I almost burst out laughing during a newscast today, telling the story of a pair of alligators rescued from a backyard shed north of Toronto, where they were being kept as family pets.
I wasn't the story itself that made me laugh - it was the memory that came with it.
Nearly every time I hear the word, alligator, I am immediately transported back to the lazy summer days of my childhood, when lunch in our farmhouse was served promptly at 12:30, just as soon as Leave It To Beaver was over. The episode connected to the alligators is the one where the boys go to visit Captain Jack, the local keeper of the alligator farm, who told the boys if they were to fall into the alligator enclosure, the animals would not "chew your arm off, they would SAW it off!" Later, the children get their own alligator, and mayhem ensues.
I'm not sure how this particular line embedded itself in me, but it gets me, every single time.
The city of Red Deer also makes me giggle every single time I have to say it, but that's connected to a dirty joke.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Requiem for a Run
It's not just this blog I abandoned a few months ago.
I haven't been quilting or doing calligraphy or working in the garden or doing much that's very useful, for quite some time.
I blame Netflix and Mother Nature.
House of Cards, Happy Endings, Downton Abbey, My Boys, Mad Men, The Newsroom, (OK, that was borrowed from a friend...) House of Cards again, Portlandia and now, Bones plus movies and documentaries and TED talks galore: these are things that have occupied a lot of my non-working, non-sleeping moments for the last five months or so.
I have a huge cupboard full of movies, several bookshelves full of terrific novels and non-fiction works along with a tall stack of books I bought with my "Christmas money", but there's something about the Netflix that draws me in, day after day.
I don't want to be one of those tiresome and pretentious people who says they don't watch television, but I will say Sweetie and I haven't had cable or satellite television for nine years. We were over-the-air analog with about seven channels and now, with the digital revolution, we're down to three. No hockey, no baseball, no reality shows, not at our place; it's news and Netflix, and my house has never been dirtier or my running shoes so abandoned.
Because of my addiction to the tube and the snuggly blankets on the couch, I will have a painful, embarrassing and sore Sunday morning in Toronto.
In a reckless fit of optimism in January, I signed up for the Sporting Life 10K, a road race down Yonge Street. Not only did I sign up, I convinced my running buddy to come along.
AND I was doubly optimistic and signed up for a faster corral than last year, thinking I might improve my time from last year's race.
But I wasn't counting on the coldest winter in memory. Last week, there was still snow on the trail I run - yes, last week!
So, spare a little pity for me, even though it's my own fault that I will be puffing and huffing and wanting to die on Yonge Street Sunday, and likely a very sorry girl on Monday.
I'll recover with the rest of season three of Portlandia.
I haven't been quilting or doing calligraphy or working in the garden or doing much that's very useful, for quite some time.
I blame Netflix and Mother Nature.
House of Cards, Happy Endings, Downton Abbey, My Boys, Mad Men, The Newsroom, (OK, that was borrowed from a friend...) House of Cards again, Portlandia and now, Bones plus movies and documentaries and TED talks galore: these are things that have occupied a lot of my non-working, non-sleeping moments for the last five months or so.
I have a huge cupboard full of movies, several bookshelves full of terrific novels and non-fiction works along with a tall stack of books I bought with my "Christmas money", but there's something about the Netflix that draws me in, day after day.
I don't want to be one of those tiresome and pretentious people who says they don't watch television, but I will say Sweetie and I haven't had cable or satellite television for nine years. We were over-the-air analog with about seven channels and now, with the digital revolution, we're down to three. No hockey, no baseball, no reality shows, not at our place; it's news and Netflix, and my house has never been dirtier or my running shoes so abandoned.
Because of my addiction to the tube and the snuggly blankets on the couch, I will have a painful, embarrassing and sore Sunday morning in Toronto.
In a reckless fit of optimism in January, I signed up for the Sporting Life 10K, a road race down Yonge Street. Not only did I sign up, I convinced my running buddy to come along.
AND I was doubly optimistic and signed up for a faster corral than last year, thinking I might improve my time from last year's race.
But I wasn't counting on the coldest winter in memory. Last week, there was still snow on the trail I run - yes, last week!
So, spare a little pity for me, even though it's my own fault that I will be puffing and huffing and wanting to die on Yonge Street Sunday, and likely a very sorry girl on Monday.
I'll recover with the rest of season three of Portlandia.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
School is in
The last few weeks have been a time of great learning for me. Some of the information I have come across shook cherished and long-held beliefs and some has given me a feeling of lightness and growth that's really quite addictive.
A sample:
1/Just because I like someone, doesn't mean they're widely liked.
I tend toward the drama queens and the narcissists for my friendships because, let's face it, they're FUN. At least, they're fun at first, with all the drama and the excitement and whatnot. It's only after a while I find out I am but a bit player and of no real consequence to the narcissistic drama queen, and I bow out. (If we've been friends for a long time, you're likely neither a drama queen nor a narcissist, fyi, so refrain from snarky comments below, please!) I also tend toward the quirky. I have found that quirky folk are also generally thoughtful and kind, and their messups are far less damaging than those of The Dramatic. Further, The Quirky usually have skills worth admiration. I have recently learned that some people aren't willing to put in the time to plumb the depths of the Quirky's admirable traits, which makes me sad for both parties.
2/ Sometimes, you have to step up.
There is some sort of trouble at the club where I curl. 5 of 11 members of the Board of Directors have quit. Among the people who walked away? 100 percent of the women. My pun for the situation: "That sure seems like some sort of cock-up to me!"
Seriously, though, I've been a member of the club for 10 years, playing as often as four times a week. I usually help out at one bonspiel a year. I've let other people volunteer to run the scheduling, bonspiels, bar, committees and all other organizational stuff that needs done. Sitting back is all well and good, but I realize as of this week, I forfeit the right to complain if I don't pitch in.
3/ Cars need oil, and they're not kidding about it.
My beloved and elderly Volkswagen Beetle left me stranded by the side of the road Monday. I thought the oil light meant, "Hey, maybe, if you're not too busy, could you perhaps swing by a store later today and pick up some oil?" It actually means, "HOLY MOTHER OF ALL, I'M DYING HERE!!!!", and might mean, "Goodbye, cruel world....". I'm hoping for a diagnosis later today.
Before you think me an idiot, please know I was diligent about the oil changes for beloved Byng the Bug for the first 13.5 years of our relationship. It's only in the last while, when Sweetie and I are getting so very close to finding the perfect replacement, that I have been somewhat (OK, thoroughly) negligent.
Oh there's more, but I'm too embarrassed to put some of it into words.
A sample:
1/Just because I like someone, doesn't mean they're widely liked.
I tend toward the drama queens and the narcissists for my friendships because, let's face it, they're FUN. At least, they're fun at first, with all the drama and the excitement and whatnot. It's only after a while I find out I am but a bit player and of no real consequence to the narcissistic drama queen, and I bow out. (If we've been friends for a long time, you're likely neither a drama queen nor a narcissist, fyi, so refrain from snarky comments below, please!) I also tend toward the quirky. I have found that quirky folk are also generally thoughtful and kind, and their messups are far less damaging than those of The Dramatic. Further, The Quirky usually have skills worth admiration. I have recently learned that some people aren't willing to put in the time to plumb the depths of the Quirky's admirable traits, which makes me sad for both parties.
2/ Sometimes, you have to step up.
There is some sort of trouble at the club where I curl. 5 of 11 members of the Board of Directors have quit. Among the people who walked away? 100 percent of the women. My pun for the situation: "That sure seems like some sort of cock-up to me!"
Seriously, though, I've been a member of the club for 10 years, playing as often as four times a week. I usually help out at one bonspiel a year. I've let other people volunteer to run the scheduling, bonspiels, bar, committees and all other organizational stuff that needs done. Sitting back is all well and good, but I realize as of this week, I forfeit the right to complain if I don't pitch in.
3/ Cars need oil, and they're not kidding about it.
My beloved and elderly Volkswagen Beetle left me stranded by the side of the road Monday. I thought the oil light meant, "Hey, maybe, if you're not too busy, could you perhaps swing by a store later today and pick up some oil?" It actually means, "HOLY MOTHER OF ALL, I'M DYING HERE!!!!", and might mean, "Goodbye, cruel world....". I'm hoping for a diagnosis later today.
Before you think me an idiot, please know I was diligent about the oil changes for beloved Byng the Bug for the first 13.5 years of our relationship. It's only in the last while, when Sweetie and I are getting so very close to finding the perfect replacement, that I have been somewhat (OK, thoroughly) negligent.
Oh there's more, but I'm too embarrassed to put some of it into words.
Monday, March 3, 2014
Preposterous Prepositions
Prepositions are very small words but they're really quite important.
A preposition links nouns, pronouns and phrases to other words in a sentence to help the reader or listener understand the relationship between the object of the sentence and the rest of it.
To, from, at, with and a whole host of other little words can make a massive difference to the meaning of a sentence.
If you sit NEAR the fire, it's a lot different than sitting IN the fire.
Spitting AT someone can have markedly different consequences than spitting ON them.
Which brings me to Rob Ford's appearance on tonight's episode of Jimmy Kimmel's talk show.
Ford appears to be a victim of a grammatical mistake of some sort, unaware he's being laughed AT, not WITH.
Toronto's Mayor he has been the butt of Kimmel's jokes for several months. OK, he's been the butt of most of our jokes for months now, but Kimmel has been particularly eloquent and persistent. He had Chris Daughtry write and perform a particularly well-researched song, in addition to hiring a look-alike for fake interviews. The jokes Kimmel has been telling at Ford's expense are actually the cornerstone of one of Toronto's Mayoral contestants' campaigns. David Socknacki's posters read: 'Never heard of me? Neither has Jimmy Kimmel.'
Kimmel showing up at the airport, taking Ford to an Oscars after party? It's for the footage, for the 'get'; not because he admires, likes or supports Ford. It's a hideous real-life version of the movies Dogfight or Carrie, where meanies take the ugliest girl to the dance, the girl not realizing she is fodder for a bet.
Ford appears oblivious, too, and not just in this case. He mistakes gawkers for supporters, taking selfies with anyone who wants to, seemingly unable to tell that in a lot of cases, it's not admiration that motivates the photo-taker, at least, that's not the expression on their face. I have been puzzling over this one and I can't quite figure out the reason people want pictures with Ford. Maybe those selfies are being taken by people who, like Ford, don't know there is a difference between celebrity and infamy.
Part of me hopes that if and when the crack smoking, drunk driving Mayor of Toronto finally figures it out, that it happens live on air, so we at least we can watch the epiphany unfold on his red and sweaty face, and maybe something might be learned from this long and ugly escapade.
A preposition links nouns, pronouns and phrases to other words in a sentence to help the reader or listener understand the relationship between the object of the sentence and the rest of it.
To, from, at, with and a whole host of other little words can make a massive difference to the meaning of a sentence.
If you sit NEAR the fire, it's a lot different than sitting IN the fire.
Spitting AT someone can have markedly different consequences than spitting ON them.
Which brings me to Rob Ford's appearance on tonight's episode of Jimmy Kimmel's talk show.
Ford appears to be a victim of a grammatical mistake of some sort, unaware he's being laughed AT, not WITH.
Toronto's Mayor he has been the butt of Kimmel's jokes for several months. OK, he's been the butt of most of our jokes for months now, but Kimmel has been particularly eloquent and persistent. He had Chris Daughtry write and perform a particularly well-researched song, in addition to hiring a look-alike for fake interviews. The jokes Kimmel has been telling at Ford's expense are actually the cornerstone of one of Toronto's Mayoral contestants' campaigns. David Socknacki's posters read: 'Never heard of me? Neither has Jimmy Kimmel.'
Kimmel showing up at the airport, taking Ford to an Oscars after party? It's for the footage, for the 'get'; not because he admires, likes or supports Ford. It's a hideous real-life version of the movies Dogfight or Carrie, where meanies take the ugliest girl to the dance, the girl not realizing she is fodder for a bet.
Ford appears oblivious, too, and not just in this case. He mistakes gawkers for supporters, taking selfies with anyone who wants to, seemingly unable to tell that in a lot of cases, it's not admiration that motivates the photo-taker, at least, that's not the expression on their face. I have been puzzling over this one and I can't quite figure out the reason people want pictures with Ford. Maybe those selfies are being taken by people who, like Ford, don't know there is a difference between celebrity and infamy.
Part of me hopes that if and when the crack smoking, drunk driving Mayor of Toronto finally figures it out, that it happens live on air, so we at least we can watch the epiphany unfold on his red and sweaty face, and maybe something might be learned from this long and ugly escapade.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Olympic Cheese
I am finding it tough to watch the Olympics in Russia, and it's not only because of the Russian treatment of its own people, the workers who weren't paid for construction, the half-finished, empty venues or the anti-gay Russian sentiment.
It's not entirely because of the entirely plausible cheating scenario in ice dance.
It's also not because of my refusal to pay for television; there are lots of ways to find the games without paying for cable - mothers in law, for example and this year, the Internet has been particularly helpful. What a difference from Vancouver when Bell/CTV wouldn't broadcast anything without your fees paying for it.
It's certainly not the performance of our athletes.
No, it's the commercials.
Now, I've been crying at sappy commercials as long as Bell has been exploiting familial love for profit, but this year's crop is so laced with saccharine, my teeth are aching.
The first time I saw the salute to motherhood, I admit I teared up.
The fifty-first time I saw the salute to motherhood, I was disgusted at the sheer emotional manipulation coming from the advertisers (and I still teared up).
The Coke spots tugging at the heartstrings with Special Olympians while congratulating me on drinking 16 teaspoons of sugar at a time? That one really gets me caffeinated.
Add the sonorous, tinkly-music profiles of the athletes' 'profiles in courage', and I doubt I could carry on a conversation with any of them if I were ever in the same room.
Here's the thing: there's PLENTY of drama on the ice, the snow and the tracks. Must everything be so over-the-top?
It's not entirely because of the entirely plausible cheating scenario in ice dance.
It's also not because of my refusal to pay for television; there are lots of ways to find the games without paying for cable - mothers in law, for example and this year, the Internet has been particularly helpful. What a difference from Vancouver when Bell/CTV wouldn't broadcast anything without your fees paying for it.
It's certainly not the performance of our athletes.
No, it's the commercials.
Now, I've been crying at sappy commercials as long as Bell has been exploiting familial love for profit, but this year's crop is so laced with saccharine, my teeth are aching.
The first time I saw the salute to motherhood, I admit I teared up.
The fifty-first time I saw the salute to motherhood, I was disgusted at the sheer emotional manipulation coming from the advertisers (and I still teared up).
The Coke spots tugging at the heartstrings with Special Olympians while congratulating me on drinking 16 teaspoons of sugar at a time? That one really gets me caffeinated.
Add the sonorous, tinkly-music profiles of the athletes' 'profiles in courage', and I doubt I could carry on a conversation with any of them if I were ever in the same room.
Here's the thing: there's PLENTY of drama on the ice, the snow and the tracks. Must everything be so over-the-top?
Thursday, February 13, 2014
We already won.
A bright spot has arrived in what seems to be an unrelenting winter and I'm not talking about the delicious-smelling pot of groundhog stew bubbling away on the stove.
Georgian bay is mostly frozen over, which means any new snow has to come from the south.
We now know there are fewer days of winter ahead of us than behind us.
The sun is still out at six pm.
We're feeling hope.
And now, in tropical Sochi, Russia, Canada's winter athletes are skating, skiing and sliding their little hearts out while we here at home are amazed at their grace and fortitude.
A poll released recently said most Canadians consider the games a success for Canada only if our millionaire hockey players get another gold to add to their basement honour walls.
I think they've already been won, on the tracks: the cross-country ski track, where a Russian racer broke his ski and the Canadian coach came running with the replacement; the long track where a Canadian skating racer felt his teammate had a better shot at a good result and handed over his place at the games which had been earned, fair and square.
Those are the stories that will stick with me. I don't care if Sidney Crosby nets the overtime winner against the US - been there, done that.
It's the humanity in the face of adversity that makes me happy, and you can call me as sappy as the saccharine, tear-jerking commercials all you want.
Georgian bay is mostly frozen over, which means any new snow has to come from the south.
We now know there are fewer days of winter ahead of us than behind us.
The sun is still out at six pm.
We're feeling hope.
And now, in tropical Sochi, Russia, Canada's winter athletes are skating, skiing and sliding their little hearts out while we here at home are amazed at their grace and fortitude.
A poll released recently said most Canadians consider the games a success for Canada only if our millionaire hockey players get another gold to add to their basement honour walls.
I think they've already been won, on the tracks: the cross-country ski track, where a Russian racer broke his ski and the Canadian coach came running with the replacement; the long track where a Canadian skating racer felt his teammate had a better shot at a good result and handed over his place at the games which had been earned, fair and square.
Those are the stories that will stick with me. I don't care if Sidney Crosby nets the overtime winner against the US - been there, done that.
It's the humanity in the face of adversity that makes me happy, and you can call me as sappy as the saccharine, tear-jerking commercials all you want.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Haiku for a Refusal to Run in Winter
Oh, I see you there, man
In your goggles and your tights.
I will not join you.
I am not hurting
Not broken, injured or bowed
But merely lazy
Clinging to my girth
Which I earned with carbs and sloth
I refuse the cold.
Minus ten is it.
Colder and I don't leave home
Tough Canuck? Not me!
Springtime please come soon,
I cannot afford new pants.
Shoes await gravel.
In your goggles and your tights.
I will not join you.
I am not hurting
Not broken, injured or bowed
But merely lazy
Clinging to my girth
Which I earned with carbs and sloth
I refuse the cold.
Minus ten is it.
Colder and I don't leave home
Tough Canuck? Not me!
Springtime please come soon,
I cannot afford new pants.
Shoes await gravel.
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