- one wee spot of spicy buffalo wing sauce
- a fingerfull of blue cheese dressing
- two temptations cat treats
- one edamame pod (technically I did not feed this to her; she snatched it out of my hand and ran away with it)
Stay tuned for a full Barf Report: coming soon!
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Last weekend... the good and the bad
Decision to visit my parents one hour out of town: good!
Dealing with the mother-hover all weekend: bad!
Deciding to stop in at IKEA on the way home: good! Yay! IKEA!
Shopping at IKEA on a busy Sunday afternoon: bad!
Taking painkillers to ease recent nerve damage during drive home: good!
Arriving home with a solid codeine buzz and finding a damaged ceiling and a flooded kitchen: bad. So, so bad.
I loved spending time with my nieces and nephew this weekend. They are stunningly beautiful children, and pretty well-behaved, all in all. Not like the screaming banshees we found at IKEA. I cannot tell you about the screaming. We couldn't get out fast enough. I only spent $53. Cheapest. IKEA. Trip. Ever.
My wee nephew, with whom I have admittedly not spent a proper amount of time, was the cutest of the lot. He played fooz ball (is that how you spell it? You know, the game that Joey and Chandler played in their apartment?) with his sister for a good part of Saturday evening. But he kept scoring on himself. Over and over again. Did he care? Ha.
"I WON! I WON! LOOK AUNTIE! I WONNNNN!"
The ball went in the net. That's the point, afterall. Should it matter which net? I don't see why. He tried hard and his sister tried hard, and between them they scored lots of goals. For them, that was enough. I'm glad I'll have this memory of them, glad I'll remember a time before egos and competition and aggression govern their behaviour.
Because for me, it doesn't matter which net. I want us all to score.
(oh, and the kitchen? pretty much fixed. that's why you get married, isn't it? to have someone to fix things?)
Dealing with the mother-hover all weekend: bad!
Deciding to stop in at IKEA on the way home: good! Yay! IKEA!
Shopping at IKEA on a busy Sunday afternoon: bad!
Taking painkillers to ease recent nerve damage during drive home: good!
Arriving home with a solid codeine buzz and finding a damaged ceiling and a flooded kitchen: bad. So, so bad.
I loved spending time with my nieces and nephew this weekend. They are stunningly beautiful children, and pretty well-behaved, all in all. Not like the screaming banshees we found at IKEA. I cannot tell you about the screaming. We couldn't get out fast enough. I only spent $53. Cheapest. IKEA. Trip. Ever.
My wee nephew, with whom I have admittedly not spent a proper amount of time, was the cutest of the lot. He played fooz ball (is that how you spell it? You know, the game that Joey and Chandler played in their apartment?) with his sister for a good part of Saturday evening. But he kept scoring on himself. Over and over again. Did he care? Ha.
"I WON! I WON! LOOK AUNTIE! I WONNNNN!"
The ball went in the net. That's the point, afterall. Should it matter which net? I don't see why. He tried hard and his sister tried hard, and between them they scored lots of goals. For them, that was enough. I'm glad I'll have this memory of them, glad I'll remember a time before egos and competition and aggression govern their behaviour.
Because for me, it doesn't matter which net. I want us all to score.
(oh, and the kitchen? pretty much fixed. that's why you get married, isn't it? to have someone to fix things?)
Monday, January 29, 2007
the birds and the builders
This past weekend we embarked on a reconnaissance mission to HD, the home renovation mecca. I love HD - not because it offers possibility after possibility, not because of the helpful staff, or the belief that everything will be better if I just buy that or that or that. Not even because they sell Martha Stewart's magazine amid all the electrical conduit, lumber, and plumbing bits. I love HD because of the birdies.
Where else can you deliberate the benefits of one toilet seat over another amid the pleasing salve of bird song? Where else will a chirping sparrow be heard over a heated argument about paint colour?
This particular trip was a bit stressful; we can't afford to do what we want, home reno-wise, so we're after a cheap-that-won't-look-cheap solution for our bathroom, and for flooring throughout the house. Isn't everybody? It's not easy, eh?
Anyway, the birdies made me smile, until I had a frightening thought: I hope they can escape as easily as they got in. As much as I love HD, I wouldn't want to be trapped there. I'll bet it gets spooky at night.
Where else can you deliberate the benefits of one toilet seat over another amid the pleasing salve of bird song? Where else will a chirping sparrow be heard over a heated argument about paint colour?
This particular trip was a bit stressful; we can't afford to do what we want, home reno-wise, so we're after a cheap-that-won't-look-cheap solution for our bathroom, and for flooring throughout the house. Isn't everybody? It's not easy, eh?
Anyway, the birdies made me smile, until I had a frightening thought: I hope they can escape as easily as they got in. As much as I love HD, I wouldn't want to be trapped there. I'll bet it gets spooky at night.
Friday, January 26, 2007
dear bad cat,
It's cold outside. Very cold. You know this, because each time you touch your stupid nose to the window, you recline in horrified shock. That's why I dug through the closet last night to find my ugly, outdated but seriously warm winter coat.
I haven't worn the ugly but warm coat for a couple of years, and had a difficult time finding it in the closet. You watched all of this with great interest. Eventually, I discovered it lying on the floor, having slid off its hanger god knows how long ago. It was covered in an inch of your hair - so much of it that I didn't initially recognize it for what it was. Rather, I wondered if some disastrous leakage had seeped from the closet ceiling, covering this pile of wool and dashing my hopes of staying warm this week. When I exclaimed "what the hell," you looked as curious as I did.
Effing cat. Lazy, destructive, effing cat. It's not enough to cover the bedding, the couch, the carpets, and all my clothes with your clingy white hair, but you just couldn't resist the temptation of hiding in the closet and camping on my coat. My one warm coat. And never mind the constant puking. I cannot tell you about the constant puking. I'm up to here with your high maintenance. Cuteness only goes so far. One more stunt like this and we'll drop you by the side of the road where there are no warm coats to sleep on and no pretty duvet covers to barf all over.
I wasn't just angry with you, I was disheartened. I can't afford a new coat (although I did investigate the possibility), and it was nearing minus one million degrees outside. I had no choice but to try to clean it.
In the ninety-minute process, you watched me break the vacuum, destroy a lint brush, and empty two rolls of sticky refills - you know the ones. It's because of YOU that we keep so many on hand. When he came home and saw the smoke coming out of our relatively new vacuum, I instantly blamed YOU. "It's HER fault," I insisted. Thank goodness he'd taken the battery out of the smoke detector months ago. If we die in a fiery inferno one night, that will be your fault too.
Eventually the coat was clean enough to wear, and it kept me warm. Or warmish, at least. When I came home from work, a bit windblown and tired, you hopped on my lap and purred me back to good humour. And you didn't puke once. I suppose we'll keep you a while longer, but I hereby put you on notice, bad cat.
I'll be watching you.
I haven't worn the ugly but warm coat for a couple of years, and had a difficult time finding it in the closet. You watched all of this with great interest. Eventually, I discovered it lying on the floor, having slid off its hanger god knows how long ago. It was covered in an inch of your hair - so much of it that I didn't initially recognize it for what it was. Rather, I wondered if some disastrous leakage had seeped from the closet ceiling, covering this pile of wool and dashing my hopes of staying warm this week. When I exclaimed "what the hell," you looked as curious as I did.
Effing cat. Lazy, destructive, effing cat. It's not enough to cover the bedding, the couch, the carpets, and all my clothes with your clingy white hair, but you just couldn't resist the temptation of hiding in the closet and camping on my coat. My one warm coat. And never mind the constant puking. I cannot tell you about the constant puking. I'm up to here with your high maintenance. Cuteness only goes so far. One more stunt like this and we'll drop you by the side of the road where there are no warm coats to sleep on and no pretty duvet covers to barf all over.
I wasn't just angry with you, I was disheartened. I can't afford a new coat (although I did investigate the possibility), and it was nearing minus one million degrees outside. I had no choice but to try to clean it.
In the ninety-minute process, you watched me break the vacuum, destroy a lint brush, and empty two rolls of sticky refills - you know the ones. It's because of YOU that we keep so many on hand. When he came home and saw the smoke coming out of our relatively new vacuum, I instantly blamed YOU. "It's HER fault," I insisted. Thank goodness he'd taken the battery out of the smoke detector months ago. If we die in a fiery inferno one night, that will be your fault too.
Eventually the coat was clean enough to wear, and it kept me warm. Or warmish, at least. When I came home from work, a bit windblown and tired, you hopped on my lap and purred me back to good humour. And you didn't puke once. I suppose we'll keep you a while longer, but I hereby put you on notice, bad cat.
I'll be watching you.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
communication is a funny thing
I used to think there's a trick to it, you know. Those who do it well make it seem so easy. But those who do a terrible job of it exhaust me. You know who you are.
To communicate well, I need to have had a good sleep, proper diet, and moderate amounts of fresh air. As for me and my house, most days I fall somewhere in between "well" and "terrible".
On my way home last week, I withdrew some money from an ATM. Two women stopped me on my way out; I hadn't noticed them before, but one was clutching her ATM card and the other had a look of utter despair on her face.
"Cuse mie, cuse mie, help mie - money," said the one holding the ATM card, while thrusting it towards the machine. I nodded encouragingly, yes, yes, that's the card, that's the ATM, off you go. But then she thrust the card in my hands and showered me with incomprehensible gibberish.
I was overwhelmed by how vulnerable they both were. At first glance, I was the one at-risk, being approached by two strangers in a dimly-lit enclosed ATM booth. But these women were handing me the key to their fortune, trusting that I would unlock it from this unforgiving, albeit bilingual bank machine. But in this case, English and French was the wrong kind of bilingual.
I slipped their card into the slot, and stupidly asked "English or French??? Do you speak English (which had already been established)? French?" Her answer was "money" so I selected English, then turned to ask her to key in her PIN. Full stop. And here is where I became a terrible communicator.
"Put your secret number... your code... um, password..." and I began tapping my finger on my open palm. Then I said "Enter." How helpful. After a blank stare, she entered about eleven numbers, then looked back at me. Aren't PINs supposed to be four numbers? Or do I think that only because I've had a four digit PIN for more than 20 years? Maybe in other countries they have eleven digit PINs. Who am I to judge? Regardless, I had no idea how to ask her, and even less hope of being understood.
"Er, how much money do you want? Do you want one hundred dollars?"
"Wan hunded dollar. Yes." So I keyed in one-zero-zero-dot-zero-zero.
Anyway, the transaction wasn't successful, and both women seemed profoundly disappointed in my lack of success. So was I. I let them down when they had trusted me with something so important. But as I watched them walk out into the dark snowy night, I realized that no amount of sleep or vegetables or exercise would've helped me communicate here. This failure was all about language. There were three possible languages in play, but only one would've worked: theirs.
Should good communication transcend language? I think that's a tall order. Sure, people can nod and smile and shake hands and pass food and smile and nod some more when they don't share a language, but financial transactions are a whole differnt matter.
My husband had a totally different perspective after I recounted the story to him that evening. "It was probably a stolen card, and now it's covered in your fingerprints."
To communicate well, I need to have had a good sleep, proper diet, and moderate amounts of fresh air. As for me and my house, most days I fall somewhere in between "well" and "terrible".
On my way home last week, I withdrew some money from an ATM. Two women stopped me on my way out; I hadn't noticed them before, but one was clutching her ATM card and the other had a look of utter despair on her face.
"Cuse mie, cuse mie, help mie - money," said the one holding the ATM card, while thrusting it towards the machine. I nodded encouragingly, yes, yes, that's the card, that's the ATM, off you go. But then she thrust the card in my hands and showered me with incomprehensible gibberish.
I was overwhelmed by how vulnerable they both were. At first glance, I was the one at-risk, being approached by two strangers in a dimly-lit enclosed ATM booth. But these women were handing me the key to their fortune, trusting that I would unlock it from this unforgiving, albeit bilingual bank machine. But in this case, English and French was the wrong kind of bilingual.
I slipped their card into the slot, and stupidly asked "English or French??? Do you speak English (which had already been established)? French?" Her answer was "money" so I selected English, then turned to ask her to key in her PIN. Full stop. And here is where I became a terrible communicator.
"Put your secret number... your code... um, password..." and I began tapping my finger on my open palm. Then I said "Enter." How helpful. After a blank stare, she entered about eleven numbers, then looked back at me. Aren't PINs supposed to be four numbers? Or do I think that only because I've had a four digit PIN for more than 20 years? Maybe in other countries they have eleven digit PINs. Who am I to judge? Regardless, I had no idea how to ask her, and even less hope of being understood.
"Er, how much money do you want? Do you want one hundred dollars?"
"Wan hunded dollar. Yes." So I keyed in one-zero-zero-dot-zero-zero.
Anyway, the transaction wasn't successful, and both women seemed profoundly disappointed in my lack of success. So was I. I let them down when they had trusted me with something so important. But as I watched them walk out into the dark snowy night, I realized that no amount of sleep or vegetables or exercise would've helped me communicate here. This failure was all about language. There were three possible languages in play, but only one would've worked: theirs.
Should good communication transcend language? I think that's a tall order. Sure, people can nod and smile and shake hands and pass food and smile and nod some more when they don't share a language, but financial transactions are a whole differnt matter.
My husband had a totally different perspective after I recounted the story to him that evening. "It was probably a stolen card, and now it's covered in your fingerprints."
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