Tiptoe Pheasant

I need one. Check the picture, and you'll know why...

Random Randomness...

So Lee left for Firebag this afternoon, after an insane fortnight of getting Raine moved downstairs, into her own room. Said room was basically a repository for random crap over the last 17 or so years, and in the attempts to clean it out, it basically vomited its contents into the rest of the house. Had to deal with all that, as well as making a hideous, unappealing cave become an acceptable dwelling place for a 12 yr old gal, with a definite sense of aesthetic. Well, colour me shocked, it worked, but at great cost, financial and otherwise. We do have an excellent sense of accomplishment, and Raine is happy. Then, we had to tweak Cleo's room to the best of our ability, and when there are 2 of us, it seems a little more manageable. Slogged on this evening, alone, and now I am exhausted, but both girlies are quite content, and the house is about 75 thousand pounds lighter of junk and crap. I'm enjoying my bubbly, missing the shit out of my husband, and contemplating the next chapter of life, which reeeeeaaally needs to be Christmas. Will the fun never cease?!

Mobile blogging, baby!!

Yet another reason to dig all over my iPhone.....blogging on da run! Stay tuned for some flying blogginess!

Posted from Blogium for iPhone

The answer to my prayers? Maybe?....

This might well be it, friends..... The Bashkir Curly horse. The unique gene that gives Curlies their curly hair (which is most obvious with their winter coat) can be expressed minimally (horse exhibits curly hair inside ears, at fetlocks, and a kinky mane and tail), maximally (horse exhibits curl all over body, has dreadlocked mane, and has curly eyelashes and guard hairs), and "Extreme" (very tight, extreme curls, but when they shed out for summer can shed entirely bald) or any variation in between. The coat in the summer shows a slight wave in it, but not as extreme as the winter curls. It is said that Curly horses were documented in Asian artwork as early as 161 AD. Darwin documented curly horses in South America in the early 19th century and the early Sioux natives regarded curly horses as sacred mounts for chiefs and shamans. Native American artwork shows Curlies carrying warriors in the Battle of Little Bighorn. Curlies are usually chestnut, but can range through the whole colour spectrum, even roan, cremello, buckskin and appaloosa. How amazing is this horse??!! They are reputed to be hypoallergic, in a similar way to poodles. A non allergic horse!! Can you believe it? My early (& current) riding dreams were thwarted by such violent allergies as to make it virtually impossible. I live the dream a little through my little equestrian star, Rainey, but the thought that I might have a horse of my own one day, to which I am not allergic..... wowzers! AND there is a curly breeder nearby in Saskatchewan. Maybe one day I will ride off into the sunset. And not just in my imagination, but for real, with curls blowing in the wind....

Well, sorry....

I am sorry. I really am. I am sorry that my life has had to be put on hold. Dishes are piling up in the kitchen. There are no groceries. I am losing the ability to make reasonable conversation. My eyes and fingers are the only things that are busy. Nothing else matters except PLAYING POCKET FROGS ON MY IPHONE. Got it? Ok, good.

Ashram-alama-ding-dong!

Some day, I am going to go to one of the Sivananda ashrams in India, for a good, long while. I have decided that this shall happen, despite the general sentiment that, with my "odd" health, I'd be pushing up the daisies within a fortnight in such a tropical, third world location. Ha! Ha, I say to my nay-sayers! I will go and I will not end up as worm food, at least not there.... I have a special affinity with the Sivananda tradition, not just because it is one of the most honoured and classical yoga traditions there is, but also because one of my beloved teachers studied long with Swami Vishnudevananda, who, in turn, was one of the main disciples of Swami Sivananda himself. It is as quintessentially yogic, and Indian an experience as one can find. I include a pic of some ashram action, just to tantalise myself, and show the universe what will be mine one day. If I can just turn a bit of a blind eye to some of the conditions of animals in India, I will be just fine. I will embrace a sacred cow, and I will befriend an elephant! Jaya Krishna! Om gum Ganapataye namaha!

Sunday night...

...and I'm ever so tired. My feet hurt, laundry to finish, a missing mouse, a dog to walk, miles to go before I sleep. ....I kind of don't enjoy Sunday nights. Back into the fray. Boy, what a pointless blog....Sometimes a gal really don't know when to shut her gob. Ok. I can take a hint.

Autumn means....time to blog again!

As sands through the hourglass, so are the blogs of my life....they come and they go. Summer seems so...unbloggy. You know, on a summer day or eve, all you want to do is haul your glass of bubbly onto the back patio, with a good book, glossy mag, delightful friend or an ever-interesting husband, plus a loyal four legged chum, and while the hours away. Blogging just doesn't seem the ticket. HOWEVER.....autumn is another matter. Life becomes all scheduled again, and there isn't much whiling away to be done, so to blog seems a good thing to do, in between all the marshalling of troops, etc.

I begin my fall blogging season with the included photographic offering above. This is Daphne Guinness, brewery heiress, and hardcore fashionista....I saw this pic, and it made me day. So there.

Fell off the face of the earth again, but....

....now I'm back. Summer just took me and ran the hell away with me. Anyhoo, I find myself here, writing, with a purpose. It is to insist, INSIST, that each and every reader of this humble little blog, hie off to a library or bookshop, and immediately aquire a copy of The Forgotten Garden, by Kate Morton. Preferrably a bookshop, because then this lovely, lovely book will be yours to keep!

I will reveal not very much, because part of the pleasure here is to gradually and inexplicably find yourself pulled into this magical, unusual and masterful story. Magic abounds here, in this tale of lost identities, fairies, gardens, windswept Cornish estates, Arthur Rackham style childrens' tales, and the following of the past. It whispers and sings and absolutely won't let you go. Haven't enjoyed a book this much in ages. Ms. Morton's earlier book, The House at Riverton, was very enjoyable, too, but she hits this baby out of the park.

I feel quite deflated now that it is over, and the only answer is to now turn to a novel featuring King Henry VIII's dead brother Arthur as a vampire in Victorian England. Clearly, this is an obvious choice.....

Walkity-Walk Down Memory Lane...

Just a quickie little blog here, before I relive my experiences at the yoga retreat in Naramata....Stay tuned for that, my chickens.

So, for the memory lane thing---I have, in the last short while, been reconnecting with two of my most favorite shows of the 80s. Thanks to Youtube, and the Calgary Public Library, "MacGyver" and "Hunter" have returned to my life!!! I was such a fan of both these shows back in the day, in some small part due to the fact that I had great, big crushes on both Richard Dean Anderson and Fred Dryer. That confession aside, they were GREAT shows. I have included pics for memory jogging purposes, one of Richard Dean, and one of Fred Dryer and Stefanie Kramer.

Who doesn't love MacGyver? Just ask Marge Simpson's sisters, Selma and Patty. They knew a good thing when they wuz onto it! If I could, at some time, have similarly staged a MacGyver kidnap, I would have done it. He was just such a cutie, and seemed like such a lovely guy, Richard Dean did. The character of MacGyver was super cool--I loved his pacifism, his innate kindness, ingenuity and wry sense of humour. It was pretty swell the way he invariably made stuff blow up, too and he sure was a dab hand with the Swiss army knife! A fun, intriguing show, and the additional characters were great, too. I always had a soft spot for Dana Elcar, who played Mac's friend and boss, Pete. The semi-mullet haircut can even be forgiven when sported by Richard Dean Anderson.

I ran into him once. Like, literally. I was at a Flames game, and Richard Dean, a well-known hockey fan (and Flames fan in partic), was at this same game. I rounded a corner, punching and elbowing my way through the throngs, whilst attempting to balance two beers, and I plough right into this tall guy in a brown leather jacket. I apologise profusely, attempting to brush beer off him, and glance up at his face. Well, holy cracker sandwich, if it wasn't RDA. Time kind of stopped, and I continued my now-stuttery and inane apologies. He gave me the sweetest, crinkliest smile, and said not to worry about it, and SQUEEZED MY UPPER ARM A LITTLE. One more delightful grin from him, eyes right on mine, and then I managed to tear myself away and into the crowd once more. Then I peed my pants. RDA continues to endear himself to me with his involvement with the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society, and being so outspoken in his support of the sea mammal preservation cause. Go, RDA!
So it's been fun seeing Mac again. Bless the library for having DVDs of this lovely show for me to check out and enjoy.

Hunter was my favorite cop show EVER! The characters were so, so fantastic, and the chemistry between the lovely Fred Dryer and his co-star, Stefanie Kramer, was always amazing. His Rick Hunter had this fantastic, louche, Dirty-Harry-ish thing going, and I loved Hunter and McCall's disrespect for authority. They shot things, and blew things up really well, too. Fred wasn't classically handsome, but man, he was attractive. He was so reliable for beating the snot out of creeps, and giving charming grins and one-liners. Stefanie Kramer is ridiculously pretty, even though she sports some really heinous 80s fashion, and her Sgt. McCall is a great sidekick for Dryer. She drives like a madwoman, too.

It must be said that Dee Dee McCall is a bit of a Calamity Jane; an interesting game when watching Hunter is to see how long it takes in each episode for poor McCall to get shot/slapped/punched/stabbed/molested/generally roughed up. She scarcely ever makes it through a whole show without some violent incident. Though she is no shrinking violet (she is especially good at delivering smokin' kicks to the heads of pimps when she is undercover as a hooker), little McCall constantly takes a licking and keeps on ticking; she's a tough 'un. It's good that she has Hunter, who (mostly) always shows up in the nick of time to help her out. Their relationship was the best part of the show. It's hard to even describe what their partnership was like--there was devotion, friendship, loyalty, irritation, sexual tension, humour and danger in equal parts. A hell of a recipe, I must say. Youtube has all kinds of episodes to watch, and I heart them for that.

It is very good fun to go back in time, with my boys, MacGyver and Rick Hunter, and relive the 80s a little. If anybody else feels like some unorthodox TV watching, go forth and find Hunter and MacGyver. Pleasure awaits! I guess my crushes are still there, a tiny bit.

Off and Away!

Well, tomorrow Queen Fee goes off to the annual SOYA yoga retreat and conference in Naramata, B.C. Lee and the girls (and Georgie) drive out with me, and then get up to all kinds of camping shenanigans, whilst I am being yogic at the Naramata conference centre. I both look forward and kind of worry about this event each year. We all know that I am not a particularly good traveller; I really love my comforts of home, and have all sorts of anxieties whilst being away, mostly concerned with how my animals at home are faring. I also do not do well in strange beds. But, on the other hand, professionally, this is always a fab weekend, and I get to hang with a bunch of other cool, yoga teachers and we do our thing, en masse.

The Naramata Centre serves us stellar vegetarian food, and plenty of it, and the scenery around the Centre is lovely. I worry a little about my Lee, my girlies and my pup when I am not there to keep my watchful and beady eye upon them, but I know that they are pretty much capable of not killing themselves in the 2 days I am elsewhere. The drive home is bruuutal. But, there is not much way around it. In with all the driving, we have the usual road trip fun: a few nice walks, hitting the used bookshops and thrift shops, eating a roadside meal or two, grooving to our ipods and having fun chats and games.

So there you have it. QF is off and away. See y'all next week!

Are You Afraid of a Couch?

Well, are you? Likely, no. I'm not surprised. Couches are usually pleasant sorts of things, squishy and inviting, places to unwind. But, you know what? There is one couch that is a little scary. It belongs to me (technically), it lives in my basement, and it is chiefly used by the girls to watch movies. Truth comes out now....

I pulled the cushions off said couch yesterday, and. although I should no longer be shocked at what I find there, I was. Again. This is a partial inventory of what I found INSIDE the couch:
-a lunchbox sized cool pack
-a veritable "Who's Who" of the Shrek films--2 or 3 Shreks, a Fairy Godmother, Donkey, the Gingerbread Man, the Three Blind Mice (Ray Charles glasses and canes and all), a donkey-dragon baby, half a castle, some stairs, the milk-blasting cannon, and other assorted tiny accoutrements for Shrek playing.
-3 or 4 pens, pencils, and felt markers.
-2 spoons and a fork
-a pair of pajama bottoms
-a slipper, the mate of which has departed this house long ago.
-Spitz sunflower seed shells
-about a cup and a half on ancient, stale popcorn
-an empty pudding cup
-a gnawed-on crust of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which had clearly been made the year before God was born
-a dessicated lip gloss
-a balled up scarf containing a unicorn figurine
*and now, the last, and my personal favourite*
-a single, uncooked lasagne noodle

Nice, hey? Geez, girls. You both now are, for the most part, civilised, interesting, trustworthy and entertaining little humans. Between the two of you, you babysit yourselves and others regularly and with aplomb. You present projects with poise in front of your respective classes. You can take a big horse over jumps. You read 5 grade levels ahead. You try out for stuff, and either win or lose with grace. You make cakes from scratch by yourselves. You help fundraise for the family cause, the AIWC. You make me coffee when I am too sick to get out of bed. You do Lee and myself proud. You are amazing little gals. SO WHAT, IN THE NAME OF JESUS MURPHY, IS UP WITH THE COUCH?!?!?!

I have no answers to this question. It makes my head hurt to think of what I've pulled out of there over the years. Seriously. And I know that next time I muster up the balls to pull out the couch cushions, I will, once again, reel back from what is unearthed. Maybe I should just leave it, and let it become some sort of bewildering, archaeological relic for future times.

Lee raged at the girls, too, about the state of the couch, and stated that the dens of wild animals are a cut or two above their couch. He mentioned that leaving piles of food in a lair will only attract predators. He brought it all to a stunning conclusion with the phrase, delivered in a sinister tone, "Consider yourselves PREY, girls..." Hysterics ensued with both of us, and with it, we probably undermined all that we had said. But it was pretty funny. And the couch, having evolved into some sort of slowly pulsing macroorganism, probably laughed, too. Just 'cause it could.

Drool....

I have been pretty quiet on the handbag front lately. Strange, I know. I really haven't found much that has caught my eye. I've done my usual prowls through thrift shops, Value Village, a garage sale here and there, plus my regular Ebay quests, but nothing really of note has leapt out and onto my arm. (Ok, I lie, sort of. I DID buy a bag on Ebay recently, and while it is quite a jolly, little number--an appliqued bird on a swirly background, quite swell--it is, by no means, the answer to my current handbag prayers.

But that one up top there kind of is. It is the Fendi Arazzo peekaboo bag, and I swooned a little when I first saw it. There is a bit of slobber in the computer keyboard. I might trade a kid for that bag. It is all so glorious in every way, save one. I hope y'all are sitting down when you read this, cause you might keel over in shock. The price, you see, is a bit of a problem. I could buy this bag right now, from Neiman Marcus online for $6,980.00. Yes, I am afraid you read that correctly. Oh, my giddy aunt! Seven K!!! Considering that my fundraising bake sale to purchase at auction Elizabeth de Bohun's Book of Hours (well into the 7 figures, price-wise) from Christie's hasn't really come off, I guess I'd better abort the mission on the ol' Fendi Arazzo. *sob*

BUT. I do hold onto hope. I may well find a seriously lower-rent needlepoint bag on ebay for the here and now, and then look to the future for my ultimate fulfillment--one of the many, friendly, eager to please, designer knock-off dealers on the web will doubtless have a version of my bag sometime soon that even I might be able to swing. AND I won't even have to sell a kid!

The Costume Institute Gala and My Disdain of the Strapless Dress.

Gotta get something off my chest, right off the top.....I HATE strapless dresses. Hate 'em. Loathe 'em. Almost nobody can pull one off, and as evidence, I bring up the 2010 Costume Institute Gala at the Met last night. I have been much enjoying scrolling through the photos; it is always a night of amazing fashion, and it's fun to see people pull out all the stops, dress-wise. There were some spectacular threads on display, but it really came clear to me as I examined the fashion eye candy on display that I really, truly hate strapless dresses. I don't get them. They just look...wrong. I can't even put my finger on what bugs me there. The bodices always look so artificial, with the clutchy-looking boob encapsulating frames, and if a body doesn't feature height, small boobs, wide shoulders and a perfect neck, fuggedaboudit!! I get that a body might want to bust out some skin, and work the sexy on an occasion like the Costume Institute Gala, but girlfriends, there are better ways. A lovely halter neck, say. One of my personal favourite choices...Or, a one-shoulder number, of which there were a few lovely examples at last night's Met Ball.

I will now go to specifics. Ladies and Gents of the jury, I give you this: http://ca.eonline.com/photos/gallery.jsp?galleryUUID=2105#74427. Kristen Stewart looks unutterably heinous. This is apparently a sad excuse for Chanel couture. Poor old Karl Lagerfeld may well have finally lost it, his four inch high collars having choked the last of life and sense out of him. This is a bad, bad gown, and though K. Lag. has much to answer for in designing it, Kristen has even more to answer for in choosing to wear it. Did she think it added to her vampire street-cred or something? I tend to think that Kristen did a bunch of bong hits and then went dress shopping. Regardless, she slumped and scowled her way up the red carpet last night, in this grim AND STRAPLESS Wicked Witch of the West number, and did herself no favours. None. To boot, it appears as though she brylcreemed her hair and opted out of make-up whatsoever. *head shakes with bemusement* I think the next worst strapless had to be Donatella Versace, in Versace, and she looked like a saran andgift ribbon-wrapped old ghoul.

I turn now to this: http://ca.eonline.com/photos/gallery.jsp?galleryUUID=2105#74409. Doesn't young Taylor Swift look lovely? I don't know much about her, or about her counterpart in the Hall of Tragedy above for that matter, but I do know that Swift looks so pretty, glamourous, and yes, sexy, in a gown WITH SLEEVES. See, there they are...say hello to them. Sleeves...small sleeves, that leave her collarbones and shoulders bare, but do not feature the bodice of doom that characterises dresses with a lack of strap. This dress of Tay's is Ralph Lauren, and Ralph, please stand up and take your dues. You done good. Seriously pretty, this dress. Interestingly, it seems as though Taylor took a little flak for looking young and innocent in this number last night, to which I say, "Hello? The girl is 18, for the love of God. What do you want her to look like? A 42 year old crack-addled streetwalker? Joan Collins in her nasty Dynasty gold buttons and shoulder pads? Yeesh..." Taylor 's pretty earrings, soft, floaty hair and perfect red lipstick make this a winner. Score one to the sleeve department.

There were, admittedly, a few strapless numbers which weren't half bad: much as I dislike her, Jennifer Lopez rocked her Zuhair Murad sparkly number, Anne Hathaway was pretty in her blush Valentino, and Claire Danes looked really lovely in her metallic Burberry, and one of my favourite necklaces of the night. Thandie Newton wore a purple Vivienne Westwood strapless, with emerald jewellery, and looked spectacular, though it must be said that she would look spectacular in a grocery bag.

Likewise, there were some epic fails in the sleeved department, and I point out Padma Lakshmi's godawful satin Roberto Cavalli, Demi Moore's shiny Lanvin number, with her mopey hair and mopey face, and one of my personal worst, Gisele Bundchen's revolting, black leather woven Alexander Wang. This dress is a horror, and she ought to have stopped at a mirror, and had the self-satisfied smirk wiped clean off her face at the sight of reflection.

A few other folks need a mention: gold stars to the ever glamourous Iman, in a perfect, bluey-black, 30s-inspired Prada, the lovely young Emma Watson, Princess Burberry herself, in a one-shouldered white from her home base, Burberry, and Sienna Miller's funky-yet-sophisticated navy Pucci. Slaps across the face with a soggy fish sandwich to Renee Zelwegger, who's be-bowed Carolina Herrera left me a little ill, Eva Mendez, who got caught up in the curtains and came anyway, Maggie Gyllenhaal's Vuitton, which looked as though it was crafted out of used Glad bags, and Kristen Bell's Diane Von Furstenberg, which the cats clearly got at before she left the house. Oh, and Andre Leon Talley, who apparently wore his housecoat. Not sure what to do with Katy Perry, who wore a light-up dress. Yes, a light-up dress, with rows and rows of tiny LED lights. This choice clearly showed balls and creativity both, and while the light-up dress looked cool from certain angles, I'm just not sure. The jury is out. What do you think: http://fashionista.com/2010/05/in-defense-of-katy-perry/katy_perry_met/

Well, I'll shut up now. Thanks for indulging my "fashion critic" flight of fancy. I really do have to let it out every now and again, or I get a headache which canonly be cured by a few swift whacks with a rolled-up copy of Vogue. If you want to view most of the aforementioned dresses further, here's a link to a nice encapsulation of the fashion last night: http://ca.eonline.com/photos/gallery.jsp?galleryUUID=2105#74384

p.s. again, Kristen Stewart, you ARE NOT an extra on the Munsters, ok?

Om Sri Hanumate Namaha...

Here's for my guy...

Jaya bajarangbalee jaya Hanuman
Shankata mochan kripaa nidhaan
Jaya bajarangbalee Baba Hanuman
Shankata mochan kripaa nidhaan.


Namo....namo.....Ajaninandanaaya.

WANT. THIS. OUTFIT.

Want it massively. That way, I could wear it out, and die of hypothermia. But I'd die happy.

Where, Oh Where Is Spring?

Funny....I never get feeling gloomy in the thick of winter. Winter is kind of nice, and I love to see the snow, all glittery and bright. I love the clear, sunny winter days here, with the endless Alberta sky just as big and open as in the summer months. I love Christmas, and all the fun of that crazy season. We are friends, winter and I, most of the time.

What I do not love, however, is the crap-assed excuse for spring we have in this part of the world. Spring is meant to be all about rebirth, renewal and glossy, little green shoots of life delighting one's eyes. Here, all we get is frequent gloom, and wet, soggy snow that just goes on and on and, for the love of fuck, on!!! Gets my goat, and gets me down. (Small interjection: Here, I think of the funny, little childrens' book character, Junie B. Jones, who riffs wonderfully on the idea of 'getting a goat'....) We warmth-starved creatures try so hard to unfold and blossom after a long winter, but we get nada in return from the weather gods. We tentatively produce sandals, shorts and other accessories of decent weather after the tiniest bit of promise, and then are consistently and collectively kicked in the teeth by Not-Spring, forced to trudge back home, back to cars, etc, our sandal-clad feet blueish from the snow that creeps over our toes. Gooseflesh marks our bare arms and legs, as the weather gods laugh and laugh at our tragic optimism.

Enough, already, ok? Could we not enjoy some warmth, some daffodils, some catkins, perhaps a baby bunny or two? Is it too much to ask to send in the Spring?

Cabin Memories

It has been nearly a week since we departed the cabin, back for home, after our first visit of the season. Our cabin season lasts from sometime in late March, early April, until the start of November sometime, always contingent upon weather. Those four or so months in between, my sister's and my sturdy, comforting, little log house on the cliff in Sundre is alone to slumber through the darkest part of the winter.

The first visit if the year is always pretty special; the trip up is fuelled by anticipatory energy, from grown-ups, children and dog alike. Alongside the excitement of looking forward to our inaurural visit of the year, my mind turns to a bit of worry: what state will things be in when I arrive? Will the squirrels have found a way in and stored mushrooms everywhere, as has happened in the past? Will we see serious rodent damage? Will there be, as my sister's and my running joke holds, the inevitable long-dead mouse in the bottom of the garbage bin? Or, more ominously, I always allow my mind to flit to the possibility of real violation--will trespassers have found their way to our cabin and done something awful? Lee's attention is usually with the state of the spring, from where we get our water, and the health of the woodpile, which fuels our 2 wodd-burning stoves. The girls want desperately to go check their playhouse, their forest-fort and the Shrek-house at Rocky Beach. I always, always feel the same feeling of relief, and bone-settling contentment when we pull up in front of the cabin, usually in the hours around supper time, and anticipate a glorious weekend ahead.

This last time was no different. There's a certain quiet kind of excitement as we unload everything, get everybody's beds sorted out, get the food under control, and finally have a beverage with a sigh of relief that we're all squared away, and the weekend stands in front of us with all its pleasures. Once the coal-oil lamps are lit, the snacks are out and everybody's hand holds a cold drink, well, the weekend has begun!

We always, always have hysterical evenings, playing games, gobbling chips, yammering away, drinking happily in the knowledge that nobody has to drive anywhere. Mornings are usually late, after a needed lie-in, and then we fuel up with coffee made on the Coleman gas ring, and a big breakfast of pancakes or eggs. The kids are long-gone, usually coming back to home base at the cabin only for food and drinks. Coffee in the sunshine, on the front deck, looking over the Little Red Deer River, can't really be topped.

We often take a picnic/bevvies down to Rocky Beach in the early afternoon, maybe after a nice little nap, and spend ages down at the river. The kids go off into the Shrek House, explore the fallen forest, or wade/swim in the river, depending on the season. We sometimes do a veggie dog roast down at the river, or just eat cheese, crackers, sandwiches, etc, that I have packed down in my neon pink Hello Kitty backpack. (Lee claims that any wildlife will take one look at that backpack, and be gone into the hills in trauma!) We have some drinkies at the river, and just enjoy the perfect peace of the spot.

We walk up top in the field, in the early evenings sometimes, and we have been known to engineer a late-night walk with the kids, chaperoned by at least one adult. Last summer, I saw the procession across the field, from the cabin door, visible only as a row of bobbing glow bracelets as they made their way home from their nocturnal perambulations.

Eating is always great, and somehow, the tacos or spaghetti or whatever we eat tastes better at the cabin than at home. The kids plow through a terrifying quantity of food and drink as they tear around in the lovely, fresh air. The dog(s) are in heaven, too, with sights and sounds entirely missing from their city lives.

The time just goes so quickly, and packing up is always an epic production, and we inevitably feel more and more blah the closer to zero-hour we get. I do my final rounds, closing each set of curtains so there is NO PEEKING (Wyn and I are very particular about this!), cast my eye around the once-again clean and tidy rooms, looking for errant bits and bobs that managed to escape our eagle-eyes earlier, and always, always say good-bye to that beloved, shabby, perfect little cabin till next time. We lock up, load into the car, and make our way away, with more than slightly dampened spirits. We have a car full of filthy clothes, grubby, tired kids, grown-ups and dog, bags of garbage and empties, depleted coolers, baskets of dubious leftovers, and hearts and souls full up to the brim with happy memories. Thanks, little cabin, for all that you've given so many of us for so many years. Here's to many, many more.

Back From the Cabin...

Yes, we are home after a truly outstanding weekend. Details of this weekend will follow, when it is not so late, I am not so tired, and there are not a few more strawberries waiting to be eaten in my kitchen. This is merely a notification that I am out there somewhere, and that I have more where this came from, peeps! Stay tuned!

Sugar, Spice & Everything Nice?...Frogs, Snails, Puppy Dog Tails?....

When I mentioned to someone that I was off to the Flames game last night, (a rare occurence, just FYI...I go once in awhile with my sis, and we always have fun. Can't imagine going with somebody else...) and followed it up with the announcement that my hockey-crazy friends would be proud of me, I sort of did a double-take of surprise when this person assumed these hockey fan friends to whom I was referring were male. They are not, in fact, male. They are female, and goddesses among women.

This got me to thinking about gender stereotypes, and whether or not they are alive and well around us today. There was a helluva lot to consider, and I will run through a bit of it here. In the interests of protecting the privacy of my chums, I will use initials only. You will recognise yourselves, friends, I am sure, but I am just making sure that no one is uncomfortable about any of my revelations.

The sports thing comes first. Now, as a traditional "male" thing, this took a couple of direct hits. Yes, my dad and my brother-in-law are die hard sports fans and watchers. Good on them...it makes them happy. However, I can call up a whole host of sports loving, sports watching gals who take it just as seriously. My sweet gals S., A., and J. basically die for hockey. Two of these girls went into mental decline when the Olympics ended. S. gets up at ungodly hours to watch the finals at Wimbledon played live. She has more Flames stuff than almost anybody I know. In contrast, I present my beloved husband, no girly guy, (he owns no grooming products, nor ever has, wears only his wedding ring for jewellery, has a wardrobe from Marks Work Warehouse and goes to the barber, and not a stylist...you get the picture) who limits his sports watching to our nephew's hockey games. Period. Our friend P., who is much in the same vein as Lee, is exactly as sports-unaware.

Thinking away, I turned my beady eye upon myself. I admit to having certain "girly" traits: I love shoes, collect handbags, adore jewellery, play about with makeup, dig getting pedicures, etc. On the flip side, I am unquestionably the most un-squeamish person alive, and I adore insects, snakes, rats, bats, spiders and worms as much as I do pretties. My favourite clothes are pajamas, I can go days without brushing my hair and I like poking around inside toilets. SO where does this put me in the sugar & spice/frogs & snails race?

As I examine my friends further, I find all sorts of "opposing" characteristics going on: as well as the sports folks mentioned above, I see my sister, who looks like Tinkerbell, but can add up a column of figures in her head so fast it boggles, B. who is an out n' proud gay guy, yet knows and cares nothing about fashion, style or biographies of Marlene Dietrich, my 6'3 brother-in-law, who scrapbooks for a hobby, my parents, where my mum fixes the fences and shovels the driveway, wearing her fistfuls of diamonds as she does so, M., who is as petite and feminine as a little doll, but has a degree in computer engineering, and is a serious left-brain titan, or D., who happily sells Avon, as she indulges in Ultimate Fighting watching....

So, my dears, I guess my conclusion in all this is that these little frameworks are still out there, and still up to be busted down. We are all who we are, and we are our own women and men, whether we watch hockey, paint our toenails, or maybe do both at the same time.......

World's Most Boring Blog Entry

We are having trauma with the wireless router, or some such pain-in-the-ass-yet-necessary device here at the Crazy House. I cannot get the internet on my computer, so here I am using Lee's until those slackers from Telus come here and fix me up again. This is why things have been quiet on the blog front. It is just odd to write a blog on a keyboard not your own.

This weekend has been good thus far. Highlights have included a Vietnamese dinner for my birthday on Friday night, a coffee with Mum and the girls at the Priddis View & Brew (yes, the wee hamlet of my growing up years has a coffee shop, and a sweet, good one at that!), and a drink with Lee last night at the Wild Rose Brewery/Pub. Very Nice, I say. Very Nice.
Lowlights have included an epic allergy wing-out, by me, of course, at riding with Raine yesterday, having to drive all over creation at an insalubriously early hour yesterday morning, on various errands, and now, immersed in housework and laundry, and even the executing of same in my jammies is doing little to ease the pain and suffering.

All of the above has, indeed, made this the world's most unfortunate, tedious and blah blog entry. I do apologise for this, but we can't all be wizards of the written world all the time. Or ever, for that matter. I will aspire to wizard-dom soon, if I survive the ennui of domestic duty.

Going Out in....Style?

I really did have every intention of exiting the fair city of Victoria in a mature, dignified and composed fashion. Mistakes were made.

Despite my very good intentions, a near-fiasco ensued, starring yours truly. God, why am I ever let out alone? And now, for your reading enjoyment, I will walk you through the unfortunate events that now cloud my memories of a lovely weekend.

I arrived at Vic airport with enough time to do my stuff, but not endless extra. I checked in at the Air Canada desk, chatted reasonably with the check-in lady, and saw my luggage go off on the belt. Right to security go I, and so far, so good. But no, no, not for long. As I am dumping my stuff on the coveyor belt to go through the security camera-thingy, I set a shopping bag down, containing a few little extras. My dear Victoria friend, Tryntje, always always sends me home with pies, so there were two of those. My other friend Ida had given me a miniature daffodil plant for the girls, so that was in the bag, too. Add one "magic"pencil toy, made by the delightful Dave, husband of Ida, and one jar of Aunt Carmen's homemade blackberry jam, and my shopping bag was full up. One word here: jam. JAM! Jam is, apparently a liquid or a gel. Yes, friends, apparently there was a significant risk of my blowing up the aircraft using none other than Aunt Carmen's blackberry jam. The fact that the Victoria-Vancouver flight is only 14 minutes long didn't seem to count. Man, if I was going to get up to nefarious business with my jam, I'd have to act mighty quick. The security person said that I could run back to the check-in desk and see if my suitcase had disappeared, and if not, the dangerous and potentially explosive jam could be stowed safely away, its terrifying potential locked away from human hands.

I shot out of security, handbag, coat and shopping bag flying, over to the check-in desk. No dice. I hurriedly and sorrowfully gifted the check-in lady with my jam (it is SO good, too. I almost shed a tear. I really did.) and scrambled back to security. They looked pityingly upon me, and motioned me to begin the process again. I go through the metal detecting gate (and, as anybody who knows me knows, I sport a lot of metal to be detected.) and go through the laborious process of being checked out. I am waved through, and am met in front of the xray machine by a woman who asks if she may go through my handbag. As if one can say no..... She begins rifling, and in no short order, produces my precious little folding knife that was given to me by my good friend Jason. It is rather sentimentally valuable, and a smokin' little knife, to boot. My heart sinks when I am faced with evidence of my failure to pack it away, as I always do when I travel by plane. The woman basically gives me a look that says "Nice try, Stabby", and tells me that she has to confiscate the knife. At my wail, she suggests that I might try and return to the check-in desk, where it could be put into my suitcase. I clutch my head, roll my eyes, and explain that I have already tried that with my Terrorist Road Kit Item #1, the ever-risky jam, and that the suitcase was long gone.

She condescendingly offers the other two options. One, my knife never leaves Victoria, and much as I never want to leave when I'm there, I think that my knife is not keen on long term residency without me. Two, if I have time, I can run back out of the secure area, to the gift shop, purchase a padded envelope and stamps and mail it to myself. Jesus Crap. So back I go, to the snickers of the security staff, out to the poxy gift shop (git shop is more like it) to mail the knife to myself. Time is now really of the essence, so naturally, when I blast into the gift shop, there is an old lady ahead of me in line, buying mints. Who knew that mint purchasing could be such a protracted, painful and labourious process? I usually have the greatest of sympathy and understanding for the aged, knowing that I'm not far off that place myself, but this time, I honestly could have punched her to the ground and beat her about the face with the change purse which seemed to cause her so much trouble. Finally, Mint Lady tottered off, and I well nigh THREW MYSELF at the desk, begging for an envelope and stamps. Never has a knife been shoved into an envelope, never has that envelope been addressed with the haste of that moment. I bought a few stamps, smacked them onto the envelope, and turned to go. The gift shop lady called out "Don't you want to mail your envelope?" I said that I had assumed the gift shop had the mailbox, too. "Oh no", she unhelpfully tells me. "The post box is back outside the airport."

Now sweating tears of blood at a potentially missed flight, I blow out of the shop at high speed, bag of pies flying, handbag flying, and exit the airport, find the box and mail the damned knife. I turn and re-enter the airport at speed. Just to top it all off, just to make sure nobody at the airport forgets crazy jam & knife lady EVER, I wipe out spectacularly right in front of security. Tank. Full-on to the ground. Class A bail. My daffodil hurtles from the bag like a guided missile, and I come to rest lying on my face. I briefly considered just remaining there on the floor, waiting for death to claim me, but it was not to be. A passerby assisted me up, and began to try to reassemble my belongings. I cram the wretched daffodil back in the pot, scrape up as much dirt as I can and stuff everything back into my shopping bag. Draping myself in the tattered shreds of my dignity, like so much dirty-water-soaked cardboard, I hold my head high, whilst withering inside, and sweep back into security, sans jam, sans knife and sans respect from any employee of the Victoria International Airport for the rest of my natural life. The lady with the metal detecting wand is not even trying to hide her laughter, and my stony face does no good. I am done here.

I make it to the waiting lounge with about 5 minutes to spare before boarding. I can only hope that my drawn-out, miserable spectacle was not witnessed by any of my fellow passengers. The flight proceeded uneventfully, and on the Vancouver-Calgary leg, I had the pleasure of sitting next to a really amazing guy, with whom I had a great conversation. The incidents at the Vic airport were not far from my consciousness, and at least some excellent conversation helped banish the lurking spirits of calamity. God. You know the James Bond movie song, "Nobody Does It Better"? Well, there's a special Fiona version called "Nobody Does it Worse"......

Home on the Range

Home again, home again, jiggedy jig! Yes, I am, and stay tuned for a new post, friends, 'cause Fee left a lasting impression in the Victoria airport......

I Did It!

Yes, I did! I watched an entire Olympic hockey game tonight! Sue, Alyssa and Janis will be SO proud of me. I watched the U.S./Canada game, and here's how it went.

I cheered for Sidney Crosby, 'cause I discovered he's cute, I cheered for Niedermayer (sp?), 'cause he's Alyssa's favorite, and I cheered for Iginla, 'cause he's one of the Flames I know. I also quite dug Brodeur, especially after my dad told me that he is a little old, and past his best, but was one of the best goalies ever,ever at his peak. So there, all you American players! If Brodeur had been young, you would have faced the Looming Wall of Unstoppable Goalie Death! Yeah! .....And, speaking of goalies, what is up with that freak show in the American net? He appears to grow 17 extra arms and legs at every opportunity, and uses these bonus limbs to stop every shot thrown at him. Wally, my smart bro-in-law, said that he was the big star of the moment, and, regrettably for us, it seems to be true.

I also could not help but notice that there was an instance of egregious sitting....some U.S. player sat on Brodeur in a very unkind and compromising fashion, and was anything done about this sitting? No. AND, there was a bit of face-flailing, also against team Canada. Our player was flailed at. In the face. Now, face-flailing, to me, smacks of the spiteful and unsportsmanlike, and I hope the perp can live with himself tonight. Again, no penalty. Someone needs to look into sitting, and face-flailing as future penalty offences.

After all the ups and downs, I must say that those Americans played an excellent game, and I guess that they deserved their win. While it was all quite fun, I do not think that I shall be repeating this hockey-watching excercise, for all of its eye-opening qualities; it is just too, too stressful. I cannot really handle it. I had to lie down afterwards. The words "shitbuggerfuck"came out of my mouth one too many times for politeness or comfort. My mum was in the room, after all. The Canuckers will have to play on without me watching. This will no doubt be a blow, but I imagine they will find a way to go on. If they are in a medal game, I might make an exception, but I'd better refill a couple of prescriptions first...

NY Fashion Week,

WHY do I not get to be there? Why? Be there, and have front row seats to all the awesome shows, and get to go to all the awesome parties. Why have I not been paid the big bucks to write snappy fashion pieces, attend the shows, and of course, be showered with free samples. Oh, now I remember. That's what happens in my head. Not here. In real life. Well, shit.

The Power of One

Sometimes, things only need to happen a single time to be memorable, special,or just plain great. This long weekend was all about such "ones". Some highlights I will share with you.

ONE fun, frosty and joy-filled trip to the big dog park with all four of us, and Georgie. She had such fun playing with the other dogs, and exploring all over. We admired the scenery, the ducks and the hoarfrost. Lovely, lovely.

ONE great time at the hockey arena, watching my nephew Alex do his thing in the finals of his hockey tournament. I could not have been more proud, seeing him wearing the 'C', and giving such a strong effort with his team against a team who has almost always beaten them. Their silver was well won, and I loved every minute of the game.

ONE delightful visit and cup of tea with my friend Jaz, who I have not seen in some months. I have had the pleasure of watching this gal grow from the sweet, kind and remarkably poised teenager from across the street, who used to babysit the girls, into the beautiful, intelligent and wise-beyond-her-years young woman she is today. I love that she and I are friends.

ONE dinner and fun catch-up with Sue, the oldest and best friend a gal could have. Always, always we share laughs, good food, wine and the joy of a companionship 37 years old.

ONE migraine. Ok. Not fun, but memorable. Yuck. Thanks to my lovely Lee and the girls for picking up the slack, and apologies to Connor and Becca for not saying goodbye.

ONE solitary, moonit walk with Georgie, where I danced in an alley to "Come Dancing" by the Kinks, on my ipod, swirling a plastic bag of dog poo, just for effect. Amazingly, I avoided a dire wipe-out on the ice. Weird, the alley dancing with a dog and a bag of poo, I guess, but fun!!

ONE super lunch with old friends. Again, the food, drink, conversation and fun was top drawer. Thanks Michael & San....such a perfect way to spend a Sunday afternoon. Thanks, too, to Cassius for the excellent purrs.

ONE Thai dinner out with Lee for Valentine's Day. I had *just* recovered from the aforementioned migraine enough to totter out for sups. It was perfect, and Lee always takes such good care of me. I cleaned myself up, put on my funky, glittery plaid skirt, and some big-girl shoes, and had a proper, romantic supper with my forever-Valentine. Happy,happy...

I will finish this off with a couple of threes: three lovely nights this weekend with Lee, and three amazing people who share this house with me. Lucky, lucky girl I am. And I love the power of one!

Last night...

...on the way home from yoga, we were driving along Elbow Drive, as per usual, when Lee pointed something out that I have never really clocked before. Upon reflection, I'm not sure whether the amusement value of this outweighs the grave concern for public health and safety.

There is an establishment on Elbow Drive, near-ish to our house, that is called Western Pride Car Wash. So far, so good. Lower down on the signage, one learns that it is coin-operated, and also features a coin-op dog wash. Again, so far, so good. BUT, this fine example of the coin-op car and dog wash also proclaims its shawarmas, falafels, donairs, and sushi.... Sushi..... At a car and dog wash. And not a posh, high-end car wash, either. A coin-op one. I have an image of a guy, balancing his California roll, as he roots through his pockets for change, leaning against his filthy vehicle, as he restrains his large and grimy dog, in the cold cement bay of the Western Pride. Ye gods.

Dear readers, do we want our car washes serving sushi? I mean, the falafels and the donairs are bad enough, but at least they have the benefit of cooking, and all the bacteria-killing joys that cooking brings. Sooooo not the sushi. The worst part is that the good, old Western Pride seems to have been in business awhile. Is this the next wave of cuisine rolling into town? Are we going to find the flavours of the East accesible in all kinds of DIY situations, like carpet cleaning, pick-your-parts, etc? Yeesh... Not for the first time am I glad I'm a vegetarian.

??

Is it wrong to be addicted, and I mean SERIOULSY ADDICTED, to Smartfood's white cheddar popcorn? I think not.

(...picks popcorn crumbs out of the keyboard....)

When Visuals Do One No Favours...

I came across an article about DJing, and the nascence of the art in 70s New York. This article talked about some of the great DJ innovators back in the day, and went on to discuss Grandmaster Flash. Now, who above the age of 30, and a lifelong music person, has not heard of/listened to Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five somewhere along the line? While definitely being in the"aware of" camp, my memories were a little foggy, so I googled GMF. This turned out to be a rather large mistake, for I came across this 'gem'...

Now, far be it from me to not sympathise with past fashion errors being thrown back in one's face; I was the queen of 80s poodle hair, wore safety pinned sweatshirts and rubber bracelets. I have done my time in the Fashion Hall of Shame. But, COME ON. Geez, Louise, why in the name of all that is holy (or,at least, styled) did not some spin doc get ahold of this pic, have an exorcism performed, and the offending object buried at a crossroads at midnight? My eyes and sensibilities hurt in equal measures. I guess that Flash can rest easy in the knowledge that nobody who looks upon this photo will ever, EVER forget him. And not in a good way. Some fashion disasters are beyond absolution...

Soul Shoes

You know how, in the depths of winter, in bleak midwinter, as Henry VIII might have said, one finds oneself swathed in layers of dark coloured clothes....I see right now, on me, dark brown t-shirt, grey sweater, brown wooly tights...and so it goes. Nasty, cold February weather spawns nasty, dull, heavy clothes. I invariably find myself yearning for something to wear that is bright, light and cheerful. Soul wear, if you will. Things to wear which lift one's soul out of the winter doldrums, and gently nudge it toward lighter and brighter days to come. Well, I have seen the shoes that do this for me right now. No, I cannot actually have them, due to all kinds of mitigating factors like expense, availability, practicality (My sister always asks me to be aware of a footware's suitability to Banff Ave in December, after a particular trip which featured myself in truly kick-ass shoes battling the consistent, very real risk to life and limb as I tottered my way along the icy sidewalks.), but a gal can dream, can't she? Behold above, the Marc Jacobs red heart shoes.... Aren't they something? I will content myself with looking at the picture, and envisioning myself wearing them, revelling in my fabulousness, and absolutely NOT crashing to the ground with a twisted ankle, as would undoubtedly happen in real life. Only Marc could have come up with these babies, which combine beauty and ridiculousness in equal measures. Perhaps they really are best consigned to the realm of fantasy and not reality.... So, that being the case, off I go, in my red heart soul shoes, to walk the ice-free sidewalks of my dreams, and let spring creep in, just the tiniest bit, to my world.

Nundies, and the like...

So, I found myself in the Bay recently, on the way out to my car from the hairdressers. I always park at the Bay doors, thereby ensuring that I pass through the lingerie/pjs department, and may stumble, with blind luck, into a smokin' purchase. (I usually avoid the mall like the plague, but because my hairdresser is there, well...the pyjamas call me...)

On this particular occasion, there I was, in the line-up for the till, waiting to pay for my gorgeous and black, pink and cream Collette Dinnigan bra and knickers set, when I could not help but notice that ahead of me were three nuns. Yep, nuns. No, they were not swathed in habits, but rather had sober sweater and skirt combos on, hair veils, and some kick-ass crucifixes to boot. Well, I don't think that I can be blamed for the fit of curiosity that overcame me. Just WHAT were the nuns queuing up to purchase at the Bay undies department?? I am a little ashamed to admit that I surreptitiously popped my specs on for a better look, and really, at the end of the day, there were no real surprises. The nuns had the multi packs of white cotton, full coverage knickers, and the Playtex bras that come in a box, and are not renowned for their devastating come-hither appeal, and are available in white only. While part of me wanted to shout, "Sistahs!! Drop the whites, and go check out the Collette Dinnigan 'Wild Hearts' stuff, on an unbelievable sale, in the back corner!! Jesus wouldn't mind!", another, more sensible part of me said, "Geez, Fiona, what do you expect they'd be buying? Would an apricot lace balconette bra, and matching boyshorts be just what they'd need to fire up the Holy Spirit? They are NUNS, for Pete's sake, and their sensibilities are on a higher plane, you Godless wretch, with your lace and your underwire"....

SO....I kind of let my inner battle over sisterly lingerie just fade away. I could not help but notice that I was the only one with the Collettes, or the Betsey Johnsons, and that the other customers, and not just the nuns, were positively cloistered in their choices. I was feeling increasingly embarrassed, until, as the nuns were passing with their parcels, one of them met my eyes, looked down at my undies, and said in a low voice, "My, those are pretty...", smiled kindly at me, and made her way off. Yessss! My undies have been given a *sacred*seal of approval. My new Collettes have never looked better!

News that makes me sad and mad...

I found about the demise of two longtime companies/institutions recently. I was sad about one, and pissed about the other.

Sad, we shall start off with: the Pendulum in Inglewood is closing up shop after many years. It was pretty much the benchmark consignment clothing shop in town, and always a fab place to drop stuff off for resale, and to have a good old sticky-beak in the rails of clothes, baskets of hats and scarves, and the big display case of pretty, pretty silver jewelies. There was always the faint aroma of incense, funky decor, lovely staff and a dish of candies at the till. I spent many happy times there, poking around and trying stuff on. Now, the Pendulum is no more, and Inglewood will be the poorer for it. Apparently the mum and daughter team who owned and ran it are experiencing serious family health problems, and lack the time and energy to care for their ailing loved ones, and run the shop. Fair enough, and I wish them well and lots of good energies for healing. I will miss that shop to be sure. On the up side, I might have found a new consignment shop nearer to my house, where I can send stuff when the need arises.

Mad now: the South YMCA is closing in September of this year. The building is "old, and in need of repair" and the "funds just aren't there". Funny....there sure seemed to be funds a-plenty earlier in this decade, when a couple of enormous, sprawling new Ys went up in the 'burbs. This bloody city, and its benighted attitude towards anything old sticks in my craw. Heaven forbid that funds be directed to repair and maintain an old building. Just get rid of it already, and build a new one! When that gets old, well, too bad. It goes, too, and another new one shall rise in its place. Grrr... The South Y is an institution in the south central part of town. I have been a long-term member of this comfortable old institution, with its smell of swimming pool, and the coffee machine in the sitting area. There are thriving ESL classes there, a dedicated group who go and excercise, lots of folks who use the before and after school care, seniors who find the atmosphere safe and unthreatening, and walk to the programmes from the apartment blocks nearby, and generations of kids, mine included, who spent a fun-filled part of each summer at the daycamps there. All of this gone, because the building is old, a little shabby, small, and not glistening with new minted plastic in the far flung suburbs of Crapgary. Well done, Calgary and the YMCA.

This city has the most shaming legacy of disrespect for anything not shiny and new. We all want new, bigger malls, new, bigger houses, and new, bigger buildings in which to work and recreate. Small and old never, ever makes the cut here. We demolish old buildings with gay abandon, and then bewail the lack of apparent history and heritage we have here. The threat of the wrecking ball consistently looms over the few older buildings that remain to us. Maintaining them, reworking them and modernising them is never an option. Only destruction. Even more amusing, off we jaunt to other cities with examples of older architecture, and we ooh and aah appreciatively, but never make a collective effort to protect our own, or to make a push to include defenders of history and heritage in our civic politicians.

So, once again, this city has more than lived up to my expectations. And let me tell you, that's not a good thing. When I take my girls to their final daycamp at the Y this summer, I expect I will not be the only one bringing a mixture of anger and disappointment with me. Goodbye Pendulum, and soon, goodbye South Y. Thanks for the years of pleasure and service. And I hope that, when I get old and in need of maintenance and repair, I'm well shot of this burg.

Back to stay...

I really, really tried. Hard. But I can't stay away any longer. I was trying to divest myself of some of my technological habits, and I thought to myself, "Foran, ditch the blog. Nobody will care (which, I still belive is pretty close to the truth) and soon you yourself won't even think about it. And I did not think about it for a good number of months. But the desire came creeping back. And so, here I am. Voila. Blogger Fee has re-emerged. I realise that I just kind of like noting down stuff, as much for myself as for anybody else. It is kind of fun to find your own little e-footprint in the blogosphere. SO.... today is a day of minor annoyances. A gal home from school sick again, stupid knee (the 'good' one) playing up, necessitating the purchase and deployment of a knee brace, a minor headache, and the imminent departure of a husband to a night job for the second night in a row. Oh, and I have a sad selection of groceries and no inspiration for what to make for supper. Grrr. I cannot even have a bevvie now, as I am off to teach my very nice class of newbies. Blah, blah, blah....blog!