>1. Bar fight.</strong><br />
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<strong>2. Motorcycle accident.</strong><br />
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<strong>3. Saving baby from house fire and being hit by collapsing, flaming beam that hurtled down from the ceiling as you choked on smoke, scanned the blazing room, and managed to scoop up both the wailing baby and an unconscious kitten before staggering outside into the front yard lit by the strobing red lights of fire trucks and collapsing from smoke inhalation.</strong><br />
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<strong>4. The lame, lame truth: That you were unco-ordinated enough to fall off a treadmill. And probably shouldn't be allowed unsupervised around gym equipment, any vehicle with a combustion engine, or high-heeled shoes.</strong><br />
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What would I say, if this far-fetched scenario were to happen to me? <br />
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Well, I'd go with Number 1 when greeting the other attendees at a meeting, and grudgingly admit to Number 4 when faced with non-believing stares. You know, in the unlikely event that anything like that were ever to happen to me. <br />
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Just for the sake of discussion.alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-56761499936246859622013-06-24T11:15:00.000-04:002013-06-24T11:15:43.087-04:00Rocky auditionsWe have a new member in our family, Rocky, an 11-month-old Chihuahua/Mini-Daschund mix.<br />
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The girls accepted him immediately. Max and Angus, not so much.<br />
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This is how I imagine it would have gone if Max had been in charge of the decision of how to expand the family.<br />
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<br />alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-76601286467269867382013-04-18T17:33:00.000-04:002013-04-18T17:33:13.881-04:00It's one of those days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-69441069554833724492013-02-14T15:51:00.001-05:002013-02-14T16:13:48.440-05:00Well played, Facebook. Well played.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's Valentine's Day, and <strike>since I haven't blogged since Christmas</strike> I thought I should mark the occasion with a post. A post about Facebook.</div>
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It seems these days that Mark Zuckerberg or one of his many, many Facebook drones is taking an unseemly amount of interest in the fact that I'm single. </div>
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I've noticed over the past few weeks that the ads for Dr. Oz's diets, Air Wick air fresheners, and vacation resorts in Puerto Vallarta appearing next to my news feed have been replaced with ads for dating sites. Awww, Facebook is worried that I'm lonely. (Yeah, I know, it's nothing personal -- the fact that I ticked off 'single' in my profile sets off an algorithm that populates the ad space with dating-site ads.) But still. The variety of ads is amusing and maybe a little disturbing.</div>
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First of all, they started with the largest possible dating pool: single men.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRZuD2d6s-MJBJFOFG0TS2DloaDp87yXO3cOYyUgf_tZR4oZ3THnPgXhBASo6Giw_BYxM1HyggckcZFcUWmXgg0MM-SmOQS5urkQ0q-C3AWPRMfhFtbiYLY8EMM3901u1QSslV/s1600/plainsingle.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRZuD2d6s-MJBJFOFG0TS2DloaDp87yXO3cOYyUgf_tZR4oZ3THnPgXhBASo6Giw_BYxM1HyggckcZFcUWmXgg0MM-SmOQS5urkQ0q-C3AWPRMfhFtbiYLY8EMM3901u1QSslV/s320/plainsingle.gif" uea="true" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;">No thanks. I don't want to meet single men. At least not <a href="http://itsjustapie.blogspot.ca/2008/04/im-so-much-cooler-online-apparently.html">online</a>. But hey, thanks for asking.</span><br />
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Then they realized I'm a bit more discriminating than that, so they countered with a site advertising 'high-quality men'. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQqr-lYYc-dORvJJosEji7b54MEy-GNkWLpITe3Bi6ocEvfidoUjlBEKdcP8IhdJw5LwQfMSnqzjwycqDWByk5GjrebYAEhuiXHAGAGECibBumFGhY2JeMmudscmVxO0LCBFON/s1600/highqualitysingle.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQqr-lYYc-dORvJJosEji7b54MEy-GNkWLpITe3Bi6ocEvfidoUjlBEKdcP8IhdJw5LwQfMSnqzjwycqDWByk5GjrebYAEhuiXHAGAGECibBumFGhY2JeMmudscmVxO0LCBFON/s320/highqualitysingle.gif" uea="true" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;">(Because really, a girl has to be assumed to have *some* standards, and presumably would not be clicking on ads for 'low-quality men.')</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">Yeah, no.</span></div>
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Ok, they must have thought that maybe I'd like to hook up with someone old enough to know who Blondie was. <br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">(Once, after getting my hair cut and dyed blonde, I said to my young, attractive styist, "Thanks, this looks great! I look just like Debbie Harry!" "Who?", he said, wrinkling up his adorable forehead. "You know, the lead singer from Blondie?" *blank stare from big brown eyes* "Um, nope." Gah!)</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">Nice try, but still no.</span><br />
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OK, they upped the ante romantically: French men?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA2AFLEmIQBq2S6YSpudsSt68wsRy4bQZ27-y6tDgzyfKennW7dyWQGlXR6MyAol0BNF3pCdi6Ljl1yATrkP_7NnrgNxuU5h76BXq4zCyTbRIj4ao8epOlUUP1RdZ_l398Z5EY/s1600/frenchsingle.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA2AFLEmIQBq2S6YSpudsSt68wsRy4bQZ27-y6tDgzyfKennW7dyWQGlXR6MyAol0BNF3pCdi6Ljl1yATrkP_7NnrgNxuU5h76BXq4zCyTbRIj4ao8epOlUUP1RdZ_l398Z5EY/s320/frenchsingle.gif" uea="true" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;">Non. Je pense que non.</span><br />
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OK, time to try some other niche markets. How about tempting me with a tattooed boyfriend?</div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;">Unless it's <a href="http://itsjustapie.blogspot.ca/2012/03/how-not-to-look-professional-at-work.html">Adam Levine</a>, no.</span></div>
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Faithful single policemen seeking a second chance at love?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp9CCwtAyQ0ILL1Xl0JCO1fwPbaTcsdq3VUKe5CXAUEg6O4PyyFoyNzop0UOaTh3j7JhuNykxfxv-Ed-MEd0qw_BFLO4M7nR07zfG1cAebqUyk4chn9S10U16FC4KjklnS70w7/s1600/policesingle.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp9CCwtAyQ0ILL1Xl0JCO1fwPbaTcsdq3VUKe5CXAUEg6O4PyyFoyNzop0UOaTh3j7JhuNykxfxv-Ed-MEd0qw_BFLO4M7nR07zfG1cAebqUyk4chn9S10U16FC4KjklnS70w7/s320/policesingle.gif" uea="true" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;">Why can't I get them for the first chance at love? And why just policemen? Why can't I browse the faithful single accountants, management consultants, radio personalities, or cowboys?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;">Oh. Never mind.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;">But still, no.</span></div>
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You have to respect the imagination inherent in this, but I still wonder about the success of a marketing ploy that figures if photos of real, attractive-ish men won't do the trick, maybe women might respond to stick figures. </div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;">And here's my answer. In stick figure font.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBNgFmQ9EJfcjlA8LLhqy4AWKIUe_WUyq7PwD-_21F_pz_UDS7CAtjdi2QAhog9luE8AkacQqTrEnlrlZmTEBSnTO8_ccYG8jW73Z0gF9BoWlU717HJIfHHyQNprgB6hxfkh7I/s1600/no.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBNgFmQ9EJfcjlA8LLhqy4AWKIUe_WUyq7PwD-_21F_pz_UDS7CAtjdi2QAhog9luE8AkacQqTrEnlrlZmTEBSnTO8_ccYG8jW73Z0gF9BoWlU717HJIfHHyQNprgB6hxfkh7I/s200/no.bmp" uea="true" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;">(Wouldn't it be hilarious if some guy I met on this site came to my house and found that I *was actually* a stick figure with a triangular dress and no hands?) </span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">(Not that I'm even remotely stick-like, sadly.)</span><br />
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But then Facebook finally did it. The algorithm finally kicked out something that speaks to me. A hook that might be really, really hard to resist. <br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">Well played, Facebook. Well played.</span></div>
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alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-21755341397305331972012-12-25T14:38:00.000-05:002012-12-25T14:38:34.408-05:00Gingy goes to NiceIn the movie <i>Amelie</i>, one of the characters kidnaps a garden gnome and takes pictures of him all over the world and mails them back to the owner. I liked that idea, but garden gnomes are too big to carry in my purse. But Gingy isn't, so this is Gingy's trip to Nice.
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The first leg of the journey was a train from Ottawa to Toronto to Windsor. It was a long day.<br />
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Here is Gingy the next day, checking his luggage at Detroit International airport:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimcVh-C1tmzq9Vh60Qf2tYCAHD7mnfGM1NejLrB4CkkccMD-2H0iZ7Wk23cWITR7BdoRc9_lCx5qActKB6wekdrmoHrNePnWNJWC7lDm6qb41VrGtdJuG1dpJXztLoh3i5Z03A/s1600/IMG00710-20121220-1143.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimcVh-C1tmzq9Vh60Qf2tYCAHD7mnfGM1NejLrB4CkkccMD-2H0iZ7Wk23cWITR7BdoRc9_lCx5qActKB6wekdrmoHrNePnWNJWC7lDm6qb41VrGtdJuG1dpJXztLoh3i5Z03A/s400/IMG00710-20121220-1143.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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The trip did not go exactly as planned. We flew from Detroit to New York's JFK airport. We were delayed almost an hour leaving JFK, and so here's Gingy killing time with the boys in Charles DeGaulle Airport in Paris, waiting to get on a new flight since the delay meant we missed our connection to Nice.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc_KpYdjLJDB2PyXCk6rv4RpV4MdyMW01GlKollWQSl5pT6U1wtoScKMUmqah9HEIZD3JImVoUuJTLOlObZHsrnlvfPvBJey-JPt4EuSgNBDlsz1l5EbkoWGXIByWOztOrVO86/s1600/IMG00712-20121221-0359.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc_KpYdjLJDB2PyXCk6rv4RpV4MdyMW01GlKollWQSl5pT6U1wtoScKMUmqah9HEIZD3JImVoUuJTLOlObZHsrnlvfPvBJey-JPt4EuSgNBDlsz1l5EbkoWGXIByWOztOrVO86/s400/IMG00712-20121221-0359.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Finally we arrived in Nice with <em>most</em> of our luggage. Gingy collapsed on a chair on the balcony of the villa. He was very jet-lagged and in need of a glass of wine.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFfjUp3vPY6v5MMhclRORewcTExlS30hiiBPV5PoFNUP9p61yPh9sB6GWoZi0fgRXtVP-wInOIIHqunq5a4kgSp1I4eEXYiN6PTohL3byo0Pf7q_bYd7GpRVumdZQRXrEpTXkw/s1600/IMG00715-20121221-1005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFfjUp3vPY6v5MMhclRORewcTExlS30hiiBPV5PoFNUP9p61yPh9sB6GWoZi0fgRXtVP-wInOIIHqunq5a4kgSp1I4eEXYiN6PTohL3byo0Pf7q_bYd7GpRVumdZQRXrEpTXkw/s320/IMG00715-20121221-1005.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<img height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjGE3r13AcmvJ35L4Q1KKyzbpijhb4YpeR0w4QyS5UdYiL8EPxOGbE5Mlp2-tI8JMxnC3WAk6T6S942Uo44UWgHSecCk1PCekCvzLK5JcsW7BOs89TAS4gt_SLgsTMb3MlMucJ/s320/IMG00709-20121219-1337.jpg" style="filter: alpha(opacity=30); left: 648px; opacity: 0.3; position: absolute; top: 2392px;" width="96" />
Soon he headed for bed. In the movie star bedroom of the villa.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHTyWDvuFL4h_Z0V9mBWns5f3Lk7Ir2LaU3vhvR4Gez2zpKKIMTVr9JOymK7VuELUG2s5LHsG5a9tTJykLg-R_sAYVzs1Bs4dhOngkOkQTQujLuamfbGYeVTZHxH1GzJsJTcTA/s1600/IMG00717-20121221-1054.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHTyWDvuFL4h_Z0V9mBWns5f3Lk7Ir2LaU3vhvR4Gez2zpKKIMTVr9JOymK7VuELUG2s5LHsG5a9tTJykLg-R_sAYVzs1Bs4dhOngkOkQTQujLuamfbGYeVTZHxH1GzJsJTcTA/s400/IMG00717-20121221-1054.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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The next day, we went into downtown Nice. The Port is pretty cool.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLD0lGSdQQ3mEwU9dk6XQgOvYUHO5FxNWnRMNZXl2IfOD9dWzB2hVxLlUJN5dwWUswClp7cgOb_UPXn-ELR4hEvGXgvJI-g2NLweLvjmRkq5M-YK8HYBZQvKF7FpOvghhUYM3Q/s1600/IMG_2089.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLD0lGSdQQ3mEwU9dk6XQgOvYUHO5FxNWnRMNZXl2IfOD9dWzB2hVxLlUJN5dwWUswClp7cgOb_UPXn-ELR4hEvGXgvJI-g2NLweLvjmRkq5M-YK8HYBZQvKF7FpOvghhUYM3Q/s400/IMG_2089.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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We went into the Old Town (Vielle Ville) and stopped for lunch and a drink in the K'fe Cayenne in Place du Palais:<br />
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Cafe au lait hit the spot:</div>
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Later we stopped for lunch. You kind of have to order Salade Nicoise when you're in Nice.<br />
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After all that food, cafe au lait wasn't going to cut it. It was time for espresso!</div>
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Christmas Eve we made a special feast of cheese and crackers and prosciutto and pineapple and salami and shrimp and champagne. We even tried lumpfish roe that we bought by accident, thinking it was seafood sauce. It was salty and fishy. No one had seconds.</div>
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We took turns having our pictures taken in the jacuzzi tub in my Dad's bedroom.</div>
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Gingy hit the champagne a bit too hard and decided to wear the wire thingy that came on the bottle.</div>
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After Christmas dinner, we had Buche Noel for dessert.<br />
<img height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjGE3r13AcmvJ35L4Q1KKyzbpijhb4YpeR0w4QyS5UdYiL8EPxOGbE5Mlp2-tI8JMxnC3WAk6T6S942Uo44UWgHSecCk1PCekCvzLK5JcsW7BOs89TAS4gt_SLgsTMb3MlMucJ/s320/IMG00709-20121219-1337.jpg" style="filter: alpha(opacity=30); left: 582px; opacity: 0.3; position: absolute; top: 2543px;" width="96" /><br />
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Sadly, Gingy got into an altercation with some locals.<br />
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Hopefully, his New Year's will be better!</div>
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Merry Christmas, everyone!!!!</div>
alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-91650917106225754142012-12-13T11:56:00.000-05:002012-12-13T11:58:58.989-05:00I'm not dead yet<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNRAIDrl2M4WPwy0JS6dHWAGwT3LYZ7Z6HxyvWtl0DeNlUSTbwS3JVbmknxhTlvnJOsyZ06ZVbnVg9NEGX-6F0fqLuUwitVJbKdhiKPx7jnJZycMF9frWyVJGL0NAx5S0NVe7b/s1600/NotDeadYet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img bea="true" border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNRAIDrl2M4WPwy0JS6dHWAGwT3LYZ7Z6HxyvWtl0DeNlUSTbwS3JVbmknxhTlvnJOsyZ06ZVbnVg9NEGX-6F0fqLuUwitVJbKdhiKPx7jnJZycMF9frWyVJGL0NAx5S0NVe7b/s400/NotDeadYet.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Though you might be forgiven for thinking so, seeing as I haven't blogged since early November. I've been <strike>totally bereft of blog ideas</strike> a bit busy, what with Christmas coming and our family's upcoming trip to <a href="http://itsjustapie.blogspot.ca/2011/08/nice-n-ee-ce-was-pretty-nice-n-eye-ce.html">Nice</a>. </div>
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How busy, you ask? Well, I have one of those perpetual calendars with the dates on little wooden tiles. Sort of like these, except nicer.</div>
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Three days ago, I <em>finally</em> changed it from 'August' to 'December'. </div>
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Yeah, that busy. <br />
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In my own defence, I've also finished a few knitting projects. And shopped for a new car. And worked/commuted/shopped/cooked/drove kids places/etc. Occasionally, I've slept.<br />
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But I need to get back on the horse so that my blogging ability doesn't leave me entirely. And so, dear reader, here is a bunch of random stuff rattling around in my head. With pictures.<br />
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<strong>From the 'NHL lockout' files </strong><br />
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I had the following Facebook exchange with my friend Josie on my timeline:<br />
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<span style="color: blue;">Josie: Just an FYI, I am no longer referring to Bettman as "that troll" but instead as Gollum.</span><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">Alison: I guess that money is 'his precioussssss'. Stupid troll.</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><br /></span><span style="color: blue;">Josie: Watch a clip of Gollum and then watch Bettman last week during his press conference after talks broke down. Only difference is a suit and a wig.</span><br />
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And you know, I checked out some pictures, and she's right. So I made this for her:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYFEI07_Cy4FPLVLs06RlSdW9ZCLtMQs3BdmesHPZcIKZwhfIlWbWwVZroy1jjrSK3tms5RZVvvjgXOwoJoBuum7I5KQbgRvBWYLjq6ESqSmso2_hlH2yOftvCqpcWi0uupnyC/s1600/forJosie.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img bea="true" border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYFEI07_Cy4FPLVLs06RlSdW9ZCLtMQs3BdmesHPZcIKZwhfIlWbWwVZroy1jjrSK3tms5RZVvvjgXOwoJoBuum7I5KQbgRvBWYLjq6ESqSmso2_hlH2yOftvCqpcWi0uupnyC/s320/forJosie.bmp" width="320" /></a></div>
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<strong>From the 'You shouldn't have to get wrinkles and pimples at the same time. It's just not fair.' files</strong></div>
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I have a giant pimple on my forehead, right where I would have a lightning-shaped scar if I were Harry Potter.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzK9RMr6BCSH_vOFz5eht5GNos9dyGpYCHn1iCNW3TgBx14XKSwIFI8K6KC6jqbV5fW30JHB6cjnVTh_DlHH8kU-EFlL2ZEpvUlj-lDm86llamSiTp9CkFh3Pk-lHs5mVP8j7Q/s1600/me2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img bea="true" border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzK9RMr6BCSH_vOFz5eht5GNos9dyGpYCHn1iCNW3TgBx14XKSwIFI8K6KC6jqbV5fW30JHB6cjnVTh_DlHH8kU-EFlL2ZEpvUlj-lDm86llamSiTp9CkFh3Pk-lHs5mVP8j7Q/s320/me2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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It seems impervious to all my attempts to get rid of it -- creams, ointments, facial washes, even <em>Avada Kedavra</em>. <br />
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I am going to call it "<em>The Zit Who Lived</em>."<br />
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<strong>From the 'Introducing my children to popular culture/They're getting so much older' files</strong></div>
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The past few nights, we’ve been piling onto my bed and watching Roger Moore in ‘Live and Let Die’ on DVD. Along with the Daniel Craig movies, I got a DVD with three of Moore's James Bond movies on it for my birthday.</div>
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The kids were interested in watching a James Bond movie, and this one, released in 1973 at the height of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blaxploitation">Blaxploitation</a> movie genre, has sparked some interesting conversations about racism, as parts of it are set in Harlem and southern Louisiana. The implied sex scenes are pretty tame, and both girls seem to be enjoying watching, though we keep pausing it so that I can answer questions. We’ve been watching about 45 minutes per night.<br />
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Part of the plot of this movie, if you’ve not seen it, is that Jane Seymour plays Solitaire, a clairvoyant who can reliably read the future in Tarot cards. She has this power only so long as she remains a virgin. This fact is discussed quite obliquely, and Rae did not pick up on it. Apparently Leah did. James tricks Solitaire with a Tarot deck stacked with ‘The Lovers’ cards and makes quick work of her powers. Offscreen, of course.<br />
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So, last night, we were watching the last 45 minutes of the movie, and Rae was full of questions. Leah was patiently answering them:<br />
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Rae:“Why is James throwing the chicken on the ground?”<br />
Leah:“So that the alligators will come out of the pond and make a diversion”<br />
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Rae:“What is James doing?” <br />
Leah:“He’s setting the drug lab on fire”<br />
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Rae:“Why is James’s boat slowing down?”<br />
Leah:“Because when he was escaping, the guy with the hook shot at him and hit the outboard and it’s leaking gas.”<br />
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This went on for a while. And then came the question I was afraid would crop up.<br />
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Rae:“Why did being James’s girlfriend make Solitare not able to read the future anymore?”<br />
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Leah looked at me and said, “Your turn.”<br />
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<strong>From the "Things in your kitchen that can hurt you' files</strong><br />
<ul>
<li>The pointy end of the meat thermometer is quite ouchy when encountered unexpectedly in the sudsy dish-water by being jammed under your thumbnail.</li>
<li>Bricks of butter are unexpectedly heavy when they are cold and solid and have been dropped on your foot.</li>
<li>Picking up the skittish cat when he's having a bite to eat at his dish and holding him like a baby in order to smooch him on the head is potentially dangerous in itself. Doing so at the same time your daughter drops a metal saucepan loudly onto the tile floor? Cue the band-aids and Neosporin.</li>
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alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-53218070214104917942012-11-06T16:32:00.000-05:002012-11-30T09:31:39.690-05:00Friends help you move. Real friends help you move bodies. And photoshop pictures of Daniel Craig for you.<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Today is my birthday. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It's been amazing so far. I've been taken out to lunch, treated to cake and muffins, and had lots and lots of phone calls, emails, and Facebook and Twitter messages. I am very lucky to have so many friends. Especially ones who know me so well. Friends who know what I like. What I love. <strike>And whom I'd jump in a second if I ever got the chance.</strike></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>(I should probably clarify here that I mean that I am lucky to have friends who know whom I'd like to jump if given the chance, and *not* that I would like to jump my friends, attractive though they all are.)</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The kind that would help me move bodies. And they are all very, very funny women.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Julie sent me this:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjH6DMEFo9HtyN6UUHHMI7tYQ1-EOmjWutP8bOFyGtZIUOtX4B2307kG-8r5fVMRsu8aX495ACEOshMsHeXZjo9u59U_7qmPKClwPPxW641LFrNM6K15Ai_lKFXM_9w5hYGApQ/s1600/package.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjH6DMEFo9HtyN6UUHHMI7tYQ1-EOmjWutP8bOFyGtZIUOtX4B2307kG-8r5fVMRsu8aX495ACEOshMsHeXZjo9u59U_7qmPKClwPPxW641LFrNM6K15Ai_lKFXM_9w5hYGApQ/s400/package.bmp" width="318" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">(I think the package is being hand-delivered, lol)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And </span><a href="http://jenontheedge.com/"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">JenB</span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">, JenS and Josie came up with following. (Kudos to JenB on the stellar use of Microsoft Paint.) It's my perfect birthday, and it's too perfect not to share. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="color: red; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><i><b>SADLY, BLOGGER HAS EATEN THE VERY FUNNY DOCTORED PICTURES THAT JEN PUT IN THE BLOG. I WILL DO A 'CLOSE CAPTIONING' FOR YOU IN RED.</b></i></span><br />
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Oh Alison, it's your birthday again. Have you been a good girl this year? Yes, of course you have. In honor of your big day, we got you season tickets to see your guys in action:<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NJIVi135738/UJQlKKhUuRI/AAAAAAAADIU/sdlaJzlacA8/s1600/075724108b9c4be257ab80b1e2a5f2b916b90fb0.jpg-590x1000.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="205" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NJIVi135738/UJQlKKhUuRI/AAAAAAAADIU/sdlaJzlacA8/s400/075724108b9c4be257ab80b1e2a5f2b916b90fb0.jpg-590x1000.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: red;"><i>A PICTURE OF AN EMPTY SCOTIABANK PLACE, WHERE THE OTTAWA SENATORS PLAY, YOU KNOW, WHEN THE LEAGUE ISN'T EMBROILED IN A STUPID LOCKOUT DUE TO STUPID OWNERS AND STUPID GARY BETTMAN.</i></span><br />
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Oh.<br />
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We tried to negotiate with the NHL, but they wouldn't listen to Wife Logic. Voodoo didn't work either. We're really sorry. Here's some poutine to make it all better:<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-La6rydG0heU/UJQ1aLq185I/AAAAAAAADIk/V5TgG48JHMI/s1600/Food_Poutine_Closeup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-La6rydG0heU/UJQ1aLq185I/AAAAAAAADIk/V5TgG48JHMI/s400/Food_Poutine_Closeup.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: red;"><i>A PICTURE OF DELICIOUS, DELICIOUS POUTINE. *DROOL*</i></span><br />
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And, we have an even better gift planned. Pack your bags, because we're sending you here:<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-t5BdmsE1iwc/UJQ1p_07vZI/AAAAAAAADIs/1vzTwIVXUkU/s1600/200371_10150424911555245_8236993_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-t5BdmsE1iwc/UJQ1p_07vZI/AAAAAAAADIs/1vzTwIVXUkU/s400/200371_10150424911555245_8236993_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: red;"><i>A PICTURE OF THE PROMENADE DES ANGLAIS, IN NICE, ON THE FRENCH RIVIERA.</i></span><br />
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Want to know where you'll be staying?<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O6VEizD1-68/UJQ1_-_iD_I/AAAAAAAADI0/NekACUHNpm0/s1600/yacht.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O6VEizD1-68/UJQ1_-_iD_I/AAAAAAAADI0/NekACUHNpm0/s400/yacht.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="color: red;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: red;"><i>A PICTURE OF A YACHT MOORED IN THE HARBOUR IN NICE.</i></span><br />
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And who will you be spending time with?<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Nx8GVZXI7YE/UJQ8Ef1CsiI/AAAAAAAADJE/zfHrlLUoHuY/s1600/property-in-france.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Nx8GVZXI7YE/UJQ8Ef1CsiI/AAAAAAAADJE/zfHrlLUoHuY/s400/property-in-france.jpg" width="292" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: red;"><i>A PICTURE OF DANIEL CRAIG, TAKEN FROM A STILL FROM 'QUATUM OF SOLACE' AND PASTED (VERY PROFESSIONALLY) INTO A STREET SCENE FROM NICE. HE IS CARRYING ROSES AND CHAMPAGNE AND SPRINTING TOWARDS THE CAMERA.</i></span><br />
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He's clearly in a hurry to see you.<br />
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We packed your bags for you and you have a suitcase full of fabulous clothes, shoes, and bikinis. Naturally, everything fits perfectly, is in your favorite colours, and makes you feel terrific.<br />
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We didn't schedule a lot for your birthday trip -- just lots of beach time and some tasty snacks.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aVqqIlRzxQc/UJRBdUMtpoI/AAAAAAAADJU/XtgeEcc8yj4/s1600/beach.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aVqqIlRzxQc/UJRBdUMtpoI/AAAAAAAADJU/XtgeEcc8yj4/s400/beach.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: red;"><i>A PICTURE OF WHAT APPEARS TO BE ME, LYING ON A BEACH KISSING DANIEL CRAIG. IF ONLY.......</i></span><br />
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We think you're going to have a great trip!<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BGy06qd_cLg/UJRDo1bF2fI/AAAAAAAADJc/3FechzGzm04/s1600/aldan.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="299" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BGy06qd_cLg/UJRDo1bF2fI/AAAAAAAADJc/3FechzGzm04/s400/aldan.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: red;"><i>A PICTURE OF ME WITH THE CITY OF NICE IN THE BACKGROUND, AND DANIEL PHOTOSHOPPED IN BESIDE ME. I HAVE THE BEST FRIENDS.</i></span><br />
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Happy birthday Alison!<br />
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xo, Jen, Jen, and Josiealisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34355020.post-8067464835361974312012-10-22T16:11:00.001-04:002012-10-22T16:18:40.489-04:00Physics Mondays: the Tights Inequality<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #9fc5e8;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">F<sub>1</sub> > <span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-ascii-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;">m</span></span><sub>uw</sub> + <span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-ascii-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;">m</span></span><sub>s</sub></span></span></div>
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Where:<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">F<sub>1</sub></span> is the downward force created by elastic rebound of stretched-to-the-max, so-called 'extra-long' tights,<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-ascii-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;">m</span></span><sub>uw</sub> </span>is the coefficient of friction of the surface of underwear, and<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-hansi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;">m</span></span><sub><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">s</span></sub></span>is the coefficient of friction of the...um...skin under the underwear <br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(I don't think it sounds very scientific to say 'coefficient of friction of my butt'.)</span><br />
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After walking back to the office from my car, I am about 30 seconds away from being part of an <em>America's Funniest Home Videos</em> pants-falling-down montage clip. <br />
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Recent technological advances have made it possible to share photos and music wirelessly. There is a rover collecting rock and soil samples on Mars right this minute. You can buy bacon chocolate. Please tell me why modern science is <em><strong>UNABLE</strong></em> to come up with a pair of tights that don't keep plunging towards the ground with every step I take, as if they are being acted upon by some gravitational anomaly that accompanies me wherever I go.<br />
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Maybe we can get Dr. Sheldon Cooper working on this.alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16483907412532940799noreply@blogger.com6