Calamity Jen

Drawn and quartered.

2012-01-20T23:57:00.000-05:00

"So, October sucked. How was your month?"

That's how an early-November post would have begun, had I found the time to complete it. Instead, it's how this mid-January post begins. Allow me to fill you in.

At the beginning of October, just two weeks after my maternity leave ended, the couple with whom Scott and I were sharing a nanny decided to pull out of the arrangement. They did it suddenly, by email, in a decidedly nasty manner. These were people we considered friends. We had gone out to dinner together, had them over for meals, and regularly exchanged friendly comments over facebook. They had shown no signs that anything was wrong. In fact, I don't think that anything was wrong. It appeared that they had come into a large amount of money. Had they simply told us that their circumstances had changed and that they no longer needed to share a nanny, we would have accepted it, wished them well, and used the eight weeks of notice specified in our agreement to make new child-care arrangements. Instead, they coldly and without reasonable explanation announced that they would be terminating the agreement in just four weeks.

In Toronto there is a very long wait for quality day care, especially for children under 18 months of age. We were in a jam. As well, our nanny was blindsided by the announcement that she would soon be out of work. She knew that Scott and I couldn't afford to keep her on our own, and her husband convinced her to avoid future nanny-share situations since this one had proven to be unstable. Those final four weeks of the agreement were extremely uncomfortable for her, as the other couple refused to discuss the issues and their usual cheerful countenance was replaced with a stern, business-like manner. She was hurt and upset by their behaviour, as was I. Various friends and family members suggested egging the other family's house, keying their new car or leaving a burning bag of dog excrement on their doorstep. I realized that, as satisfying as such actions might have been, they were unlikely to solve our dilemma. We would soon be needing affordable child care and our nanny would soon need a job, but our budget couldn't stretch to meet her salary requirements.

Thankfully (we thought), our nanny's requirements shrunk to fit our budget. After about two weeks in limbo, our nanny proposed that she continue to care for Kai, once the nanny-share arrangement was over, at a rate that Scott and I could (just barely) afford. We knew it was going to be tough financially, but Kai loved her to bits and she was excellent with him. We told her that we accepted her proposal and I drew up a contract. Unfortunately, I did not have a chance to give her the contract right away, as Kai became ill and I kept him home with me for a week. (Kai was lethargic, wheezy and inconsolable following a third trip to the ER due to RSV and bronchiolitis.) In spite of the rough time our little family had been experiencing, I was optimistic. I knew that Kai would soon be feeling well again, and I was pleased that he would still have his beloved nanny looking after him once the other family was no longer involved.

Sure enough, by the end of the week Kai was doing much better. I, on the other hand, started the weekend off with what felt like terrible cramps. I had no idea what was causing the pain. As it grew increasingly severe -- worse than labour -- I sent Scott out for Midol and GasX to cover a couple of possibilities. Nothing helped. I finally caved and asked Scott to bring me to an ER. Since I have already made a long story even longer than necessary, I will attach an image of my tweets to summarize the next few days. (For any non-tweeters out there, tweets are posted in reverse chronological order, just like blog posts.)

Yes, that tweet on the bottom is true: On our way to the hospital, we received a text message from our nanny informing us that she had found another job and that she would be moving on once our current nanny-share agreement had ended. It's amazing that I didn't have an aneurism right there and then in addition to my abdominal woes.

After a long wait in the ER I had an ultrasound and was admitted for observation and pain management. A surgeon woke me at two in the morning to say that I was suffering from an atypical hernia. A portion of my intestines was protruding between -- and being suffocated by -- the two halves of my large abdominal muscle. For that reason, it was imperative that I have surgery as soon as it could be scheduled, otherwise that portion of the intestines could die and I would require a bowel resection... or something like that; I was on heavy drugs. All I knew was that my problem was going to be resolved a.s.a.p. (which ended up meaning approximately 17 very long hours later).

The surgeon sliced along my horizontal C-section scar and also made a vertical incision from the centre of the first cut about halfway up to my navel, hence the title of this post. During my recovery some of the stitches tore and copious amounts of orange liquid ran out of the incision, grossing me out so much that I passed out. Once I recovered, I took photos. Would you like to see? Never mind; I would hate to scare off the few people still following this blog.

The morphine was unkind to me. It caused severe paranoia and muddied my thinking. I don't remember many details about my week-long stay in the hospital. What I do recall is:

-I pulled the sheet over my face and pretended to be a corpse while being pushed on a gurney to the O.R., but the porter looked less than amused by my display of poor taste.
-My I.V. pole had one squeaky, wobbly wheel, just like the cart I always end up with when I go grocery shopping.
-My I.V. pump was plugged into an outlet located above the bed next to mine, and I had to unplug it whenever I needed to go for a walk; I can only imagine how frightening it was for the neighbouring patient to see a hand coming through the curtain and pulling a plug near her head.
-There was always chatter and laughter and the rattling of casters in the hallway, and the infuriating beeping of monitors and pumps.

Since Scott still had to work, my parents helped out a great deal with Kai. Very kindly, they brought Kai to see me a couple of days after my surgery. Subsequently I emailed them the following message:

Oct. 20, 8:37 am
After the natural high of seeing Kai last night, I'm in rough shape this morning! I didn't get any pain meds overnight, I had disturbing dreams, my incision has bled a couple of times, my head hurts and I'm running a low-grade fever. I feel like the big bandage was removed too soon and that perhaps I wasn't ready to get up and walk after all. I don't believe the staff permit a patient's progress to go in reverse, however, so I might have no choice but to push myself. At least they can't make me push myself fast.
Bah. Telling the nurse about feeling crummy led her to send in someone to take my blood. Needles: not just for breakfast anymore.
Today's student nurse is Michael, who I could very easily picture excelling at pizza delivery. Don't you have to graduate from high school before you can work in the health-care field?
I'm actually glad that Michael is my student nurse. Some of my roommates have Zora, who appears to believe that all patients are hard of hearing and that punctuation is overrated. HELLO MY NAME IS ZORA IM YOUR NURSE HOW ARE YOU Everything she says sounds like an admonition. ARE YOU PASSING GASES (For shame.)
Michael just came back to ask me a couple of questions he had forgotten. As he did so, the no-nonsense cleaning lady came in with her mop and barked at him to get out of her way. He asked me about my eliminations as he hopped back and forth trying not to get his feet mopped. It's an interesting pecking order around here.
Another nurse just came in, saying that she's working with my (staff) nurse. She drew dots near my incision, saying, "Dot dot dot dot dot dot dot." Okay...

In spite of the pain, the surgery, the mind-warping medication and the fact that I was sharing a room with three other languishing patients and a lot of noisy equipment, I managed to remain lucid enough to make some calls and find Kai a space in a brand-new home day care. He loves it. His former nanny sometimes visits him there on her days off, so I forgive her for her ill-timed quitting-by-text.

For two months post-op I wasn't allowed to lift Kai. You can imagine how tricky it was to obey that. It was important, however, as Kai's weight was likely the cause of my hernia in the first place. After all, I had been carrying him around for most of the week prior to my hospitalization. Scott helped to lessen the trauma of not being able to pick up my own child by giving Kai the physical attention I was unable to provide. Every night he bathed Kai, dressed him in a sleeper and placed him in my arms so that I could give Kai his bottle and let him drift off to sleep. Scott would creep back into the room a while later to put Kai in his crib. In fact, Scott continues to do this, as lifting Kai over the rail of his crib is still painful for me.

So yes, October sucked, but I'm healing well, Kai is happy, we all enjoyed the holidays, and I now enjoy daydreaming about karma taking the form of a flaming bag of dog poo.

Puh-leeeeeeease.

2011-12-19T21:44:00.001-05:00

I don't usually object vehemently every time a group attempts to curtail the behaviour of others to prevent offense (a.k.a. political correctness). I will make an exception for this, especially since it's one of Kai's favourite songs.

Why don't people take intent into consideration before they react? I highly doubt that small children and preschool instructors are thinking to themselves, "I really hope I offend some deaf people with the hand gestures to this song. Muahahahahahahaaaaa!"

Decision 2012, USA

2011-12-09T15:23:00.000-05:00

Jesus Responds to Rick Perry's "Strong" Ad from DC Pierson

How do they do it?

2011-12-07T21:50:00.000-05:00

How do mommybloggers do it? I can't seem to mommy AND blog. I do love to blog to you wonderful people (Hello? Wonderful people? Are you still there?), but mommying, working, being hospitalized and slowly recovering from surgery have kept me very busy. At least I love one of the aforementioned four activities. I'll let you guess which one. Here's a hint:

Nighty-night.

2011-10-09T00:18:00.000-04:00

Each and every night, as I sit in Kai's darkened room and give him a bottle, he falls asleep in my arms. In what is apparently a soothing voice, I slowly speak the same lullaby night after night.

Drink your milk. Fill your tummy with warm, sweet milk. Drink until you're completely satisfied, totally comfortable, utterly content. Drink until you peacefully drift off to sleep in Mommy's loving arms. Once you're fast asleep, deep in dreamland, Mommy will ever so gently lay you down in your crib. That's your safe, secure space, no one else's. There you can sleep soundly through the night and well into the morn, knowing that Mommy and Daddy are always right nearby if there's anything you need, whether it's a smile, a kiss, a hug, a cuddle, some milk... Whatever you need, Mommy and Daddy will be there to give it to you.

Mommy and Daddy waited so long for you. When we found out, after about two years, that you were growing in Mommy's tummy, we were thrilled -- just delighted! -- to know that we were finally going to meet our Baby Kai. We were finally going to be able to hold you, to gaze at you, to listen to you, to make you smile and laugh. We were finally going to be able to feed you, to change you, to cradle you and comfort you. Mommy took such good care of herself while you were in her tummy so that you would be a healthy baby -- and it worked! Mommy and Daddy continue to take excellent care of you. We give you wholesome milk, nutritious food, playtime and nap time, silly time and quiet time, development time and cuddle time, bath time and story time, and lots and lots of love.

You are the best thing that ever happened to us. The best thing that ever happened to us. You are our beautiful boy, the heart of our ohana (family), our dearest keiki (child), our beloved son, our sweet little honu. We love you with all our hearts, and we will love you forever and always. Forever and always.

It's not just Mommy and Daddy who love you. [Here I recite a long list of people, both family and friends, who love Kai.] All of these people want what's best for you. They want you to be well protected, well cared for. They want you to have plenty of opportunity for fun and exploration and adventure -- but in a safe way, because no one wants anything bad to happen to Baby Kai. As much as all of these people love you -- and they love you very much -- no one could love you more than Mommy and Daddy. You mean more to us than anything else in the universe. More than anything else in the universe. We want you to be happy and healthy and safe. Happy and healthy and safe. It would also be wonderful if you could be a good person: someone compassionate and caring, considerate and kind; someone who would never hurt others and who might even defend others against harm. But because we're your mommy and daddy, above all else we want you to be happy and healthy and safe.

So drink your milk. Fill your tummy with warm, sweet milk. Drink until you're completely satisfied, totally comfortable, utterly content. Drink until you peacefully drift off to sleep in Mommy's loving arms...

Between the warm milk and the sheer boredom of listening to Mommy drone on and on, Kai usually falls asleep before I have to start the speech over again. And if he doesn't, I usually fall asleep myself. I have to say that it's a pretty nice way to drift off to dreamland.

One year

2011-09-14T21:58:00.000-04:00

On Friday, Kai turned one year old. I am shocked that a year has passed, amazed and relieved that we survived it. Over the weekend we celebrated with not one but two parties, one mainly for our friends and family here in the city, and another one out of town mostly for Scott's country-dwelling relatives.

In Hawaiian culture, a child's first birthday is celebrated more than his or her birth. This originates from their formerly very high infant mortality rate; making it to a year old was a big deal. In my case, reaching this milestone with Kai is a real accomplishment due to my PPD. Kai may not be Hawaiian, but his first birthday merits a celebration of Hawaiian proportions, so we decided to add a touch of tropical flavour to his first party.

Since Kai is our sweet little honu (sea turtle), Scott and I collaborated on a tiny turtle-shaped cake. (The cake itself was heart shaped; Scott then sculpted the turtle features in icing. Lots and lots of icing.) This was Kai's first taste of refined sugar. What a mess and what a blast!

Some of my earliest days as a mother seemed interminable. In a stark contrast to that period of time, the past six months have flown past. As my baby becomes a toddler, I wanted to make note of some of the things I have learned and experienced since his birth.

I love it when I place my sleeping baby in his crib and he immediately rolls onto his front, puts his hands beneath his tummy, tucks in his knees and sticks his bottom up in the air, still fast asleep.

When I stop rushing through my day and take a moment to reflect on how lucky I am to have Kai, I feel a surge of love for him that is stronger than words can adequately express.

Above all else, I want Kai to be happy, healthy and safe. Secondly, I would love it if he were compassionate, caring and kind. Thirdly, I just really hope that he's not obnoxious.

When I make a decision as a parent and it works out, I feel strong and proud and wise. When I make a decision that doesn't work out so well, I wonder if I will ever stop second-guessing myself.

I learned that babies do not always smell nice. I won't post a photo to illustrate this.

If Kai is not with me, I miss him with a tangible tug in my belly when I think of him -- even if he's just sleeping upstairs in his crib.

This year certainly took its toll on me, but I can say this without a doubt: Kai is the best thing that has ever happened to me.

We've come a long way, Baby Kai, and we've got a long, exciting way to go.

A letter to Canadians from the Honourable Jack Layton

2011-08-27T13:53:00.002-04:00

August 20, 2011
Toronto, Ontario

Dear Friends,

Tens of thousands of Canadians have written to me in recent weeks to wish me well. I want to thank each and every one of you for your thoughtful, inspiring and often beautiful notes, cards and gifts. Your spirit and love have lit up my home, my spirit, and my determination.

Unfortunately my treatment has not worked out as I hoped. So I am giving this letter to my partner Olivia to share with you in the circumstance in which I cannot continue.

I recommend that Hull-Aylmer MP Nycole Turmel continue her work as our interim leader until a permanent successor is elected.

I recommend the party hold a leadership vote as early as possible in the New Year, on approximately the same timelines as in 2003, so that our new leader has ample time to reconsolidate our team, renew our party and our program, and move forward towards the next election.

A few additional thoughts:

To other Canadians who are on journeys to defeat cancer and to live their lives, I say this: please don’t be discouraged that my own journey hasn’t gone as well as I had hoped. You must not lose your own hope. Treatments and therapies have never been better in the face of this disease. You have every reason to be optimistic, determined, and focused on the future. My only other advice is to cherish every moment with those you love at every stage of your journey, as I have done this summer.

To the members of my party: we’ve done remarkable things together in the past eight years. It has been a privilege to lead the New Democratic Party and I am most grateful for your confidence, your support, and the endless hours of volunteer commitment you have devoted to our cause. There will be those who will try to persuade you to give up our cause. But that cause is much bigger than any one leader. Answer them by recommitting with energy and determination to our work. Remember our proud history of social justice, universal health care, public pensions and making sure no one is left behind. Let’s continue to move forward. Let’s demonstrate in everything we do in the four years before us that we are ready to serve our beloved Canada as its next government.

To the members of our parliamentary caucus: I have been privileged to work with each and every one of you. Our caucus meetings were always the highlight of my week. It has been my role to ask a great deal from you. And now I am going to do so again. Canadians will be closely watching you in the months to come. Colleagues, I know you will make the tens of thousands of members of our party proud of you by demonstrating the same seamless teamwork and solidarity that has earned us the confidence of millions of Canadians in the recent election.

To my fellow Quebecers: On May 2nd, you made an historic decision. You decided that the way to replace Canada’s Conservative federal government with something better was by working together in partnership with progressive-minded Canadians across the country. You made the right decision then; it is still the right decision today; and it will be the right decision right through to the next election, when we will succeed, together. You have elected a superb team of New Democrats to Parliament. They are going to be doing remarkable things in the years to come to make this country better for us all.

To young Canadians: All my life I have worked to make things better. Hope and optimism have defined my political career, and I continue to be hopeful and optimistic about Canada. Young people have been a great source of inspiration for me. I have met and talked with so many of you about your dreams, your frustrations, and your ideas for change. More and more, you are engaging in politics because you want to change things for the better. Many of you have placed your trust in our party. As my time in political life draws to a close I want to share with you my belief in your power to change this country and this world. There are great challenges before you, from the overwhelming nature of climate change to the unfairness of an economy that excludes so many from our collective wealth, and the changes necessary to build a more inclusive and generous Canada. I believe in you. Your energy, your vision, your passion for justice are exactly what this country needs today. You need to be at the heart of our economy, our political life, and our plans for the present and the future.

And finally, to all Canadians: Canada is a great country, one of the hopes of the world. We can be a better one – a country of greater equality, justice, and opportunity. We can build a prosperous economy and a society that shares its benefits more fairly. We can look after our seniors. We can offer better futures for our children. We can do our part to save the world’s environment. We can restore our good name in the world. We can do all of these things because we finally have a party system at the national level where there are real choices; where your vote matters; where working for change can actually bring about change. In the months and years to come, New Democrats will put a compelling new alternative to you. My colleagues in our party are an impressive, committed team. Give them a careful hearing; consider the alternatives; and consider that we can be a better, fairer, more equal country by working together. Don’t let them tell you it can’t be done.

My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world.

All my very best,

Jack Layton

July 18, 1950 – August 22, 2011

Drying up

2011-07-27T17:24:00.001-04:00

Pert breasts are said to resemble champagne coupes (as opposed to champagne flutes, which is a good thing; can you imaging shopping for shirts?). As my milk supply dwindles, coupes are not the drinking vessels that come to mind when I look at my chest. A pair of empty wineskins, maybe.

My post-baby body is not as upsetting to me as the fact that I am about to stop lactating. Kai weaned himself several weeks ago. I dealt with it. I was still able to provide him with a bit of breast milk through daily pumping. That is no longer the case. I have been trying unsuccessfully to pinpoint precisely what it is about this that makes me sad.

I have a feeling that this is only the first of many small maternal heartbreaks. Earlier today Kai pulled himself to his feet without assistance for the first time. One of these days he will take his first steps. As any parent knows, it is bittersweet watching one's child moving toward independence. The drying up of my milk, however, is all bitter and no sweet.

It's not about tolerance.

2011-07-02T22:16:00.001-04:00

I had an interesting conversation with an old friend recently. She was complaining that a certain popular TV show (one that I don't happen to watch) had gone overboard with gay-positive messaging. As a result, she had lost interest -- in spite of ostensibly being gay-positive herself. I'm no fan of being beaten over the head with a message either, but my friend's next comment made me wonder if her perspective on the issue wasn't somewhat skewed. "It's about tolerance. If people want tolerance, they should be tolerant of others' points of view, too." I used to think along the same lines: everyone should accept each other's opinions and heck, just get along already. I no longer agree. When it comes to inequality, there is no reason to simply tolerate the opinion of anyone who would deny other people rights that they themselves enjoy. Doing so contributes to oppression.

Happy Pride, everyone. We should ALL be proud of who we are (except for self-righteous douchebags who believe in different rights for different people -- you should be ashamed of yourselves).

Check that one off the bucket list

2011-06-30T22:25:00.008-04:00

The last time I posted about driving was even longer ago than I had thought. That's because I hadn't been doing very much driving. My plan to take my final road test last summer was foiled when I was put on bedrest due to my pregnancy. Between that, the C-section and my PPD, there were several months when I wasn't in any condition to drive. As if I needed additional stress, some months ago I received a notice in the mail informing me that my five-year learner's license was scheduled to expire on June 24th. Shit. If I was going to finish what I had started half a decade ago, I was going to have to pack an awful lot of practice into a very small amount of time. So that's what I did. I shelled out for one last driving lesson, ending up with a very good instructor named Joe. He informed me that my original instructor, Lino, had been fired. Joe inherited all of Lino's students and found that every last one of them was woefully behind where they should have been in terms of the curriculum. (You remember Lino, don't you? You can find links to my previous driving-lesson related posts conveniently packaged in this one post.)

Joe was thorough, he gave me pointers and he gave me confidence. He advised me to book my road test at a particular examination centre rather than the one that I had been planning to use, which had a tricky test route and ruthless examiners. Joe also gave me an outline of the two possible test routes. I took his advice and scheduled my test at the centre he recommended.

With Scott having the car for 12 hours a day and me being busy with Kai's dinner and bedtime routine every evening, I did not have much opportunity to drive. Two days prior to my exam I decided to practice driving on one of the test routes. I ended up getting lost. I nervously swerved around the highway for a while, undoubtedly frightening the drivers around me, until I gave up and found my way home, dejected. The following evening, the night before my road test, I did a fairly decent drive along the route. My confidence was returning.

On my way home I noticed a police cruiser up ahead with someone pulled over. For a law-abiding citizen, I have an odd reaction when I see a police officer: I feel guilty and I panic. This is inconvenient when I'm driving. I tightened my grip on the wheel and forced myself to look past the cruiser. Waaaay past. As I drove southbound through an intersection, studiously averting my eyes from the police car, I wondered what all of the northbound traffic was waiting for. By the time I realized that I was running a red light it was too late. I drove on, breaking out in a sweat and waiting to hear sirens, wondering how I could safely cut across three lanes of traffic to the right when the cops pulled me over. To my surprise, there were no sirens, no cruiser lights. Nary a honk, in fact. I'm sure that there were some astonished drivers shaking their heads at my apparent audacity or oblivion, whichever they believed it to be. Somehow I avoided both a collision and getting caught. That being said, I drove home with my hands shaking and my eyes nervously checking the rearview mirror every few seconds. I pulled into the driveway front-first (no time to fuss around with backing in) and ran into the house, telling Scott that he'd best get the car into the garage before the fuzz spotted it.

It was with these recent experiences under my belt that I drove to the exam centre the following morning. Scott had taken the day off work so that I could have the car, since there's no suitable public transit to the town where he works. As he is seldom a calming or encouraging presence when I drive, I chose to leave him at home. I won't go into the details of my 30-minute road test except to note that the examiner pointed out my mistakes in painstaking detail as I drove. When we returned to the exam centre he hastily instructed me to pull front-first into the nearest parking spot. I had been anticipating being asked to reverse into a spot and wasn't at all in the proper position to drive into one. He seemed eager to get it over with, however, so I did as I was told, ending up pretty much like this:

The examiner tallied my errors and put a check mark in the box next to "Fail." Then he muttered, "Oops, what am I doing," and scratched out the check mark, placing a big fat X in the box next to "Pass." He told me he was concerned about my habit of braking whenever I changed lanes. I told him that yes, it was a problem, but that it beat the heck out of my old habit of braking hard and trying to change lanes at a right angle. He did not seem comforted. Nevertheless, my friends, I passed! It took me bloody long enough, but I finally got my driver's license. I drove home from the exam centre, giddy with delight, and I haven't driven since. I may be licensed, and I may in fact be a more conscientious driver than many people (red-light running notwithstanding), but I'm not convinced that I have any business operating a motor vehicle. That's fine by me and fine by a large number of drivers and pedestrians out there, I'm sure.

Life on the street (Or, Death on the sidewalk)

2011-06-13T10:26:00.004-04:00

Previously I wrote about feral cats in my neighbourhood. My 84-year-old neighbour, Elsie, ended up feeding and sheltering the feral mom, new kitten and one other cat on her front porch. I asked if she knew the gender of the second adult feral. She told me that it was a male and that he was "quite well hung." I kid you not. She was happy to accept the info I offered on a free trap/neuter/release service offered by our local humane society. With her cooperation, I made an appointment for her son to bring in whichever cats they could catch. I am pleased to report that both the mother cat and the kitten were fixed. The humane society kept the kitten in order to arrange for its adoption, but mama cat was returned to her makeshift home on Elsie's porch. The male cat evaded capture and remained at large (and by large apparently I mean large).

Sadly, early one morning last week I found the male cat dead on the sidewalk, possibly having been hit by a car. The city's animal services department had not yet opened for the day, so I donned rubber gloves and carried a box, an old towel and a couple of plastic bags over to the scene of the cat's demise. Normally I don't touch roadkill, I swear, but I didn't want any of the neighbourhood kids to have to see (or step over) the cat on their way to the school up the street. I crouched down and steeled myself to pick up the body, thinking that I would slide my gloved, bagged hands beneath it and gently scoop it into the towel-lined box. The thought of accidentally cradling the corpse against my torso made me change my mind. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, I picked the cat up by the tail and dropped it into the box without looking at it too closely.

[Here I would insert that popular photo of a large sign reading "Free cat" indicating a dead cat on the road, but some might find it distasteful so I am merely including this link to the picture.]

I carried the box back to my yard. There I stood, wearing rubber gloves and holding a box of dead cat, wondering what to do next. It was early in the morning but already the sun was beating down and the humidity was creeping up. I tried to stuff the box under the little bench in my front yard but it would not fit. There was nothing to do but to leave it in the sunshine, which is normally where cats like to lay anyway.

I called the animal services department as soon as it opened at eight o'clock. A woman assured me that a crew would pick up the cat-in-the-box whenever they next happened to be in the area. I spent the rest of the day periodically peeking out my front window at the box. By ten o'clock I was wondering how it smelled out there. By noon I was growing impatient. I felt bad for my letter carrier and hoped that curiosity wouldn't get the better of him. By mid-afternoon I was pretty sure that I could see cartoon stink waves rising from the box. I decided that I wasn't going to open the front door for any reason less urgent than the house catching fire. I busied myself doing everything I could to avoid setting the house on fire while continually checking to see if the damn box was still there. It was. It was. It was. And then, finally, at five o'clock, it wasn't. Hallelujah. Either the folks from animal services had come by or there was a thief out there who was going to be mighty disappointed when he got home and discovered that what he had stolen from my yard was not, in fact, a microwave oven.

That reminds me of another cat-and-cardboard-box-related story. My brother once dumped his cats' dirty litter into the box from his new BBQ. As cat owners know, used litter is quite heavy. Wouldn't you know it, some misguided loser stole the weighty box from in front of my brother's house. This happened years ago but thinking about it still makes me smile.

Good times.

The Not-So-Great Depression

2011-06-08T08:27:00.031-04:00

Now that I am aware that several people I know are battling demons similar to mine, I thought I would push myself to complete this post.

While there is a great deal of stigma about depression, as there is with any mental illness, I have never had much difficulty telling people that I suffer from it. My rationale is that the stigma will fade as more people who come across as "normal" reveal that they are sufferers. Admittedly, I may be doing other depressed people a disservice, since I most likely grossly overestimate how normal I appear. My eccentricities are just part of who I am and not a manifestation of mental illness, but try telling that to the man in the food court to whom I turned and proudly sang, "Tadaaaaaaa!" with a flourish after successfully emptying the contents of my tray into the trash. I thought it was my friend standing next to me, you see, but she had wandered off. Anyway, where was I? Right, depression. I am able to divulge that I suffer from it, but describing it is a completely different matter.

I was first diagnosed over ten years over ago. I suspect that I have actually been experiencing periods of depression since my teens. What is different now is how it has affected more than just my mood. Depression robs me of the ability to concentrate. Whereas I once was über organized, nowadays I rarely leave the house without forgetting something important. I used to read voraciously, but it has been ages since I have found myself truly absorbed in a book. I can't focus on my to-do list sufficiently to get anything to-done. That is a far cry from the girl who kept colour-coded task lists and loved vigorously crossing items out as they were completed. There are papers and photos and flyers strewn about on every flat surface in my home, which is quite a departure for someone who was known for neatly arranging the few items on her desk parallel or perpendicular to each other; the old me wouldn't tolerate any zany 45 degree angles, no way. (Heck, maybe my depression cured an undiagnosed case of OCD.)

Doo dee doo dee doo, dum dee dum dee dum.

Again, where was I? Oh, right, I was talking about depression ruining my ability to focus. Case in point: I began writing this post a couple of weeks ago. You might be thinking, "It's understandable. You're busy looking after your baby," but that's the pathetic part: I'm not. Kai is in someone else's care during the day and I have many hours to myself. I waste those hours. From the moment I say good-bye to Kai in the morning to the time I leave to pick him up, I am at loose ends. Other moms might speculate that I am just exhibiting the typical absent-mindedness of new mothers, but my uncharacteristic flightiness and forgetfulness predates my pregnancy.

What was new about my most recent bout with depression was its intensity and pervasiveness. It was not your garden-variety depression. It was post-partum depression (PPD), and it is by far the most painful experience I have ever endured. Yes, including labour. Between the sleep deprivation and the depression, I was unable to cope. Several months ago I found someone in the area to babysit for four hours every morning to give me a chance to catch up on sleep. When that person, a mom herself, realized that she had to return to her full-time job, she and I decided to pool our funds for childcare. Her one-year-old daughter and Kai now share an attentive, loving nanny, something Scott and I would never have been able to afford on our own. I feel tremendously guilty that I am not spending more of my maternity leave being, well, maternal, but for the sake of my sanity I needed to arrange childcare. Scott works out of town and he is often gone for 11 or 12 hours a day, sometimes longer. That was far too long for me to cope with Kai on my own back when he was prone to lengthy crying jags. Frankly, I was terrified of being left alone with him, not because I thought I would hurt him but because I simply didn't know how to manage. PPD does not infuse one with confidence.

I can handle things better now. I have gained confidence as a mother and I have finally tapped into my maternal instinct. Kai is no longer colicky, he sleeps fairly well at night and he is able to amuse himself for short periods of time. That all being said, I feel as though going through PPD has left me with another dreadful acronym: PTSD. I am realizing as I type this why I am having such a difficult time putting the PPD experience into words: I am afraid that delving into the details rather than speaking in generalities will cause me to relive it. I can't risk that, not when it is still nipping at my heels, not when the cry of a young infant still triggers panic. I will sum it up thusly: It was total hell.

The contrast between the lowest lows and the overwhelming love I was developing for Kai made me feel as though I were being drawn and quartered. I felt trapped. I thought my life was over. I wanted my life to be over. It sounds so silly and melodramatic, but there was nothing silly about it; at times I truly wanted to die to escape the pain.

I had a tremendous amount of help, as I've written about previously, but I still required a long time to begin to recover. I attended a group for PPD sufferers, my doctor increased my dosage of antidepressants, family and friends provided both practical and emotional support. I can't express how thankful I am, as I don't believe I could have survived otherwise.

I also had to do a lot of work myself. Like my other muscles, my brain does not get much exercise, I'm afraid, so I had to put in a great deal of effort to change my perspective. One day I was sitting on the edge of my bed, holding Kai to keep him from fussing, feeling crushed by the weight of overwhelming responsibility. Suddenly it dawned on me that Kai would someday be wriggling out of my grasp rather than wailing for me to pick him up. I realized that I would miss this someday. That was a turning point for me. That was when I began to understand that the saying "This too shall pass" was very true, and that I was missing out on enjoying what might later feel like an all-too-brief period in Kai's life. I began to remind myself of this whenever I felt the pull of the downward spiral again.

Remaining positive has not been an easy task, and I have faltered on many occasions. I know that fresh air and exercise would lift my spirits. As someone whose nature tends toward the hermitical, however, going to pick up Kai is usually the only time I venture outside. One route home from the sitter's house includes a walk through the local cemetery. During the winter this was often the only road that was cleared of snow, and since my neighbourhood is hilly it was the safest path on which to take Kai in his stroller. As beautiful and serene as the cemetery is, I struggled to avoid being further depressed by the headstones. The epitaphs of married couples depressed me, as did my contemplation of the presumably lonely years between one spouse and the other dying. Freshly dug graves depressed me. So did gravestones that had sunk into the ground so that only a corner was visible. Perhaps worst of all was the small section of the cemetery just by the entrance closest to my house: the children's section. Of course I had always found it sad, but now that I was a mom the sight of those tiny plots was almost unbearably heartbreaking.

Finally, as spring approached, I found a reason to look up. The cemetery is home to dozens of species of trees. Gazing at the newly budding branches was far more uplifting than reading headstones and staring at newly turned earth. Outside the cemetery it was the same: looking up lifted my spirits, while looking down discouraged me. With the winter snow gone the ground was littered with old dog crap and trash, but if I looked up I would see clouds and birds instead.

Now I regularly remind myself to look up, not down, even though I'm prone to tripping if I don't watch my step. I hope to encourage others to do the same thing. You can't pull yourself out of depression with positive thinking alone, but you can't recover from it at all without thinking positively. You also can't recover all on your own. Depression is an illness, not a state of mind. Asking for help or sharing your story should not involve a sense of shame.

Out of order

2011-05-05T10:39:00.004-04:00

The subjects of my posts are all out of order these days, which isn't surprising considering the mess my brain has become. First I posted a photo of Kai, then I wrote about his delivery, and now I'll tell you about his conception.

Oh don't worry. I'm not going there, although I am definitely venturing into TMI territory.

Scott told me after only two weeks of dating that he wanted kids. Call me overly cautious, but I like to know a guy for a little while before producing offspring with him. Thankfully Scott didn't mean that he wanted children within the next nine months. Although I was already 30, I needed to take some time to think about it. I took half a decade.

Never having particularly enjoyed the company of children, it was with a sense of reckless abandon that I parted ways with birth control a few years ago. My relationship with Scott was sound enough by this time. My ovaries, apparently, were not so sound. One year passed. Another year passed. Scott and I were giving it the ol' college try. I took my temperature regularly, I kept charts faithfully, I peed on sticks hopefully. Nothing.

I began to accept the notion that we were not going to conceive. My family doctor suggested fertility exploration so nonchalantly that the idea entered my mind as something everyday and ordinary rather than as a huge, life-altering decision. Scott and I thought it was worth a try. Our first appointment led us to ask ourselves if we could trust a specialist -- a supposed fertility expert -- who said "sperms" and "tummy" when discussing pregnancy. We decided to give him a chance.

Scott filled a plastic container with swimmers and took it to a lab. He had little to say about the experience other than to complain about the cost of parking for a two-minute drop-off. I remember very little about my first solo appointment at the fertility clinic aside from the fact that the doctor went on and on about how much better she felt now that she had coffee, as I lay on the examination table with the requisite litre of water in my bladder awaiting a very uncomfortable ultrasound. Several minutes later I considered bitch-slapping her when she poked my chubby belly and remarked that "in cases like this" it was often better if the patient did not drink so much water before the procedure. The experience wasn't all bad. I do recall stifling a chuckle when the evidently new-to-English ultrasound technician pronounced "vagina" the way Borat would. Offensive sound bite:

Scott's lab test revealed that he had "supersperm" (his words, not the lab's). Evidently the problem was with me. Another appointment, another unpleasant and invasive test, and finally it was determined that I had polycystic ovaries. (My ova tended to form very small cysts in the ovary rather than maturing and being released like good little eggs should do.) I agreed to try a medication, although I wasn't thrilled about the possible side-effects. When it began affecting my vision, I stopped taking it. The specialist then prescribed a different medication, one normally used to treat diabetes but also accepted as a treatment for polycystic ovaries. It may or may not have helped. I credit my friend Libby for enlightening me about the true signs of ovulation; she lent me a book that drastically changed the look of my bedside charts. She also gave me a tube of, well, never mind. I won't go into further detail. You're welcome.

At long last, shortly before Christmas of 2009, peeing on a stick resulted in this:

(I didn't know about the brand of pregnancy test that shows a happy face to indicate a positive result, otherwise I would have bought it for kicks.)

I'm really hoping that my mother isn't skimming over this post, seeing the photo above and thinking that Kai is about to have a sibling. Kai is going to remain an only child. I will reserve the tale of my post-partum depression for another post, but suffice it to say that "Out of order" would be an appropriate title for that one, too.

The good news is, Kai is thriving and I'm feeling MUCH better now.

Since I can't seem to get around to writing...

2011-04-29T16:01:00.003-04:00

...I hope that a short video will do for now.

Please excuse Scott's belch and my snort. Poor Kai. Only seven months old and his parents are already proving to be humiliating.

A Word from the Wise

2011-04-08T15:52:00.002-04:00

Canadians are less than a month away from another election, which is expected to cost about $300 million. Although the result of the election will likely be similar to the pathetic set-up we currently have, I think that the election is necessary. "The Harper Government" (formerly and properly known as The Government of Canada) was found in contempt of Parliament, plus it tabled a budget that it knew full well would not satisfy the opposition parties.

Allow me to share the thoughts of someone far more articulate on these matters than I am.

In thinking about what I could do to try to help make a positive difference during this important election, I decided that I could at least communicate my concerns. I hope that you will bear with me in considering my observations as noted below. Feel free to share this with others if you so wish.

Unlike many Canadians (apparently), I believe that this election is very necessary, and critical to the future of our country. The Conservatives claim that they offer leadership and stability. I think it is essential to ask in what direction the leadership wishes to take us, and what principles will guide them in making important decisions on our behalf. In my view the record of the minority Conservative government speaks loudly and clearly that they operate on the basis of principles that are undemocratic and deleterious to the health of our collective society. They also claim fiscal responsibility, which I find ludicrous in the light of their record of turning large surpluses into massive deficits. I believe that five more years of this kind of “leadership” and “fiscal responsibility” would be disastrous.

With the best of intentions for the future health of our democratic country, Dave.

My problems with the Conservatives under Steven Harper

I respect folks who put themselves forward as candidates to represent us in our federal, provincial, and municipal governments. They are willing to sacrifice a great deal of their time and their personal lives to fulfill their democratic responsibilities. So when a candidate knocks on my door, I would like to be able to engage in an open and honest discussion about the needs of our country and its citizens, and about the priorities for expending our collective resources to meet those needs.

I have observed the actions of our current Conservative minority government and I am so disillusioned that I fear I will be unable to be rational when speaking to a Conservative candidate. Thus, I have recorded my difficulties with the current federal government and I plan to hand a copy of the following to our local candidate when he appears at my door. These notes are not in any particular order of priority. Some are more damaging to the concept of democracy and good government than others. Taken as a whole, the cumulative effect is chilling.

· Contempt of our democratic traditions and procedures – refusing to provide information required by our elected representatives. This has led to the vote of non-confidence, which brought down the “Harper Government”, and resulted in this very necessary election.

· Deliberately misleading Canadians whose understanding of civics is sorely lacking – e.g., calling a coalition undemocratic.

· Twisting the truth – claiming that cancellation of the long form census was endorsed by Statistics Canada (this led to the resignation of the head of Statistics Canada in protest); attempting to deflect blame for cancelling federal support for Kairos (a non-denominational charitable organization supporting good work in the Middle East and elsewhere), and then denying responsibility in testimony before a Parliamentary Committee.

· Demonstrating unbridled arrogance – calling our Government of Canada the Harper Government, and using the term on official government documents.

· Accusing the opposition of employing the very deplorable tactics that they themselves use, under the proposition that the best defence is a good offense, and if you are the first accuser people will believe you over the opposition. It’s a defensive tactic that I find very offensive.

· Engaging in character assassination rather than standing for principles - the infamous “attack ads”.

· Using taxpayer money to spread propaganda about their supposed accomplishments – the ubiquitous “Canada’s Economic Action Plan” campaign.

· Punishing civil servants who exercise their responsibilities conscientiously and “speak truth to power” - e.g., the head of the Chalk River Nuclear Reactor who stood up for nuclear safety (doesn’t it seem more important in the light of what has happened in Japan?); attacking the record of Richard Colvin, a conscientious civil servant who told the truth about the Afghan prisoner abuses; firing the Ombudsman for veterans’ affairs who rightly stood up for better treatment of veterans.

· Denying facts that do not support their fixed ideologies – climate change; Afghan prisoner abuse; “tough on crime” agenda in the face of declining crime rates.

· Emphasis on military spending and weaponry, massive spending on prisons, and unnecessary tax cuts for large corporations, as opposed to investment in meeting the needs of ordinary citizens.

· Accusing the opposition of being undemocratic and opportunistic and of playing political games, all behaviours practiced more frequently and more aggressively by the Conservatives.

· Cancelling two of the greatest accomplishments of the previous government, which received the unprecedented support of all ten provinces and all three territories – the National Child Care Plan and the Kelowna Accord.

· Mismanaging the Federal balance sheet – they inherited a $13 billion surplus and turned it into a $56 billion deficit through their ill-advised tax cuts and over spending.

· Holding contempt for international agreements – the Geneva Convention; the Kyoto Accord.

· Using the infamous “ten-percenter” flyers in strategic ridings, twisting the truth to spread innuendo about their opposition, including employing the insinuation that anyone who criticises any action of the state of Israel is anti-Semitic.

· Hiding behind “national security” to suppress information that might be embarrassing to the Conservative Harper Government.

· Disregarding the rights of Canadian citizens abroad, especially of those whose offense is “traveling while Muslim”.

· Ignoring or refusing to honour rulings of the courts.

· So eroding respect for Canada abroad that we were denied a seat on the United Nations Security Council.

· Removing financial support for or interfering with non-profit organizations that take principled stands on matters with which the Conservatives disagree - Kairos, Rights and Democracy.

· Blatantly disregarding the recommendations of the Federal Poverty Reduction Plan produced by an all-party committee of the House of Commons.

· Demonstrating disregard for facts – cancelling the mandatory long form census.

David B. Clemens, April, 2011

Six years ago today...

2011-03-29T22:22:00.007-04:00

...Ferris was born.

One year later I uploaded my first blog post. It was about Ferris.

Ferris is not the smartest dog, or the most obedient dog, or the cleanest dog, or the friendliest dog, or the most athletic dog. That's probably why he's the perfect dog... for me.

Why I won't let sleeping blogs lie

2011-03-18T13:44:00.001-04:00

My dear readers, I have not forsaken you, I have just "friended" most of you on facebook. By the time I find an opportunity to blog about something, it is old news to anyone who has read my facebook status lately. I ask myself who would want to read a long, rambling post when they can get the gist of things in a sentence or two? We're about to find out.

Blogs create a funny sort of relationship. Several of my facebook friends are people I first met through blogging. Some of them have stopped updating their blogs, as I nearly did, but I still keep in touch with them regularly. I sometimes forget that I have never met these fellow bloggers in person. I am closer to them than I am to those facebook friends from high school who weren't actually my friends when we were students. Facebook, too, creates odd relationships.

From time to time I still drop by the long-neglected blogs of people who I never befriended on facebook. I don't know their surnames, their specific locations, or what happened in their lives that led them to abandon their blogs. I keep hoping for a brief post, an "All's well, just busy" or a "Here's a link to my new blog." Instead, I see the same final posts, with no finality in their tone or content. In fact, some speak of new beginnings. One blog's last post features a single wedding photo, another lists a young daughter's first words. My stale comments still follow these posts, and the authors' comments from long ago are still preserved on my blog. It may seem analogous to meeting a friend of a friend, socializing for a while, and eventually losing touch, but there can be far more intimacy in blogging. People share things in blogs that they wouldn't discuss over coffee with a casual acquaintance. Unlike internet dating, where there is pressure to promote only one's best features, bloggers can be raw and open and brave. This allows a deeper connection to grow. In an era characterized by incivility, such a connection is precious. It is for this reason that I continue to visit, every so often, these long-deserted blogs.

Do you see what I mean by "long, rambling post"? One thing I can say concisely: I have met (virtually) a number of terrific people through blogging and I count them as friends in the truest sense of the word.

If I had an idol...

2011-02-01T13:10:00.002-05:00

...it would be Dr. David Suzuki. His foundation is encouraging people to raise funds in honour of David's upcoming 75th birthday. As much as I dislike fund-raising, I thought I would create a page and try to do my small part.

Canucks, your donations are tax deductible. Yankees, your donations will warm the cockles of your hearts. (Incidentally, since I've become a mom, I've discovered that hearts really do have cockles. Kai's smile warms mine all the time. I wish that didn't sound dirty.)

See you in February

2011-01-18T14:45:00.004-05:00

It's been a crazy four months, emotionally and otherwise. I miss blogging, but motherhood is keeping me extremely busy. I hope to resume writing a little more regularly in about a month. In the meantime, here's a recent shot of what has been occupying my time.

A heartwarming Christmas tale

2010-12-21T11:37:00.004-05:00

There is an amiable older woman who lives in my neighbourhood. She always calls out "Hi, doll" or "Hello, dear" if she is on her porch when I pass by. She told me that her daughter asked for a propane detector for Christmas. After I explained what a propane detector was, the woman asked, "What the hell kind of Christmas present is that? If anyone gave me a propane detector for Christmas I'd shoot them." She gives out boxes of chocolate at Christmas. "...and if anyone doesn't like it, they can go jump in the lake -- but give me the chocolates back, first." If she weren't so friendly, I would almost be willing to believe that she was the model for the cartoon Maxine.

If you celebrate holidays this time of year, may you enjoy them to the fullest.

Not exactly as planned

2010-11-06T22:55:00.011-04:00

Finally I am writing about my labour and delivery. Yes, it has taken quite some time. Kai has already grown out of some of his clothing, including the tiny knitted cap that he received at the hospital. People tell me that this time will fly past so I am taking lots of pictures and trying to cherish the beautiful moments. The longest-lasting periods of time are not those moments, however; they are the times when Kai is wailing in the wee hours of the morning and I am weepy from frustration and exhaustion. If Mother Nature has her way, I will soon forget all about the bad times and be eager to give Kai a little brother or sister. I'm not there yet.

As I posted last time, I have been wanting to document my labour and delivery. Much of it was a blur right after it happened. The memories get fuzzier the more time passes and the worse the sleep deprivation becomes. Kai is asleep on my lap right now and, while I should be napping, I don't want to lose my recollection of his day of birth altogether. It is time to write, coherently or otherwise.

After threatening to arrive prematurely and precipitously, Kai changed his mind and decided to stay in the womb so long that labour had to be induced. On September 7, following an internal exam by the on-call doctor at the hospital, a gel was applied to my cervix to start dilation. The doctor happened to be male, and because of this Scott was decidedly uncomfortable. Have you ever seen footage of someone reaching into a cow to help her birth a calf? That was what came to mind every time a doctor or nurse had to give me an internal examination toward the end of my pregnancy. They appeared to be up to their elbows trying to reach my cervix. This was odd, seeing as Kai's head had been pressing on my cervix for the past several weeks and had felt as though it was about to emerge at any moment. At any rate, Scott's discomfort was nothing compared to mine. I put late-pregnancy cervical exams at the bottom of my fun-activities-for-a-rainy-day list.

Because my parents live much closer to the hospital than we do, Scott and I spent the night at their place. The next day I had a 10:30 am appointment to be induced. At 8:00 that morning, I awoke with the realization that the gel had done its job; Scott then awoke to the sound of me saying, "Water broke! Water broke!" while I grabbed tissues and tried to avoid wetting the carpet in my parents' spare bedroom. I was remarkably calm, except for worrying about the carpet. I had read up on the stages of childbirth and knew that my water breaking was not necessarily indicative of the baby's imminent arrival. Mild contractions began at about 8:15 am. I called the maternity ward and they instructed me to come in for my appointment as scheduled. Meanwhile, Scott walked through the kitchen, said good morning to my dad and mentioned that my water had broken. My father's feet barely touched the floor as he raced around getting ready to drive us to the hospital. I reassured my parents that there was no rush, and I took the time to shower and have breakfast.

Once at the hospital, Scott and I had a great deal of waiting in store for us. Most of the patients who had been booked for induction were being sent home, as the department was full of unscheduled labours and deliveries. I would have been sent home too if it weren't for my water having broken. I counted myself as lucky. Eventually I was brought to triage, examined, given a pair of hospital gowns and told to take a hike for a couple of hours. We found a quiet hallway where I paced while Scott timed my contractions. They came as close as three to five minutes apart. I found it difficult to determine when they started and ended, perhaps because they were fairly mild. Over the next several hours I split my time between pacing the halls and laying in a triage bed cringing at the wounded-animal sounds of the labouring women around me. At the time I had to wonder about the apparently low pain tolerance of my fellow patients, as my contractions weren't even bad enough to make me gasp.

I don't recall how my dilation was progressing, if at all, but I do remember that it took many hours and a shift change before I was actually admitted and brought to a labour and delivery room. It seemed that everyone was too busy to look at my chart; I was dismayed at having to tell each new staff member who saw me that my water had broken that morning. I had heard that a woman should not go too long between her water breaking and delivery, as every hour that passed meant an increased risk of infection.

Eleven hours elapsed between the onset of contractions and my first dose of Pitocin to induce labour. I was hooked up to monitors and both Scott and I were given blankets and pillows; it was going to be a long night. My contractions continued uneventfully. Scott and I chatted and I remained in good spirits. I was relieved to be out of the triage room full of drama queens who couldn't handle a few cramps. As punishment for thinking such a nasty thought, I was suddenly hit by a contraction that made my head spin. The Pitocin was working. "I need an epidural," I blurted. Scott left the room to find a nurse. He returned with an angel. Emily was to be my labour and delivery nurse for the remainder of her shift.

Emily called in the anesthesiologist. That was reason enough to love Emily, but her bedside manner sealed the deal. She was terrific. I won't go into detail about the epidural except to say that, due to my scoliosis, it was unpleasant and took two attempts. Scott and Emily kept me calm throughout the process. Once the painkillers kicked in, I was in good spirits again. This is also where my memories become confused. I recall that I began dilating rapidly. Parents visited, monitors were hooked up, Scott and I snoozed occasionally... not necessarily in that order. In fact, "not necessarily in that order" applies to this entire post. At some point we moved from a cramped, last-resort delivery room to a large corner room. I was rolled in on my bed, so the move made little difference to me except to confuse my memories further.

Thanks to the epidural I did not feel any pain, but the baby's heart rate plummeted with every contraction. I recall Emily requesting assistance, calling out what sounded like, "I need help with a bratty!" I was lucid enough to realize that she was talking about bradycardia, a low heart rate. My medication was adjusted repeatedly. The on-call doctor came in from time to time. At one point the baby's heart rate dipped to 40 and I asked how much longer he could tolerate the fluctuations. Although the baby was in distress and labour was not progressing as hoped, the doctor said that she wanted to avoid a C-section if possible. That led to many more hours of labour and additional scary episodes of fetal bradycardia.

Finally, after thirty-one hours of labour and a few attempts at pushing, it was determined that the baby was stuck. In medical terms, the doctors decided to perform a C-section due to "failure to progress and non-reassuring fetal tracing." Baby Kai was born on the afternoon of September 9, 2010. He was healthy, weighed 2950 grams (6 lbs 8 oz) and measured 47 cm long. And with that, life changed forever.

Because I was behind a surgical drape it was several minutes before I saw the baby. Or at least it felt like several minutes. My sense of time was skewed due to the medication. Following the surgery we moved to a recovery room. I thought that perhaps 20 minutes had passed before we invited our families in to meet Kai, but I am told that it was actually a couple of hours. What do I know, I was as high as a kite.

Scott, Kai and I spent the next two days in a private hospital room. "Private" refers only to the number of patients in the room and does not describe our first little while as a family. Nurses came and went at all hours, poking, pricking and medicating. Most were nice, but some were gruff and unpleasant. I noticed this in spite of being on an extended adrenaline rush that had me out of bed and fluttering about long before I should have been so active. Our hospital stay included incidents of incompetence, a great deal of contradictory advice, continually interrupted sleep and a startling amount of bloodshed after I accidentally pulled out my IV. I also found myself in tears off and on, which was to be expected. What I hadn't realized was just how long the tears would continue. But my post-partum depression is a topic for another post. For now, the happy side of things: some more photos of Kai.

Gratitude

2010-10-04T17:31:00.009-04:00

I had hoped to write about my labour and delivery experience and to tell you all about Kai by now, but I have not had the chance to do so. As well, I have not been managing very well emotionally. Eventually I will post about my birth experience and tell you all about Kai as Scott and I get to know him, but right now I want to say thank you.

I would like this post to be well written. Unfortunately, sleep deprivation and baby brain are impairing my ability to form coherent sentences. I doubt that I am capable of fully expressing my gratitude anyway, since my appreciation feels greater than something that can be captured in words.

Many people have been tremendously supportive while I simultaneously grow accustomed to motherhood and battle depression, but this post is dedicated to one person in particular, someone who knows firsthand what I am going through: my mother. My mother looked after me (and the entire household) during my two months of bed rest. She has now taken an unpaid leave of absence from work to aid me in coping with these first weeks with Kai. The practical help she provides includes meal planning, cooking, shopping, washing dishes, walking the dogs, stooping and scooping, sifting litter boxes, laundry, dusting, sweeping, vacuuming and baby care. The emotional support and encouragement that she gives me are invaluable. Since she usually stays over at our house, my mother is subjecting herself to nights of little sleep in order to give me precious hours of slumber. I fear that she is reliving her own post-partum depression to help me get through mine. She does this all without complaining.

As my mother has done all my life, she is demonstrating how to be a mom: loving unconditionally, sacrificing selflessly, being compassionate, sharing wisdom. Kai is lucky to have such an amazing Nana, and I am blessed to have an unbelievably supportive mother.

Thank you, Mom, for standing by me. If I am able to adopt even a fraction of what you have shown me, Kai will be okay.

Introducing baby Kai, born Sept. 9, 2010

2010-09-13T15:23:00.002-04:00

Today's the day!

2010-09-07T11:44:00.001-04:00

Or perhaps tomorrow. Or Thursday. Surely before Friday (she wrote hopefully). Since neither my body nor my baby seem to want to move things along, I am heading to the hospital this afternoon for part one of the induction process. If that doesn't get things going, part two will take place tomorrow morning. A C-section is also a possibility. I'm not thrilled about any of this, having expected the baby to arrive spontaneously some time ago, but I am pleased that he has had the chance to grow to a healthy size.

So, dear readers, the next time I post I should have baby pictures and perhaps even a name to share. Wish me luck!

Clarification

2010-08-19T16:39:00.002-04:00

The two-placenta thing had a lot of people saying, "Whaaaa?" Well, according to my OB, what I really have is a single placenta with two lobes. This differs from the ultrasound tech's explanation. All I know is that I'll have to make sure that the entire mess is expelled following childbirth. Then we'll see what exactly was in there (aside from the baby). My apologies if this is causing readers to visualize things they would rather not visualize; I've read so many gritty details about labour and delivery that my grossness gauge is broken.

The photo that I used in my last post is also my current Facebook profile pic. Not to be outdone, Scott took a new profile pic of himself, too. Both are posted below. Isn't it wonderful that I inspire him so?

How's this for weird?

2010-08-07T14:44:00.006-04:00

I have not one but two placentas. The ultrasound technologist who informed me of this was nonchalant about it and said that it isn't uncommon, but I had never heard of such a thing. There wasn't much information online aside from forum posts by people who sound as surprised as I am. I'll have to ask my OB about it. In the meantime, tests show that the baby is doing well. If he can just stay put for another week, he'll be considered full term. Yay!

Do these placentas make me look fat?

This just in...

2010-07-25T20:25:00.018-04:00

Happy happy joy joy! I have some great kitten news. Subsequent to my post about the feral felines, we learned that the furry family had relocated to our other next door neighbours' yard. Initially the animals hid in a shed at the back of the property. Since the neighbours were willing to look after them for a while, we handed over the remainder of our canned cat food. Over time the kittens grew accustomed to the neighbours feeding them and they began to explore the yard, eventually hanging out on a pile of cinderblocks close to the house. The neighbours sought our advice on what to do with the critters. Since I was on bed rest by this time, I wrote out some information on shelters and a cat rescue and lent the neighbours a pet carrier. This morning the neighbours managed to gather all five kittens in the carrier and brought them to the cat rescue. They will now receive much-needed veterinary care before being placed for adoption.

I'm not sure how Scott did it, but several days ago he managed to snap a shot of most of the family perched on the cinderblocks, and not a single one is hissing, not even the mom.

Momma cat is still around and as nasty as ever. I don't know if the neighbours are planning to try to catch her, too, but it would be wonderful if she could be spayed, at the very least.

P.S. On an unrelated note, I had tests at the hospital on Friday and learned that the baby is now 2 mm closer to making his exit.

1.3 cm

2010-07-20T18:11:00.012-04:00

1.3 cm.* That is the distance between my baby and the, uh, exit of my womb. (I'm being uncharacteristically delicate here, but for some readers (hi Dad!) terms like "shortened cervix" and "pre-term labour" might be too much.) Anyhow, I'm extremely displeased to report that I am now on bed rest for the remainder of my pregnancy. No working, no walking, no standing. I do have regular appointments with my OB and weekly tests at the hospital, so I am able to get out occasionally. Who'd have thought that I would look forward to medical appointments so much?

*0.5 inches, for my American readers

The scary news began after I reminded my OB that she had meant to be monitoring my possibly "incompetent" cervix. She referred me for an ultrasound in my 30th week. As I mentioned in my last post, the images showed that I was already starting to dilate. (Sorry, Dad.) Consequently, my OB instructed me to avoid any type of exertion, including the Aquafit course I was about to begin. I tried to take it easy and I withdrew from the course, although I didn't believe that "Aquafit" and "exertion" belonged in the same sentence.

When I saw my OB at week 32 I again inquired about an ultrasound. She scheduled one for the following week. I did not have an appointment with my OB on the day of my ultrasound, and I knew something was wrong when the technologist sent me to see her immediately afterward. My OB walked into the examination room flanked by two medical students and bluntly stated that I was on bed rest effective immediately. Tears sprang to my eyes. I was not ready to leave work. I was not prepared to rely on others for things. I did not want to be sentenced to house arrest -- worse, even: couch arrest. The alternative, however, was bed rest in the hospital, and I definitely didn't want that.

I wasn't permitted to take public transit, so I took a taxi to my parents' house, which is far closer to the doctor's office than my own home. I lay down on the sofa feeling positively miserable. I was completely thrown off by the doctor's orders and could not believe that I would be unable to wrap things up at work prior to maternity leave, or to help prepare our house for the baby's arrival.

Originally I had cursed the fact that I would be gigantically pregnant during the heat of July and August, but it turned out to be fortuitous timing. My mother is off for the summer. Since my order of bed rest, she has faithfully been making the one-hour trip to my house by public transit almost every day to ensure that I stay off my feet while she cooks, cleans, keeps me company and minimizes the additional work that Scott is left with due to my condition. As well as working full time, Scott is also toiling away on weekends along with his dad, my dad and others to complete the nursery and bedroom renovations. When Scott's dad comes into the city to help, Scott's mom will usually accompany him, giving my mom a much-needed break from looking after me.

To some, the idea of bed rest may be appealing. The reality of bed rest, however, is truly frustrating. I feel terribly guilty that everyone else is having to work extra hard because I can't work at all. I am overwhelmed with gratefulness for the generous efforts of my family and friends during this time, and I know that there is no way to thank them -- other than to obey the doctor's orders and to incubate my little one as long as possible.

I had my first hospital appointment last Friday, at which time the baby and I underwent a biophysical profile (BPP) and a nonstress test. The latter test showed mild cramping but was otherwise normal. I was relieved to learn that the baby is doing well, scoring eight out of eight on the BPP. That being said, at just short of 34 weeks it's still too early for him to emerge.

Another piece of good news is that the baby has been head-down for a while. Although his head pushing on my cervix is half of the problem, the vertex position beats breech any day. I am unable to attend prenatal classes, so I have desperately been reading and re-reading the labour and delivery section of a pregnancy manual to prepare myself for the big event. One chapter included diagrams of various birth presentations, including this one, the footling:

OMG, right?
Horrifying. I can't imagine that being a pleasant birth for mother or child. As uncomfortable as it is having my son's feet sticking up between my ribs, I'd prefer that to having his feet sticking out. (You okay, Dad?)

Now that I'm at home 24 hours a day, one thing I have time for is reading the daily digests that I receive from various baby-related magazines. Two of the more recent articles were entitled Why You Really Do Need Childbirth Classes, and Staying Home: Are You Ready? My responses are Rub it in, jerseholes, and Am I ready? It's not like I have a choice. No, I may not have a choice, but I do have a great deal of support. And with only 1.3 cm between my baby and his exit route, I need it.

Ferals and frights

2010-06-25T22:06:00.011-04:00

A week ago my next-door neighbours mentioned that a stray cat and her five young kittens had taken up residence in their back yard and that they didn't know what to do. Fearing that they might resort to the burlap-bag-full-of-stones option, I promised to take care of the situation if they would give me some time. I placed an open pet carrier several feet from the cats. Twice a day, I brought food and water to the feline family in an attempt to gain their trust. The mother cat was decidedly hostile but undeniably ravenous, and she would gobble up whatever food I tossed to her. Her kittens, though standoffish, were willing to come out of hiding for tuna. Since the mother cat appeared to be a Scottish Fold, I figured that someone had paid good money for her and could very well be looking for her. Unfortunately, I couldn't find any postings about her on the local lost-and-found sites. I placed my own notices but had no replies.

A typical Scottish Fold

Being pregnant, I know it's more important than ever to avoid potentially germy things such as stray cats. After several days of bringing sustenance to the brood, the mother cat stopped hissing long enough to emerge from her hiding place as I filled her water bowl. I thought that I was making progress but I had no plans to touch her. She had her own plans, which involved marching up to me, scratching me and quickly retreating. I began to understand why no one was looking for her.

Earlier this week I was distracted from my feral-feeding duties after getting some frightening ultrasound results. (TMI alert here, folks.) At just 30 weeks of pregnancy, I am already starting to dilate. My obstetrician instructed me to avoid anything requiring exertion -- even the Aquafit course I recently registered for in a sad attempt to introduce exercise into my sedentary lifestyle. The doctor also made appointments for me at the hospital to receive Celestone injections to help the baby's lungs develop more quickly in case he makes an early appearance. Following yesterday's shot, I noticed no movement from the baby all day and just a few weak kicks in the evening. When I awoke this morning and still felt no movement, I proceeded to the hospital two hours before my appointment. By the time I was in Maternal Triage I was also in tears, fearing the worst.

In a hospital gown, laying on a bed with a fetal heart monitor strapped to my belly, I heard the most wonderful sound a paranoid expectant mother can hear: the rapid kaTHUMP kaTHUMP kaTHUMP of a healthy baby's heart. The on-call doctor then performed an ultrasound to show me that the baby was indeed moving, although I still couldn't feel anything. I had my second and final Celestone injection and went on my greatly relieved way, anxious to phone Scott with the good news. Well, the mostly good news. I wasn't thrilled to learn that, if I should go into labour early, there will be no attempt to stop it, as the baby has a "90-95%" chance of survival at this stage. I worry about his health if he is born prematurely, but all I can do is to take it easy, as per the doctor's orders.

Having had the distraction of the baby fright, I missed two visits with the felines next door. Scott and I bought a case of canned cat food this evening only to discover that the brood has moved on, leaving an empty plate, empty bowl and empty pet carrier. My great happiness from the morning's reassuring hospital visit was tempered by the sadness of knowing that I was unable to rescue the cats from joining the already large population of feral cats in our area. Priorities change when one is pregnant, and I certainly had to put my unborn baby's welfare above all else, but that doesn't prevent me from feeling like I let down the little ones next door.

Twelve weeks

2010-06-13T16:02:00.009-04:00

It's hard to believe that I have only posted a few times about my pregnancy, and now here I am with just twelve weeks left until my due date. For anyone who is interested, here are a few facts about my expecting experience to this point:

-morning (all-day) sickness sucks, but it ends;
-bending down takes preparation, and standing up again often requires assistance;
-my body will never be the same, but that's okay since it wasn't all that great to begin with;
-I'm amazed at the strength of my backaches, and at my obstetrician's reaction when I reported them to her ("Well, it's only going to get worse");
-friends with little ones have been incredibly generous with hand-me-downs;
-the baby now kicks so hard he can move my laptop when I carelessly rest it on my belly;
-I'm going to miss the kicks, rolls and flutters once the little guy is born.

This isn't a very inspired post and I apologize, but it's hard to concentrate with sawing and drilling going on overhead. Did I mention that our bedroom and nursery have been completely gutted? Again, there are just twelve weeks left before my due date. Uh-huh. Scott and I owe huge thanks to my dad, brother and our friend Martin for taking care of the demolition while we were away on our babymoon. It was a hot, filthy, back-breaking job.

The nursery

Scott and his dad have been slaving away for the past few weekends to frame the new walls and repair the roof and floors. They assure me that there will be a ceiling at some point as well. We've hired or are in the process of hiring an electrician, a window installer, a mason, a spray-foam insulator and a flooring refinisher. Once they have all completed their work, it will be time for drywall and paint. As hard as Scott and his dad are working, I have expressed my doubts about our ability to have both rooms completed in time for the baby's arrival. My mother reminded me that Jehovah's Witnesses can build a Kingdom Hall in six days. Perhaps the next time the Witnesses knock at my door I'll invite them in to help with the renos. I might seek out some Amish folks while I'm at it, as they only take one or two days to raise an entire barn. Maybe it has something to do with faith; it could be the fact that Scott is an atheist and I'm a Humanist that makes our renovation projects take so long.

Mrs. Hughes

2010-05-27T12:34:00.000-04:00

Now that I am about to have a child of my own, I found the video below particularly relevant. Enjoy.

Babymoon

2010-05-16T00:01:00.059-04:00

Scott and I are very fortunate. We have each other, amazing family and friends, a lovable menagerie of pets and a baby on the way. We also managed to save enough money for a babymoon to Maui. We were engaged off the coast of Maui just over two years ago. That first Hawaiian trip was courtesy of Scott's parents, who booked the family cruise in celebration of their 40th wedding anniversary. To be honest, Scott and I never thought we would see Hawaii again, believing that it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. With the inevitable expenses of parenthood fast approaching, we knew that taking a big trip might not be the most financially prudent choice. Still, more than one person (parents themselves) told us that we should take advantage of this last period of time as just a couple. The travel industry and numerous pregnancy-related articles tempted us with the babymoon concept. Once we discovered that it was, surprisingly, possible to visit Maui on a budget, our minds were made up.

For this trip we wanted to do activities that we hadn't done the last time -- and activities that were safe to do while pregnant. We took a tour of the road to Hana, with its more than 600 curves and 46 one-lane bridges. We enjoyed several stops along the way. The economy in Hawaii is suffering right now, and many residents make a living selling goods at roadside stands. I couldn't resist picking up some macadamia-nut brittle for my parents at one such stop. I also gathered a few pieces of coral. Visitors are not supposed to remove lava rock or sand from the islands, but coral is permitted.

Part of our tour to Hana included exploring inside a lava tube. One type of hardened lava resembled chocolate. It felt like being in a scene from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Hana is known for its black-sand beach, where we dipped our feet in the Pacific waters.

Beaches come in a variety of colours on Maui.

Hawaii is astonishingly verdant for a place that has very little dirt. Plants, both native and imported, manage to flourish growing on rock. We spotted several of these little ones sprouting right out of the sand.

Wind, wing and water are the vehicles by which plants originally arrived in Hawaii. The coconut trees you see on the rock in the distance were planted by a handful of armed-forces members who swam out on a lark many years ago.

Everywhere we looked we saw plants in countless shades of green, and blooms ranging from delicately tiny to lusciously huge.

Normally I would think that our loudly-patterned clothing was out of place in such a beautiful setting, but then again, Hawaii is the home of aloha shirts. And yes, Hawaiians -- not just tourists -- do wear aloha shirts. Our tour guide informed us that there is no such thing as formal wear in Hawaii. Scott and I caught footage of some sort of city or county council meeting on TV while we were there, and most of the politicians were in aloha shirts or T-shirts.

I don't know why, but my baby bump was showing a lot in Hawaii. Scott swears that it shrank once we returned home. Anyway, here it is upstaging a waterfall.

One of the most spectacular things that we saw on our trip was this type of tree, the rainbow eucalyptus.

There are many chickens running free in Hawaii. According to our tour guide, this is the result of chicken coops being broken open during a tsunami years ago. Since there are no snakes in the state, the chickens' only natural predator is the mongoose. Our tour guide made a special stop to call the birds ("Heeeeeeere chickie chickie chickie!") and give them a snack.

While on our tour to Hana we drove through Paia, a hippie town that is home to Willie Nelson. Apparently Willie sometimes plays waiter at his favourite local restaurant, Charleys, just to see the patrons' reactions. Speaking of hippies, we saw several of them on the side of the road trying to thumb a ride. Our tour guide claimed that many of them live in the jungle and have lice, so it's best not to stop for hitchhikers unless you have a pick-up truck. I took that with a grain of salt, although I noticed that he didn't stop to feed any hippies.

Not realizing quite how small Maui was, I had us staying in three different hotels during our one-week vacation so that we could explore different areas. Our first hotel was a modest place on the shore close to the Kahului airport.

On our way out of Kahului, we stopped at K-Mart to pick up a cheap back-pack, as we knew that there would not be sufficient space in our luggage for souvenirs. If Scott had any doubt that Hawaii was paradise, it disappeared the moment he discovered the liquor aisle.

I was less impressed with K-Mart when I discovered a bathmat that, sadly, closely resembles my Hawaii-inspired tattoo.

Following our sightseeing at K-Mart, we explored Kihei and Wailea. We shopped, strolled and swam in the ocean. Later we enjoyed dinner overlooking a sunset-lit beach.

Our next stop was Lahaina, where we stayed in a historic plantation-style inn right on the wharf.

Our outdoor space would have been far more enjoyable had it not been for the fact that most of the occupants of the non-smoking rooms on our floor were happily puffing away on their own balconies. Even Scott picked up a Hula Girl cigar to enjoy in the formerly fresh air.

Our room overlooked the famous old banyan tree, which occupies an entire park.

On the weekend artisans set up tables in the park to sell their creations.

On our second day in Lahaina, we took the short drive to Ma'alaea Harbor to visit the Maui Ocean Center. (As a Canadian, it was a struggle to type that last sentence with the American spellings of "harbour" and "centre.") The aquarium was a treat.

We moved on to Ka'anapali for the duration of our trip. Since we had a few hours before it was time to check in to our third and final hotel, we decided to drive up the coast and check out the sights on the north end of the island. The next eight photos provide a glimpse of the beauty that we observed.

Thanks to a friend with connections, we had a great rate at our last hotel, which was actually a resort and spa featuring fully equipped villas.

We bought some kabobs at one of the resort's markets and Scott put his BBQing skills to work.

On our last night in Maui, I surprised Scott with reservations for "date night" at a fondue restaurant. The ambiance was as romantic as expected and the service was impeccable. When I had originally phoned for reservations, a staff member had asked me what we were celebrating. I had told her that we were expecting. At the end of our meal, the waiter dropped off a congratulatory card signed by the staff. Nice touch!

After dinner I was almost too full to move, so I lay in our room like a beached whale while Scott roamed the resort to take a few final photos. He spied this little fellow in the grass below our room.

When I was mobile again, I waddled out to the balcony and called down to Scott. He took a photo of me and immediately dropped the camera, so this is the end of our vacation album.

The end.

I've just about given up...

2010-05-02T15:56:00.003-04:00

...on my lawn, which the dogs have taken from this to this:

...but I'm not quite ready to look into "air raiding."

Save yourself -- avoid me.

2010-04-27T16:31:00.012-04:00

If it's dangerous to be nicknamed Calamity, it's equally dangerous to be in close proximity to someone who is nicknamed Calamity. My poor little fetus became a real "bouncing" baby boy last week when I took a tumble and landed flat on my stomach. (Is it possible to land flat on something round?) I had been strolling down the street when my foot slipped off the curb and I couldn't catch myself. The sidewalk caught me instead. Here, have a look at my knee one week later:

Pay no mind to my Happy Bunny pajamas.

Normally I'm inclined to blame my accidents on my own clumsiness, but I think I'll blame this one on
a) my new haircut,
b) my new centre of gravity,
c) the sidewalk being narrower than I remembered.

The last two are self-explanatory, but you might be curious about the first one. See, I had a foot chopped off again, which means that my normally long, flat, heavy hair now has some body to it and is so short that it often flops in my face and impairs my peripheral vision. You know, the vision that would have warned me that I was too close to the curb. Evidently I would make a lousy sheepdog.

Thankfully, a few days ago I felt the baby move for the first time, so he must be okay. Scott figures that the little guy is kicking me because he's mad at me for falling. If the kid has a temper like that already, we're in big trouble. At any rate, it feels more like rolling than kicking. I think we've got a couple more months before we see the outline of feet sticking out of my belly or I feel toes jammed up into my ribcage.

So, the baby is fine, but not everyone is. I've got yet another infection lodged firmly in my tonsils, Scott is recovering from surgery and both dogs have been suffering from skin issues over the past few weeks. Here's Montana after gnawing at what was either a hot spot or a dog bite:

And here we have Ferris, who was busy developing hot spots while I was preoccupied looking after Scott post-surgery:

What's that? You hadn't known about Scott's surgery? He had his stones removed. His pair of kidney stones, that is. I'd go into detail, but it was pretty much the same experience as last time, except that on this occasion I didn't feed Scott hot water, nor did I rip off quite as much of his skin. Interestingly, both his current and past surgeries took place at about the same time as we were paying over $600 for Ferris' health issues. At least Scott's medical treatment is fully covered by universal health care.

My son. My son. My son.

2010-04-18T23:19:00.002-04:00

It sounds so strange to say it.

According to the latest ultrasound, Scott and I are going to have a baby boy. That's what the vast majority of people had been predicting. After we received the results, Scott said he had figured that the baby was male because "he looks like a boy." That's better than when he thought the baby resembled a duck.

It's exciting to see the little guy moving about, yawning and stretching on the screen when I have an ultrasound. At halfway through the pregnancy I still don't feel any movement, but I'm poking at my belly daily just in case. With the nausea behind me and nothing but an expanding tummy to remind me that I'm expecting, I've been eager for something to make this seem more "real." Somehow the piles of second-hand maternity clothing and baby items in my house haven't convinced me that there truly is a baby on the way. You'd think that the occasional emotional outburst or near anxiety attack would be clues. Apparently I'll have to find myself at home, alone, with a wailing infant in my arms before I get the full sense of forever (also known as What in tarnation have I got myself into?!).

Speaking of alive and not (yet) kicking...

2010-03-20T13:38:00.007-04:00

...in my last post I mentioned that changes to my job have robbed me of almost all of my creativity, but to be honest, I'm creating on a daily basis. Why, I recently made ears. And genitals, too, although I don't know what kind. That's right, dear readers, as scary as it may seem, Scott and I are becoming parents. At 16 weeks along, it's too early for me to feel any fetal movement, but we did hear the heartbeat recently and we have seen the little cutie via ultrasound. My clothes are getting tight, I've been puking for weeks and I can't take much medication for the wretched cold that I'm suffering, but I'm told that it's all worth it. Oh, I'm a bit moody, too. When I was just two months pregnant Scott remarked that I was "showing" already. I nearly killed my child's father.

Since I work in the child welfare industry (although not with children), I read and hear about dreadful parenting every day. When I listen to friends talk about their kids, I realize that there are also plenty of supermoms out there. As unsure of myself as I am, I can only expect to be somewhere in between. Let's hope that I'm up to this task, because I'm told that it's the hardest job I'll ever have.

Scott thinks s/he resembles Howard the Duck

Alive, if not kicking

2010-03-18T22:27:00.000-04:00

It's been a while. Again. A long while. Has Facebook killed the blog? Rather, has Facebook killed my blog? Now that I have befriended (excuse me, "friended") many of my loyal blog readers on Facebook, my attention to blogs in general has waned. It could be due to the fact that I now can see how most of my favourite bloggers are doing just by reading their Facebook status updates. Or perhaps it is because Scott and I, sadly, have both become hooked on playing Mafia Wars and we are constantly ~~wrestling over~~ negotiating computer time. It might also be the winter blues that have been plaguing me over the past few months. Or it could be that recent changes to my job description have turned me from a writer into a redacting robot, robbing me of almost all creativity and inspiration. I plan to correct my errant blogging ways, I'm just not sure when. Stay tuned, if you're so inclined.

Damages: The cost of unconditional love

2010-02-20T19:31:00.003-05:00

Oooooo, sounds ominous, doesn't it? Fear not; I'm merely talking about damage to inanimate objects, and the unconditional love that some of us have for our pets.

Puppies chew things. Cats scratch things. Every pet owner knows this. As long as one has lots of appropriate toys and scratching posts around, there shouldn't be a problem, right? If you enthusiastically replied, "Right!" well, I hate to say it, but you're awfully naive.

When Ferris was just a pup, he chose some odd things to sink his teeth into, such as our floor,

our baseboard,

our newel post,

and even our wall.

Ferris' claws have been almost as destructive as his teeth. He sleeps on the second-floor landing at night, and this is what the baseboard looks like where he rests his feet.

Montana hasn't been completely innocent, either. He races around and skids across the floor, which has wreaked havoc on the finish.

Speaking of the floor, both dogs have a habit of leaving their water dish with their mouths half-full and dribbling, drenching the floor as they walk away. No matter how large a plastic mat we place on the floor to catch the spillage, the hardwood gets soaked and has begun to rot.

And then we have the cats. We suspect that it is Trooper who has been sharpening his claws on the corner of a plaster wall.

Trooper also took a liking to the wooden stringer on our old basement stairs.

Now that our basement renovations are almost complete, we aren't sure how we're going to keep Trooper away from our fresh new wood staircase. Scott and I find declawing cats to be cruel, so we might just have to amputate Trooper's feet. While we're at it, we might chop off Cayman's feet, too, since he has learned from Trooper that the posts on our four-poster bed are just as good as any scratching post.

I give the cats very loud heck if I ever catch them in the act, and they respond by dashing under the bed to hide. If I ever had any illusions that they were crouching there in shame, thinking about the naughty thing they just did, those illusions were dispelled the first time I looked under the bed and discovered what they had done to the bottom of our boxspring.

All this damage, not a lick of remorse (even from the dogs!)... and yet we love these guys anyway. It makes me wonder what is wrong with us.

Why no, I don't feel guilty at all. Why do you ask?

The newest Nooglet

2010-01-02T14:51:00.008-05:00

A belated happy holidays to one and all. I'm not sure where my blogging muse went, but I'm sure that she apologizes for my absence.

If any of my long-time readers are still out there, you may remember me mentioning the Noogles once or twice or thrice. The team nickname is taken from the official name, No Glove, No Love. (The name makes great sense when the team plays softball, and no sense when we play floor hockey.)

Click to enlarge

No Glove, No Love is a misnomer, since seven of the players pictured above have become parents since the photo was taken over three years ago. The newest little Nooglet (baby Noogle) was born early this morning. Although his arrival was a few weeks earlier than expected, mommy and baby are doing well. This good news makes me feel thus:

Congratulations to Libby and Martin!

By the seat of my pants

2009-12-10T23:55:00.000-05:00

By nature, I am not a risk taker. I am an overly cautious, neurotically prepared worrywart. That said, contrary to my usual character, I occasionally find myself flying by the increasingly large seat of my pants. It's not a conscious decision; somehow I simply forget my usual hypervigilance and wing it.

Take driving. I'm still a novice, or a n00b as the kids call it nowadays. Now that I've got the whole gas pedal versus brake pedal thing down pat, however, I've really relaxed. This is in spite of the fact that the extent of my practicing is a 30-minute drive to or from my parents' house once every couple of weeks. The same route, over and over again. I could do it in my sleep. Sometimes I nearly do. Yes, I've become that relaxed.

I remember my mother trying to get me to relax when I was a stressed-out high-school student. She would ask me what was the worst thing that could happen if I didn't finish cramming for a test, and she even suggested that I might try taking a test without studying at all just to see how I would do. It must have been hard for her to witness my anxiety attacks whenever I felt that the amount of studying I had to do far exceeded the amount of time in which I had to complete it. And yet, there was that one time in university when I quite enjoyed taking an exam for which I had not studied.

I once risked very public embarrassment by failing to prepare. I had a bit part in the play "Rebel Without A Cause" in high school. Even if you've seen the movie a few times, you are still unlikely to remember that the role of the planetarium lecturer ("There was a planetarium lecturer?" you're thinking) was played by a man of about 60. Uh-huh. I had tried out for Natalie Wood's role but instead I won the role originally portrayed by a man born in the late 1800s. At the time I had no idea what a terrible actor I was. Anyhow, I was also assigned the part of understudy to the main female character. I had never heard of an understudy for an amateur high-school production. Much later it dawned on me that the two drama club teachers were simply being kind to me. They both had cougar crushes on my brother, who was also in the drama club, and I suspect that they wanted to curry favour with him by pretending that his little sister hadn't completely sucked during the auditions.

Rachel Stroud. I believe that was the name of the girl who played Natalie Wood's role in our high-school play. Thank goodness she didn't lose her voice or break a bone or find herself otherwise unable to perform, because I never bothered to learn her lines. I have no idea why.

Me, in my planetarium lecturer finery, bottom right.

I'm going to live dangerously now and post this without proofreading it a third time.

A lack of interests

2009-11-15T10:06:00.006-05:00

All my life I have suffered from a lack of interests (plural). Oh, I had a couple of passions for a while, namely volunteering and fostering animals. However, after I was hired by the organization for which I had volunteered, and after I adopted my foster pets, my passions became my day-to-day reality. That's nothing to complain about, of course, but I have been feeling the need to replace those passions and my lack of interests has made that next to impossible.

Many people have more interests than they can count. Some of those interests are simple, quiet hobbies, while others involve travel and adventure. None of these myriad pastimes appeals to me. I don't want to cook, knit, play chess or partake in physical exercise, grueling or otherwise. I do enjoy a good book, but reading is what I do on the bus to and from work every day; reading in the comfort of my own home just puts me to sleep. I feel as though I've surfed the entire world wide web twice over. I don't have the money for expensive courses or trips, and even if I did I'm not sure that I would have the desire to sign up. So little piques my interest.

So, dear readers, what shall I do with my two-week vacation, which begins tomorrow? Scott will still be working, so I'm on my own. I won't even have the pleasures of sleeping in and relaxing in front of the TV, as we have men arriving early each morning with jackhammers, a radio and tone-deaf singing voices. (We are undergoing the noisy, dusty process of waterproofing and underpinning the basement. Oh joy.) I welcome your suggestions. I'm just so bored of being bored.

One year plus a day

2009-10-26T21:22:00.016-04:00

No, that's not a jail sentence, it's how long Scott and I have been married. What a joy it was to be able to enjoy the autumn colours this year without fearing that the leaves would fall too soon. Scott and I celebrated our anniversary yesterday by taking the dogs to the conservation centre where we were wed. It was a beautiful day.

After our walk we went out to dinner, then came home to champagne and to wedding cake that we had frozen. Apparently it is traditional to save a bit of wedding cake to eat on one's first anniversary. We got that part of the tradition right. It is also traditional to give paper as a first-anniversary gift. Ironically, Scott and I sent each other e-cards. Hey, it fits with our green wedding.

Thanks to everyone who helped us to commemorate our special day!

Street View

2009-10-12T14:11:00.008-04:00

When Google Maps' Street View feature was launched in my area a few days ago, my very first thought was "Cool!" My second thought was "Creepy!" Then I saw the poorly-stitched Street View image below and thought, "Ai yi yi..."

Twin Towers in Toronto?

On a completely unrelated note, happy Thanksgiving to my fellow Canadians!

Have I mentioned that my parents are American?

2009-09-26T16:15:00.007-04:00

And that they're Democrats? Perhaps that's why I enjoy posting things like this:

Protect Insurance Companies PSA from Will Ferrell

P.S. If anyone can tell me how to stop cutting off the right side of embedded videos, I'd appreciate it. I tried reducing the object and embed width, but to no avail.

Seriously?

2009-09-22T10:01:00.003-04:00

Is this necessary?

As if I'm not feeling old enough these days, here are the targeted ads with which Facebook has decided to grace my home page:

DO NOT LIKE!

Hopefully they're both dancing in heaven

2009-09-15T23:00:00.000-04:00

Patrick Swayze - Chippendale
Uploaded by tressage. -

Five things that recently made me laugh.

2009-09-06T01:02:00.004-04:00

#1. This ad for a course at a ballet school:

From This Sign Has Sharp Edges

#2. The fact that this dog probably ran away because of its description:

#3. The acronym for this city project update dealing with solid waste:

BMPU -- had to be intentional.

#4. The way these supposed marathon runners are dressed:

Sweatjeans and Bermuda trackshorts?

#5. What appears to be the biggest set of domestic-feline cahones ever:

It's actually my female cat's belly.

Out of the frying pan, into the fire

2009-08-31T19:07:00.006-04:00

Or in my case, away from the knife, onto the skewer. I managed to chop a zucchini, a pepper, an onion and some portabello mushrooms with a great big knife and I didn't even slice a fingernail. (Often the extra crunch in our meals is my own keratin.) Then, as I slid the chopped veggies and fungi onto a pair of bamboo skewers, I stabbed a vein in my hand. For a few minutes I had a teeny, tiny red geyser. So much for that part of dinner being vegetarian.

A memory

2009-08-28T21:01:00.002-04:00

Out of the blue, I just remembered something that I saw at a subway station one evening several years ago. A man, perhaps in his thirties, was entering the station alone. He had a sheet of paper taped to his back. On the paper was written, in great big letters, "MY NAME IS BARRY AND I LOVE BINGO!"

That is all.

Bright-eyed and pony-tailed

2009-08-15T00:47:00.017-04:00

My mood and mobility have been hampered by the recent hot, humid weather. At home, if I'm not slouched on a soft sofa, I'm sluggishly dragging myself around. My energy level is low and my ability to concentrate is compromised. Come to think of it, those could be symptoms of depression, but I thought I had that pretty much under control. (Thanks to drugs! Hooray for drugs!) (Er, the legal kind!)

Anyway, since I normally appear to be moping around like these two lugubrious characters...

Eeyore and Marvin the Paranoid Android

...I was puzzled today by an unfamiliar sensation of being very wide-eyed and alert. I don't take uppers, I've had no caffeine and I certainly haven't had any extra sleep. So what gives?

I figured it out when I removed my hair elastic this evening. Due to the heat and humidity, I had decided to wear my hair up. Apparently I had made my pony-tail too tight. What with my eyes pulled wide open you'd think that I would have noticed my stretched face in a mirror at some point. I must have looked like this:

...or this:

...or perhaps this.

Maybe a buzz cut would suit me.

We've got stones

2009-08-03T15:26:00.026-04:00

A few weekends ago, Scott and I went rock climbing. That is, we went to his friend's rock-selling business and scrambled up huge piles of river rocks to select the perfect stones for our yard. Scott wanted some medium-sized rocks to go along the side of the garage. Weeks earlier we had torn out the paving-stone path that I had very laboriously laid there three years ago. By tearing out the path we had inadvertently left a mucky ditch for the dogs to romp in. With near-record rainfalls this summer, we'd finally had enough of muddy paw prints everywhere. The plan was to fill half of the ditch with rocks and to lay sod in the other half. Scott's hope was that the new rocks would filter away the rainwater that had previously dripped from the roof onto the path and into the garage. (You may have seen our old paving-stone path, as well as evidence of the dogs' love of romping in muck, here.)

Precariously perched on the rock piles, Scott and I picked the patterns that most appealed to us. That was the fun part. We loaded the rocks into a crate in the back of a borrowed pick-up truck and headed home on the highway. At one point Scott braked hard and the crate slid toward the cab at such a rate of speed that I thought it would crash through the rear window and crush us. There were points later on in the project when the thought of being crushed by a crate of rocks sounded inviting, but at the time I was pleased to be alive.

After arriving home safe and sound, I decided that we needed to insert a gardening project into our schedule. I thought that my rapidly reproducing red border lilies would look sharp nestled between the garage and our new rocks, so we spent the next hour digging the flowers out of the garden and planting them beside the garage. I had given no thought to the fact that the bulbs are completely shaded in their new location and will never feel the warmth of direct sun; they may never bloom again.

Next we unloaded the rocks. We painstakingly placed them, one by one, in front of the replanted lilies, being careful to avoid having too many of one size, shape, colour or pattern in the same area. It was a long, slow process, and in the end we had... far fewer rocks than we required. The sun was setting, our stomachs were growling and our muscles were aching. Neither one of us had to speak it to know it: after having chosen and placed each stone so carefully, we would not be hand-selecting the next batch. We would have them loaded into the crate by a backhoe and we would dump them unceremoniously on top of the thoughtfully placed first batch. Anything worth doing is worth doing well, unless you're so bloody exhausted and sore that you really couldn't give a rat's ass about aesthetics anymore.

During a subsequent weekend Scott borrowed a rototiller and tilled the clay-filled mud. Since we have had so much trouble keeping grass alive with the dogs tearing up the ground day after day, he was intent on doing it right this time. I thought that a new stepping-stone pathway from the driveway to the dogs' poop area would be just the thing to preserve the grass. All we needed to do was to lay the new path along the same route as the dogs already travelled. It was a great plan, but not one that we were able to stick to. In laying out the base for the path we forgot entirely about the dogs' usual route and instead dug a meandering trench faintly echoing the curves of the garden wall. We anchored weed barrier with rubber lawn edging and at the end of a long day the yard looked like so:

Eventually we purchased two dozen rolls of half-dead sod -- the only sod we could find mid-season -- and turned our yard into this:

We had rejected the idea of stepping stones, feeling that introducing yet another texture of stone into the yard would be an eyesore. Instead, we opted for smaller versions of the river rocks we had laid along the garage. Our yard then became this:

You may notice Montana, the main culprit in lawn destruction, gleefully trotting along beside the path in the photos above. Since their poop area is gravel, I had never imagined that the dogs would balk at walking on stones. But balk they did. They refused to set paw on the path, and as a result they began doing their business all over our new grass. To say that this displeased me would be an understatement. To say that Scott was fuming mad would also be an understatement. The next week found us taking turns walking the dogs back and forth along the new path. While they eventually got used to the feel of the river rocks and resumed using their poop area rather than the lawn, I am no longer foolishly harbouring the illusion that they will stick to the pathway at all times and cease to run muddy ruts into the lawn. For now, at least, the grass is thriving and the yard looks half decent:

This was a typical Scott-and-Jenni project: poorly thought out, done in numerous steps weeks apart, and involving several spats, streams of sweat and superfluous swearing. I can only imagine how painful a process our upcoming home renovations will be. All's well that end's well, however, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed. Even if our victories are only temporary.

Today the desk isn't hard enough...

2009-07-27T17:21:00.003-04:00

...to make banging my head on it satisfactory.

It's been one of those days.

It's been a while.

2009-07-24T23:59:00.000-04:00

It's been a while since I've posted. Some days when I start to blog I stop myself and think, "Who would want to read about that?" Then there are days like today, when I don't care if anyone wants to read my drivel or not. If I don't get rid of it, it will puddle at my feet. Instead, I choose to share my drivel with you.

It's interesting that "drivel" contains the word "drive," because driving is something else I hadn't done in a while. I finally had an opportunity to drive tonight. Wasn't I pleased with myself when Scott dozed off in the passenger seat. Normally he is stressed out, hyper alert and grouchy when I'm in the driver's seat. I figured that I couldn't be doing too badly if he was comfortable enough to doze while I drove. I smiled fondly and watched him, with his head tipped back, his mouth ajar, snoring softly.

"STOP!" Scott yelled suddenly. Somehow he had emerged from the depths of his slumber just in time to holler at me as we approached an intersection. He feared that I was going to ignore the traffic lights and race ahead recklessly. As if.

Scott soon fell back to sleep, only waking up periodically to point out my mistakes. I took one turn a bit too wide and hit the curb during another, my lane changes were jerky and my deceleration was rapid enough that the dogs slid around in the back of the vehicle. It could have been worse. I know, because I've done worse.

As we approached the driveway at the end of our half-hour ride, Scott instructed me to pull in front first. He had interrupted his nap so many times that he was too irritable to tolerate my clumsy attempts at reversing into place. I complied, turning smoothly into the driveway. As annoyed as Scott appeared, I remained satisfied with my performance. I got out of the car, having left plenty of room to swing open the door. On my side of the vehicle, that is. As for Scott, he practically had to reenact his birth to squeeze out of the car, as I had parked dangerously close to the house. That did not improve his mood any. But like I said, it could have been worse.

I wasn't going to do it.

2009-07-11T12:41:00.003-04:00

I wasn't going to write a post about Michael Jackson. Sure, I had the Thriller album, and I even composed a letter to him when his hair caught on fire while filming a Pepsi commercial, but I wasn't his biggest fan. Still, I had to post the video below.

Click here for more information on the dancing inmates.

What is art?

2009-07-04T11:31:00.003-04:00

Thanks to Ze Frank for tweeting about this.

P.S. Happy Fourth to my American friends and relatives!

Exam stress

2009-06-20T17:19:00.010-04:00

Does anyone else who has been out of school for years still suffer from nightmares related to The Exam For Which You Haven't Prepared? I would far rather dream about being chased by evil, fire-breathing, infectious-disease-carrying, smelly zombies every night than have the exam nightmare ever again. It's just too real. Real, that is, in my head. The exam is always for a course I've never taken, on a campus I've never seen, with instructors I've never met. And yet it scares the bejeezus out of me and I wake up in a cold sweat, feeling like I've just failed the most crucial test of my life.

I have certainly experienced exam jitters in my day, and I have shown up for more than one test feeling inadequately prepared, but the outcome has never been so grim as to justify these continuing nightmares. In fact, I usually excelled at school, nerd that I was. The one vivid memory I have of giving up on a test halfway through makes me laugh rather than cringe. It was for a third-year East Asian Studies course at university. I had been too busy cramming for other mid-terms to devote sufficient time to this one. I came across a question regarding the I Ching, also known as the Book of Changes. I was asked to name the other Chinese classics. I remember sitting there, in the second row of desks, thinking, "Book of.... what? I have no idea. Book of... matches. Hee hee. Yeah, Book of Matches." I wrote that down. Next I wrote The Book of Love, the Book of Cookies (the special feature at a local bakery which was being widely advertised on radio in those days), Guinness Book of Records, Book of the Month Club... any goofy thing I could come up with.

Short on knowledge and even shorter on sleep, I began to regard my silly answer as terribly amusing. I tried to suppress my snickering. Naturally, it grew from snickering to chuckling to guffawing, all internal, and then it burst out of me in the form of a very loud snort. Typical. Still shaking with laughter, I packed up my things, handed in my test, and left the room.

Thanks to that experience, I'm a firm believer that sleep deprivation and exam stress can lead to hilarity. Just have a look at these prime examples of the toll taken by exam stress.

Suivez-moi

2009-06-08T16:50:00.005-04:00

Won't you follow me? It would behoove me if you would. I updated my Blogger template just for you, after all. Don't you like it, all shiny and new and improved? So boost my self-esteem, won't you? Just click on that little "Follow" button on the right. The one that looks like this:

Make me feel like I have friends. Make me feel worthy. Give me something to live for! Please! Why are you making me grovel? You've left me with no dignity. How cruel! The least you could do is follow my blog. Just click the damn button!

This brief display of desperation, pathos, guilt-tripping and aggression has been brought to you by Eli Lilly, creators of the fine medication that keeps me sane.

He made me flowers!

2009-06-03T21:47:00.003-04:00

Early in our relationship, Scott used to bring me flowers all the time. It made me feel so special. One spring day, however, he came over and discovered that I had thrown a bouquet of roses out onto the back deck. I had done so in the winter, as the flowers had died and I wanted to scatter them in the backyard to allow them to decompose come spring. I throw like a very weak girl, however, so the flowers only made it a few feet from the back door. It didn't matter how many times I explained my innocent intentions; that was the last bunch of roses Scott would ever buy for me.

You can imagine how touched I was with the birthday gift that Scott gave to me today: he made me flowers.

I sure married a talented guy.

Down and dirty

2009-05-23T11:02:00.051-04:00

This weekend is a long one for our friends in the U.S., but it was last weekend that Canadians celebrated Victoria Day, a.k.a. "May 2-4," the unofficial start of summer. (Very unofficial, seeing as summer is still several weeks away.) The May 2-4 weekend includes a holiday Monday courtesy of the late, curmudgeonly Queen Victoria. Traditionally Canadians celebrate three days of beer, barbecues and buddies. This year the weather was glorious: sunshine, blue skies, cool breezes. It truly could not have been more beautiful. Scott and I spent all three days in the basement wearing dust masks.

Once upon a time our basement looked like this:

Then, as you may recall, it looked like this:

...and then like this:

It has taken us many months to get our butts in gear, but we finally decided to gut the rest of the basement to prepare for, one day, putting it back together again. Early Saturday morning, one week ago, Scott set out to buy dust masks, unwisely leaving me at home unattended. By the time he returned, I had done this:

...forgetting, of course, that the whole purpose of the dust masks was to prevent the inhalation of drywall dust and mold spores. I also neglected to close the basement door, so every flat surface on our main floor was covered in a thin layer of white dust. Oopsy.

Scott came home, shook his head at me, and created our toolbox for the rest of the project:

What came next was two days of sweating, destruction and bickering, interrupted only by a pleasant evening with friends (Saturday) and then with family (Sunday). By Monday Scott and I had learned to get along, for the most part. Along the way we made some interesting discoveries, such as the window that had been hidden behind the shower:

...and the very old faucet that a previous owner had drywalled around instead of removing, leading to a gaping void between the foundation and the inner wall:

In addition to removing drywall, insulation, tar paper and rotten framing, I also tried my hand at ripping out lathe and plaster in the stairwell. Although the basement door was closed this time, we still ended up with plaster dust coating almost the entire interior of the house. Lovely. At one point I hit myself in the ankle with a framing hammer. This is what the bruise looks like a week later:

Geez, I really need to moisturize. Not to mention lose a few pounds. Anyhoo, in the late afternoon of day two I was exhausted and in dire need of a shower before we were to head to my parents' place. I was about to excuse myself, but I thought better of it when Scott picked up his reciprocating saw. If he was even just half as fatigued as I was, it wouldn't have been smart to leave him alone while he worked with a dangerous power tool. He began to cut the framing away from the copper pipes in the demolished bathroom. Suddenly, you guessed it, PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! he cut through one of the pipes and created a not-so-tranquil fountain. So much for my nice, hot shower. I turned off the water to the entire house and waited while Scott went to the hardware store for some copper and a soldering kit.

If there's anything more dangerous than a very weary man with a reciprocating saw, it's a very weary man with a soldering kit. It's only dumb luck that Scott didn't burn the house down. I stood next to him with a fire extinguisher the entire time he worked at repairing the pipes. The next day, for reasons I still can't understand, he decided to remove all of the copper pipes in the bathroom anyway, including the new piece he had installed. This is what the old bathroom looks like now:

By the end of the long weekend we had filled a 14-yard disposal bin:

...which was surprisingly comfortable after three days of standing on a concrete floor wearing old loafers:

This weekend was supposed to be far more relaxing than last weekend. Unfortunately, I had scheduled an energy audit for 9:00 this morning. (Believe me, had there been any other time slot available I would have taken it. Normally I don't willingly rise before noon on weekends.) The federal and provincial governments are offering grants for renovations that improve the energy efficiency of one's home, as long as one has an energy audit performed both before and after the renovations are completed. The grant program is for a limited time only, hence the urgency of having our audit done.

Part of the audit involves using a blower door to bring the house to negative pressure, which makes it easy to detect air leaks. I was horrified to imagine twisters of pet fur spiralling through the house and lodging themselves in the auditor's fan, so last night and early this morning Scott and I dashed about dusting and sweeping and mopping. Our efforts paid off: there was still plenty of fur but not nearly enough to clog the fan.

At one point the auditor asked to inspect the crawl space beneath our addition, as we are planning to add insulation and he needed to document that there isn't already any insulation present. (There used to be, but the raccoons who used to live there pulled it down to use as bedding and a toilet. I dragged most of it out of there a couple of summers ago.) As the auditor snapped a few shots of the unexpectedly stinky crawl space he said nonchalantly, "Dead raccoon." That would account for the flies. We already knew of one long-dead raccoon whose body was unreachable but also way past the stinky stage of decomp. This raccoon, however, was relatively fresh, and right in our faces. The auditor casually suggested that we might want to dispose of it. Thanks for the tip; will that be extra?

Once the auditor had departed, Scott donned his grubbiest clothes and a pair of thick work gloves and set about removing the corpse. He asked me to find a big plastic bag. After searching the house for a large enough bag (I'll never look at Toys R Us bags in the same way again), I returned to the driveway to find Scott dry-heaving. "I was fine until the maggots," he coughed. He had flipped the raccoon onto its side, which was decidedly not its best angle. (Sorry, no photos.) As I stood holding the plastic bag, wearing nice clothes and no gloves, I began to reflect on how this weekend was rapidly turning out to be lousier than the last one. I have resolved to do no other unpleasant tasks this weekend besides laundry (which will first involve moving the washer and dryer and reconnecting them). Oh, and I also have to clean the litterbox. And pick up dog poop. To hell with it, I should just go back to bed.

I saw a man kick a dog

2009-05-07T23:07:00.005-04:00

That's right, I said kick a dog. He had the dog on a leash, the dog was being hyper and unruly and stepped on the man's sandal-clad foot, so the man kicked him in the chest. Granted the dog didn't so much as whimper, but still... What would you have done or said, dear readers?

LMAO...

2009-05-04T18:10:00.001-04:00

...at the video below. Thanks to Rob K for drawing attention to this.

Writes the Huffington Post:

The "gathering storm" ad made by the National Organization for Marriage, which preaches against same-sex unions, has spawned many parodies in its short life. As Stephen Colbert said before introducing his version of it, "It is like watching the 700 Club and the Weather Channel at the same time."

Our own Lizz Winstead offered her version that shows the ridiculous leaps the ad makes in conflating the restriction of personal rights with granting marriage rights to homosexuals.

Now Funny or Die is getting in on the fun with a star-studded version that boasts Alicia Silverstone, Lance Bass, George Takei, and Sarah Chalke. The ad offers an answer to the gay marriage issue: a giant gay-repellent umbrella that will shield god-fearing Americans from the storm.

A Gaythering Storm from Jane Lynch

Just say YES...

2009-04-20T23:19:00.003-04:00

...to exploring the benefits of wind farms.

Tomato, tomahto...

2009-04-09T21:39:00.006-04:00

My co-worker's sister was recently telling her friend, a rabbi, about a movie she had seen. It was the story of Jewish brothers in Nazi-occupied Eastern Europe who escaped into the Belarussian forests. There they joined Russian resistance fighters and worked to build a village in order to protect themselves and about 1,000 Jewish non-combatants. The rabbi was not familiar with the film but he was interested in seeing it. He asked for the name.

"It's called Deliverance," said my co-worker's sister. "You can get it at any video store."

She meant Defiance, of course.

I can't wait for chapter two of this story.

I FRY MINE IN BUTTER!

2009-04-04T11:32:00.005-04:00

I have confessed how I can get when accidents happen during live performances. I am comforted by the fact that author Kurt Vonnegut was the same way.

By Kurt Vonnegut, from his book Timequake:

That the impulse to laugh at healthy people who nonetheless fall down is by no means universal, however, was brought to my attention unpleasantly at a performance of Swan Lake by the Royal Ballet in London, England... A ballerina, dancing on her toes, went deedly-deedly-deedly into the wings as she was supposed to do. But then there was a sound backstage as though she had put her foot in a bucket and then gone down an iron stairway with her foot still in the bucket.

I instantly laughed like hell.

I was the only person to do so.

A similar incident happened at a performance of the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra when I was a kid. It didn't involve me, though, and it wasn't about laughter. There was this piece of music that was getting louder and louder, and that was supposed to stop all of a sudden.

There was this woman in the same row with me, maybe ten seats away. She was talking to a friend during the crescendo, and she had to get louder and louder, too. The music stopped. She shrieked, "I FRY MINE IN BUTTER!"

It has been almost two years since the death of Kurt Vonnegut. I'm still sad that there won't be more books from him.

A rainy Sunday afternoon

2009-03-29T15:34:00.001-04:00

Millions long for immortality who do not know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon.

-Susan Ertz

Inspired by recent losses and by Ryssee's bucket-list meme, I am going to attempt to draft my own bucket list of sorts. It's a challenge for me, as my current wish list is focussed on desired improvements to my crumbling dwelling. If I look at the bigger picture, however, I wonder if I can come up with more worthwhile ambitions. I have to be realistic; I am someone who has trouble crossing items off my daily to-do list, so achieving any of the goals on a bucket list is unlikely. Still, they say it's good to have dreams.

For now, the list will have to wait. I am currently preoccupied by the much smaller picture, and it is my aim this rainy Sunday afternoon to tidy the dining room. Hey, I've got to start somewhere.

Tired of saying good-bye

2009-03-27T23:56:00.001-04:00

...and tired of cancer taking people away.

A former classmate died last night after battling cancer since 2006. I hadn't seen Gareth in a very long time. In recent years we were only in touch briefly in cyberspace. He had many, many good friends, and some of them created an online group so that Gareth's friends and family could offer him support and encouragement. Following word of Gareth's passing, one friend posted the following message on the group's site:

"Sad news, and incredibly motivating for me because he's the second friend I've had die of cancer this year. There's nothing to do but keep running for Terry Fox, keep riding for the cause, keep donating money, and keep raging against governments that spend a billion on bombs for every million they spend on research; against the industries that fill our environment and bodies with untested poisons; and against the pharmaceutical companies that spend more money researching hair loss treatments and boner pills than real treatments for real illnesses -- all while young people like Gareth die for no good reason. It's good to be sad, and better to be a little bit angry."

Gareth, 1973-2009

The proverbial emotional roller coaster

2009-03-20T20:07:00.013-04:00

I'm glad to be home, but I have some mental processing to do and I'm not yet ready to resume my typical posting. Please forgive me if my thoughts are even more scattered than usual.

Scott and I flew to the States with my brother, sister-in-law and baby Haven. The purpose of our trip was to attend a surprise 60th birthday party for my dad, who drove to Connecticut with my mom last weekend. My dad was under the impression that we were all heading down to show off Haven and to introduce Scott and Laura to relatives they had not yet met. When he first arrived at his brother's house he didn't suspect a thing. As the afternoon progressed, however, surprise guests began appearing: cousins and classmates my dad hadn't seen in decades; his best friend's widow and children; two amazing friends who drove all the way down from Toronto just for the party. It was a terrific event, and my dad was truly shocked.

What my dad didn't know was that I had received some grim news from my mom's brother earlier that day. My Aunt Maryann, who recently started receiving chemotherapy for pancreatic cancer, had taken a turn for the worse. The cancer had spread to her brain. Aunt Maryann was also suffering from a serious blood infection, which accounted for her sudden decline.

The day after my dad's party, we all headed to the hospital. That was Monday afternoon. I believe that my aunt uttered her last words that day, emerging from her cancer and drug-induced haze just long enough to comment on my mother's haircut. Apparently she had always thought that my mom should cut her "mop" of hair.

From the pleasure of my dad's party to the heartbreak of the hospital, it felt like emotional whiplash. Then, straight from the hospital, we went to visit my mom's last living aunt. It was an opportunity to introduce the youngest member of our family to the oldest member. Eight-month-old Haven and 88-year-old Great-Aunt Nancy hit it off.

During our time in the States we met some family members from Haven's generation for the very first time. It was strange to see these little guys and to know that they will grow up with just a faint idea of who old Aunt Jenni and Uncle Scott are -- two of those relatives way up in Canada. I've spent most of my life in their shoes, having a vague awareness of foreign relatives who had been close to my parents but who were strangers to me. I truly "know" only a handful of my American relatives, Aunt Maryann among them.

My parents remain in Connecticut, while the rest of us returned home on Tuesday. This evening my dad phoned with the news we were dreading: "We lost Aunt Maryann today." I am glad that I had the chance to say good-bye. At the same time, the aunt that I saw in the hospital was not the aunt I choose to remember. I'll remember Aunt Maryann as she was before the cancer and the infection, back when the most she had to complain about were minor aches and pains. There are no more aches and pains now, no more cancer cells or infections. She has shed all of that. Rest in peace, Aunt Maryann. We'll remember you from happier times.

I'm outta here.

2009-03-12T01:31:00.002-04:00

My apologies for being incommunicado for so long. Soon I'll be gone again for a while. I've decided to skip town for a few days. Flying to NYC (hopefully not landing on the Hudson) and then driving to visit relatives in Connecticut.

Before I go, I would like to remark that it ain't easy being green (just like Kermit said, only in a different context). I tried to buy environmentally friendly socks today. You know, made from bamboo or organic cotton. I found some, but one brand was made in Korea, another was made in China and the third was made in Sri Lanka. Why can't I find socks that are made from earth-friendly materials AND produced locally? Of course, we manufacture so few of our goods here in Canada that this problem is certainly not limited to socks.

Just felt like griping.

I'll check back in soon, y'all.

This cracks me up.

2009-02-28T10:56:00.002-05:00

Click here.

It's a facebook thing.

2009-02-15T15:26:00.004-05:00

Normally I don't respond to the various solicitations on facebook ("See who has a crush on you!" "Click here to find out what people are saying about you!" "Download this app or risk becoming a social outcast!"), but I recently complied with one request asking me to post 25 random things about myself. A couple of friends had listed their own 25 things and tagged me asking me to do the same. I'm just sitting around in my housecoat doing nothing remotely productive anyway, so what the heck?

Twenty-Five Things About Me

1. I don't like being told what to do.
2. I get anxious about wasted time because old people have warned me that life flies by faster than you would ever expect. Gee, thanks a lot, old people.
3. Apparently I can never have enough pets, even when I have too many.
4. I'm so disillusioned, it's a wonder that I can still be disappointed.
5. I wish I had been born multi-lingual. I'm too bashful to endure being a "_.S.L." student.
6. I'm so odd, even my synesthesia is atypical.
7. Number 7 is stumping me. Try again later.
8. It amuses me that Connecticut has two trash museums and the largest display of Celebriducks in the world.
9. If someone would just cook and clean for me, I'd be happy to tend to the other household activities (such as eating and making a mess).
10. Oh yeah, I'd like someone to exercise for me, too.
11. I am quickly realizing that these 25 things are not going to be profound in the least.
12. I really like our wedding vows.
13. I doubt that Scott has even read our wedding vows, except for the part that he had to repeat during our ceremony.
14. I expect to get grief from Scott for writing #13.
15. I believe strongly in both individual rights and individual responsibilities, and I think it's a shame that more people don't feel the same way.
16. I'm afraid of burned-out incandescent lightbulbs, as they remind me of Fonzie's disembodied head.
17. No, I don't do illicit drugs.
18. I likely wouldn't enjoy my slumber so much if I didn't find it so difficult to fall asleep.
19. Food where it doesn't belong makes me laugh really hard. There was a baked potato on the corner of Yonge and York Mills and I could barely contain myself.
20. If I think about it I can see how much my personality has changed over the years, which is both good and bad.
21. I really, really, really want to find volunteer work that Scott and I can enjoy doing together.
22. I don't think that #21 is going to happen.
23. It is driving me batty to have my basement out of commission and to be unable to have hoards of people and their pets over.
24. I wish that there was a search function for physical objects. I would be searching for "SD card from my wedding" right now.
25. I hope that you don't do what I've just done and waste a perfectly beautiful afternoon sitting at your computer.

Romance? What romance?

2009-02-14T22:15:00.008-05:00

When you've been married as long as Scott and I have (112 days), you can't expect the romance to keep flowing like it did when the relationship was young and fresh. That being said, it is our first Valentine's Day as a married couple, and I tried to choose the perfect card for the occasion:

I purchased that card quite some time ago. Scott, on the other hand, bought his card for me last night when we were at the drugstore. I sigh at his last-minute gestures, although I've heard that such timing is typical of at least 50% of men and shouldn't be taken personally. I have to admit, Scott did a darned good job of selecting a very fitting card:

Who needs romance anyway?

Road test

2009-02-06T17:59:00.001-05:00

I promised to tell you about my road test, and I will. Before doing so, however, I should mention that my last lesson with Lino, my first driving instructor, had taken place almost two years earlier. When I subsequently explained to the driving school how little I had learned, they credited me for additional lessons with a different instructor. I took advantage of those free lessons in the weeks leading up to my road test. I was amazed at just how much one could learn from a dedicated instructor. I was also overwhelmed with the amount that I had yet to master.

Do I need to describe how nervous I was on the morning of my road test? No, I'm sure you can figure it out. I don't even remember the drive to the test centre, or parking in one of the numbered spots. I recall going inside and lining up in the wrong queue, lining up in the correct queue, registering at the desk and being directed to wait outside by the car. Standing in a parking lot full of freaked-out new drivers like myself struck me as a life-threatening activity. Imagine the possibilities.

After what seemed like an interminable wait (likely five minutes), a no-nonsense but personable examiner met me at the car. She had me demonstrate that the signals worked, and then we were off. As I left the parking spot, the examiner asked, "Do you hear that noise?" I did, but I couldn't identify it. "That's your emergency brake," she said. With my face as red as my brake lights, I released the parking brake. I admitted that I rarely used it and that, ironically, I had only engaged it in the first place to impress her. Not a good start.

My last driving instructor had outlined the most likely test route. She had told me that I would leave the test centre, turn right at the first major intersection, and then drive around a nearby industrial area for ten minutes or so. I had made a point of driving around the area with Scott a number of times, including the night before my test. That last practice run hadn't gone so well. At one point, flustered by an approaching vehicle while I was clumsily transforming a three-point turn into a twelve-point turn, I stomped on the gas pedal and reversed speedily right up onto the sidewalk. It was all luck and no skill that had me very narrowly miss a parked car and a tree.

Back to the road test. Armed with a familiarity of the test route, but with my confidence dashed, I proceeded toward the first main intersection with every intention of turning right. The examiner said, "Turn left at the lights." What?? Left? Seriously? Shit. I turned left. I then flipped on my other signal and prepared to merge into the lane to my right, as I had been taught to do. The examiner said, "I appreciate that you're trying to change lanes, but you may as well stay in this one. We're turning left again at the next lights." We weren't following the test route at all. We were heading the opposite way. I wondered if perhaps the examiner was just going to direct me all the way back to my house, remove the keys from the ignition, and instruct me never to drive again. At this point I was okay with the prospect, except for the fact that Scott would be stranded at the test centre.

Rather than driving through an industrial area, I was directed to a residential neighbourhood. There the examiner had me demonstrate my lack of prowess in a number of different maneuvers. At one point she had me pull up to the curb and park. There were no other cars around so it seemed simple enough. Too simple. I realized that this was supposed to be an exercise in hill parking, but I was so nervous that the slope was imperceptible to me. I wasn't sure if I should admit that I couldn't tell up from down or if I should just crank the steering wheel and hope that I chose the correct direction. I decided to confess that I was completely frazzled.

As we neared the end of the exam, the examiner instructed me to make a three-point turn at the next appropriate opportunity. Instead, I continued driving until the only remaining stretch of road between me and the end of the street was blocked by a delivery truck. The examiner directed me to a different street and gave me one more shot at executing a three-point turn before directing me back to the test centre.

As I returned to the parking lot of the test centre, I was convinced of my failure. My self-deprecating comments were interspersed with the examiner's wry remarks. I reached my parking spot and prepared to pull in front-first, as I figured that there was no point in trying anything tricky. "Reverse into the spot," the examiner said. "I dare you." I did as I was told. Knowing that I normally forget to look out the rear window when I back into a spot, I overcompensated by looking nowhere but out the rear window. "What do you see if you look out your side window?" the examiner asked. I checked. "I see that I'm just about to hit the car beside me," I replied. "You should correct that," she suggested. I did.

I turned off the ignition and waited glumly while the examiner reviewed her test sheet and tallied my mistakes aloud. When she reached six I groaned, "That doesn't sound promising." She shook her head. "It's when I have to take off my shoes to continue counting that you need to worry." To my great surprise, she turned toward me and offered her hand. "Congratulations," she said.

Passing my first road test meant that I was now permitted to drive alone. I can't say that Scott looked particularly pleased when I met him inside the test centre and told him that I had passed. Considering how my first solo trip went, I also can't blame him. But that's another story.

Belated news

2009-01-30T21:40:00.010-05:00

Remember this? I realize that I never explained the circumstances behind the timing. I wasn't just getting myself inked four weeks before my wedding for the sheer thrill of possibly being scabby and scaly on the big day. I was celebrating the cumulative results of this and this and this and this and this and this and this and this and this and this.

That's right, dear readers, four months ago I got my G2! Now if that means nothing to you, you either live outside Ontario or you got your driver's license before the graduated licensing program was implemented. That would be about 95% of my readers. Long story short, in September I passed my first road test and am now permitted to drive unaccompanied. I have done so exactly once. I will tell you about that experience in a future post. I will also tell you about the road test, which I probably should have failed.

When it's minus infinity outside...

2009-01-25T16:26:00.004-05:00

...and people have to travel to work, or run errands, or shovel snow...

...you can bet our cats are laughing at us.

Keep warm, everyone. This hemisphere is mighty chilly these days.

Will work for nothing

2009-01-17T16:21:00.009-05:00

I used to volunteer. As a kid I would occasionally sort non-perishables with my parents for the local food bank. When I was an adolescent my dad and I delivered hot lunches for Meals On Wheels. I spent a couple of years working with a theatre group on a dramatic production introducing our school board's new multicultural policy to staff and students. For a few months after high school I took care of routine correspondence for Greenpeace. During university I volunteered for an organization that sent students to visit so-called "shut-ins." Shortly after graduating I was fortunate enough to land an advanced-level volunteer position with a large social service agency. The work involved researching, writing, and presenting difficult material in a sensitive manner. I loved that volunteer position so much that I held on to it with all my might for a decade.

To my tremendous delight, a paid position became available at the agency and I was eventually hired to do exactly what I had been doing as a volunteer. I had to take a pay cut and a huge leap of faith, leaving behind a cushy and secure job with many perks for a one-year contract. Lo and behold, after the contract ended my position became permanent. (Permanent, in a field like mine, is a relative term; recent legislative changes are significantly affecting my job, but I'm hoping to ride out the storm.) I don't think very many people are lucky enough to have their passions become their careers. I am truly very thankful. I am also missing volunteering. Doing a heck of a lot of work for pay is not as fulfilling as doing a heck of a lot of work for nothing more than the reward of knowing that you are doing it out of the goodness of your heart. Not that I'm about to give up my paycheque.

When I started volunteering for the agency I was one of about a dozen volunteers in my department. Ten years later I was the only volunteer left. That meant that, after I was hired, we had no volunteers. With a lengthy waiting list for our services it was decided that we required additional help. We met with our branch's volunteer recruiter and explained our needs. We required someone who was a quick study, who had excellent written communication skills and who was proficient in word processing. Also, because of the lengthy training period, we needed someone who could promise us at least one year of service. From time to time our volunteer recruiter would appear in our office with someone new and eager to help out. Every time, my co-workers would turn their chairs, greet the new volunteer enthusiastically and then swivel back to their computers. Perhaps because I am the person with the most recent volunteer experience, or because I am the only one in my position who is in the office five days a week, or because I swivel the slowest, the responsibility for the volunteers fell to me. I was left to describe the position, provide the training and review their work.

Volunteer Number One had a social work degree. Score! She was only volunteering because she didn't have enough Canadian experience to land a job in her field. Let-down! While she was fairly well spoken, her written English was so weak that she didn't know "him" from "her" or "he" from "she," and she couldn't keep her tenses straight. Editing her writing took me so long that I may as well have done the work myself. She was a nice lady, but her writing was so excruciating to deal with that I was praying for someone, anyone to hire her. My prayers were answered -- sort of. She got a job. Unfortunately, she felt so indebted to us that she kept showing up at our office whenever she had a day off. I had neither the heart nor the authority to fire a volunteer, but oh how I wanted to! Eventually the volunteer recruiter, sheepish over her lousy job of screening, reassigned Volunteer Number One to a more appropriate area of the agency.

Anxious to redeem herself, our volunteer recruiter brought us Volunteer Number Two. This young woman had just finished her studies in a field completely unrelated to our agency's work. Whenever she came in I had the distinct impression that she wasn't sure how she had ended up with us. That's certainly how I felt. Her writing skills made Volunteer Number One seem like a prizewinning journalist. One day she reported that she had to leave the country to go see a sick relative. It was several months before she reappeared. She told us that she had contracted malaria, necessitating a longer absence than she had anticipated. We soon realized that malaria wasn't the only thing she had picked up while she was away. She was quite obviously pregnant and, as such, she was unable to commit herself to a full year of volunteering. Our joy was genuine when we wished her farewell.

With two spectacular strikes, our volunteer recruiter became difficult to reach. One day, however, she came to announce that she had a fabulous candidate for us: a retired social worker with extensive experience in the social services. This woman's work history made the rest of us seem unqualified by comparison. We waited eagerly to meet Volunteer Number Three. When she arrived, we found her to be as knowledgeable and experienced as promised. She was so engaging and intelligent that my co-workers and I talked to her for over an hour, awed by her credentials. Finally I described the position to her in detail. She admitted that computer work wasn't her forte. She held up her hands, revealing a less-than-full complement of fingers. An accident had long ago robbed her of several digits, and she wasn't really interested in a desk job anyway. Wave good-bye, Volunteer Number Three.

After a long period of silence, our volunteer recruiter showed up unexpectedly with a twenty-something university grad who was bright and pleasant and articulate and intuitive. This young woman was in the middle of obtaining a second degree and she wanted to add to her volunteer experience. She quickly grasped the purpose of our work. I gave her some samples to read, one of which brought her to tears. She obviously had both the smarts and the sensitivity required for the position. She expressed her interest in the work and we arranged a date for her to start.

When it was time for Volunteer Number Four to leave I walked her to the elevators. As the doors slid open she stepped toward me. Perhaps because she had been emotional earlier my first thought was, "Aw, she needs a hug." I threw my arms around her and immediately thought, "Oh shit. She was just trying to shake my hand. She's the first qualified candidate we've seen and I'm about to scare her away. Crap crap crappy crap." In a lame attempt to cover up my mistake, I exclaimed, "I LOVE volunteers!" before releasing her. If only I could describe the expression on her face as I smiled and ushered her to the waiting elevator, acting as if my behaviour was perfectly ordinary. The elevator doors closed and I covered my face with my hands.

I returned to my desk and turned myself in, much to my co-workers' amusement. To everyone's great surprise Volunteer Number Four actually came back. She has been with us for several months now. While no one ever mentions my earlier faux-pas in front of her, my co-workers still delight in saying, "We LOVE volunteers" while smirking at me.

Much to our chagrin, Volunteer Number Four is so swamped with her studies that she has decided to stop volunteering until the spring. On her last day I had to leave early. I purposely bid her a very casual good-bye, saying, "See you in a few months." As I was walking away a co-worker stopped me and asked, "Jenni, aren't you forgetting something?" and mimed a great big hug.

I promise I'll give Volunteer Number Four a great big hug when she returns in the spring. For now, let her remember volunteering as a heck of a lot of work with no tangible rewards or recognition. If she's anything like me, that will make it seem all the more worthwhile.

Silliness: I love this critter's face

2009-01-15T23:17:00.000-05:00

Inside me lives a skinny woman crying to get out...

2009-01-04T00:46:00.001-05:00

...but I can usually shut her up with cookies.

I don't know when I first heard that quip but it has stuck with me, just like every cookie I've eaten in the past ten years. And every brownie. And every potato chip. And every second helping. And every alcoholic beverage.

I used to be thin. See?

Now I am plump. Chubby. Tubby. Fat, even. I know this from looking at recent photos and, ugh, at my reflection in those damnable inventions called mirrors. At the same time, my body image hasn't fully caught up to reality. On the one hand, I am conscious of all of my parts that jiggle inappropriately. On the other hand, as much as I kid about it, I haven't managed to internalize the fact that I have become a Large Woman. It's similar to having a phantom limb, only I have an entire phantom body, a thin one, enveloped by fat. I sense the presence of my formerly thin body as strongly as if it were still here.

I haven't altered my eating habits to make up for my slowing metabolism. I have allowed the odd ache, pain, strain or sprain to keep me from exercising regularly. I hate perspiring, which is apparently a necessary element of most forms of exercise. Swimming is relatively sweat-free, but I can't bring myself to go to a pool; even my formerly thin self didn't look so hot in a bathing suit. I recall vowing to start exercising in earnest after being shocked by the cross-section of an obese man's body at Body Worlds. Just seeing that the fat in a human body looks exactly like the fat in a cut of beef or pork disgusted me. Of course, while the image stayed with me, the inclination to exercise faded. What can I do to convince myself to get active? Either of the following scenarios might motivate me:

A few days ago I asked Scott to help me move my stationary bike from our abandoned basement to the main floor of our house. While the bike isn't linked to the speed of my internet connection, I am hopeful that its new location will be effective. After all, it is positioned where I often am: directly in front of the television. Of course, it also happens to be near the refrigerator. Who knows if I'll actually have the willpower to use the bike and resist the temptation of the fridge. All I do know is that I'm not going to make any New Year's resolutions regarding my weight or my diet; resolutions appear to be the surest way to kill good intentions.

Nothing says "Merry Christmas, owners!"...

2008-12-25T12:04:00.006-05:00

...like the acrid smell of doggy diarrhea at 5:30 in the morning.

Pity me.

While many people were woken up in the wee hours of this Christmas morning by the squeals of excited children, Scott and I were stirred to consciousness by the smell of... you guessed it, dog poop. Montana had dutifully slept next to our bed throughout the night, but Ferris must have been pacing by the back door hoping some magical elf would let him outside. No such luck. I wandered downstairs in barely more than my skivvies and immediately armed myself with paper towels, plastic bags and disinfectant wipes. One look at the two mats at the back door and I was convinced that they were goners. They are great mats for the dogs to dry off on after playing in the back yard; they have firm, deep pile in a pattern like tire treads. Perfect for trapping snow and ice from wet paws. Also perfect for trapping runny stools.

Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil, smell no evil.

I did my best to clean up the mess before hurling the two mats outside onto the deck. Perhaps the snow or rain would cleanse them. It has never worked before, but I was far too tired to think of a more intelligent course of action. Not Scott, though. Declaring, "We've thrown out enough mats!" he got dressed, went outside, sandwiched the soiled mats together and headed off to the coin-operated car wash. In the meantime, I let Ferris outside to do whatever business he had left. When I let him back in fifteen minutes later, he vomited all over the freshly scrubbed floor. I'm not making any accusations here, but the puke smelled an awful lot like crap.

So I cleaned the floor again, consoled a very unhappy-looking Ferris and headed off to bed in the hopes of catching a few more winks. I could be forgiven for thinking it was Groundhog Day rather than Christmas when I awoke to the very same disgusting smell a few hours later. Let's just hope this isn't the beginning of a new Christmas tradition.

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, and the best of the season to those who don't. Happy new year to all!

Dough for dough

2008-12-12T14:29:00.012-05:00

It is my Christmas tradition to bake cookies which I then give to folks like my doctor, dentist, letter carrier, neighbours, etc. Since regular readers know that I'm not particularly skilled in the culinary arts, it will be no surprise to learn that I make my cookies from prepared dough. In the spirit of giving to the community as well as to friends and acquaintances, I like to purchase my cookie dough through organizations that sell it as a fundraiser. Sure, it would be cheaper to buy the dough directly from the company that makes it, but where's the holiday spirit in that?

I used to call the dough company each year and ask them what charitable organizations in my area were selling their products. I was able to support a day care centre and some youth activity groups. How nice. A few years ago my mother informed me that one of her colleagues was selling the dough to raise funds for her choir. Without thinking, I went ahead and placed an order. I have been ordering dough from the same woman for the past three or four years, and it only struck me this year that her particular cause is a bit off the mark for me. It's wonderful that her choir is keeping well-to-do middle-aged women busy, otherwise they might be out hosting tea parties and getting manicures, but that isn't the demographic I had in mind when I decided to pay a premium for cookie dough.

Never mind. Today was my baking day. Somehow I managed to screw up a two-step process. Roll and bake. That's it. Roll and bake. Once again my mind inserted "drop onto floor" into the instructions. This time I didn't bother to photograph the fur-covered dough blobs. I did, however, take the time to photograph my favourite batch of completed non-floor cookies:

Cookies only Salvador Dalí could love

"Prop 8 - The Musical"

2008-12-06T10:45:00.004-05:00

I have to give credit to my very vocal adversary from this post, as he was brave enough to send me a link to the movie below.

I love shrimp cocktail.

How much is that doggy through the window?

2008-11-30T23:02:00.008-05:00

You wouldn't want to be a French door in our house. Last year, Scott somehow managed to put his thumb through one of the panes in our French door. He skillfully "repaired" it with Scotch tape. A few weeks ago he slipped and put his knee through another pane. This was actually a fortunate occurrence, as the cats now have their own entrance to our little enclosed porch. Since our basement is out of commission, we had to relocate the litter box to a more frequently used area of the house. Not pleasant. Now we are able to put it in the front porch and still keep the French door closed. As an added bonus, this is what greets me each day when I come home from work:

Ten points and twenty pictures

2008-11-17T22:42:00.036-05:00

If a picture says a thousand words, then below are several thousand words to describe our wonderful wedding day. First, though, a few actual words:

1. It was a very chilly day, but the rain cleared up in the afternoon. Mother Nature doesn't hate me after all.
2. There were still leaves on the trees as well as the ground. I couldn't have been more pleased.
3. After panicking for weeks prior to our wedding day, I awoke that morning completely free of stress. I don't know why, but I was perfectly calm.
4. A few minutes before the ceremony I was informed that the venue's audio/visual equipment wasn't operating properly and that the video I had slaved over might not work. Good-bye calm!
5. Our computer-savvy friends fixed the problem and the guests enjoyed the video. Hallelujah!
6. Scott saw my dress for the first time when I walked down the aisle. He was very moved.
7. I saw the rings that he made (yes, he made them) for the first time when they were presented at the ceremony. I was very moved.
8. At the last minute I had decided to wear white Sketchers rather than high heels. I credit that choice with the fact that I did not stumble or fall all day.
9. A group of wonderful friends and relatives arrived early to decorate the ceremony and reception sites. I am still gushing over their talent.
10. Oh my gosh, we're married! Yippee!

Enjoy the images.

More to come...

2008-11-14T00:39:00.002-05:00

Scott's handiwork

Marriage

2008-11-07T13:22:00.007-05:00

My wedding was beautiful and I thank everyone for their good wishes and their interest. I promise to post photos once we receive them from the photographer. Today it is not my own wedding that I want to write about, but marriage in general.

I was saddened to hear that some loving couples will be denied the right to marry thanks to ignorance, right-wing xenophobia, and hatred disguised as religion. On Tuesday, when the United States made history by electing the country's first bi-racial president, just over half of Californians voted to strip gay and lesbian couples of the right to marry. About 18,000 same-sex couples have already married in that state. Voters in Arizona and Florida also approved amendments to ban same-sex marriages. Similar bans had already been passed in 27 states before Tuesday's elections.

My marriage is not negatively affected by the rights of others to marry. If anything, it is enriched by inclusion, by the ability of all adults to celebrate their commitment to another person. I do not want to belong to a discriminatory institution, and thankfully, here in Canada, I don't have to. Between 2003 and 2005, same-sex marriages became legal in every province and territory.

I am rejoicing in Obama's win, but it is a bittersweet victory. Based on the popular vote it was a very close race. Both the high number of McCain/Palin supporters and the banning of same-sex marriages in three more states illustrates just how far there remains to go before equality is a reality.

Egale Canada

Back by popular demand...

2008-11-06T21:20:00.000-05:00

...my beautiful niece. Here is Haven, trying to nap.

Who replaced my Prozac with TicTacs?

2008-10-28T15:08:00.000-04:00

The following is a post I began writing prior to our wedding day. I will write more about the big event soon. For now, enjoy reading about the mental breakdown I had a few days earlier.

Is this what pre-wedding stress and sleep deprivation does to a person? Recently I became emotional at work during a meeting with my co-workers, our branch director, a supervisor and some people (I use the word loosely) from the legal department. We were discussing the impact of certain new pieces of legislation on our work. From my point of view, the impact is devastating. Not just for my co-workers and myself, but for our clients as well. My co-workers, being mature, rational women, were able to convey this opinion with clarity and conviction. I conveyed it with tears and tissues. Nothing embarrasses me more than crying at inappropriate times. (When I say nothing, I mean nothing. I've tried everything, and nothing has embarrassed me as much as crying.)

Help me feel better. What's your most embarrassing workplace incident?

What did I do...

2008-10-21T18:32:00.010-04:00

...to piss off Mother Nature? I am preparing for my earth-friendly wedding and what happens? It SNOWS.

Me on my wedding day?

The forecast isn't actually calling for snow on my wedding day, but it's supposed to be cold, grey and rainy. Almost makes me want to put on great big tree-killing, gas-guzzling, smog-producing boots and stamp gigantic carbon footprints all over the conservation area where we're holding our wedding.

Sorry. I don't mean to get all Bridezilla on you; it's just been a particularly trying day.

I'll try to look on the bright side. At least I'm not getting married beside a pool.

Calamity, ink

2008-10-04T22:45:00.002-04:00

You would think that, with a track record like mine, I would avoid activities like bungie-jumping, hang-gliding and mountain-climbing. You would be right. You might also figure that I would steer clear of things that, while generally less lethal, could have lasting negative consequences. For instance, when Scott and I were in Hawaii we considered getting matching tattoos. I was gung-ho about the idea, but Scott was wary of the sketchy-looking tattoo shops. Unwilling to bring Hep C home as a souvenir, he eventually nixed the idea. Instead, as some of you might recall, I had a lovely picture of sea-turtles done in henna on my arm:

The image was supposed to last for a few weeks, but with all the time I spent hot-tubbing on the cruise ship, it faded within a few days. It wasn't the smartest expenditure I had ever made. I didn't miss the $40 as much as I missed those henna turtles, though. I had grown quite fond of them in the short time they spent on my arm.

Fast-forward six months. With only four weeks to go before my wedding, I decided it was time to get my "something new" to go with my something old, something borrowed and something blue. Designs in hand, Scott and I went to a reputable local tattoo shop. I showed the artist my design and suggested that a saltine-sized image would be appropriate. He insisted that he couldn't squeeze all the detail I wanted into such a small area. I realize now that I should have sacrificed detail for petiteness, but instead I went along with the artist's advice. All I asked was that he place the tattoo in such a way as to cover the vampire-bite-like scars on my back. After all, I wouldn't want all my wedding guests staring at those unsightly marks, would I?

The tattoo artist disappeared into the back of the shop, taking the next half hour to obsessive-compulsively prepare his workspace. The place was hot and I stood by the counter fanning and second-guessing myself. Finally, the artist called me in. He sat me down and made a point (no pun intended) of showing me that the needles he was about to use were brand-new, still sealed in their sterile wrappers.

I don't like needles. I never have. If I were ever to cut off one of my fingers, which isn't all that unlikely, I would sooner sacrifice the digit than have it stitched back on. I am also terrified of bees. So why I would get a tattoo when I had heard that the pain is similar to a bee-sting is beyond me. But I did it. I sat down, bared my back and acted nonchalant. I had noticed the signs on the wall: "Yes, it hurts." "No whiners." I was going to be tough. I could handle this. I had been through worse; remember the crushed toes? I did not cry, jump, turn and punch the tattoo artist in the face or even so much as whimper. And then he started tattooing.

For the first fifteen seconds it wasn't so bad, and I proudly said so. Next, I began to lose consciousness. I was determined not to faint and not to admit how dizzy and overheated I felt, but when I thought that the possibility of me hitting the floor was very real, I had to confess. Especially since, with a strapless dress and 110 wedding guests in my near future, I knew I had to go through with the whole damned procedure. The outline of half a turtle's leg would not do.

The artist paused for a few moments while I shook myself into full consciousness again. He resumed, and I fanned myself madly while trying to remain still. It felt very much like I was being stung by bees for the next 70 minutes. And I was paying for the privilege (by the hour, I might add).

When it was finally over, I scuttled to the front of the shop to recover while Scott took his turn. I did go in to sit with him later on and I could see that he was enjoying the experience just as much as I had. Since he already has a great big tattoo, it must be true what they say about forgetting the pain. I'm looking forward to that. When all was said and done, we looked like this:

The next day, we removed our bandages. Scott looked like this:

Awesome, no? I was immediately envious. Why? Because I looked like this:

Oh, the price of vanity. The tattoo artist didn't quite hit the mark. The two vampire-fang-puncture wounds (actually cat-claw puncture wounds that I couldn't stop picking at) now straddle the turtle's back leg. One of them, right by the tail, could be mistaken for turtle crap. So now, instead of maybe noticing two faded dots on my back, my wedding guests will be gawking at a giant blue pooping turtle. To make matters worse, the turtle is so large that it will show even when I'm wearing a regular shirt. Its head sticks juuust a little bit out the neckhole: that's right, it's turtleheading. Tell me that isn't humiliating.

Insidious lint

2008-09-24T17:14:00.006-04:00

I'm heavily medicated here so bear with me. My mind is moving v e r y s l o w l y and everything strikes me as funny. You'd think I was on something illegal, but in fact I'm taking nothing more than Buckley's Complete Extra-Strength Non-Drowsy Cough, Cold & Flu caplets. The adult dosage is "1 or 2 caplets" and I figured that I was big enough to require two, so that's what I took. Wheeeee!

Okay, so where was I? Right. Lint. But first, to dog fur.

I am attempting to be a green person. Not green as in the mucus that has been streaming out of my head of late, but green as in environmentally friendly. I fail in many ways, but I'm trying very hard. What does that have to do with anything? I can't remember. Oh wait, yes I do. So. I was doing laundry the other day and I decided to wash towels. Not wanting to waste water, I figured I would put all the used towels in the same wash. Tea towels, dishcloths, bath towels, dog towels, you know, ALL the towels. That's what I did. The only towels that didn't go in the wash were the brand-new super-soft yummy fuzzy chocolate-brown ones that I received as a bridal shower gift. I don't believe in washing brand-new towels, no matter what people in the store may have done to them. Anyway, I washed, I dried, I folded and I re-hung. The end? Not the end.

After Scott's shower that evening, I heard him spitting and cursing in the bathroom. I didn't have to ask; it all came perfectly clear: there is a very good reason to separate dog towels from other towels. Poor Scott had dried himself off with his usual bath towel and ended up covered in dog fur from head to toe. He then tried to wash his hands and face and dried them with the hand towel, which only made the situation worse. I didn't want to incriminate myself so I burst out laughing, thereby incriminating myself.

"What did you do?" Scott demanded. I admitted my mistake and quickly fetched one of the brand-new super-soft yummy fuzzy chocolate-brown bath towels. Scott scrubbed himself with it and emerged from the bathroom seething, covered in dog hair and brand-new super-soft yummy fuzzy chocolate-brown balls of lint.

I'm sure one day he'll laugh about it as much as I did.

Getting the lead out

2008-09-14T12:51:00.009-04:00

Last year I had our tap water tested and we discovered that it contained more than twice the allowable limit of lead. That explained a lot about those members of the household who had been consuming tap water for the past few years. After an 11-month wait, I finally received a phone call informing me that the city was ready to send out some workers to replace the lead-filled water pipes leading to my house. Those workers arrived last Thursday and spent several hours cutting, digging and napping. Yes, I said napping.

Working hard or hardly working?

I was at home that day, so I was able to glance outside periodically to watch the progress of the workers. The nap took the longest amount of time, by far. I never did see any pipes. It wouldn't surprise me if the workers simply dug and filled two holes to make it appear as though they had replaced the pipes.

Am I growing cynical in my old age?

Don't go yet, chlorophyll!

2008-08-27T18:22:00.017-04:00

It's too early for fall colours.

I don't like weddings. I never have and I likely never will. I'm not even keen on attending my own, and I'm the one planning it. They're usually frilly and frou-frou and steeped in outdated symbolism.

That being said, even though I've been coerced into having a relatively traditional ceremony and reception to launch my marriage, I've been able to detect in myself a smidgen of enthusiasm about the setting. If the weather is kind to us we will be wed in a forest in autumn. I love autumn. I envision being surrounded by trees that are cloaked in russet and gold and crimson, the bottom of my dress rustling through a scattering of brilliant fallen leaves as I walk up the path toward my soon-to-be betrothed.

I do not want to envision myself slipping on slimy, decomposing foliage against a backdrop of naked, spindly trees. Yesterday, however, I saw some leaves turning red, and the meteorologist on the local news remarked that the colours are already changing just north of the city. Crap. I'm getting married just north of the city, but not for another two months. By then the trees could be bare, the skies could be drab, the air could be damp and cold. There is a literary term for the weather reflecting the mood, but the only terms I can come up with at the moment are "pathetic fallacy" (close) and "manifest destiny" (not even in the ballpark, and not even a literary term). If it is too chilly or there is -- egads! -- rain, we will have to hold the ceremony in a cramped and lacklustre covered patio with uneven interlocking stone floors. The literary term for that is "sucks the big one."

I have been accused of being awfully pessimistic by some people (namely Scott, who ironically is the winner of the Crankiest, Most Negative Person Contest, an imaginary contest that I just made up). I wouldn't call myself pessimistic, but realistic. Have you ever known fall colours to last for two months? They barely last two weeks. And we all know what happens next. The leaves turn a dull brown and fall off the trees, the air becomes bone-chillingly damp, the skies open up into five solid months of rain and snow, and everyone north of the Tropic of Cancer sinks into a deep and unrelenting depression. Pessimistic my foot.

Did I mention that I don't like weddings?

Let there be light.

2008-08-12T16:27:00.006-04:00

Zombie Mom recently asked if Cayman has been keeping us up at night with his kittenish antics. In fact, Cayman has been the least of our worries. He has been a very good boy, aside from the fact that he bullies all of the other pets, including the dogs. One hundred and seventy combined pounds of canine are no match for three pounds of ferocious feline. Rawr!

Mine. All mine.

What does keep us up at night is our new ceiling fan and light. Like our old fixture, our new one is operated by remote control. Inside that remote control are DIP switches which control the frequency between the remote and the fan. The instructions recommend changing the DIP switches from the manufacturer's settings to avoid being on the same frequency as other remotes nearby. We have been on two different frequencies so far. Evidently, we have neighbours using those same frequencies, and they use them at all hours.

Voila, DIP switches.

We could be enjoying a perfectly good slumber when tadaaa! the overhead light would come on, or the fan would suddenly begin spinning at high speed. At first I would get up, hit the switch and go right back to bed. The more it happened, however, the more annoyed I became. It reached the point where I would wake up, stumble over to the wall and flip the switch several times. I would do this even if I was only awake because I had to pee. I don't know if I was turning a nearby light or TV on and off or if I was opening and closing a garage door, but it gave me great satisfaction to imagine my neighbours scratching their heads in bewilderment. Wake me up at night, will ya? Take that!

That's right, I lied.

2008-07-31T21:41:00.009-04:00

Cayman didn't REALLY follow me home. (But you knew that, right?) A couple of days ago I was innocently purchasing a bag of cat food at our vet clinic when I noticed five little kittens behind the counter. The clinic accepts "rescued" cats, checks them over and then gives them away to good homes. I had a feeling that Scott's reluctance to bring home a new kitten would melt away as soon as he saw this brood. I ran to the car and dragged Scott into the clinic. After about twenty minutes of handling the kittens, Scott made his choice. Basically, Cayman came free with a bag of cat food.

Here's the little bugger now, doing a very poor job of making friends with Molly:

Undeterred by several open-pawed swats to the face, Cayman tried the same approach with Trooper:

And while I'm on the topic of pets (when am I not?), I thought I would share with you a couple of images of Max, the pug who has been wreaking havoc on our floors and our olfactory organs:

Last but not least, here is a photo of Max sleeping on the sofa with his leg down the back of my jeans.

Now that's what I call a hind leg.

He followed me home

2008-07-29T10:12:00.004-04:00

When there's already so much chaos in the household, what's one more little pet? Meet Cayman.

Randy Pausch's last lecture

2008-07-25T22:34:00.003-04:00

Randy Pausch, Oct. 23, 1960 - July 25, 2008

Did I mention my nickname is Calamity?

2008-07-17T15:51:00.028-04:00

Really, with a nickname like that, it's a wonder that Scott ever agreed to live with me. I seem to invite disasters big and small. Recently these calamities collided, making for a very grumpy household.

Where to begin? Well, we recently took in a pug named Max. We're not keeping him, we're justing holding him for a friend. For a month. As you can imagine, the idea was mine, not Scott's. Max was shy for the first two days in our care, but now he is terrorizing our own dogs. He doesn't seem to notice our cats, which is one of the reasons I suspect that there is something wrong with him. Another reason is that he always tries to leave the house through the hinged side of the door. As well, he appears to have forgotten all about housetraining. He will come inside after a run in the yard and promptly relieve himself on the floor. I am guaranteed to find poop on the floor when I get up in the morning and when I arrive home in the evening. Good times.

Also, as you know, our basement recently flooded. That same night, our insurance company sent a couple of men from Bare Minimum Contracting to clean up. After they finished, the basement looked like this:

Much better, right? That's what I thought, too. Unfortunately, when the claims adjuster finally came out, he remarked that the first pair of dimwits did not do what they were supposed to do, which is to remove any water-damaged material. As a result, mould had been spreading while our basement festered for an entire week. (I was too busy picking up pug poop and battling the insurance company over our ridiculously high deductible to notice.) The claims adjuster apologized profusely, which didn't make our basement smell any better, and he assured us that a crew from a different contractor would do a proper clean-up the following day. Unable to afford another day off work, I handed over a spare house key.

Before I left the next morning, I confined the the cats to our bedroom, locked Montana in his crate and shut Max in the bathroom. I didn't want any pets fleeing the house or getting in the way while the clean-up crew carried garbage outside. Ferris, being terrified of strangers, was not a concern. The clean-up crew reportedly arrived at 10:00 am. By "crew" I mean a man named Andre. One lone guy was responsible for boxing all the items in the basement, moving the furniture, and tearing out the floor, baseboards and damaged drywall. He did a thorough job, but when I got home that evening I could barely move around the main floor because the basement had vomited all over it. There were (and still are) stacks of boxes everywhere. On the plus side, we've managed to build walls out of the boxes so that Max has only a small area in which to crap.

This is what our basement looked like when Andre's work was done:

Where is my floor?

Where are my walls?

But we already had an entrance in that room.

Ugh.

Speaking of "ugh," let's move to disaster #3. Scott called me at work to inform me that he was heading to the hospital to get stitches. Scott works with dangerous tools and machines all day long and he has already lost part of a thumb on the job. My stomach was turning somersaults as Scott nonchalantly told me what had happened. Something about a hand-held grinder with a circular blade that spins at 12,000 RPM. Rather than explaining the details, I'll just post a couple of photos of the results:

With all of that going on, when I got home I just needed to lie down for a few minutes. I went into the bedroom where our cats were huddled and tried to turn on the ceiling fan. It didn't work. Neither did the attached light. There was nothing wrong with the breaker; the fan/light unit had simply died. Now, that may seem like a trivial thing, but with a third of the house out of bounds, the main living area full of musty boxes and an unhousetrained dog and the bedroom all dark and stuffy, it was getting to be a bit much. The next thing you know, we'll be forced to bathe in the kitchen sink.

Doing the slow burn

2008-07-09T15:37:00.005-04:00

I can't even begin to explain my frustration with my insurance company. If I try, I'll just turn red in the face and begin sputtering and spitting and shaking my fists. So instead, I'll look at puppies courtesy of Aviva. When my current policy is up for renewal, you can bet I'll be turning to Aviva for a quote.

Ahh, puppies.

A Haven from the Storm

2008-07-09T07:42:00.007-04:00

This sums up the past few days

My brother and sister-in-law don't know how accurate they were in naming Haven. With the roller coaster Scott and I have been on over the past few days, Haven really has been a sanctuary where our minds can go when we're getting overwhelmed.

Scott's grandma passed away last week, three days after we had our final visit with her. It was heart-wrenching to see her panicking in the cloud of confusion caused by morphine. I doubt that she knew we were there, saying our good-byes. Her wake was on Sunday, her funeral on Monday. Family means a lot to Scott and this past week has been hard on him.

As you know from my last post, Haven was born -- just hours after Grandma's funeral. We went from the lowest of lows to the highest of highs when we finally got to meet her. Yesterday evening we ventured out in a fierce summer storm to return to the hospital, where we enjoyed our second visit with the little darling. The thunder, lightning and downpour outside were barely noticeable once we were cradling little Haven in the quiet hospital room. We probably overstayed our welcome, but it was hard to tear ourselves away from our new niece.

Finally we gave Haven back to her exhausted but proud parents. On the way home, I spotted a rainbow. I couldn't resist pulling out the camera to capture the beauty that, in my corny baby-high, I figured Haven had magically brought forth.

Now, I do realize that babies don't conjure up rainbows any more than kittens poop them. Rain causes rainbows. (I'm simplifying here, because if I wrote "Rainbows are optical and meteorological phenomena that cause a spectrum of light to appear in the sky when the Sun shines onto droplets of moisture in the Earth's atmosphere," you would know that I was just quoting Wikipedia.) At any rate, rain quickly eclipsed Haven as the focus of our evening. Why? Here's why:

Welcome to my basement, post-flood. I now have the pleasure of dealing with the insurance company. Oh joy, oh bliss.

Time to stare at more photos of my niece. Thank heaven for Haven.

She's here!

2008-07-07T22:26:00.003-04:00

My niece has arrived. She's healthy and beautiful. Introducing Haven.

I'm over the moon!

I don't know about you...

2008-07-01T18:38:00.000-04:00

...but I'm just not all that turned on by religion.