Gypsy Rose Rae

Rachel does not like wearing clothes. This isn't so bad in the summer, when she runs around the place wearing her bathing suit most of the time. But now, in the depths of winter, as soon as we get home after work, school and daycare, she starts undressing as soon as the door closes behind her, leaving a trail of clothes leading towards the living room like a newlywed's tease.

First it was just the socks. Then for a while it was the socks and pants -- she'd play with her Barbies wearing a top and underwear. Then it progressed until she was just wearing her underwear. Which is where I drew the line. Hey, I'm all about comfort, but her toilet hygeine hygene bum-wiping skills are somewhat rudimentary, and I like my furniture.

"Alison," I hear you saying, "you must be keeping your house much too toasty. You have only to lower the thermostat and Rachel will keep her clothes on." You'd think so, wouldn't you. Au contraire, mes amies. I did an experiment where I kept lowering the thermostat to see what temperature would finally convince her to put some clothes back on. It took some time, but I found the temperature: 63° Fahrenheit. At which point I was wearing jeans, socks, slippers, a teeshirt and two sweatshirts and my nose was red. I'm not spending all my time bundled up like that in my own home. So I've decided to live and let live, after all, it's just us three girls at home.

The downside is that she's so used to being undressed, she'll probably be pole dancing by the time she's 16.

Cougar's Corner

I'll apologize in advance to my American and/or overseas readers: unless you are hockey fans AND catch the CBC feed of the Saturday night games (Hockey Night in Canada) on your satellite dish, this probably won't make any sense at all.

For you Canadians (especially my fellow hockey chicks Josie and Susan and Becca), enjoy.



Oh, and the fact that I am in my forties, divorced, a hockey fan and I own a copy of this book (thanks, Natalie) does in no way mean that I endorse the views expressed in the clip. Honest.

Gaslight

I think that the cat is trying to drive me crazy.

Things keep disappearing around the house. Just *my* things.

Since Max has been living with us, the following things are nowhere to be found:

Both of my winter hats. The two hats that are warm and marginally flattering, that sit lightly on my head thus not squishing the hair style, and don't make me look like a giant doofus (mostly) -- gone. A hat is pretty much a necessity at -18°C. And it's not just one hat missing, but both. So I either wear a dorky looking tuque, or turn the collar up on my coat, hoping it'll catch my ears when they freeze solid and fall off.

The TV remote. The one that changes channels and adjusts the volume. And every time I heave myself off the chair to change the channel manually, he's lying on the back of the couch, smirking at me, all "You are a mere pawn in my master plan, lowly human."

I'm sure the hats and remote are hidden carefully away somewhere, like under Rachel's bed or in a safety deposit box in a Swiss bank.

Then this morning I was almost awake, still suspended somewhere between dreaming and consciousness, listening to his purring from somewhere on the bed. Then it stopped. That was enough to bring me all the way awake. I opened my eyes and stifled a scream. He was standing on my pillow staring at me intently from about 4 inches away. I have no doubt that he's planning on taking over. Either that or he was trying to psychically will me into buying and poaching him some fresh salmon.

I'm going to have to check my browser history pretty carefully. Because if it turns out that while I'm at work he's set up a Paypal account and is trying to order hypnotism lessons online, I'm in real trouble.

Leah's Anatomy

One of the things that Rachel got for her birthday last year was a doctor's kit. It was a nice one, and came with the usual assortment of toy medical instruments, including a blood pressure cuff and a scarily real-looking syringe. It also came with a lab coat and a clipboard complete with patient charts and prescription pads.

The girls had a blast pretending to be doctors. Leah, more advanced at writing, took over the clipboard to record their medical cases:

Hmmmm, let's see, the patient, a 44-year-old woman presents with a broken leg. And malnourishment too, by the looks of things. I had a sudden flash (probably brought on by withdrawl) of how this case would play out on Grey's Anatomy.

The staff would be clustered in the hallway, all staring concernedly at the chart, while beautiful, wasting-away patient Magiy (both doctor and patient are named for the girls' favourite people in the world), lies still in her bed.

Callie: "Let me just fix the leg.
Bailey: "It's not that simple, look at her blood presher, it's 110. Just 110. Not 110 over something else. I think the leg's infected."
Derek: "Damn it, we could use stronger antibiotics to fight the infection, if it wasn't for that damn racoon allergy. Stronger antibiotics might kill her."

Two things. My daughter has a great imagination. And I really want the writers' strike to be over.

That'll teach me

Vanity is never pretty.

I decided put a widget in my template to show who links to me. (Yep, all 6 of you ;-) ) Then I changed my mind, and since I still futz with the template in code, I thought I was deleting the code I had added. In reality, I inadvertently deleted my entire template. Then I hit "save changes". I am an idiot.

It'll be a day or so before I can get my blogroll back up, my links, my cool moon phase widget, and I guess I'll be starting from scratch with the cool map thing that was showing my hits from India, Australia and Indonesia. Sigh.

I would like to state for the record that the beer I drank at lunch had nothing to do with this.

Seriously.

The Universe is listening

The other day, I remarked to my friend Natalie, "now that they've shown the last new episode of Grey's Anatomy that they shot before the writers' strike started, what am I going to do to get my hospital fix?"

One should be careful what one says within earshot of the Universe.

Turns out that I got my hospital fix last night after all.

Scrubs? No.

House? No.

ER? In a manner of speaking.

The girls and I spent the evening and a big chunk of the night in Emergency at the Queensway-Carleton hospital. Rachel had a neck and head so painful that moving was causing her to scream. One minute she was fine, watching TV with her sister while I cleaned up after dinner, the next she was crying and screaming and holding the back of her neck. I gave her some ibuprophen and the three of us set off through blowing snow to the hospital.

Sunday at swimming lessons, after I had finished ogling the neighbourhood children, Rachel had fallen on the poolside tiles and given herself a goose egg on the back of her head. She was fine Sunday night and all day Monday, but the proximity in time of the two events had my Grey's-fuelled imagination in overdrive -- skull fracture? Meningitis? Visions of ambulance transfer to CHEO danced in my head.

It was not the most fun few hours I have ever spent. The waiting room was full and I was trying to entertain two girls up past their bedtimes, one in pain, and the other sad with empathy for her sister during waits to see the doctor and X-rays.

It was torticollis, also called wry neck. Spasms in the muscles that run from the scalp down to the shoulders. X-rays confirmed it -- instead of the neck vertebrae being in a curve (normal) they were straight, pulled like that by the tightness of the spasmed muscles. No wonder the poor thing was yelling every time she moved. Very painful, but not long-lasting, and treatable with ibuprophen and rest. Rachel is fine today, although not going to school. A day of movie watching and lounging are on her agenda.

As a replacement for Grey's, the Emergency experience was kind of a bust. Although the suspense level and emotional involvement were much, much higher, the doctors were nowhere near as hot.

Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson

I took the girls to swim classes late this afternoon. Since they aren't the same age nor are they at the same skill level, they are in different classes. I couldn't schedule them at the same time, so Rae's class is 4:30 to 5:00, and Leah's is 5:00 to 5:30. Leah and I sit together on the pool deck and watch Rae's class, and then Rae comes out and wraps up in a towel and we watch Leah's class.

I had just finished reading Robert Munsch's Smelly Socks to Rachel, when a movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention. A man had come out of the changing room into the pool area and was walking away from me. Clad only in black swim trunks and (and this should have been the tip off) a red tank that said 'Instructor' on the back -- he was stunning. My breath was literally taken away for a moment. Blondish hair, wide shoulders, muscular arms, a nice back and legs. Yup, all in all, eye candy. Radiating lines of deliciousness (fans of Grey's Anatomy will get this allusion). I might have drooled. Just a little, you know, in a lady-like way.

Then he turned around. Turns out I know him slightly.

When I met him last summer at an impromptu backyard bonfire party, he was wandering around with a copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows tucked under his arm and eating a Mr. Freezie. We talked about the book for a bit and he told me how he was available....TO BABYSIT so he could earn gas money for when he borrows his dad's car. CRAP. He's the son of someone in my neighbourhood, and she's younger than I am. He's maybe seventeen.

I just want to take my brain out and scrub it now.

Come out, come out, wherever you are!

Chris over at Rude Cactus has lit the torch and declared today to be Official Delurker Day.

So, come out, come out, wherever you are! Leave me a comment and let me know who you are and where you're from. Lots of you do comment on a regular basis. Thank you. Seriously. I really love comments, so you are my favourite people in the whole world (barring Leah and Rachel, of course).

I can tell from the ISP name that shows up on Sitemeter when some of you have visited (Hi Sara! Hi Becca!), but some of the visit details are mysterious. Which one of you comes in via Rogers Cable with a Lat/Long location that seems to be somewhere near Rankin Inlet in Nunavut? And I'm talking to you, Wylie, Texas -- drop me a comment, wouldja? Welland, Ontario? Fremont, Ohio? Raleigh, North Carolina? Ottawa people? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

(I apologise if any of you named.....er, placed, above are regular commenters whom I know and love but I just don't know where you're from.)

Anyway, I'm off to officially delurk on the blogs that I read regularly. I'll be back to check out all your comments soon. See ya.

Introducing Max

Famous Maxes throughout history.

The Grinch's dog, Max:



Maxwell Smart:



Maximilian I, Holy Roman Emperor:



Max from Max and Ruby:



Everyone's favourite realty company:



Max, the butler from Sunset Boulevard:



OK, maybe that last one was a reach, I just keep remembering the Carol Burnett version of that movie where Carol (as Nora Desmond) keeps yelling "Max, Maaax, Max" and Harvey Korman (as Max) is slapping everyone:




But I digress... What was I doing again? Oh yeah. Introducing another in a list of illustrious Maxes. The newest member of our family. Max the kitten:





Isn't he cute? It's been almost a year since Elvis died, and I think the girls and I are ready for a new cat. I only hope the drapes will hold up -- he was swinging on them last night and I need to regain my spray-bottle accuracy.

Picture this

After reading MamaT's hilarious post about taking her kids to get their photos taken for Christmas cards, I was inspired (or really too lazy to think up anything new) and dug around in my pile of old postings to my online mommies group that predated me having a blog to find my story of taking Leah and Rachel to get their pictures taken at Wal-Mart. This was probably late spring 2004 -- Leah was about 4 and a half and Rae was just past 2 years old.

Enjoy.
_____________________

Well, Friday night I took the girls to get their pictures taken. "Do you want me to come?" said Dean. "No," I replied, "I can handle it". EEEEHHH, or however you spell the noise made by one of those loud annoying buzzers that signals when you're wrong. And I was wrong.

As usual, I waited until the last minute. The girls had received some beautiful summer clothes as presents at Easter, and I wanted to commit them to film before Leah and Rachel wore them and got them dirty and lived-in-looking. Oh, and I'm taking the girls home to Windsor in 10 days for a family visit, and I want to pack the clothes, so I had to get the photos taken sooner rather than later.

So I called up the Wal-Mart Portrait studio and tried to book a weekend morning appointment. Yeah, I could get one. IN SEPTEMBER. So, I think a minute and arrange for 6 p.m on Friday night. It'll be OK, I reassure myself, I'll pick them up from daycare, get them changed, fix their hair, bribe them to be good by promising McDonalds after the sitting, and it'll all be just peachy.

It starts out according to plan. I pick the girls up and we go home to change. I want Rae's hair to look really curly in the picture, so I spritz her hair with a spray bottle of water. I brush Leah's hair and off we go. It's cold, so I put pants on them under their summer skirts. We get to the studio 5 minutes early, and then the fun begins. The studio is at the back of the store, near the fabric and craft section. Rachel takes off her pants and is sitting like an angel. I turn my back for one second to help Leah, and Rachel's off like NASCAR driver, running giggling and screaming out into the store. I take off after her, yelling to Leah to stay put, and manage to grab Rae by the arm after chasing her through the fabric section. I pick her up, call her a monkey and take her back.

The photographer, Shauna, has no idea what she's in for. The deal is that you pay $5 for your initial package, but they take another 6 pix and charge you the earth for various sized copies of them. Well, it takes 6 times to get a decent picture of both of them together where Leah has a) her eyes open and b) a nice smile not a grimace; and Rachel isn't a) frowning, b) flashing her pull-up, c) flashing her whole bare midsection by pulling up her dress, d) trying to lunge off the platform to get at the toy the photographer is using to get her attention, e) trying to remove the backdrop from its holder at the back of the platform, or f) trying to pull Leah's hair. But we get that decent first picture. Barely.

Now Shauna tries to get an additional 6 pix so nice that I will have no choice but to shell out $60 (which I'm entirely planning on doing, by the way) when she hits the hard concrete wall of Rachel's Unwillingness to Co-operate (or, as we've acronymed it at home due to the frequency of its occurence: 'the RUC').

Shauna is squeezing squeaky toys and making faces, and I'm sitting beside the platform on my mandated parent's stool, promising her candy, french fries, ponies and trips to Disney World and threatening her with no TV unless she sits still and smiles nicely, but to no avail. She pulls her dress up, she tries to jump off the platform, she frowns, she yells, etc., etc. I can see Shauna's composure start to crack as bad picture after bad picture comes up on the viewing screen. We take a couple of Leah, but she has this weird smile on her face that looks like a chipmunk with full cheeks.

Now, time is passing and Shauna finally says, "Look, I have to take 6 pictures, let's just keep the next 4". And so we do. So, when it's time to look at the digital versions and do my ordering, (after I chase after Rae again, barefoot this time, into the Fabric section and retrieve her) the only picture that's good enough to order is the original 'package' shot. It's the first time I've ever gone to Wal-Mart and only paid for the initial package.

My $5.70 pictures will be ready in 3 weeks. I think Shauna might have recovered her sanity by then.

Oh and a post-script to this story. Later that evening, Rachel comes out of the kitchen rubbing her hair. It's wet. "What are you doing?" I ask. "Fix hair", she said. It smelled chemical-y. Dope that I am, I left the spray bottle of carpet cleaner on the counter. She remembered me using the spray bottle of water on her hair earlier, and wanted to do it too. Into the bath she went. Sigh.

Holiday travel*

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a child in possession of a bladder must be in want of a bathroom stop -- even if the child in question peed 32 minutes previously at the last rest stop and you are cruising along the 401 through Toronto doing 120, just passing Avenue Road in the far left fast lane of the express lanes which necessitates crossing the 12 or so lanes of express traffic, merging into the collector lanes, crossing the 9 or so lanes of collector traffic, finding an exit, finally exiting at Weston Rd and finding a McDonald's in the dark, in heavy traffic.

Holiday travel is so. much. fun.

I am posting from my sister's in Belle River, will be posting from home again by January 2nd. Happy New Year, everyone!!

*Apologies to Jane Austen

On the first day of Christmas

My true love gave to me, a partridge in a pear birch tree.



At least I think it was a partridge. It looked like a partridge. It might have been a ruffed grouse, maybe. I'm sure about the tree, though, 100%. But as I was sneaking around the house early in the morning in my bathrobe (back in October when I took this picture) I only managed to snap it in silhouette before my across-the-street neighbour came out of his house whistling, and the bird flapped away before I could get a better picture.

I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Enjoy the holidays however you celebrate them. Be happy and safe.

Now where do I find turtledoves?

All she wants for Christmas

4:17 a.m. this morning:

Leah [calling]: "Mom? Mom, can you come in here?"
Me [struggling out of bed]: "What's wrong? Are you OK?"
Leah: "Yeah. I just lost my tooth in my bed." [grinning an extra gap-toothed grin]
[A short search turns up the tooth in question.]
Leah: "Cool. Put it under my pillow!"
Me: "Umm, I think we missed the Tooth Fairy. It's almost morning, my alarm will be going off in an hour. How about we put the tooth under your pillow tonight instead?"
Leah: "OK."
Me: "Goodnight, sweetie."
Leah: "Goodnight." [Then, trying out her new mouth] "Crithmith. Merry Chrithmith. Hey Mom, I sound just like the song!"

Sorry I'm late

I think it's the U.S. army or marines or somebody who has the tag line: we do more before breakfast than most people do all day. I'm thinking that just for today I'm appropriating it and changing it to: my life sucks more before breakfast than most peoples' suck all day. Seriously.

The backstory. I've been late a lot lately. I've been really tired in the evenings and instead of preparing for the next day (laying out clothes, making lunches) I've been going to bed and doing the chores in the morning. So my leaving-the-house time has been severely affected and my arriving-at-work time has been creeping steadily later to 8:40 instead of 8:05. So last night I set my alarm half an hour early, so that I could do the chores I didn't do last night because I was at book club, and still have time to shower and fix my hair before work.

For your viewing pleasure, I present the anatomy of my morning:

• 4:35 a.m. - Alarm goes off. I stumble to the bathroom and shower.

• 4:50 a.m. - I'm in the kitchen. Tea is not going to do it this morning, I make coffee. While it is brewing, I open the girls' backpacks which I didn't do the night before because of book club and I start making lunches.
  

• 5:07 a.m. - Coffee's ready. I bend over to get the cream out of the fridge and I seriously misjudge the overhead clearance (possibly due to wet hair flopping in my eyes) and bang my head against the freezer door hard enough to see stars (Hey. Look. The Pleiades! Aren't they pretty?).

• 5:08 a.m. - I carry the coffee to the living room and sit for a moment. I turn on CBC and watch the rerun of last night's The Hour, drooling a bit. But whether that's a result of the blow to the head or my strange subconscious fascination with George, I can't tell. I mean he's probably young enough to be my son if I were a twisted Appalachian stereotype. (I had myself figured for more of a Colin Firth kinda girl. Minus the reindeer sweater, of course. But I digress...)
  

• 5:40 a.m. - The lunches are made. I'm back in the bathroom to dry my hair. I flip the wet strands out of my eyes, look into the mirror, and recoil in horror. You've heard of death warmed over? Yeah, well I'm looking at death straight out of the fridge. Still in the Saran Wrap. Maybe 4:30 was a wee bit too early to be getting up considering that I was in bed late and that beauty sleep isn't a myth.

• 6:00 a.m. - The girls' clothes are laid out, and they are sitting at the table eating the first of the 37 pieces of raisin toast they will consume for breakfast.

• 6:45 a.m. - The girls are dressed, washed, combed and teethbrushed. I have started the car so it will warm up and I'm loading it with backpacks and bags*. (*foreshadowing)
  

• 7:00 a.m. - The girls have put on snow pants, snow jackets, neck warmers, boots, mittens and hats. We pull out of the driveway. Yay! Half an hour earlier than usual.

• 7:07 a.m. - Have dropped girls at daycare and am setting off to work.

• 7:09 a.m. - I notice that I'm almost out of gas.

• 7:18 a.m. - I pull into the Mr. Gas on March Rd and fill the tank. After replacing the gas cap, I lean back into the car to get my purse. IT'S NOT THERE. I have forgotten my purse at home. I explain to the gas guy, hand over my work I.D. as collateral, and drive back home (at least I'm not going to run out of gas).

• 7:28 a.m. - I return home and grab my purse. I have a moment of panic when I realize my keys are not in my hand and fear that I've locked them in the house (it's been that kind of day), but I find them in my coat pocket.

• 7:42 a.m. - Intent on getting to work, I drive right past the gas station and go a couple of kilometres down March before I remember that I owe the Mr. Gas guy $50 and I need my work I.D. Perhaps I am brain injured from whacking my head on the refrigerator.

• 7:50 a.m. - I arrive back at the gas station and pay for my gas.

• 7:52 a.m. - I attempt to make a left-hand turn out of the gas station onto March Rd. in the midst of the hellacious traffic that I originally left early to avoid.

• 7:56 a.m. - I pull out successfully.

• 8:00 a.m. - I reach down to grab the travel mug of sweet, hot, delicious coffee I made when I went back to the house. It's not there. It is on the counter in my kitchen. Damn.

• 8:05 a.m. - I pass a Timmie's and gaze longingly at it. I don't have time for a coffee now, as this is the time that I should be unlocking the door of my office.

• 8:50 a.m. - I get to work. Five minutes later than the latest I've been all winter. After getting up and leaving half an hour earlier than usual. I think this might be ironic. I am not sure. I make a mental note to check with Alanis.
  

Enough with the snow already *updated*

Yep, we got dumped on. Bigtime. I think the final amount was 57 cm which translates to about 23 inches. Then the blowing and drifting started. It started around midnight on Saturday night. I went to a Christmas party Saturday night at Shell's place, and her daughter Becca was at my house babysitting. I drove the 20 or so kilometres home around quarter to one in the morning very slowly, since the snow was blowing all over the place. By the time we woke up yesterday morning, in the midst of the storm, it was clear that Becca wasn't going anyplace. Fortunately, news of the coming storm had started on Friday, and the girls and I spent Saturday going to the grocery store, the library and the video rental place.

We watched a bunch of movies, made cookies, and when cabin fever set in, we went and played in the snow for a bit. I spent a sweaty hour with Murray around 3, but as you can see, the snow just kept right on coming.

This is a picture of my back deck. You can use the height of the counter for scale:

Erm, the bottle of Grand Marnier is also strictly for scale. Honest.

The picture below is either my barbecue or a baby Alp.


The house across the street. The snow has drifted up as far as the windows, which are about 3-4 feet above ground level.


Update: Apparently, much like some of the other men in my life, Murray has let me down. After starting and blowing about 10 feet, he quit and I haven't been able to start him again. Why am I not surprised? So I tackled Mt. Plow Ridge the old-fashioned way.

I'm very tired now.

And in other news...

I'm really swamped right now.

That gentle I'm-all-ready-for-Christmas-well-kinda glow that I've been cocooned in has vanished like the mist and I realize I'm not nearly as prepared as I thought I was. So it's bullets for you today:

• Shell and I made 11 tourtières the weekend before last, 4 regular ones (beef and pork) and 7 venison ones, for the Christmas party. I always go over and trade labour (rolling out pie crust and fluting edges) for a pie to take home. This one was mine:

I took a venison one. That's some damn fine Bambi, I tell ya. Mmmmmm.

• Our family has its own version of pig latin that's been used for generations for discussing things in front of the children. Handed down from my Mom's cousin Pat, (and thus called Pattish) it has proved useful in talking about birthday presents and so forth. Until the weekend, when I was asking my Mom if she had been able to track down any Junie B. Jones books for Leah. I had to repeat myself a couple of times, since my Pattish is rusty, and Leah, who was sitting nearby, soon had a knowing look on her face. Later, she came up to me and said, "I know what you were talking to Nana about when you were talking in cursive. You were talking about Junie B. Jones." I was amused. First of all that she understood. And second of all her word for it: cursive. She figured that if fancy printing (writing script) is called cursive, then fancy talking should have the same name.

• I finally wrote a Christmas letter. I put a few photographs in, but not nearly as many as I would have liked. So I'm presenting you with a few that didn't make the cut. Or just ones I liked. With captions:

"One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong...." A cauliflower from the Farmers' market, August 25, 2007.



There really is no place like home. A view from the end of our driveway, September 11, 2007.



7 adults, 8 children, 2 dogs, 1 really good time. September 2, 2007.



Jackie O. drops by for a visit. November 17, 2007.



Showing their true personalities. November 4, 2007.

• And that's it for now. I can put a checkmark beside 'post on blog', and get back to finishing shopping, cleaning, and baking. Oh yeah, and working.
  

Oh, almost forgot. Rachel's oh-so-classy take on a much-loved Christmas carol: "Deck the halls with boughs of farts. Fart, fart, fart, fart, fart. Fart, fart, fart, fart." Yeah, I'm sure Santa's much amused. Better trade the wood-burning fireplace for one that can use lumps of coal.

Snow day or I love Murray

I was inexplicably back in my old apartment in Sudbury, wearing babydoll pajamas, and having a stuffed-animal fight with George Stroumboulopoulos from The Hour, who was ducking and winging teddies and bunnies back at me while simultaneously trying to interview Kingsley Amis over the phone.

Which is a pretty good trick, considering he's been dead since 1995. (Kingsley, not George.)


(I think I need a boyfriend.)

Then, of course, the alarm clock went off. Five o'clock. I stumbled to the kitchen and put the coffee on. I'm teleworking today, since Leah and I both have doctor appointments this afternoon. I sure picked a good day to stay home. This is what it looked like earlier this morning. I can't see my driveway. Can you?


What you might be able to see, if you look carefully, is the plow ridge. I live on a corner. This is not an advantageous place to live during snowplow season. Plows turning the corner scrape up more snow than they do on a straightaway, and once they straighten out, incrementally more (or magnitudinally more) snow gets dumped across the end of your driveway than in driveways farther down the street.

I was standing at my front window with a coffee in my hand watching the snow falling and the chickadees at the bird feeder when the plow went by. It dumped 456 cubic metres* of snow across the end of my driveway. Not being satisfied with this, the driver backed up around the corner and plowed again, uncovering part of my lawn and depositing a further 1276 cubic metres of snow onto the pile (*all amounts are approximate). I was very visible in the window. He studiously avoided meeting my eyes as he slowly drove past. I sipped my coffee and resisted the urge to wave to him using only one finger.

In order to get to the doctor's later, I'm going to have to get the car outta the garage, down the non-existent driveway, over Mt. Plow Ridge, and out onto the nice clear street. This was a job for Murray. I love Murray. I can always count on him. All he asks is a drink of gasoline and a plug-in start, and he's good to go. Murray is my snowblower. Now, I'm Canadian enough to enjoy shovelling my driveway when it's a light couple of centimetres, but when it's a dumping and there's a plow ridge that hardens like concrete 5 minutes after it's been deposited, you pull out the big guns if you have them. And Murray is my big gun. See?


George is pretty hot and all, and probably pretty strong too. But I bet he can't clear a driveway like Murray.

I want my sweatpants

I wish I was at home right now. I don't want to be at work in these pants. The kind with a waistband and buttons and a zipper.

I am bloated. I am so bloated I feel like I'm retaining Lake Superior. In fact, I think that sharp pain I just felt was the Edmund Fitzgerald lodging under my ribs.

Send chocolate. And sweatpants.

Portrait of the artist as a young girl

Leah looks like her dad. Just like him. She has his chocolate-brown eyes, his distinctive family nose, his height and long, lanky frame. Other than that, though, she's all me, through and through. Her matter-of-factness, her easy-going personality, her willingness to go along to get along, her love of reading, and, most of all, her twisted sense of humour -- me.

So, when she asked me if she could take a couple of pictures with my digital camera, and I said yes after making her promise to wear the wrist strap so she wouldn't drop it, I wasn't sure what to expect. She and her little sister hurried off into her room and there was loud giggling from the two of them for a while. She returned the camera and told me very gleefully, "I took some cool pictures of myself. You should post them on your blog."

As requested, Leah's self-portraits:









As you can see, she doesn't mind making a fool of herself to make people laugh. Wonder where she got that from.

I blame Walt

I have mice. Yep, mice in my house. Mice in my house. We've been in the house for 5 years, and this is the first time it's happened. It's also the first fall/winter that we've been without a cat, as we lost Elvis last February. A coincidence? I think not.

Anyway, I was cleaning the kitchen, moving aside some of the appliances that sit on the counter, when I found them. Mouse turds. Crap! (In all senses of the word.) Then I made a really bad mistake: I told the girls the truth when they heard me exclaim in the kitchen:

Me: Oh no!
Rae: What's wrong, Mom?
Me: I just found mouse poop. We have mice.
Leah: Cool! I like mice.
Rae: Can I see the poop?

See, thanks to Walt Disney and the horribly cute vermin in his movies, the girls are moved to hysterics at the thought of baiting a few traps with rice krispies and peanut butter to get rid of the little critters. According to Disney (and now my brainwashed daughters), mice are cute! And sweet! And adorable!

I guess if the mice at my place were like Jacques and Gus, and helped around the house and made me couture dresses, I could cut them a little slack, but they're not, and seriously, don't you think that Cinderella occasionally found a pile of mouse poop under her toaster oven and wondered what the hell she was doing encouraging the mice to live in the palace?

So the upshot of the situation is that either I shell out for a live trap and then release the mice far far away from our house (where hopefully they will be a good source of protein for hawks), or bait the more conventional traps and leave them out when the girls are in bed, making sure to dispose of the evidence before they get up.

Too bad Walt isn't still around. Either way, I'd ask him to empty the traps. I figure he kinda owes me.