CSI: Carp

WARNING: This blog post may be disturbing to some viewers. Viewer discretion is advised.

I saw a familiar figure skulking in the hedge that separates the front yard from the back yard tonight when we drove home from soccer practice. A raccoon. You don't usually see raccoons out when it's still daylight, but maybe this guy was getting a jump on all the other raccoons by heading out early to find some grub. Or grubs. (Note to critter: Dig up my lawn again, and you're toast. I don't care how cute and fuzzy you are.)

It reminded me of the last time I'd seen a raccoon up and about in the daytime -- it was a couple of years ago, during the summer....

[Cue wavy scene dissolving to signify going back in time]

There are some things you shouldn't have to deal with before you've had your first coffee in the morning. Like dead raccoons.

The previous night, Rae was in bed but Leah was still up. The sliding glass door in the kitchen was open but the screen was closed. Elvis [Max's predecessor] was hissing at something through the screen so I went and looked and there was a raccoon on the deck. I called to Leah and she got a glimpse of it before it ran off. I figured it could smell Elvis's cat food (I feed him next to the back door) so I closed the glass door. Leah was all excited -- "A raccoon! We can call him Ricky!"

I got up late the next morning -- summer vacation -- and I opened the curtain over the sliding door to check the temp on the thermometer outside, and there, right on the doormat on the deck outside the door is the raccoon. And it's dead. Paws-in-the-air, no-longer-breathing. Dead. (We can call him Stiffy!)

Oh crap, I hadn't even had coffee yet, and I had to get rid of the body before the girls woke up, I didn't want them to see it. Oh the drama if they saw the cute little forest creature tits-up on the back deck. (Yuck.) And the clock was ticking. The girls don't usually sleep in that late. So I put on some rubber gloves and went outside. It was a lot heavier than it looked. Stiffer, too. I couldn't see any signs of trauma, maybe it had been poisoned or just decided to have a garbage-overdose coronary at my back door. I bagged it up in a couple of garbage bags and an IKEA bag (Dear IKEA, thanks for making such strong plastic bags. Did you know that they are exactly the right size to hold a dead raccoon? I didn't think so. They are truly a superior product. Sincerely, a grateful customer.) and then I threw out the gloves and the mat and washed my hands about 18 times.

Luckily it was garbage pick-up day, so I was spared the awfulness of a raccoon festering in the garbage can in the garage for a week. The day got better from then on...well, really it would have to, wouldn't it?

As I drank my post-raccoon-disposal coffee, I started thinking about the fact that I had found an actual dead body. Sure, it was an animal, but it made me think about all those detective novels that open with some poor peripheral character stumbling over a body. Not to mention the crime dramas on TV. The place I live in is a pretty sleepy little village, so a dead raccoon is about the extent of the excitement we get around here (not that I'm complaining). My freshly caffeinated thoughts started wandering and imagining, yes, you guessed it -- CSI: Carp.

[Cue another wavy dissolve with harp arpeggios to signify imaginary sequence]

From Jerry Bruckheimer, the producer of CSI, CSI: New York, and CSI: Miami, comes an exciting new show, CSI: Carp.

[Show opens with a pounding drum beat accompanying a montage of arial shots of Carp -- the fairgrounds with the iconic red rotunda of the farmer's market building, the soccer field, the cows grazing on the field on top of the Diefenbunker -- ending with Alison's back deck.]

Horatio Caine stands there with Eric Delko and Calleigh Duquesne. Alexx Woods is kneeling down about to lift a dead raccoon onto a gurney. Alison, a tall, willowy, blonde knockout (Shut up. It's my imaginary show, I can look however I want) is leaning against the deck railing, looking distraught. Gorgeous, but distraught.

Horatio [taking off his shades, polishing them, putting them back on, brooding a bit while staring at the body, then turning to Eric and Calleigh]: What do we have here?

Eric: Hi 'H'. Not sure yet. Not a lot of blood at the scene, we think it's a dump job.

Calleigh: The homeowner, Alison, found it this morning when she woke up. [Alison nods wanly, but gorgeously, in response] We're canvassing the neighbours, but the raccoon could have been here overnight.

Horatio [standing sideways and taking off his sunglasses]: Alexx, any ideas on cause of death?

Alexx: Well, there's soil on his paws and a half-eaten grub in his mouth. And there are some marks on his head that look like the tines of a rake. It looks like this poor baby was eating some grubs he'd dug up from the lawn, when someone chased him up on the deck and hit him with a rake. Horatio, who could do this to a poor, sweet raccoon? [Camera pans to Alison, who looks shifty. Gorgeous, but shifty]

Horatio: Well, we'll just have to dig up an answer... [puts on sunglasses] ...the killer won't like.

[Horatio broods for a second and then theme music starts: The Who singing Pinball Wizard -- all the other good and possibly relevant Who songs having already been taken by the other CSI franchises]

***
I don't know. I think it could be must-see TV.

UPDATED: Full episode storyline posted due to one person asking popular demand. Click here for CSI: Carp -- "Mask of Death".

Perspective

Yesterday did not start out well. The girls were tired when I got them up -- my fault really. I'd let them stay late at the park the evening before, which pushed back bath and bedtime routines. Rae had been whiny and obtructionist, fighting me every step of the way through bath and bed. I had hoped that the morning would be better, that sleep would solve some of the behaviour. But no. Tired and cranky, Leah was in tears, and nothing could fix Rachel's bad mood. We argued all through breakfast, she refused to wear the clothes I'd put out for her, and bitched about what I was putting in her lunchbox. I was distracted, trying to keep mental hold of the million things at work and home that I have to keep track of. Leah reminded me about soccer practice, and the fact that she needed new cleats, which I'd forgotten.

So, I was in a bad mood, the girls were in bad moods, and no one was behaving well. Then the girls started in on each other, and I snapped. I was slamming cupboard doors and yelling, and generally not behaving like a calm, rational adult. Everything was just too much. The house was a mess, we were running late, the gas tank on the car was almost empty, we were out of cat food, the clothes dryer was still broken, I had a meeting at work that I wasn't prepared for, everything was just terrible and overwhelming and just. too. much.

I took a deep breath in preparation for continuing to argue (a pointless, stupid argument) with Leah, when a thought crept in past all the tumult -- I bet Tori Stafford's mother would give anything to be having an argument with her daughter right now in a messy house with a broken dryer.

I stopped yelling and apologised. We waited while Rae went and chose a new outfit for school. And when I dropped them at daycare to catch the school bus, we parted with the usual hugs and kisses. All you need is some perspective to see what's really important, and what isn't. It's heartbreaking that sometimes that perspective comes at such a great cost.

(8-year-old Victoria Stafford disappeared on her way home from school in Woodstock, Ontario, on April 8. Surveillance camera footage showed her walking away with a young woman. Two days ago, a 28-year-old man and an 18-year-old woman were charged with her abduction and murder. Police are still looking for her remains.)

Awesome. Cheesy. Craptastic. Yes, 80s excess at its best/worst.

The dancing! The emoting! The Desperately Seeking Susan spokes-singer! The blond Duran Duran wannabe guy! The flaming torches! The fake snowfall! The new-wave mullets! The parachute pants! The cartwheels! The bending upside-down and singing between the legs while wearing red stilettos!

Yes, it's all here. All that and much, much more. Treat yourself.



(I totally stole this from Bill's Facebook page. Thanks, Bill. And Happy Birthday too, my friend! I think you'll find that your forties rock.)

I bet even Peter Gabriel never saw this coming

On my way to work today, I passed the new headquarters of the Taoist Tai Chi Society of Canada. The building it's housed in used to be a Swiss Chalet restaurant -- a chain famous for rotisserie chicken and distinctive chalet-style architecture.

Does the juxtaposition of tai chi and rotisserie chicken make anyone else think of this:



Or is it just me?

The relevant part starts at around 3:21 of the video. And I do that every time I'm making a roast chicken or turkey. When I'm rinsing it in the sink before putting it in the roasting pan, I make it dance, and bow, and gesture with its little wings, for my own amusement, while I sing Sledgehammer (badly). I like to think that it would make Peter Gabriel smile.

Barbie does the National Capital Region

This showed up in my inbox and was too good not to share. Of course it'll be funnier for the locals who read it.

Mattel recently announced the release of limited-edition Barbie Dolls for the Greater Ottawa market

Orleans Barbie

This princess Barbie is sold only at the St. Laurent Centre . She comes with an assortment of Kate Spade Handbags, a Lexus SUV, a long-haired foreign dog named Mignon and a designer kitchen. Available with or without boob job, tummy tuck and face-lift. Workaholic Ken sold only in conjunction with the boob job version.
Barrhaven Barbie

The modern-day homemaker Barbie is available with Dodge Caravan minivan and matching Lululemon yoga outfit. She gets lost easily and has no full-time occupation. Traffic-jamming cell phone sold separately.

Arnprior Barbie

This recently-paroled Barbie comes with a 9mm handgun, a Ray Lewis knife, a lo-rider Chevy with dark tinted windows, and a Meth Lab Kit. This model is only available after dark and must be paid for in cash (preferably small, untraceable bills) ... unless you are a cop, then we don't know what you're talking about.
Westboro Barbie

This yuppie Barbie comes with your choice of BMW convertible or Hummer H2. Included are her own Starbucks cup, credit card and country club membership. Also available for this set are Shallow Ken and Private School Skipper. You won't be able to afford any of them.

Stittsville Barbie

This pale model comes dressed in her own Old Navy jeans two sizes too small, a NASCAR t-shirt and tweety bird tattoo on her shoulder. She has a six-pack of Coors light and a Hank Williams Jr. CD set. She can spit over 5 feet and kick mullet-haired Ken's butt when she is drunk. Purchase her pickup truck separately and get a confederate flag bumper sticker absolutely free.
Rockcliffe Barbie

This collagen-injected, rhinoplastic Barbie wears a leopard print outfit and drinks cosmopolitans while entertaining friends. Percocet prescription available as well as warehouse conversion condo.

Kemptville Barbie

This tobacco-chewing, brassy-haired Barbie has a pair of her own high-heeled sandals with one broken heel from the time she chased beer-gutted Ken out of Cougar Barbie's house. Her ensemble includes low-rise acid-washed jeans, fake fingernails and a see-through halter-top. Also available with a mobile home and a Skidoo.

Glebe Barbie

This doll is made of actual tofu. She has long straight brown hair, archless feet, hairy armpits, no makeup and Birkenstocks with white socks. She prefers that you call her Willow . She does not want or need a Ken doll, but if you purchase two Barbies and the optional Subaru wagon, you get a rainbow flag bumper sticker for free.

Vanier Barbie

This Barbie now comes with a stroller and infant doll. Optional accessories include a bus pass. Gangsta Ken and his 1979 Caddy were available, but are now very difficult to find since the addition of the infant.

Mount Tremblant Barbie

She's perfect in every way. Ken has a condo in downtown Ottawa and visits on the weekends.


I'm still waiting for Byward Market Barbie, who comes with a sleazy clubbing microdress, a handstamp from Helsinki Lounge, a tequila shooter, and a 3 a.m. shawarma.

Laundry Wars Part I: Alison vs. playground sand

There seems to be a high percentage of clay in the sand at the playground. Rich clay, saturated with highly coloured particulate matter, hides amongst the sand grains and binds with foot sweat to create an instant and indelible brown stain on the bottoms of socks. It insinuates itself into small shoes and rainboots during play, and no sock is safe from its foul malevolence.

I have tried presoaking. I have tried stain-removing spray. I have tried bleach. Oh, how I have tried bleach. I've used enough bleach that the chlorine-y scent of those socks causes flashbacks to ogling jailbait at the community swimming pool. But I have failed.

(I would like to state at this point that I was going to take pictures of the socks, I had even posed them artfully against my white kitchen tiles, and then I realized that really, as interested as you all are in the minutiae of my life, no one wants to see pictures of my childrens' stained socks. If you are disappointed at this, please seek help. But I digress....)

First Battle of the Bleach - a mere skirmish

Add one cup of bleach to water in washer, set washer to warm, put stain-sprayed socks in washer, cross fingers. Stains laughed, flipped me the bird, and drove their jeeps back behind their own lines.

Second Battle of the Bleach - covert maneuvers

Add one and a half cups of bleach to water, set washer to hot, put stain-sprayed socks in washer, cross fingers. Stains took heavy losses, but regrouped, called in air support, and held onto their territory.

Third Battle of the Bleach - going nuclear

Put socks in bathroom wash basin. Add hot water and 2 cups of bleach. Leave soak for an entire afternoon. Stains have apparently mastered duck-and-cover and/or time travel to avoid giant bleach nuke. Although the blast force of the bleach totally faded out the colours of the socks, as soon as the fallout had cleared it was evident that the stains, like cockroaches, had survived the attack.

***************

Why it didn't occur to me that lovely pastel pink, green, and pink-and-yellow-striped socks would be, I don't know, bleached out to sad, pale, blotchy versions of themselves, as if you'd tie-dyed ghosts, I'll never know. I was just so determined to get the stains out. So now my children are walking around in two-toned socks: whitish tops with brown bottoms.

I still love the smell of bleach in the morning, even if it doesn't smell like victory.

Screaming adult snake valium

This is a fairly sleepy little blog. On an average day, about 50 people visit here and leave between 10 and 15 comments. Most visitors are in the friends (both real-life and blog friends) and family category. Others stumble across Party of 3 in a variety of ways. A few days ago, I posted about Colin Firth, and the stats exploded. (Well for me it was an explosion, proportionally, visits to my site tripled.)

I did a little research and found out that these hits, which were coming from all over the world (Japan, UK, Belgium, Germany, Romania, Portugal, Australia, China, France, Canada, USA), could all be traced back to 2 Colin Firth chat sites that had linked my blog. There are A LOT of women who seriously like some Colin apparently. More than I ever imagined. They didn't leave any comments, but that's OK, I like seeing all the new dots appearing on my map of the world widget that tracks visitor locations.

Over the last little while, I've been interested in how people find my blog. I've been keeping track of Google search strings that have sent people here. There are two search strings that appear over and over. "How to remove a squirrel from your fireplace" and variations on that theme send 2 to 3 people per day to this blog post. Think of it. Squirrels are falling down chimneys all over North America and Europe at a rate of 2 or 3 a day, sometimes as many as 5! This is verging on being an epidemic of squirrel falls. Perhaps the World Wildlife Fund should get involved.

And then there are those who Google "I'm too sexy for my shoes" (1 or 2 per week) and get sent here. A large percentage of those hits come from India. Curious. Maybe Right Said Fred should mount a comeback tour in Mumbai.

But it's the weird search strings that bring people to your blog that are the most fun. Ones that make you shake your head. Ones like these:

Can you light a fire in your chimney to chase a squirrel out?

Technically, yes, but it's a really bad idea. Seriously.

Kermit crack
I don't even want to know if that is some new kind of illicit drug or a frog in plumber pants.

Tampax crafts
Eeew, stick with the foam shapes and glitter glue. Please.

i want to send a sorry mail to my manager that i have done wrong stuffs in the party
Getting drunk at an office party is nearly always a career-limiting move. Except maybe in Japan.

Alison Detroit nude
While I have been in Detroit on more than one occasion, and I have been nude from time to time, I can honestly say I've never been nude in Detroit. Not even that one time...

Male cow penises
Um, what other kind of cow penises are there?

screaming adult snake valium
Sorry, I only have the screaming children's snake valium on hand. Wish I could help you though.

What's the weirdest search that ever brought someone to your blog?

Colin Firth is not always brooding

I've been having a Facebook conversation with Jen. You know, Jen, who's having a significant birthday tomorrow? Well, I know that a milestone should be properly celebrated, and so I gave her Colin Firth to have as Husband #2:


And out of the goodness of my heart, too, NOT just to keep her away from my fiancé:

(And I would like to note that she was very gracious in her gratitude.) Now, what was I saying? Yes, Facebook. Well, Jen was saying that Colin seems to be brooding a lot. I've set out to prove her wrong. Humour me and check out the following evidence:

Not brooding at all. Quite content, actually, like he's just finished a lovely meal, and the waitress that just served that lovely meal had a low-cut top and a nice rack.

Definitely not brooding. Definitely happy, verging on giddy. (The extra head growing out of his shoulder is a bit disturbing though.)

Sort of brooding, but if you squint a bit you can convince yourself he's merely undressing you with his eyes.

Not brooding. But exceedingly damp. And prone to leave stains.

Not brooding, merely concentrating on holding a sword to someone's neck while simultaneously looking down her blouse.

Not brooding. Pensive. That's it, pensive. Or thoughtful, abstracted, and preoccupied. (A thesaurus -- best investment I ever made.)

Not brooding. His eyes are closed because he is overcome with love. Or he has a migraine. Or Bridget has just accidentally hit him in the sensitive bits with her purse. But he's not brooding.

So not brooding.

Not brooding. Merely solemn and meditative, and a bit contemplative.

Positively gleeful.

OK. I'll agree this is a full-on brood. No matter. I'm sure that Jen could soon put a smile on his face.

Happy 40th anniversary of National Jen Day!

A whiter shade of pale

Have you ever been in Florida or Arizona in the winter months? And have you ever walked past a hotel, snug in your cardigan/jacket/windbreaker, and noticed very, very pale people cavorting in and around the outdoor pool in bathing suits saying things like, “I can’t believe how *warm* it is!”? Those people are Canadians.

I should know. I’m one of them. I remember December 2006, basking by the pool outside a Phoenix hotel while grounds staff wearing long pants and jackets wielded leaf blowers the other side of the ornamental fence. Christmas carols were playing, and my kids and I were jumping in and out of the emerald-green water of the outdoor pool.

Cut off from the sun and subject to subzero temperatures for long periods of time by our lengthy winters, Canadians (especially those like me, who are of British ancestry) on holiday in tropical climes will strip down to shorts or bathing suits as soon as the thermometer creeps above 18°C (66°F) and expose their blindingly white skin to both the elements and the locals with exuberant abandon. This is so prevalent (and we are so very, very pale) that the only way you can see Canadians lying on a nude beach, and avoid stepping on them, is to watch for them to blink. (Not that I'd know about the nude beach from experience, mind you, I'm just sayin'.)

This carries over into our behaviour at home. Long after our neighbours to the south are giving themselves sunburns while gardening, we are shovelling the last patches of snow off the lawn and onto the driveway to get it to melt faster (and believe me, the irony of that situation after a winter of doing it in the opposite direction is not lost on anyone). So when an unseasonably warm Saturday rolls around in mid-to-late April and the thermometer goes up to 27°C (84°F), tradition dictates that we purchase beer, fire up the barbecue, uncover pasty white arms and legs, and let the children welcome the warm weather with the annual rite of spring: the slip 'n' slide.



The sharp-eyed among you will notice that while there is no snow left on the lawn, there are no leaves on the tree yet either.

The Universe still has a sense of humour

This is the last song I heard on my MP3 player in the Radiology waiting room before my name was called to go in for my mammogram.




Bwahahahaha. Pretty apt, no?

For XUP and Loth

Even lower primates, such as Ring-tailed Lemurs, know that toast should be buttered and eaten while hot.

(Click to enlarge. Do it. They're really cute.)

And so, to recap:

Acceptable toast-buttering:



Unacceptable toast-buttering.



Any further questions?

(Photo credits: adorable lemurs courtesy of a friend of a friend, thank you C&J; scrumptious hot-buttered toast (both multigrain and white), dripping with buttery goodness courtesy of my toaster oven and camera; cold, brittle, mutilated toast courtesy of an ad in the last LCBO Food and Drink mag, photographed by me.)

Carp to Belle River, a journey in random mode

Unlike the trip back from visiting family for Easter, the trip down was actually a pretty good one. The car was well provisioned with snack foods and juice boxes for the kids, and diet Cokes for me. The gas tank was full, and the MP3 player was charged.

I don't have an iPod, I have an RCA Lyra which has a very temperamental operating system that makes random mode about the only good way to listen to it. I loaded it up with songs that I like, and ones the girls like, and hooked it into the FM modulator so we could listen to it over the car radio. On the dot of 7 a.m. (well, more like 7:15, but still scarily on schedule) we hit the road. I pressed play.

7:17 a.m. Pulling onto Craig Side Road. Playing: I Wanna be Sedated by the Ramones.

• OK. Not the most auspicious beginning-the-journey song. And I probably won't want sedation until at least Woodstock. Maybe London.

9ish. Hwy 7, somewhere near Tweed. Playing: She's got the Jack by AC/DC.

• Alison [internal monologue]: Funny. A song about cards. I *think* it's about cards. [singing along with song]: "She gave me the Queen, She gave me the King, She was wheelin' and dealin', Just doin' her thing, She was holdin' a pair, But I had to try, Her Deuce was wild, But my Ace was high." [back inside head]: Yep, cards. Stop. Wait a minute -- I'm thinking maybe "the Jack" is a euphemism! "And if I'd known what she was dealin' out, I'd have dealt it back" Ooooh. Oh. Well, I'll be damned. It's a song about STDs. Probably should be "She's got the clap." Heh. Not cards.


• Leah: What's this song about, Mum?


• Alison: Cards.

9:20 a.m. Somewhere along Hwy 37.

• Pull over to use the very user-UNfriendly playlist 'feature' to find some Taylor Swift for the girls. Love Story for Leah, and Our Song for Rachel. This takes about 15 minutes, but forestalls all the pouting that I could see coming when I looked in the rear-view mirror.

10:07 a.m. Turning off Hwy 37 onto the 401 at Belleville. Playing: Kiss by Tom Jones (his cover of the Prince song).

• Yeah, I know. Mega cheese. But this song is like Roquefort -- horribly stinky, but very enjoyable in small quantities.

11:25 a.m. Hwy 401, going through Oshawa. Playing: Three Pistols by the Tragically Hip.

• I'm freshly caffeinated, back on the highway after a drive-through, riding the coffee buzz with a Timmie's large (double double, of course) in my hand, Lake Ontario looking so blue to my left, rocking out to this song, and it suddenly hits me that I couldn't feel more Canadian if the girls were wearing hockey jerseys and eating poutine in the back seat, while Margaret Atwood rode shotgun with a beaver on her lap drinking a Keith's.

12:33 p.m. Hwy 401, cruising through Toronto. Playing: What is Love by Haddaway.

• This song comes on and I start to laugh, remembering downloading it one night after a couple of glasses of wine. I tell the girls that they have to shake their heads to the side in their seats like in A Night at the Roxbury (which started from this Saturday Night Live skit). They've never seen the movie, but I demonstrate, and they get right into it, and the three of us are shaking our heads in perfect unison, when I look to my left and see the driver of an 18-wheeler watching us and cracking up. I wave.

1:21 p.m. Hwy 401, just past Cambridge. Playing: Learning to Fly by the Foo Fighters

• I look at the speedometer. Oops. 130 km/h! Good thing I haven't seen any OPP since Port Hope, I was flying.

2:30 p.m. Hwy 401 near Chatham. Playing: Detroit '67 by Sam Roberts.

• Wasn't 1967 the year of the Detroit riots? Ironic, seeing as there's a riot breaking out in the back seat. Someone did something horrible, like breathe the other one's air, or take up a nanometre of the other one's side of the seat.

3:30 p.m. Belle River, Ontario, my sister's driveway

• I'll take that sedation now. Make mine a glass of red.

What a long strange trip it's been

I'm just dashing this off quickly before I head for bed. I have a longer, much better post describing my trip from Ottawa down to Windsor percolating, and maybe I'll get to write it tomorrow. Instead, you get a few random thoughts about my trip home today. All 13 hours of it.

Things I learned today:

• I need Mapquest. Seriously. It sounded easy: pop off the 401 at Burlington and meet Josie for lunch. In reality? Overshoot Burlington while looking for the QEW instead of 403. Finally exit on Eglinton Ave. and have to backtrack, appearing an hour late for lunch.
• Those small paper bags from Tim's that a single donut comes in don't hold much vomit. Also, they are only waterproof for a short period of time.
• My sister shells out for the good Ziploc sandwich bags, not the cheap ones.
• Good sandwich bags can hold a fair bit of vomit in a pinch, and don't leak.
• Leah gets carsick.
• Alternatively, Leah has the stomach flu. The jury is still out at this moment.
• I have amazing friends. Josie waited an hour for me to show up, fielding my increasingly frustrated phone calls with good humour. She let Rae eat most of her lunch when Rae's pizza was not to Rae's liking, and entertained Rae while Leah and I made several trips to the ladies' room. And she let us borrow the couch at her office for Leah to rest a while before I put the poor girl back in the car.
• My life is totally ruled by Murphy's Law.

Catch you tomorrow. I'm off to bed.

Move over, Fellini

Last Sunday it rained. It was dreary and cold, and Rae was playing over at Kate's, so Leah was bored. Crafts soon palled, as did the TV, and for once Lemony Snicket failed to enchant. What to do with a bored nine-year-old? Why, introduce her to movie-making, that's what.

Inspired by XUP, and her sarcastically funny films An Evening at the XUPs and XUPs Go Shopping, I fired up the computer, went to Xtranormal, played around with it for a few minutes with Leah, figuring out how to work things, and then left her to it. She wrote, produced, and directed two short films.

The results speak for themselves.

Set in jarring juxtaposition against the disparate backdrops of a sterile suburban tract house and an idealized Japanese landscape of blooming cherry trees, these intertwined examples of her ouvre show clearly the existential angst of living in constant conflict with a younger sister.

In the first film, Me and Rae, the fact that Leah appears smaller than her younger sister demonstrates clearly the Jungian underpinnings of the eternal sibling rivalry. In the second film, Me and Rae II, the roundness and fuzzy amiability of the Leah and Rachel teddy bears and the beauty of the fairytale setting contrast with the harsh way the two characters treat each other. Both films, however, do show the sisters reconciling, perhaps indicating that peace is still attainable in a hostile and uncaring world.

ME AND RAE



ME AND RAE II



Truly a cinematic tour de force. Of course, being her mother, I could just be biased.

Changes

Sometimes, watching my girls, I'm astounded at how grown-up they are. They look exactly the same for what seems like months on end, and then one morning when they drag their sleepy selves to the breakfast table, they've changed. Subtly, but unmistakeably. One or the other looks older somehow, more mature. Losing the roundness of the little girl faces, the excitement of the little girl voices, and gaining the height, the stretch, the angularity of older girls, the ennui and disdain for things, like Dora, that once they adored.

I get glimpses, flashes, of the teenagers and women they'll become -- Rachel sitting on the couch with her legs crossed, twirling her hair while she finalizes details for a playdate with her friend Kate over the phone, saying "Yes, that works" to Kate's suggestions. Leah and her friends Alice and Ellie breaking character in their make-believe game to gossip about a classmate in trouble for flipping off a teacher. I have no trouble imagining these three in the future sitting around a pub table with beer or wine in front of them, bending their heads together and laughing in the same way that they're now doing over strawberry-kiwi Fruitopia and chips.

But some things don't entirely change. Some things still echo the past and bring to mind the little girls they once were, though those things are fleeting and don't happen often.

Leah was watching TV the other day in a pose I remember from the past. I snapped a picture:


And then I went to the photo albums. The year that Rachel was born, Leah was two, nearly three, by the time Rae arrived. She liked to watch TV on the floor. I opened the album and took out the remembered photo, and snapped a picture of it:


It's nice to know that some things haven't changed.

Little Miss Muffet redux, now with extra snot

Man, I'm just hittin' them out of the park with my titles lately, aren't I?

Well, here's the scoop. I apparently spit in the Universe's eye last week when I was bragging about making it all the way through the fall and winter without a single cold. Sure, we danced a bit with a gastro flu once or twice in the household, but no pain-in-the-ass, drippy, sneezy, coughy colds. The Universe has a wicked sense of humour, though. It bided Its time and let me make it just past the vernal equinox and into spring before unleashing the mother of all head colds on my unsuspecting body. I'm thinking of redoing the occupation portion of my business cards to read "mucus factory". The one bright spot (and I really hope I'm not jinxing us yet again) is that the girls are showing no signs of this plague.

So, since my head is full of what feels like bricks and, well, snot, I'm incapable of coherent writing and will once again reach into the archives for a previously viewed post. And seeing how well snakes went down, this one's about spiders. I'm *not* a fan.

Gardening for the arachnophobic

My back yard earlier today:

Shhhhhp. [sound of weeds being pulled]
Shhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhp.[pause][sudden intake of breath][realization that crawly sensation on arm is just breeze ruffling arm hair][relieved sigh]
Shhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhp.[pause][a more-panicky intake of breath and slight scream][realization that what was thought to be a spider was only part of a dead leaf][slight embarassed laugh and relieved sigh]
Shhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhp.
Shhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhp.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGHHH!!!!! Fuck! It's on my arm!! Get it off! Get it off! Get it off! Get it off! Get it off! Get it off! Get it off! Get it off! Oh my God where did it go? Where did it GO? It's up my SLEEVE! AAAAAAUUUUUGGGGH! CRAP! [wild flailing of arms and shoulder shrugging, like a test subject in a nerve gas experiment] THERE IS A SPIDER UP MY SLEEVE! [attempts are made to take long-sleeved teeshirt off right there in the yard] Shit! Shit. Shit.

[small black thing falls out of sleeve]

Oh..... It's just a cricket. Well hello, Mr. Cricket. You gave me quite a scare. Run along now like a good six-legged bug.

Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhp.
Shhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhp.
Shhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
[delayed case of the willies, because it *could* have been a spider up the sleeve]
Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhp.
Shhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
Screw it. I'm going in for a beer.

For Meanie, or Anatomy of a fashion icon

When five-year-olds dress themselves for playing outside in September.

No velvet was available at the time.

Facebook thinks I'm fat and lonely

Facebook thinks I should take a good long look at myself in the mirror.

I am apparently not achieving my full potential. It's obvious from the steady stream of gently nudging ads that appears on my profile page. I have no doubt that Facebook has only my best interests at heart, and truly wants me to be a better person. A thinner, less wrinkly, and happily shacked-up in-a-relationship-with-my-soulmate person. (A short digression, Facebook: glass houses and stones. Your new layout really sucks leaves a lot to be desired. Epic fail. Seriously. You need to change the format back. Do it for yourself, if not for your members.)

But let me count my shortfalls according to this Dr. Phil wannabe social networking phenomenon, as manifested through the ads:

1. Compatible Single Men! - lonely
2. The Dr. Bernstein diet - fat
3. Are you 45? Win a Wii Fit! - old and out of shape, possibly fat
4. Ottawa Singles Events - lonely
5. Meet men over 40! - lonely, and only attractive to fellow oldies
6. Fine wines at the LCBO - Well, OK, Facebook, you got me there.
7. It's better than Botox! - wrinkly
8. Lose weight with Acai berries, Hollywood's secret! - fat, and easily swayed by celebrity
9. Date a millionaire! Meet single, verified Canadian millionaire men who want to date classy women! - lonely and shallow/gold-digging. And easily flattered due to my desire to believe in my own innate 'classiness'.
10. Amazing anti-aging cream: Why does Celine Dion look so much younger than she is? - (I don't know, maybe she sang at the devil until he couldn't take it anymore and gave her a portrait for her attic?) - old, with a side of wrinkly

Yeah. Then why am I in such a good mood seeing as I'm obviously totally pathetic?

Status: Alison is logging off Facebook and getting a glass of wine.

Cadoo

A package arrived for the girls a couple of weeks ago. Presents from Aunt Lise. The best thing nestling inside the box (except maybe the Mamma Mia! DVD for me) was a copy of Cadoo. Cadoo is a game from Cranium, which makes some of the best, most imaginative board games for kids around. And this one is no exception. There are cards that can only be read with secret decoder glasses, and when one person reads the clue, she must either act out the answer, sketch the answer, or model the answer out of bright purple modelling clay for the other players to guess. There are also codes to be broken. It's loads of fun, and the great thing about it is that although it's fun for all of us to play together, the girls can play it by themselves, without me having to help out.

I came up from the basement the other day, with some chicken from the freezer to thaw out for dinner, to find the girls had pulled the game out and were playing in the living room. Rachel had just finished miming 'eating breakfast' -- spooning up invisible cereal, when Leah sculpted her object and placed it triumphantly on the coffee table:

Y'all know what this is, don't you?


That's right. It's a tap.

Spring

It's above freezing today, it's nearly 11 degrees. The sun is shining, there's birdsong in the air -- the metallic-sounding calls of the first robins, the chirring of the red-winged blackbirds, the harsh croaking of the bluejays, and the autumnal honking of the geese heading back north -- and my front walkway is a small lake from the melting snow. I have all the windows open to air out the house, and I'm already thinking about all the yard work that will need to be done when the last of the snow is gone.

And I'm not the only one in the house who's noticed that spring is coming.

Snake-o-rama

Just in case the title of this post has left you in any doubt -- I would like to take this opportunity to inform you that this is a post about SNAKES. There will be pictures of SNAKES in it. Real ones. If pictures of SNAKES make you feel icky and/or freaked out, then it's time to click on over to a small fluffy animal blog or something.

You have been warned.

OK, so you might have noticed that there are no snakes in the above picture. Don't bother looking either, it isn't a "Where's Waldo the Snake" picture. (Unless the snake guy didn't take them all with him when he left, and I'm pretty sure that he did. But, if Max turns up missing any time soon, then maybe I should check under the couch. But I digress...) That's the adorable birthday girl, above. The one who loves snakes, and reptiles, and yes, amphibians. She is a fan of all things scaly and slithery and tadpole-y. So, when we were at the Carp Fair last year, and Leah saw that there was a Little Ray's Reptile Zoo tent there, she was mesmerized by the snakes. She found out that they did birthday parties, and it was game over. We were having a Snake Party!

Children were invited:

And a few adults were too:


(You didn't think I'd let this opportunity to quote from Snakes on a Plane go by without taking advantage of it, didja?)

Pizza was ordered, the room was decorated, and the cat was locked in my ensuite bathroom to avoid inadvertently becoming snake chow.

I can't say enough about Kevin and the show he put on with the snakes. He was so good with the kids, he remembered all their names, was so patient with all their questions, and really, really knew his stuff. It wasn't just letting the kids pet the snakes, no, he started with North American snakes, and then South American, African etc. He explained what kind of snake each was, where it comes from, what it eats, how big it gets, etc., etc. He also brought a monitor lizard and a cayman. The kids were spellbound. It was fun and educational and way cool. Here are a few of the 50 or so pictures I took:

A teeny tiny Rubber Boa, native to BC. Who knew we had boas in Canada?


It looks like a Rattlesnake, but it isn't, it's a harmless Bullsnake.


The monitor lizard had very sharp claws.


The Yellow Anaconda was my favourite snake, it's just beautiful. And heavy.


The cayman was pretty laid-back. I'm thinking crocodillian valium. He did have his snout taped shut (avoiding his nostrils) just to ensure that there were no nasty missing-finger issues.


Then violently and without warning, the house was tipped on its side and screaming children slid down the suddenly inclined walls to fall in a giant heap while Kevin valiantly used a hook to keep the Reticulated Python pinned to the once-floor and now-wall so that it wouldn't be flung down on the unsuspecting kiddies!!! (No, not really. For some reason I can't get this photo to come out in the correct orientation. I've rotated and saved it about 50 times on my hard drive to no avail, but my explanation is way better, I think. Just tilt your head.)

That snake (Reticulated Python) was voted Most Likely to Eat Someone, as it was not a happy camper and lunged at Kevin. No petting was allowed, and it was sent to its box without any supper.

And then came the big boy. Or big girl, actually. I think her name was Pebbles. Yes, I had a 12-foot Boa Constrictor in my living room. How incredibly cool was that?

Check out the size of her! She's huge. And gentle. She seemed to like all the petting.

After we said goodbye to Kevin and the reptiles, and everyone washed their hands, it was pizza and cake time.

I don't think any of the kids is going to forget the party anytime soon. Samuel L. Jackson would have been proud.

In which I break a promise

It's 11:17 p.m. This time shift to daylight savings is kicking my ass, because the kids aren't tired at bedtime because their bodies think it's earlier. And I can't get the photos to load from the server at work, where they're stored.

So, to avoid making this the sum total of the snake pictures from Leah's party:

I am going to have to wait until tomorrow to blog about Leah's Snake (and other assorted reptiles) Party.

Snake-o-phobes be warned, there will be snake photos in tomorrow's blog.