The Dave Brown Traffic Report Drinking Game

My apologies to the  legions of  many six readers of this blog who live outside Ottawa, but this post will only make sense to people living in or around the nation's capital....if they listen to CBC Radio One on their way to work.

Drinking games are a long and honoured tradition.  From back at university when we'd watch Cheers and swig beer whenever anyone in the bar yelled "Norm!" to Facebook memes like this one:

I think we need a new one.

I have a radio crush on Dave Brown, who does the traffic reports for CBC Radio One in the mornings. Dave has fun with the traffic report.  I can't wait to hear the new ways he'll describe how traffic is moving. Or not, as the case may be.

So here it is:

The Dave Brown Traffic Report Drinking Game

Fill up your travel mug with a Timmie's double double, a Starbucks chai latte, a Bridgehead fair-trade Americano, or just the plain old coffee that comes out of your Procter-Silex, get in your car and get ready to play.  Turn your dial to 91.5 FM and make sure your mug is handy when the traffic report comes on.

Take a swig whenever he says:

- It's a tough sled on all the bridges.

- There's a collision on the go. (But really, Dave, we need to talk about this one -- it's an oxymoron.  When there's a collision, it's definitely on the stop.)

- And that's where the magic happens.

- 417 westbound is clogging up.

- Whenever he calls 'the Split' 'the Merge'.

- Eastbound 417 is packed to the gills.

- Keep your head on a swivel.

- Patience is a virtue. (while describing the bridges)

Take a large gulp whenever his prose gets extra-descriptive.  You know what I mean.  Examples of gulp-worthy lines:

- Highway 50 strikes a pose at Montée Paiement and vogues all the way down to la Vérendrye.

- The 417 westbound dashes from Boundary to Innes.

- Carling is all tangled up with pockets of congestion.

- The 174 is only a slight headache this morning, you'll only need one Advil or Tylenol.

- The 416 northbound is a tableau.  Not much go, but lots of stop.

- The 417 eastbound Usain Bolts out of Kanata.

- The 174 is in need of some flaxseed oil: it's backed up from Blair to the Split.

- Volume builds up through Kanata, reaches an apex at Bayshore, then deconstructs by Woodroffe.

- The 417 westbound is as thick as a bowl of chili coming up to Scotiabank Place.

- The Queensway stuffs up at Place d'Orleans, but you'll get relief by Innes.

- The 174 is in leather pants mode: tight as it approaches the Split.

You might need a bigger travel mug than usual.  I'm usually out of coffee before I get to Carling and Maitland. :)

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

If this catches on, we might need a return-commute All in a Day drinking game.  Beverage of your choice.

Sip every time:

- Alan Neal says he's posting something to Twitter.

- Laurence Wall says 'People's Republic of Nepean'.

- Kate Macnamara says 'at the minute'.

You get the idea. :)

"Wolf nipple chips. Get 'em while they're hot. They're lovely."

On Sunday I had an experience that reminded me very much of a bit in Monty Python's Life of Brian. 

I wonder if you remember the scene where Brian is a food vendor at a gladiator match, selling exotic finger foods to the spectators, including Reg, Judith, and Francis of the People's Front of Judea:

BRIAN (calling out his wares): Larks' tongues. Wrens' livers. Chaffinch brains. Jaguars' earlobes. Wolf nipple chips. Get 'em while they're hot. They're lovely. Dromedary pretzels, only half a denar. Tuscany-fried bats.

BRIAN: Larks' tongues. Otters' noses. Ocelot spleens.

REG: Got any nuts?

BRIAN: I haven't got any nuts. Sorry. I've got wrens' livers, badgers' spleens...

REG: No, no, no.

BRIAN: Otters' noses?

REG: I don't want any of that Roman rubbish.

JUDITH: Why don't you sell proper food?

BRIAN: Proper food?

REG: Yeah, not those rich imperialist tit-bits.

BRIAN: Well, don't blame me. I didn't ask to sell this stuff.

REG: All right. Bag of otters' noses, then.

FRANCIS: Make it two.

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

Well, I didn't nosh on otters' noses, but I did get to sample some really delicious and, in some cases, very creative and/or exotic cuisine.  I won tickets to the Ottawa Humane Society's Summer Harvest Garden Party fundraiser. Lots of the top chefs from Ottawa restaurants, as well as the chef from the Prime Minister's residence, and chefs from the Algonquin College Culinary Arts program were there, cooking for the guests.  The event raised more than $35,000 dollars for the shelter!

My friend Debby and I dressed up in our best garden-party outfits, dispersed our children to various other events, and set off into Ottawa.  Of course nothing goes off without a hitch, and when I got to her house to pick her up, I managed to fall down her front steps onto the patio stone pathway, grazing my knee and hurting my wrist.  Fortunately there were no grass or blood stains on my dress.  Two extra-strength Advil gelcaps later, and we were on our way, with Deb driving, since my wrist hurt.  We decided that if an ER visit for wrist X-rays was necessary, we would do it after stuffing our faces at the party.

I felt a bit like a Jim Carrey character as we drove up behind a Lexus and a BMW to the valet parking area in my tan 1999 Mercury Mystique with the big dent in the passenger-side quarter panel, but soon we were accepting a glass of Prosecco and gliding (Debby) and limping (me) gracefully into the shelter where the Garden Party was being held.  The shelter is only a year old and is a beautiful facility!  It's clean, bright, and spacious, with plenty of room for each dog and cat, and no cages in sight.  The hallways were filled with tables of goodies from each chef or restaurant, and we were soon sampling all the deliciousness on display.

The gorgeous Deborah.

I snapped these pictures surreptitiously with my Blackberry, which doesn't have a flash, so they aren't the greatest. These sesame-crusted chicken sausage bites with Asian slaw and beets were from the Algonquin College Culinary Program:
 

and these phyllo port-soaked strawberry cup thingies too:

And then it was on to oysters!  From Whalesbone Oyster House.  Raspberry Point oysters (from Prince Edward Island) with a squeeze of lemon.  Mmmmmmm:

We filled our plates with appetizers. (I ate the shrimp out of the shrimp étouffée before it occurred to me to take a picture of my plate.)

And that's when things got all Monty-Python-otters'-noses-y:

Yes. Smoked duck tongues with spicy mayo.  They were in a tempura batter and deep fried and were quite tasty.  Though I did prefer the Kentucky-fried quail legs.  (I can't believe I just typed 'Kentucky-fried quail legs', or ate them for that matter.)  They were really, really good.  Not Tuscany-fried bat, but still, pretty close. :)  The food in the picture above was from Atelier, except for the gazpacho.

I didn't take many pictures of the main courses -- it was hard to juggle the plate, the utensils, the wineglass and my Blackberry, but these were good:

And so was this (from Urban Pear):

But my absolute favourite dish was this -- deconstructed sushi from K.W.Catering:

I was one happy camper.  And kind of red-faced since it was really hot.  I imagine the air-conditioning doesn't usually have to deal with a few hundred extra people, some of whom were cooking.

Laureen Harper, the wife of the Prime Minister, (below, in the blue-and-white dress) is a long-time patron and supporter of the shelter.  She was there chatting to all the chefs and shelter people. Not in the picture is her RCMP protection officer, who was very good-looking -- really tall, nice hair, ice-blue eyes and cheekbones you could cut paper with. He caught me staring at him a couple of times, but his attention was purely work-related. I was tempted at one point to throw myself at him yelling "Frisk me, I've got a knife", but I thought better of it.

We managed to leave without taking home any animals.  Though it was touch-and-go for Debby and a year-old German Shepard called Sasha.

So, thanks to 93.9  Bobfm, who ran the caption contest that I won the tickets on:



Just put the spray bottle down, and no one gets hurt.

It was a lovely afternoon.  And we didn't have to go to the ER after all.

According to Rachel: Ladies of the Evening edition

Friday night in Carp. Early summer. Ten p.m. or so.

I am lolling on my bed, glass of red in hand, enjoying the breeze blowing through the window, and watching the beginning of a C.S.I. episode on DVD. Leah is at my desk, which is right beside my bed, playing spider solitaire on the computer. Rae wanders in unexpectedly from her bedroom, where I'd assumed she was asleep, since I'd tucked her in earlier. As it's Friday night, there is no set bedtime.

Onscreen, two hookers are strutting around and leaning over into cars.  Rachel catches sight of the TV screen. It's too late to turn it off.

Rae: What are those girls doing?
Me (mentally girding my loins for one of *those* conversations): Well... [pause to collect thoughts] Those girls are prostitutes.
Rae: What are prostitutes?
Me (remembering my vow not to lie to my kids but to explain things in simple terms and not go into too much detail): A prostitute is a woman who makes a living by having sex with men.
Rae (nonchalantly): Oh. You mean a hooker.
Me (mildly shocked and quite amused): Where did you learn that word?
Rae: From Leah.
We both turn and look at Leah, who has a bit of a deer-in-the-headlights expression on her face.
Me: Leah, where did you learn about hookers?
Leah: From Ellie and Grace.
[The daughters of a friend of mine whom I *know* will find this very funny when I tell her about it.]
Me: *Loud guffaws.* And how did that conversation happen?
Leah: We were listening to a Lady Gaga song, and I was all, "what is this song about?" and Grace explained it to me.
Me: Oh. OK.
Rae: Is there any ice cream?

Question answered.  Crisis averted.  Ice cream consumed.

Friday the 13th, or 'Yes, we all stole the idea from Marley and Me'

Friday the 13 is sometimes viewed with a bit of trepidation by people.  It's bad luck, you know.  (Whenever someone asks me "are you superstitious?" I always answer, "no, I'm just normally stitious'. Hee.) But on Friday, July 13, 2012, we threw caution to the winds and drove from Belle River, Ontario, where we had been visiting family, to just outside Ithaca, New York to meet some people we had only met before online.  It fit in perfectly with our travel plans, as it just meant driving home to Ottawa south of Lake Ontario instead of north of Lake Ontario, just a couple of extra driving hours. Or so we thought.

But it was a chance to meet Mrs. G.

I have been reading her blog for years.  A funnier, more genuine person would be hard to find.  The online community she has founded with her blog Derfwad Manor, women from across the U.S., Canada, and as far away as Japan and the U.K. (plus Gary), is an amazing creation that I've been happy to be a part of.  So, when Mrs. G (Heather) planned a cross-country trip, (I am a Derfwad 2012) and the Ithaca stop (at Gary's place!!  Meeting two favourite bloggers with one stop!) worked out well with my schedule, we jumped at the chance.

Everything went well until we hit the border. OK, that's not quite the truth. We did get off the QEW in Hamilton for a pee stop and then my Infallible Sense of Direction™ somehow failed and we wandered around Hamilton for probably an hour (counting a quick LCBO stop for a couple of bottles of Riesling :) ). Luckily, the girls on the cash were able to give us directions.  So we dashed for the border.

And met this:

We waited for an hour and a quarter on the bridge for our turn to be interrogated asked a few questions by the Customs officials.  It was rather surreal.  Here is my best recollection of the conversation, with my thoughts in blue:

Customs Officer wearing intimidating mirrored shades: Citizenship?
Me [handing him our documents]: Canadian
CO: What is the purpose of your visit?
(Keep it simple, Alison -- say "visiting friends." It sounds less weird than "Going to meet people in real life that I've only met before online but I'm pretty sure they are not, in fact, serial killers.")
Me: Visiting friends.
CO [throwing me with a question I wasn't expecting]: How do you know these people?
(Damn, now I'm going to have to go into the whole online thing.  Keep it simple.  Don't act exasperated.)
Me: I met them online.
(Good.  Nice and short.)
CO: How?
Me: Pardon me?
CO: How did you meet them online?
(Oh great, now he thinks I'm heading to a penitentiary for a conjugal visit with a guy I met on some kind of prison 'Plenty of Fish' site. While dragging the kids along, no less. But the Derfwad Tour is kinda complicated to explain. Keep it simple.)
Me: Well, I write a blog.
CO [looking blankly at me]: A blog.
(I'm not sure he knows what a blog is.  And he's only in his late 20s at the oldest.  Maybe blogs are too old school, and he only knows Twitter. Or maybe he's not into computers at all. Crap.)
Me: Yes. A blog. I write a blog, and they write blogs.  And we commented on each others' blogs and got to know each other and became friends.
(That does kinda sound iffy when it's put like that, even if it totally *isn't* weird or strange and lots of people meet like that.)
CO: What's it about?
Me: It's a humour blog.  It's about my family -- funny stories of things that happen to us.
CO [to Rachel through the car window]: I suppose you guys are the entertainment.
Me: Yes, yes they are.
CO: Is it kinda like Marley and Me?  Did you steal the idea from the guy from Marley and Me?  To write a blog?
(WTF?  What the hell is he talking about?  I saw the movie -- the guy Owen What'shisname played was a newspaper columnist.  A columnist, not a blogger. This customs guy does *not* know what he's talking about.  What? Is Marley and Me supposed to be the God of Blogs? Stop it. Must. Keep. Snark. In. Check. And. Get. Across. Border. Do not say anything sarcastic.  Just don't.  Nod and smile, Alison, just nod and smile.)
Me [nodding like a Daniel Alfredsson bobblehead]: Yes.  It's *just like* Marley and Me.  Exactly like that.
CO [satisfied that he understands]: Ok.  Do you have anything to declare?
(What? Like you're an idi....Stop.  Just tell him about the wine.)
Me: I have two bottles of wine in the trunk.  They're gifts.
CO [handing back the passports]: Ok, have a nice day.

So we peeled out of there drove sedately into upstate New York and set our sights on Etna.  And 11 hours after we left my sister's, we pulled up in front of Gary's house.  Just in time to hug Heather and take this picture:

Unfortunately the border holdup caused us to arrive just as Becky was leaving. :(  I loved meeting Jane and Mark and their Emma, and Christine and her Emma, and Patricia (who was Emma-less but brought GREAT beer).  I am sure that Becky and Patricia and Christine have blogs I could link to, but I can't seem to find them, and if I want this post up before Labour Day, I better get moving, so I'm apologizing for not doing more homework.

The girls and I got a tour of Gary's pottery studio (and a sweet bowl and mug) and then we settled down to talk and talk and talk and drink beer and eat guacamole and potato salad and amazing triple chocolate cookies.  We talked about cats, Toronto radio stations, Mrs. G.'s trip, dogs, driving, baseball fans, and everything else under the sun.  People had to leave, and soon it was just Gary, the Missus, Heather, me and the girls.  My little chatterboxes soon took over the conversation and told their stories.  I might have a couple of future bloggers on my hands.  All too soon it was time to go.  Gary and the Missus were such gracious hosts. I was afraid that my girls would have to be frisked to make sure that they weren't hiding Penny (the beagle) and Spike (the mega-cat) under their tee shirts when we left. 

It was a very special gathering of funny, charming people.  Meeting Heather in person was like running into a cherished old friend that I hadn't seen in years. I loved every minute of it and wish it could have been longer. I snapped a picture of our hosts and Heather (with Kitty Gigantica) just before leaving.

I realized that I had forgotten to get a picture of Heather and me together. But thanks to my mad Microsoft Paint skillz, I'll always have this:

And the wonderful memories.

We drove off through the falling dusk to a motel in the town of Cortland, tired and happy, and settled in.  As usual, the girls were hungry.

Pulling out of the Cortland KFC after a late-night popcorn chicken run for Rachel, I made an illegal left turn from the driveway out onto the deserted main street....and immediately drove past a cop car hiding in the shadows. He pulled out and followed me. Gulp. But I turned into the motel parking lot and he continued on.

Friday the 13th.

Hardly any bad luck at all.

Thank Marley.

Ah, Internet, you never let me down

I totally called it.  Yes, I did.  Last month, in this post, when I said:

In later years I wondered why he didn't just freeze the goat semen and ship it Fedex to Cali, but he didn't, and now I have this great anecdote, and, as an added bonus, will probably see "frozen goat semen" show up as a search string for hits on my blog, which will totally reaffirm my belief in the weirdness of the Internet.

Click to enlarge

I'm still working on the story of my Friday the 13th trip to Ithaca to meet up with Mrs. G. and Gary.  Stay tuned for my next post featuring me getting lost in Hamilton, trying not to be snarky to border guards, and escaping a zombie apocalypse!!!

(OK, so there was no zombie apocalypse.  I just want it to sound exciting.)

(But there were Timmy's coffee shops in New York (!), which, while not technically as exciting as a zombie apocalypse, was pretty exciting to me.)

(I lead a sheltered life.)

(I'm stopping now.)

(Honest.)

I am a marketing GENIUS!

So, garden gnomes are hot right now. You know, these guys that you place strategically around your yard and gardens:

Their popularity probably has a lot to do with this movie:

Or maybe with the Travelocity gnome:

Personally, I love garden gnomes. I've liked them since 1997, when I saw the movie The Full Monty.

I like them so much that I made this gnome.  With my rudimentary mad knitting skillz:

I also made this gnome.  With my mad gestational skillz: (I made the hat too.  With my mad.... hatational skillz):

And then it hit me: niche markets!  For gnomes!

There already are garden gnomes for zombie fans:  

And garden gnomes for hockey fans:  

I can totally see the next logical niche-market step.  Are you ready for this?  

It's CLASSIC!

Garden gnomes for Toronto Maple Leafs fans:

Because seriously, that team has been the walking (or maybe skating) dead for YEARS.    I tell ya, they'll just sell themselves. 

But that's not all.   How about personalized garden gnomes?

Garden gnomes for Jane Austen fans:

Or, garden gnomes for the 6 to 16-year-old female demographic:

Or, (my personal fave) garden gnomes for the discerning over-30 female demographic (these might be hard to keep in stock):

(You might want to enlarge this one.  Trust me.)

Oh, I haven't forgotten the 9 to 109-year-old male demographic.  For them there's the Scarlett Johansson garden gnomes: 

I just have to check if Madonna has trademarked the cone boobs.

And start looking for venture capital.  Lots and lots of venture capital. :)

Ruminations on futility

Futility - when you spend $15 in Canadian Tire for a fancy cat scratching contraption

and you set it up next to the chair that the cats like to scratch, in order to entice them into scratching something other than the chair (classic transference theory)

and the cats totally ignore it for three days and then start to use it -- to stand on to give them a better vantage point for shredding the chair.

It's hard being the less intelligent species in the house.

Even extroverts get nervous

I am not what you'd call shy.  And I can back that up with proof.  Anecdotal, but proof nonetheless.

One time, Evelyn (BFF) and I were en route to a conference in Colorado. We were at the Denver International Airport, waiting for a shuttle to take us the rest of the way to Boulder.  The airport was over-airconditioned and we went outside so that I could warm up and BFF could have a cigarette.  A little ways down the walkway, a well-dressed man was sitting on the sidewalk, his back against the wall of the airport, and next to him was the largest dog crate I had ever seen.  It was the kind with opaque plastic walls on all sides except for a wire mesh door.  Try as I might, I couldn't tell what kind of dog was inside there. All I could tell from the movement I could see through the thin slots in the plastic walls was that it was big.  Really big. My curiosity got the better of me, and I walked over and started a conversation with the man, and asked him what kind of dog was in the crate.

It turns out it wasn't a dog at all.  It was a goat.  A prize-winning stud goat.  (And just to clear things up, contrary to the story that BFF tells everyone about this incident, I did not start my conversation with the man in the suit by saying, "Nice goat, mister.")  But I did chat with him a while, much to BFF's consternation, I think she was worried that he might taser me and throw me into the crate with the goat and then load the crate into a white cargo van with no distinguishing characteristics because really, can you trust a man in a nice suit who sits on the sidewalk and, you know, TRAVELS WITH A GOAT?)  He was actually very interesting, and told me how the goat was being shipped to California to mate with another prize-winning lady goat.  We said goodbye a few minutes later to BFF's obvious relief when the shuttle bus arrived.

In later years I wondered why he didn't just freeze the goat semen and ship it Fedex to Cali, but he didn't, and now I have this great anecdote, and, as an added bonus, will probably see "frozen goat semen" show up as a search string for hits on my blog, which will totally reaffirm my belief in the weirdness of the Internet.  But I think this kind of illustrates that I am not shy.

Blog Out Loud Ottawa was a wonderful event, and I had so much fun.  It was held at the Arrow and Loon and as soon as I saw all the people gathered there to hear the talks, I started to get nervous.

But I had my posse with me (and I mean 'posse' in the old, Western sense, not 'posse' the hip, urban sense, because that would just be so not me.) Becca, Debby, and Kate came out to support me. Behind them you can see all the other people who weren't visible in the first picture.  All those people made me very nervous.

  Kate tried to distract me by taking our picture together with my camera.  I have never been successful at this, but at least I wasn't making a duck face.

Once the talks started, I was mesmerized by the stories.  Some were funny, some sad, some uplifting.  Some had us all laughing and some had us choked up.  The talent on offer that night was amazing.

My palms grew damp.  I was very, uncharacteristically, quiet.  Lynn, who organized the event, came over and asked if I would mind being bumped to later in the agenda.  I said not at all, happy for the short reprieve, and doubly happy not to follow this post, which was hilarious.

But eventually the time came, and this very, very nervous extrovert came up to the front.  I was actually amazed that the mic didn't pick up how hard my heart was pounding or the rattle of the paper in my hands.  I began speaking, and it was OK.  The nervousness seemed to float away.  I was actually enjoying myself.

And everyone laughed where they were supposed to.  And everyone clapped at the end, even though I forgot to say 'thank you' when I was finished.

It was scary, and liberating, and fun.

Thanks so much, Lynn, I hope to be able to do it again next year.

***EDITED to add, the post that I read out loud was Don't Go In The Basement***