Sperm & Fish

Yes, those two words DO end up together in this post. Trust me.

A funny thing happened this week. We'd signed up for a homeschool field trip a couple of weeks ago. It was a grades 4-7 trip to see the salmon spawn at a local provincial park. There would be a guide. There would be a film. It sounded fun. It was also a cheap trip - $2 a person - but a week before the trip FDPG and Dominic showed some concern that they were going to be WAY OLDER than everyone else there because they were in grade eight. This tour ended with grade seven, they reminded me severely. GRADE SEVEN. They are in GRADE EIGHT.  Surely I knew this. They expressed way too much incredulity (one was more polite about it than the other, that's for darn sure) at my signing them up for a tour that ended with a grade 7 period. How could I have done that?

Dominic was very firm. He. Would. Not. Attend. He brought up another trip we had attended where they WERE way too old and other the kids WERE all too young and the talk was WAY too juvenile (baby songs might have been sung). They reminded me how wildly embarrassing it was. I agreed, it HAD been embarrassing. I HAD felt bad for them. I HAD promised not to do that again. Solidarity.

I emailed the organizer, who was very nice and tried to find some more participants. No takers. I felt bad so I told the organizer that we would definitely show up, because I really hate it when people don't show up for organized trips and the organizer is left holding the bill. This happens a lot with our homeschool community: it's annoying and frustrating but there it is.

So we show up on the Appointed Day, my two reluctant ball and chains in tow. The organizer was waiting for us in the Nature House. As usual almost everyone else was late. I was standing idly in a corner of the Nature House waiting when I overheard a guide say "so, what songs should I do with the group that's coming?" Songs? I feel the icy grip of disaster grab me. I sidle towards the desk as surreptitiously as possible so I could hear the other guide answer. "Do the Fishy Song," she said, "the arm movements look like this and then you have them jump up and down for the next verse while pretending they are swimming. Then they can sing the final verse with you!"  They all beamed at each other, except for the male guide, who looked at me as though wondering why I was eavesdropping on such Super Secret Technical Information. I smile weakly and moved away.

I decide it would be best not to say anything to the twins about the impending song choices. Or the arm movements. 

Eventually we assemble at the back of the Nature House with our raggle taggle group of homeschoolers. There are tiny little kids chairs to sit in. Some of us sit. Boy, I thought, you sure can tell homeschoolers: one kid was in a medieval knight costume, two wore homespun knitted outfits that looked, well, weird, and the rest looked worryingly feral. Dominic was doing his If I Pretend Hard Enough I Just Might Disappear routine, staring hard at the ceiling. FDPG was making the best of what she clearly thought was a bad situation. She's philosophical that way.

Our guide walks in and sits down with a fish poster. An old, tatty fish poster. It's the Boy Guide, the one who thought I was stealing Nature House Secrets. He has a very soft voice. No one can really hear him. At least, I can't hear anything he's saying, so I decide to sit in one of the chairs right near him. He interprets this as a hostile gesture, I suspect, because he stops talking and looks at me carefully. I smile in what I hope is an extremely benign way. Fortunately he has no choice BUT to go on, so he does.

We sit through a lesson on how salmon spawn. He talks about the eggs, the fish sperm, how the salmon jaw changes while they spawn, how long they live, and so on. He asks the kids to speculate on the size of a fish brain, or how long they live, and stuff like that. He's a super low talker but he is genuinely interested in his topic. There has been no singing thus far, either.

There is, however, as there always is on tours like these, a kid in the group who knows all the answers and isn't shy about belting them out whenever the guide asks a question. He's very self-congratulatory which is even more irritating. At one point he asks the guide if he's wondering how he knows all this stuff. Awkward. His mother stands beside him beaming proudly, utterly oblivious. I can tell that the guide is uneasy but since no one else is even trying to answer any questions, he lets him go for it. If this were a Diary of a Wimpy Kid novel I would expect Bad Things to happen to this kid at break time out behind the Nature House, but because it's a Homeschool Tour nothing does. Well, a few kids start picking their noses but that's about it.

We then troop into the little theatre to see a film to "solidify" our knowledge about salmon. It's a really old film. I probably saw it when I was in school and that was a LONG time ago. I stand at the back and again, can't hear a thing. The film is ancient and grainy and looks as though the colour is leaking out as we're watching it. Everyone peers hard at the blurry images and tries to imagine the "brilliant colours" we're told we're looking at. Nevertheless the kids all listen carefully and quietly, mine included. Factoid Boy is mercifully silent. When it's over we go outside and down to the river to look at the salmon. I remember this part from my school days. We'd go in a school tour and I'd feel sick the entire time, watching the seagulls flocking on the edges, pecking and pecking and shrieking and shrieking, while the poor bloody salmon struggled along. I wonder, not for the first time, why I thought the twins would enjoy a tour like this.

Fortunately our guide is young and enthusiastic. He's also incredibly knowledgeable. He walks along the water's edge and points out various things: early spawners, old spawners, side markings on the fish and what they mean, the places salmon like to spawn in, the places where they likely fight. It's fascinating. Then our guide asks us if we would like to see inside a fish. Factoid Boy shouts out "YES WE WOULD!!!!" So he does. He walks around looking for a freshly dead salmon. There are a lot to choose from. He lays the salmon down in front of us, then drags his foot in the gravel, making a circle around the salmon. "We won't get in this circle," he says, "because this gives the salmon a dignified space." I'm not sure what he's getting at here but we're all willing to go with it, except for one of the nose pickers who interprets this as a request to get INSIDE the circle.

Then the guide gets out his knife and cuts a neat rectangle on the side of the fish. Oh wait, I forgot the good bit: right before he does this (it's a male fish) he starts milking all the sperm (err, milt) out of the fish. In great long creamy spurts. Over and over again. There's tons of milt in this fish. Gallons. It's graphically, wildly, improbably sexual in a strange and disturbing way. All the mothers stiffen. A snort escapes my mouth, causing the guide to look up. In one uneasy instant he realizes what we're all thinking and starts feeling self-conscious. The poor earnest guide, I think. I start laughing. Factoid Boy, not wanting to seem ignorant of ANYTHING scientific, chortles along with me. Fortunately the sperm stream, err, milt stream, ends, so we can all get back to normal. I wonder if anyone is going to light a cigarette then remember that I'm amongst devoted eco-West Coasters and if anyone is going to light anything it'll probably be an e-cigarette (or a joint).

We see the brain of the salmon, we see his kidney, his swim bladder, his heart, and his liver. It's a little graphic at times but everyone is clearly enjoying this part and they all jostle around, trying to respect the Dignified Space without missing too much. The best part is when he popped out the cornea, which looked like a miniature crystal ball, placed it on his palm, and showed it around. When we'd all looked as much as we wanted, he popped it back in, then replaced the organs and slid the flap shut. "For the next guide," he explained, "some of the girls aren't very good cutting open the fish." I wonder what else they don't do.

And that was that. One family had a seagull poop on them, Factoid Boy fell while balancing on a log (while shouting "look at meeeee!"), and FDPG got wet feet trying to ford a river, but all in all it was a remarkably good tour. We even got to meet a 900 year old tree, not to mention watching a dead fish ejaculate. Good times.

School Schedules

We spent the last 5 days getting back into the rhythm of the school day, never a small task at the end of a long, hot, beach-drenched summer, particularly when most of the participants spent much of their summer sleeping in and lolling about. This is where Charlotte Mason habit training comes in handy: everyone knows the drill, everyone knows it's inevitable, and there's way less Sturm und Drang when assembling the day.

FDPG, Dominic, and I set a wake-up time (7am), a time to begin Read Alouds (7:30am, current book is The Canterbury Tales), and a time to start school (9am). Theoretically this gives everyone time to play Lego in their room until I yell at them get ready, feed cats and bunnies, let out chickens, brush teeth, get dressed, apply vast quantities of toothpaste to the sink and taps, and fling yet another empty toilet paper roll behind the door in the hope that no one notices (even though there are already 10 there).

We also printed up our Week At A Glance, which is nothing more exotic than a coloured Excel chart slipped into a page protector and stuck on the wall. I used to scoff at schedules, but they stop the day from devolving, not to mention quelling many an argument, so I've grown to appreciate them. FDPG likes a crazily busy schedule, and always begins the year with way too much on her very enthusiastic plate. Dominic prefers a more spartan approach, and would probably jettison everything that doesn't involve Lego or sports. I have two non-negotiables: everyone in this house must have more than a passing acquaintance with math and everyone must know how to write (and speak) well.

Once we got those things on the schedule we wrangled over what else to include: foreign languages, art, poetry, science, history. Now that I've seen what goes on in public school, I've added in another thing this year: timed assignments. It wasn't the English Lit math physics chemistry biology OR socials that Eldest struggled with when he joined the Brick N' Mortar public school crowd, it was the timed assignments and tests. I don't give timed assignments here at Greenridge Homeschool. Shocking, I know, but there it is.

Eldest's schedule was more complicated. Last year he was in grade 11 at a real live high school, so his day looked quite different than ours. Instead of listening to stories or nattering pleasantly with the twins over who had to do the dishes, he was leaving early with Richard and a giant bag of textbooks. Rain or shine. This year he's in grade 12 , which is new and exciting, or would be if the teachers would go back to work. They are on strike. There always seems to be someone on strike in this province. I sometimes think B.C. really stands for Bolshie Communities.

And seeing as how the strike doesn't look as though it's going to end any time soon, I told Eldest he had to make himself a schedule (and make some attempts to follow it) so that he didn't lose momentum, given his choice of courses (physics, chemistry, pre-calculus, calculus, English Lit., biology). He was not particularly thrilled. I think he'd envisioned a less, err, strenuous start to the day. What with the strike and all.

If Eldest had to write about his first week of school, I think it would go like this:

Dear Diary,

This week I had intended to sleep in every morning and generally do nothing, but my Mum heard that I could get this semester's textbooks NOW. She said I should be reading them every day, instead of sleeping in and generally doing nothing. They are all very heavy. I don't like the look of the pre-calculus textbook. I'm sick of people telling me about the Khan Academy. 

Then she told me to email my former English teacher (who likes me because I was the only student in the class who didn't eat and talk and text the whole time) and ask for a schedule for my literature class so I could get to work on the required reading. I didn't think he'd answer my email but he did. He even sent me a reading list. 

Now I have a bunch of textbooks and a literature schedule. Oh joy. 


Now that the week is over, I'm going to add a coda:

Now it's Saturday and the first week is over and done with. Phew. Sigh. Hurray!

That Time Already?

Sob.

The tide of summer has suddenly turned and everyone is talking about back to school topics. I can't seem to avoid it, no matter where I turn my eyes. Makes me think about how different our homeschool world looks these days.

In the years since I first started blogging our life has changed so much: back then we had more play resources and fewer reference books. More Playdough, chalk, and markers. More fingerpaint paper. Heck, I even had different SIZES of fingerpaint paper. Thomas the Tank Engine loomed large in our world. The kids LIVED for backpacks with their favourite characters on them. We all knew who Mr Frumble was. We spent a lot of time, rain or shine, trawling around the neighbourhood just looking at stuff: diggers, trucks, signs, rain, cats, spiders, friendly shopkeepers. We had our favourite librarians. And many an afternoon we'd sit down at 4pm with a tidy little snack (there's another thing that has gone by the wayside: tidy little snacks!) and watch 30 minutes of perfect happiness with our favourite aardvark Arthur. Then it would be time for dinner and, eventually, off to bed, whereupon I'd plan activities for the following day. I frequented websites like The Crafty Crow and Art Projects For Kids, poured over books like Festivals, Family, and Food or All Year Round, and picked out rituals and traditions to start with my own family. In my spare time I read about Waldorf-inspired playrooms, with wooden kitchen setups, Circle Time, and drifting silk fabrics everywhere.

Nowadays we have way more reference books: Latin, French, Japanese, science, history, and grammar dictionaries fill the shelves. We have Shakespeare anthologies, geology textbooks, philosophy books, and precalculus DVDs. We could open a library with the origami stuff we've amassed. The Thomas table has gone and in its place is a long, flat table. Adult sized chairs. Larger scissors. Larger bottles of glue. More serious glue, too. Less tissue paper and more cardstock. Fewer glittery pencils. Less glitter all round, come to think of it, except at Christmas.

Everyone has an iPod now, a fact which has its pros and cons. The pros being some of us have learnt a ton about exploring the internet, finding interesting apps on learning foreign languages, taking better photos, and fun new activities like geocaching or studying the hundreds of ships that pass through our island waters. The cons are less tangible: less interest in playing or laying out in the backyard being simply and wonderfully idle. More chatter about the games they like to play: Minecraft, Brave Frontier, Modern Combat. I'm not so keen on the games. Mindless entertainment is my preferred terminology for all that, with a special emphasis on the mindless.

There's also way less little kid noise. I used to go about my day to the sound of shrieks, screams, and giggles following me around. Pattering footsteps. Constant chattering. The laundry could be done in one or two loads because all the clothes were so tiny. I spent more time scrubbing stains off the fronts of t-shirts. Meals were simple because they didn't involve much. One can of black beans was enough for an enchilada dinner.

All that's been replaced by skirmishes over who gets the bathroom (or who stunk up/hogged/ruined the bathroom), stereo loudness contests, and arguments (although they call them 'discussions') over who has to do the breakfast dishes (and sometimes, why). I'm conversant with names like Tiesto, Skrillex, Deadmau5, and Kaskade. I'm even knowledgable about WHO they are, and how much money they make in a year (trust me, you don't want to know). We still watch PBS a lot, but Arthur has been replaced by Mystery, Doctor Who, and NOVA. More adult fare. No one goes to bed right after dinner, either, unless it's me.

Perhaps the biggest change in our homeschool world has been the departure of one of the homeschoolees. Nowadays there's only two kids at home instead of three. The eldest is off at public school, doing Highly Complicated Math, and dissecting Formerly Live Animals. Places I decided I was no longer willing to go. That's the thing, you see: when you homeschool you either farm out the academics or you learn them yourself so you can help and teach. Ten years of homeschooling has taught me a lot: I'm much more enthusiastic about fractions now than I ever was in grade school, but I'm no longer willing to put in the long evening hours studying the higher grades stuff. Nowadays I want to put that time into my winter garden plan, dust off the sewing machine so I can finish off that duvet cover I started for FDPG 4 years ago, or just sit on the couch and read. I'm also less gripped by the politics of the homeschool world: when people start discussing terminology and placing themselves in the various positions (unschooler? lifelearner? homeschooler? enrolled? registered?) I find myself losing interest, and mentally adding termin-what-EVAH. All they do is divide us all at the end of the day. If only people could see it.

The youngest two are in grade 8 this year. Instead of Circle Time beginning our day we do math. We still have read aloud time every morning, because none of us wants to give that up (it's also an amazing way to get through a TON of literature), but now we start the day with the tough stuff, leaving the afternoons open for less cerebral fare: art, cooking, science experiments, crafts, museum visits, or history videos. I frequent fewer online homeschool groups, too, but again, I think that's just the way it goes as the kids grow up. I don't need the reassurance anymore. I don't care what someone's interfering mother-in-law said. We have our groove and we're happy with it.

And so it goes. Back to school. How time flies!

New Year Revelations

I'm not the sort of person who usually makes New Year resolutions, to be honest. If I do, I generally try to think of something philosophical or uplifting, like being nicer and less potty-mouthed when I'm behind a car wheel, or being (marginally) more patient with fractious offspring in Trying Moments, but these things never last much past January. A brief spasm of remorse might hit me in late spring, but like most resolutions when viewed from a distance of time, the guilt never lasts long: too many other things are claiming my attention by then. 

The garden, for one thing. 

The back yard in December

Anyhow, this week I had a bit of a revelation about why my New Year's resolutions never come to much. It's this: I don't make the right sorts of resolutions. My resolutions are predicated on certain failure. I need to focus on resolutions that have a higher success rate. 

Take swearing while driving - a useless resolution if there ever were one. Swearing is the single most satisfying method to cope with the stupid behaviours and idiotic driving patterns of one's fellow drivers. Not swearing, by contrast, would be hazardous to my health, I feel quite sure. Besides, it gives the kids a useful compendium of flowery yet articulate expressions from which to draw once they're over 18, the age at which I've deemed it Okay To Swear In Mum's Hearing (although I reserve the right to cringe, wince, or roll my eyes).

Then there was that resolution about being Nice Mummy, as opposed to Mostly Nice But Sometimes Very Shouty Mummy. To illustrate how extra futile that one was, I'll tell you a story: once upon a time Eldest Son was in a rush, and got himself into a state of extra special, no good, simply terrible irrationality while trying to simultaneously burn a CD (for a gift he was very late giving), study for a chemistry test (which was the next day), and write up a 4-H report, all the while finishing his supper. He was doing all this in the Family Room (where we never eat meals, where I have banned all food and drink, and where we have some expensive electronic items on tables). If this were a game of Clue, we'd have the Kid in the Family Room with the Food, trying to kill the Computer, because that's what happened. The moment, such as it was, ended with butter smeared all over my optical drive, many poorly burned CDs, and some choice expressions uttered in the heat of the moment. Another epic failure of resolution. I know, I know, there are contexts and there are contexts, but that scenario made me realize the pointlessness of being someone I'm not, just for the heck of a New Year Resolution.

This week, as I said, I had a revelation. It centred around my new socks. See photo below. These are my new Highly Favoured Household Footwear. I call them sockette thingies. I love wearing my sockette thingies, but they're white, and white is not a colour that lasts long in this house. After a few days of wear that lovely white was gray and brown (and sometimes black). Washing helped a little, but only a little. I resorted to soaking them overnight in Pink Solution before washing, which amused Husband greatly: "What are these things doing in this bucket?" he asked me, in between the odd snicker. "That's not like you."

No, it isn't. I hate doing laundry. Like bed-making, it seems to exist simply so I can do it over and over again. I feel as though I'm in an Escher sketch, doing the Munch Man scream.

 

 But then I realized why my cherished sockettes were getting so dirty. See next photo, below, of floor. Nice uncovered wood floor. Ignore cat tail. He just wants you all to know what a lemur tail he is in possession of. It wends its way into many a photo.

Anyhow, it occurred to me that the reason my sockette thingies were so dirty was because of these lovely wood floors. In addition to rarely making a bed, or doing laundry, I also never mop these floors. I do know people who mop, but let's just say that I'm not one of them.

So I mopped the entire top floor. All seven rooms. I concentrated on where the feet spend most time. I ended up mopping it twice in one week, prompting some odd looks from FDPG and her twin, who had never seen me mop the wood floors before. "Are you sure you're supposed to do that to them?" FDPG asked me, uneasily. "It might not be good for them!" echoed Dominic.

Never mind, I thought, it will be good for my sockette thingies. Finally, a resolution worth making. I'll keep you posted on the success rate of this one.

Confessions of a Facebook Failure

I'm gradually coming to the conclusion that I am just no good at Facebook. It brings out the Sarcastic Hag in me, it really does. 

I don't play Candy Crush, I don't have the urge to breed dragons, I have no interest in Slotomania, and I'm terrible at giving rampant, unbridled praise at the slightest provocation. 

What? You just made a really good pot of tea and you're drinking it right now? HIGH FIVE! 

You made a Middle Eastern stew with the new tagine pot you found at Value Village for ten cents and the family all love it? HOW THRILLING! I BET IT TASTES AMAZING! 

You called your miserable sourpuss of a husband to tell him that he's awesome, because you believe in miracles? YOU'RE EVEN MORE AWESOME! 

You made pancakes with bacon and it was so delicious you're making them again tomorrow? I WISH I WERE THERE EATING THEM WITH YOU!

See what I mean? I have to fight the urge to say things like "I'm drinking a glass of Scotch - with no ice! - and it's only 11am. I'm sure I'll be drunk by noon!" Or "I like swearing!" Or "The cat just puked in Max's runners! If I clean them now he'll never know!" Sometimes I even want to post updates on how many times I've said F*CK so far that day: F*ck, the kids pissed me off! F*ck, that driver took my parking spot! F*ck, my library fines are building up!

But I don't. Instead I grit my teeth and hit the LIKE button every now and then, just so they know I'm listening. And reading. 

F*ck. Where is the Facebook for Sarcastic Hags?

Where I Lived: SoCal

I wrote this post for the Where I Live linky that is going on over at The American Resident. Each week there is a different topic and this week's topic is Contrasts. As in, write about the negative if you like but contrast it with something positive. And so I have. 

I'm writing about the six years Richard and I spent living in southern California. As is usually the case in these things, I might not have loved living there when we initially moved down, but by the time we left I sure did. We both did. We still think about living somewhere hot. Never quite got over living in such a lovely climate, truth be told.


So here it goes: My Life In SoCal

Right after Richard and I got married we moved from our little apartment in a small town on Vancouver Island to a much bigger city south of Los Angeles, where Richard was to attend the University of California at Irvine. I wasn’t going to do anything, as I couldn’t get a work permit, and so I was feeling kind of jittery about moving to the States, especially as everyone we spoke to said the exact same thing:

Los Angeles has some really scary areas! The drivers are all nuts! Everyone has a gun! It’s really really smoggy! Are you sure you want to live there?

Despite the fact that I’d spent several years living in tents, trucks, and the odd isolated cabin in the woods, I was soon feeling uneasy about moving to such an obviously dangerous place. Guns, mad drivers and smog? I had a bad case of the eeks. Nevertheless, move there we did. We drove down, all our possessions jammed into a truck and one of U-Haul’s finest. The noise, dirt, and sweltering heat of the California freeways were a disappointing revelation. Drivers careered around in oversized SUVs and the freeways were always jammed. The HOV lanes, which in BC required a minimum of 3 occupants, only needed 2 people in the car to be considered “high occupancy.” As we drove past one smash up after another, most involving an unnerving number of ambulances (and eventual morgues), my heart sank, especially when I heard on the local news that there was a freeway shooter targeting women driving alone in small white cars. Did I mention that our car at that time was a small, white Toyota Tercel? And that I would likely be the lone occupant most of the time, while Richard was at school?

Things didn’t look up when we arrived at the student housing complex where we were to live. It looked like something out of The Prisoner, a British TV program I loved. Well, I loved it until I moved to that housing complex. All the worker guys drove around in small electric vehicles, just like they did in The Prisoner. All the units looked identical, just like in The Prisoner. There were clean, winding pathways between units, just like in The Prisoner. And the courtyards were empty and quiet, just like in The Prisoner. Richard thought I was being melodramatic, but I could just see myself being bundled into a large white floating balloon and being drilled by some anonymous man with a No. 2 badge pinned to his striped jacket, just like in The Prisoner. I practiced saying “I am a free woman! I am not a number!” (just like in The Prisoner) while Richard, who had never seen an episode of The Prisoner, rolled his eyes but had the good sense not to say anything.

Then there was the strange method of naming streets and roads. In B.C. roadways take conventional names like ROAD, STREET, or CRESCENT. In extreme cases there’s also CLOSE or DRIVE. Not in California. Everywhere we went the roads seemed to be called CYN. I pronounced this “sin.” It confirmed what I knew about Americans: they were obsessed with sex. This extended to television, where, no matter what was going on in the rest of the world (if indeed you ever heard anything about the rest of the world) the news would always lead with a celebrity story of some kind, even if it was a grade C celebrity. (I bet you didn’t know there are grades of celebrity in Los Angeles, now, did you? Well, there are)

The saving grace was the weather: it was always sunny. Even when it was cloudy it was sunny. It was also weirdly warm all the time, even at night. We never wore socks. Or coats. Rain boots, a staple in the Wet Coast, sat in the back of the closet. We had the doors open at night and best of all, there were no mosquitoes. This was the turning point for me for I am that most tragic of things: a mosquito magnet. If there is one within 50 miles it will find me. Predictably they tend to prefer my face. I end up looking like the Elephant Man until the swellings subside. I have endured many humiliating moments thanks to the mosquito. Until we moved to southern California I had no idea there were mosquito-free places in the world. It was a thrilling discovery that greatly offset my Being Sucked Into A Large White Balloon worry.

Things really started looking up when we drove back to Canada for Christmas and realized how cold and wet and dark it was up there. I started prefacing everything I said with “In California it’s —” much to my Canadian friends’ dismay. Yes, I had become an American Apologist. You see, in Canada scorning all things American is a bit of a national sport. A quiet, polite one, true, but it’s there. We Canadians grow up feeling superior to America by virtue of our smaller cars, nationalized health care, good libraries, sensible gun laws, expensive junk food, and well-maintained highways. An anti-American ethos runs through our (clean, drinkable) water. It surprised me a little that I had become an American Apologist. If I had to be honest, I was also a little horrified, but that could be offset by an hour in ROSS Dress For Less or the liquor section of Costco. Or even better, Trader Joe’s. I loved Trader Joe’s. I loved the cheap food, the lack of Bovine Growth Hormones in the dairy products, the friendly staff, and the slightly inferior imitations of well-known products. Plus, their slogans on all the packaging was brilliant. My Canadian friends no doubt found me irritating but they were too polite to say much, other than “can we come and stay with you?”

We spent six years living in SoCal, had three kids, and grew to love living in such a hot dry climate. When we eventually moved back to Canada my eldest son and I cried as we raced north in our cramped, air-conditionless little white car. I had made a cassette tape of music for the road and we listened to Everybody Wants To Rule The World at full blast as we careered along the freeways with everyone else. It seemed appropriate, somehow. I had avoided the Freeway Shooter (who was never found but killed 4 women in small white cars), learned to drive on busy freeways and lived in Prisoner-like housing complexes. Richard graduated one year too soon to have Arnold Schwarzenegger’s signature (as California’s Governor) on his PhD diploma but that was okay - I'd had six mosquito-free years AND escaped the Mysterious Floating White Balloon. But Richard had a job in Vancouver and it was time to move on.

Oh, and the roads in California? The ones named CYN? I learned that it was actually an abbreviation for CANYON. No sin in sight, although I did miss seeing grade C celebrities leading the news hour. Canada doesn’t have quite the same obsession with celebrity as Southern California does. Which is probably a good thing. 

Mid-Week Post

My bra creaks.

It really does. On one side only, fortunately.

I'm not entirely sure why it creaks and I'm not sufficiently compelled to find out exactly why, but it's enough of a creak that I think carefully before putting it on. I sometimes wonder if other people can hear my creaking bra while I'm out.

If I were to claim some "bad luck with _______" credits for my live thus far they would for sure be in the bra department. I do not have any fortune, skill, or Happy Purchase Memories whatsoever in the acquisition (sometimes wearing) of bras. As a result we share an uneasy relationship with each other. I wear them; they torment me in a vague but persistent way. They either have straps that slip off my shoulder on one side no matter what I do or the elastic wears out at the speed of light or they feel like a safety pin squeezing me tightly or, worst of all, they itch.

And right now I'm sitting in a creaking bra.

The chicken all have spring fever and Fern is getting seriously good at flapping over the Keep Out You Maniac Chickens! fence. She's a stealth fence getter overer too: she knows enough to hide in the artichoke bed and do most of her damage there before anyone spots her. Why is this so irritating? you ask? It's because chickens have long sharp talons, like a giant scary garden fork. With a beak that is just as persistently sharp (and scary). Fern can shred the asparagus bed in less than 4 minutes. Don't ask what she did to the last of the white sprouting broccoli because I can't stifle the sobs when I talk about it. It's like she has a homing signal on them.

On the plus side, I transplanted more tomatoes (than I think we can usefully plant in the garden) today and not a single one drooped. What I lack in the Bra Luck Stakes I recouped in the Green Thumb Club. In fact, the entire garden, including the stupid Bishop's Weed I can't get rid of, is doing really well. Mason bees are out, the nectarines are blossoming, daffodils, primroses, pulmonaria, and dandelions. We're a little late to the peas-in-the-ground phase. I tell myself that it's rained a lot and I probably would have had the lot rot. Yeah, right. Keep telling that to yourself, Sheila.

And look what Richard E Grant sent to the funeral of Richard Griffiths this week. I love this.

Funeral Unbaked Vegetables

Ask Sheila

Dear Sheila,

I was sitting with some other mums during a class my kids were taking and one of the mums was talking about how she and her family had recently emptied their house of possessions and moved into a little caravan. She talked about how freeing it was, having so little stuff. Another mother agreed fervently, well, I thought it seemed a little fervent, so I piped up. "I don't know if I could do that," I joked. The other two mothers looked at me very severely and said that if I had less stuff I'd be happier. Is that true? Would I be happier with less stuff?

signed,

Hoarder


Dear Hoarder,

First off, stop calling yourself a hoarder. Hoarders are people who have so many newspapers lining their front hallway they can barely get in the door. You're a collector - who knows when you might need those five packages of orange feathers, twenty five feet of plastic ivy, thirteen 3" white binders, or that 5-tiered stack of square wooden beads that your SIL gave one of your children for Christmas six years ago and while they never used them they are so pretty with those cool African designs you hate to give them away. Remember those cases of discarded tiles you picked up every Friday after gym class, the ones that tile store used to put out beside their dumpster (until they realized that one person was taking them each week)? You ended up making a lovely tiled address plate with those. So what if it took you three years to decide what to do with them - every artist needs time to let those ideas percolate.

Ignore those mothers. They have a pathology of their own: it's called a lack of imagination. You can see into the future, to a time when your youngest child might need a 3" binder (so what if it's a colour your kid hates) - they can't. Let them sit in their tiny little caravan and feel superior, while you sit amongst your piles of stuff. You're ready for anything!

Rolling Along

My camera finally made its way home from Palm Springs, 4 weeks after I did. I can only assume it had a really good time without me. Now to develop the 394 photos I took.

In the meantime, a photo of how some of us spent our holiday time. I have no commentary, other than to point out that we all have our quirky sides.

Some of us more than others, of course.

Dear Mr. LEGO Executive,

At last count we had in the neighbourhood of 7 bazillion pieces of your product in our house. That's probably because I have three kids, and all three of those kids have gone through phases of liking LEGO, adoring LEGO, reading books on LEGO, begging reluctant relatives for yet more of it, building entire LEGO villages in their bedrooms, and wishing they lived in a LEGO house. (I blame James May for the last) Anyhow, their confusion between WANTS and NEEDS have resulted in our house being filled, nay, jammed with your product. So, count me in as an enthusiastic admirer and supporter of the LEGO oeuvre.

But that's not why I am writing to you. Today I am interested in addressing an article I happened across, one that stated that your company's net profits were up 36% this year. That sales of the new "Friends" line have been, to quote chief executive Joergen Vig Knudstorp, "astonishing."

Well, Mr. Knudstorp, I can tell you why your profits are up: most of your best products are TOO EXPENSIVE. Yes, I realize there are smaller, cheaper kits. We've bought a number of them. But they have a paltry piece count, often fall apart when played with, and are exceedingly small when built. The new Star Wars LEGO Advent calendar is a case in point: $10 more than the City Advent calendar yet with half the interest level. This, I dare say, is why sales of the new Friends line have been "astonishing": they contain new colours, new and rare pieces, AND they are generally priced under $30. I'm resisting saying it's only a matter of time... oh what the heck, let's just get it out there: It's only a matter of time before the Friends line goes the way of the Creator/City line and prices most of its best kits over $130.

I have to say, I'm surprised you didn't give any credit to the Minifigure series (and accompanying display cases) when you were waxing eloquent about your new bottom line. It must be raking in the bucks, given that my kids probably account for at least 1% of the sales figures in Canada. It's the one new series I heartily approve of: cheap, interesting, full of rare pieces (pies! green fish! Santa Claus! bats! trophies!).

I don't know about your relatives, Mr. Knudstorp, but mine aren't the sort who can stomach paying $80 or more for a box of coloured plastic. Convincing them of LEGO's amazingness is something we've worked hard on over the years, but in the end we're still faced with the simple and rather distressing fact that a large plastic house, no matter how wonderful or intricate or technical, costs $200. We've had years where I've managed to get a few relatives in on one gift, or bought used LEGO, or had the kids chip in over and above what I'm willing to pay for a gift, but the whole concept of having to go to such lengths to get ONE present for ONE kid without giving ME palpitations is wearing on me. For the purposes of brevity I won't mention how hard it is to buy LEGO for my kids' friends' birthday parties without resembling the titular character from a Dickens story but I dare you to try spending under $15 on LEGO without looking (or feeling) cheap.

So there you have it. I love your products. My kids love your products. We love how geeky your designers' videos are; one of us even wants to be a LEGO designer when he grows up. That same kid has six years of magazines in his memory banks and can quotes huge swathes of price, piece count, and more from them to prove it. We do not love how the Canadian LEGO magazine is always at least 20 pages lighter than its American cousin but on the other hand we love Brickjournal so much that we're willing to pay exorbitant shipping costs to get it into the wilderness that is Canada, something we're unable to do with the LEGO magazine. But you, Mr LEGO Executive, are starting to look like your bottom line is more important than your fan base. And for that I do not love you.

yours very sincerely,

Sheila

Watery Sludge

We were having leftovers for lunch today and FDPG (whose tastes are so austere that she eschews almost all food groups that do not include either cheese or sugar) had seconds of a soup I'd made a few days ago.

"Want some more?" I asked her.

"Yes please!" she said enthusiastically.

"Wow," I said, "why do you like this soup so much? I'm surprised."

"It's good! I like the stuff in it, but I like that watery sludge stuff most of all," she answered.

That watery sludge stuff. Right. I think I might need a lapel pin with that on it:

I am good at making watery sludge.

Halloween Cometh

And what do you know but we're supposed to have the wettest Halloween in 18 years. Gosh, how fun is that? What kid doesn't like slogging around the neighbourhood in the pouring rain in a soaking wet costume?

This is perhaps the first year in, well, years that we aren't Frantically Ready and Desperately Waiting for Halloween. When the kids were little I sewed spiders, lizards, fairies, Colorado Potato Beetles, kittens, and more. It was fun, mostly because a tiny costume takes seconds to make. Now of course they are far bigger in size, not to mention far more opinionated, and it's harder to work up the enthusiasm at the idea of spending a week sewing something wildly complicated for just one night. I spent the first part of the month arguing with Dominic, who had the idea of going out trick or treating dressed as an Angry Bird. The Boomerang Bird. The one with the long beak. "It will be super easy to make," he told me, "I have plans down in my room. I will show them to you. All you need is a box."

All I need is a box. If only life were like that.

Luckily the look on my face - when he added "You've left it a bit late, better get moving!"- managed to persuade him that he needed to pick another costume, given that it's THE DAY BEFORE HALLOWEEN. Now he's going as a ghost - the Charlie Brown kind: white sheet with holes. I don't think I will need my sewing machine, either. Nice.

FDPG is going as a Mad Scientist. She originally wanted to go as the Headless Horseman, sans horse, but I worked my persuasive magic and talked her into being a Mad Scientist, as such a costume would involve items we already had in the house and it is, after all, THE DAY BEFORE HALLOWEEN. Plus, we don't have a large suit I can cut holes in and at this stage I don't much fancy the idea of haunting the second hand shops for over-priced suits for her to hack at with scissors.

I'm sounding like a real downer aren't I.

At least their costumes will involve lots of glow-in-the-dark sticks from the Dollar Store. And FDPG gets to wear her Lucius Malfoy wig again, although for some reason she's decided to call it the Blonde Wig (odd considering that it isn't blonde). We had A Moment in one of those cheap jewellery stores today when I showed her some black-rimmed glasses and said "This looks very scientist-y!" and she said, looking oddly furtive, "I'm not going to be a dead scientist, or a diseased scientist, or anything weird looking, Mum." We stared at each other, me aghast at the idea that any child of mine should be so, well, so SEDATE at Halloween; she worried that I was going to insist she be a Dead Mad or Bad Scientist.

Fortunately we managed to compromise: she is going to wear a teeny tiny touch of white face paint and look ever-so-slightly dead (maybe with fangs) and I bought her an overpriced white foam stick that has an LED with 6 different lights in it to use as a Pretend Test Tube (it may or may not have a plastic skull stuck on it, evidence of An Experiment Gone Horribly Wrong). We are both happy with that outcome, although Dominic was annoyed that he didn't bargain harder about the Angry Bird costume.

I'm tempted to tuck Prunella the Moulting Chicken under my arm and walk around the neighbourhood in my dressing gown, telling the neighbours that we just woke up and we're not feeling very good. In all that rain we probably won't LOOK very good either.

In Which I Discover A Few Things About Chickens

It's getting cold in the mornings. And when we wake up it's dark - really dark - in the bedroom. I blundered into a borrowed cash box this morning, stubbing my toes and making a lot of noise. I feel safe in saying that I probably woke everyone up when my foot connected with that box. 

I've mentioned that we're new chicken owners, right? Well, there's a lot about chickens I did not know. In fact, I won't admit this to Richard but if I'd known some of these things before we actually GOT the chickens I might not have been quite so insistent that we get chickens. I might have remained an Ardent Fan From Afar. Sad but true.

Allow me to regale you with my newly discovered Chicken Facts.

They are not very bright. It pains me somewhat to say this but one of our chickens is woefully stupid. This would be Prunella. Prunella continually forgets where the door of the coop is, and each evening she spends at least three minutes trying desperately to join her sisters, who are enjoying the dish of milk and oats I've given them. She flaps and clucks despairingly at the wire, peers resentfully at her piggy sisters, then paces back and forth with increasing unease, until someone walks around and shoos her to the side with the door. She leaps into the coop and you can see the visible sigh of relief emanating off her. And before you say anything - Prunella has lived in this coop for two years. Call me judgemental but the only logical conclusion to draw from this scenario is that Prunella is a bird of limited intellect.

They are alarmingly greedy. I think they see me not as Kind Owner but as Instant Food Dispenser. Spoiled my bucolic image of myself as Urban Chick 'n' Gardener, I have to admit. Prunella, Pip, and Fern will stop whatever they are doing (including pooing) when they see me and run pell mell in my direction. In fact, I think whoever invented the word pell mell must have had chickens, because it describes their food-seeking gait perfectly.

They are not always good at recognizing danger. Yes, I admit, they know a hawk when they see one, but a ground predator could walk up to them and bash them on the head without any trouble. Yesterday Pip escaped from her spacious Chicken Yard twelve times, and six of those times she was (unbeknownst to her) stalked by the neighbour's cat. Let me back up, and explain that a bit. Initially they had the run of the entire back yard, well, until we discovered the dubious charms of chicken poo everywhere (not to mention the sudden defoliation of the white sprouting broccoli). So we fenced off an area for them to use as their own personal toilet slash play area. All three hens were unhappy about this new development, Pip most of all. Yesterday she made it her mission to escape. And was stalked by the neighbour's cat. Pip was oblivious each and every time. Now, we can admit that the neighbour's cat is either really hungry or overly convinced of its own strength, but what about Pip? Does Pip want a kitty friend or does she have a death wish? Or is she just plain dumb and wouldn't recognize Danger if it jumped on her back and wrestled her to the ground then slit her throat with its claws?

They are murder on a garden. It wasn't enough that the Prunella, Pip, and Fern had a large grassy area and a compost bin to scritch around in, no, no, no. Both Prunella and Pip felt the need to dig up my pulmonarias, echinaceas, and Lady's Mantles to make way for a dirt wallow. A sizeable dirt wallow. I made them a dirt wallow in their Chicken Yard. It was scorned. They went back to the flowers, which meant that they had also discovered a way out of their Chicken Yard. I shored up the - ahem - chicken wire fence. Pip dug, I replanted, Prunella dug, I replanted. Pip dug, I replanted. Fern watched from a distance, gauging what strength I might have left, then made a beeline for my prize pulmonaria. Turns out Fern has a liking for Prize Pulmonaria leaves. I felt like the small organic farmer fighting the big evil Monsanto Corporation (Richard thought I was being melodramatic but I happen to feel very strongly about my pulmonarias). It was depressing. Almost as depressing as catching them in the neighbour's yard that afternoon, after they'd tired of their Monsanto Wallow.

So there you have it. Good times with chickens. I can hardly wait till they stop laying and start moulting. Or get caught by a cat...

Holiday Snapshots #1

We were sitting on the sand.

Hot sand. Very hot sand. So hot you couldn't walk barefoot. We were therefore squished together on several towels, drying off from our swim.

Dominic was stretched out like a starfish, perhaps he was even pretending he was a starfish. He was doing his level best to ignore our repeated pleas to stop hogging the towels. FDPG was deep in an Agatha Christie novel, reading about her hero Hercule Poirot (or Pwa-Rot as we like to call him). Max was one log over, pretending he was a cool DJ Guy relaxing on his yacht after a sold out show. Every so often he'd sit up and fix his hair, using his reflective sunglasses as a mirror. I snuck photos of him when he wasn't looking.

Richard and I were reading. Richard - his usual deeply intellectual fare: The Origins Of Political Order. Me - my usual deeply unintellectual fare: Gardener's World magazine. I was just admiring a charming photo of Alan Titchmarsh, immaculate in a periwinkle vest, cutting a large handful of thyme with his equally immaculate pruners, pleasantly determined look on his face. There's something deeply comforting about Alan. Whenever I need a pick-me-up I read his Tales From Titchmarsh column. He's always so nice and encouraging. Black spot on your roses? Never fear! He has 10 top tips for that. Mildew on your squash? Ah, you haven't used your baking soda spray yet, have you? Wilting delphiniums? Try some cheery painted bamboo stakes - practical AND picturesque! Every problem has a happy solution. Even if it IS something you've already tried (and failed with), Alan makes it sound both easy AND feasible.

But I digress.

I was sitting on the towel, trying to ignore the elbowing starfish to my left and a sniffing FDPG to my right (both twins took up the completely irritating habit of sniffing every 20 seconds this summer) when a large flying insect showed up on the sand. Not a hornet. Not a wasp. Not a bee. A bit of all of them: large wings, stripey body, aggressively long torso. It would alight on a speck then fly off, very quickly and very unpredictably. It came closer and closer to us, even landing on my clogs at one point. It kept flashing its wings and waving its antennae menacingly, waking us from our torpor and causing us to skitter about on the towels in an effort not to be its first victim.

When it attacked the grasshopper we all gasped. It clung to the grasshopper's head and made some determined clicking noises. The grasshopper waved its legs feebly as we looked on, horrified. Dominic threw a little rock which bounced off the sand but the insect took no notice. We watched the poor grasshopper writhe and roll around on that hot hot sand, until finally I went over and smacked at the insect with a stick. It flew away and FDPG moved the stunned grasshopper to a little bark house, out of the sun and out of the way of the insect, which by then had returned and was scanning the sand for the grasshopper. It was even more insistent and alarming than before, so of course we all started dashing about and bumping into each other in an effort to avoid it. Even Richard (who is usually quite oblivious to anything but the most urgent of disasters) moved hurriedly out of the way. Things were getting a wee bit panicky. It was a very pugnacious insect.

Finally my stick managed to connect with the insect. I think I stunned it somewhat. I scooped it up in a clam shell and placed it on a log, where it could hopefully settle down and rethink its grasshopper-attacking strategies. Then I went back to my magazine, intent on learning the Four Ways To Banish Bindweed.

Dominic got up and went over to the insect. He picked up a large smooth rock and smashed the insect with it, hard. He banged and bashed for at least a minute while we all watched, startled. Then he put down his rock and went back to being a starfish.

We settled back to our sleepy sunbathing activities, albeit slightly uneasy should another winged terror appear.

A few hours later we were packing up when Dominic went over to the log where the by now completely unrecognizable remains of the insect were. It was definitely a Former Insect. He examined the tiny specks of shell and wing closely.

"I think it's dead now," he said.

No kidding.

Smells Like Teen Spirit (Or Crabs)

 It started here. If this creature had kept quiet no one would have twigged. I'm sure he started complaining only because he was penned up in this cage. He'd far rather have been shedding hair everywhere, puking on someone's shoe, evading our grasp, and digging himself into safe places, like, oh, say, under the gas pedal. Or the brake. He's done that before. Which is why he is PENNED UP.

Then there was the teenager. He was sitting in the very back of the van, silently disgruntled at not being able to sit in the front passenger seat (which is MY seat). He thinks it should be his seat. He could have a career as a Professional Perfume Smeller if he weren't quite so melodramatic. As soon as the cat started whining he joined in:

"Something stinks in here. Mom! Mom! I said it stinks in here! Is that crab in here somewhere?"

I hate being called Mom. I've explained til I'm blue in the face that I am a Canadian mum, not an American mom. Evidently it amuses him to annoy me this way. I guess we all get our cheap thrills from somewhere. And yes, I do know that it could be worse.

Did you notice that he didn't ask if anyone else smelled it? That's teen spirit for you. He doesn't need anyone to confirm what he already knows anymore. Even if he's wrong he knows he's right. It would be charming if it weren't so irritating. That was when I decided to take a leaf out of his book and pretend not to hear him. I opened my window and pretended to usher an ant out, despite the fact that the open window  - at 110 km per hour - considerably dislodged hair, newspapers, and card games. There was the added bonus of great wet sheets of monsoon rain spilling into the window. Dominic wailed in what I thought was an overly dramatic fashion while Katie shrieked "WHO OPENED THE DAMN WINDOW?"

A rhetorical question if I ever heard one. Who do they think opened the damn window? Again, I feigned deafness, chatted to my imaginary ant and shut the window, hoping that the brief influx of fresh air would change the subject.

Sadly, it did not. The whiff was still there. And yes, it was my crab. My lovely but also very dead crab. See it sitting there? It's in that cardboard box next to Richard (at this point still blissfully unaware he's sitting next to it). The crab itself is beside the moon snail shell in the plastic bag. Actually, it was in two plastic bags.

I guess it should have been in three plastic bags.

It did stink a bit.

But I digress. Here's where I found the crab. We were on holiday at this beach. This is the far off reef we were walking along. I won't tell you where it is because not many people go to this beach and I'd like to keep it that way. It's a very nice beach.

We were walking along this reef at low tide, observing all sorts of treasures: hermit crabs, spider crabs, moon snails, tiny eels, tiny shrimp, bullheads, and starfish.


Sorry but I just cannot bring myself to say "sea star." To me it's another example of idiotic political correctness run amok. And yes I DO know that it's not really a fish.









 We saw 29 moonsnail collars (see photo below). Some of us counted them. Out loud. Each time. Every time. Sometimes some of us had to recount just to make sure we were counting them properly. Some of us might have argued with our sister over who saw which ones, too. Finally, I took a photo of one, hoping to silence the soundtrack of each new discovery, to no avail. In fact, it just encouraged more audible counting, more audible arguing, and included a plea to photograph each new moonsnail collar. One of us might have swore a little bit at this point.

And then I found the crab. It was almost completely intact. And very dead. It would be a perfect watercolour model. As long as I could get it home. Without anyone noticing. Evidently I failed at that part, because now everyone - including Richard (slightly aghast at the fact, especially after telling me five times that I MUST leave the crab outside the cabin on the fence until we went back up in August) - knew it was a) in the car, and b) in the car stinking big time.

I did the only thing I could have done under the circumstances: I wrapped it in another plastic bag and placed it on the floor near my feet, where no one could grab it and throw it out the window.

And we drove home. Another 94 minutes and 27 seconds in the car. The smell wasn't too bad.

When we got home my crab was the first thing out of the car. Here it is here, sitting on the deck rail, delighting the city flies, who have probably never smelled such a charming salty stench before.

When it dries it won't smell at all. Don't ask me how I know this.

Random Garden Happenings

 We worked in the garden for much of the weekend, not because the weather was glorious and we were all panting to be out there grubbing in the soil, no no no. We were out there because:

a) everything in the greenhouse was rootbound because I'd left it, waiting for the warmer weather.

b) everything on the deck was rootbound because I'd left it, waiting for the warmer weather.

c) the soil was wondering where the hell all the plants were, not realizing that we were waiting for the warmer weather.

d) I bribed the kids to get out there and slave away with help me. I used freezies (for the twins) and cold hard cash (for the teenager). Easy, relatively cheap, and extremely effective.

This is what the teenager did. He turned over all three of my compost bins (which is why he got cold hard cash and not a mere freezie for his efforts). After we sieved it that compost was a thing of beauty. Methinks even Martha would have used it in her (extensive and heart-rendingly fabulous) gardens.

We had about 8 wheelbarrow loads. The rhubarb got the first load, because it was suffering from a lack of attention. Then the fruit trees, the tomatoes, the empty beds, and the peas, in that order.

When we had the first barrow load sieved I made Dominic come and admire, because he and FDPG had recently done a Compost Presentation for 4-H. They put in a lot of time studying the mechanics of making compost and making up a very lively demonstration, complete with costumes and signs and models, for the competition. Amazingly, they won the District Demos with this presentation. Their presentation rocked the big one, if I may say so, so I figured he would be interested in seeing how our compost changed so drastically over the winter.

"Wow!" he said. "I didn't think it would really do that."

Yes, he really did say that. Fortunately there was a big screened window in between us, or that barrow load of compost might have winged its way onto his head.

FDPG took a lot of photos, when she wasn't slaving away with her freezie. Oops, I meant working in the garden. It's hard to know sometimes just what she's getting up in the garden.

I like this shot. In case you're wondering what it's a shot OF, well, I'll tell you: that wheel is part of a pulley system that lets a bucket go up and down from our deck to the back yard. It's a very handy way of getting produce into the kitchen, stat.

Another in the fabulous line of David Austen roses. This one is Evelyn, of Crabtree fame. It's very delicately apricot.

My new cucumber trellis. I'm thinking of painting it a very unusual blue. Any thoughts on this? Don't hold back now, although I should say that I have nixed yellow, black, white, and red at this point. I'm leaning towards an unusual blue or some kind of glow-in-the-dark green.

A Maltese Cross. Not many people grow them but they are an exceptional plant for the herbaceous border.

Yes, I really DID just say herbaceous border. I must be hitting my dotage or something, because that term is starting to roll off my tongue rather easily of late.












Finally, a Westerland rose. I've had this rose for three years and this year it's been positively spectacular. As in shocking amounts of bloom. As in intoxicating scents wafting across the yard. As in healthy green leaves waving about in the breeze, framing those indecently gorgeous blooms so perfectly.

Looking Back In Time

We were out in the car on Friday, screaming down the highway on our way to track, when we passed some horses in a field. 

"Look! A dead horse!" shrieked Dominic. "OHMYGAWD!"

We all look across the highway at the field, shocked. The dead horse is actually a little colt, lying on the ground under his mother, sleeping. He definitely does not look dead - his mother looks far too calm about that little body lying there. All the rest of the horses look far too calm about that little body lying there. We see his tail suddenly flick.

"It's not dead, it's sleeping!" FDPG says indignantly. "Honestly, can't you tell a dead horse from a sleeping horse?"

"Yes I can! Can you?" Dominic replies, equally indignantly, smugly unaware of the illogicality of his logic.

"Stop arguing, you two. The horse is sleeping, didn't you see his tail flick?" I say.

"Hah, right," I hear Dominic mutter.

"What did he say?" whispers FDPG.

"Nothing," I say, sighing. "Nothing at all."

And so we drive on down the highway. This kind of conversation happens to us regularly: Dominic convinced of something, FDPG equally convinced of his mistakes, the two of them nattering away at each other, me in the sorry sorry middle.

Like the time we went to the movies. It was four years ago. The twins were six years old. 

===========================

(this post first appeared in 2008)

I took the kids to see WALL-E  today. It was one of those rainy-ish days here, a day when I felt too dispirited to work in the garden and the kids were at loose ends with themselves. A perfect day to see a movie. But as so often happens, the best part of the movie was what was happening around the movie, rather than the movie itself. 

Here's how it all started. We're at the ticket counter, where FDPG has hauled herself up across the counter to peer into the cash register as the girl gave me my tickets. She has her little bum sticking out and her stomach squished by the effort of clutching herself against the counter. She knows I hate it when she does that (she always flashes her underwear going up and coming down). "Oh wow, look at all that money!" she shrieks delightedly, "can I have some?" She then chortles at her own wit. The ticket girl regards her nervously. I stare at the movie posters in the opposite direction. You'd think we never go anywhere. 

I've got the movie passes from Costco, which means that a bunch of greasy sugary junk food stuff my kids love accompanies the ticket: popcorn, pop, and a - gasp - Kinder Egg.  So we line up for this. When the girl comes to take our tokens and drink order, my kids are paralyzed by the deliciousness of it all. Do they choose some tooth-dissolving Coke? Burp-producing root beer? Dubious-looking iced tea "blends"? Or something called Fruitopia, which is impossible to explain to a clutching 6 year old in a noisy crowded room. "One is pink," I shout, "and the other is orange!" Our food girl is clearly irritated with all this gaiety, and when I ask if the clear, greasy fluid she is about to drench our popcorn with is butter, she snaps "Of course it isn't, it's BECEL. Butter's extra!" "What?" I say, unable to make out much beyond "of course...it's extra.". "It's MARGARINE! Butter is EXTRA!" she bellows. The customers around us fall silent and we all stare at her. I decide that we should probably cut and run, but she's one step ahead of me, having dumped the kiddie trays on the counter and moved on to the man behind me, all without saying a word. Wowee zowee, Batman, I think. That girl sure does like her job.

Then I have to figure out how to get two trays of overloaded popcorn down the hall, up the staircase, down another hall, and into a pitch-black room, all without spilling a single bit, because if I do I just know one of the twins will shriek "I don't want the one that lost all the popcorn!" Never mind if they spill it all; but heaven help me if I spill it all. Fortunately Max is both able to negotiate this all on his own AND be a very calming presence. "Twinnies!" he says imperiously, "follow me!" 

And off we go. Max leads us into The Dark Knight at first, hoping I'm more of an idiot that he could dare to imagine I won't notice, but the fact that the movie had already begun tipped me off. Nevertheless, we pause on the edge, until some very alarming action scenes scare the (under)pants off FDPG. Back out into the hallway, we see our own theatre: #9. 

Ignoring Max's pleas to sit in the nosebleed seats, we settle somewhat in the upper middle, near the end of the aisle in case FDPG has to pee (because she always does). I sneak popcorn from Dominic's tray until he puts his hand over mine and says, rather sanctimoniously, "I'm trying to save this for the movie." Drats. I turn to FDPG and try to sneak some of hers. She's so busy stuffing great handfuls of the stuff into her mouth and darting her eyes around the room that she doesn't notice my hand snaking in. And so we eat. We admire the new containers the Kinder Egg people are now using. Dominic demonstrates how easy they are to open. Max demonstrates how easy they are to open. FDPG demonstrates how easy they are to open, dropping her card pieces from inside on the floor in the process. I pick them up while FDPG wonders aloud if she will be able to sell all her old containers on Ebay. She wonders aloud how old the teen-age girls two seats in front of us are. She wonders if they smoke cigarettes like Paper Mouth Man down the street. I see their necks stiffen somewhat as she says this. We admire the nice lights in the theatre and FDPG asks me, at the top of her lungs, if I wished I had them in our house. Then she asks me if I went pee before we sat down. Again, at the top of her lungs. The boys start giggling at this point, the teen-age girls no doubt making mental notes never to have children, and Dominic drops half his popcorn down between the seats. And the movie hasn't even begun.

We watch a short trailer about a super dog with John Travolta's voice, named Bolt. It's sort of funny. Then there is another trailer that features a very amusing hamster that has us all cackling. After it's over, FDPG says, at the top of her lungs, "Was that it? That was short! Where was WALL-E?" 

The Disney castle promo appears at this point, Tinkerbell waving her magic wand around the castle and lighting up the night. Dominic yells, at the top of his lungs "Look! There's  Hogwarts!!!!" which causes the teen-age girls to start giggling. "That's not Hogwarts," I whisper, "it's the Disneyland castle." "What?" says Dominic, peering at me skeptically, eyes narrowed, convinced I am oh-so-wrong. I have a sudden vision of him as a deaf, grouchy old man. We glare at each other in the dark for a few seconds, until he mutters, "Hah, right." "What did Dominic say?" asks FDPG. "Nothing," I reply. "Are you sure?" she says. "Shush," I say. "I could have sworn you said something to him, oh well, guess you're too grouchy to tell me about it," she says. I stare at her while she stuffs yet more popcorn into her mouth, wondering how she got so bossy - and mouthy.  

Yegads. 

Fortunately the movie started right about then. Finally. We settle, the kids slurp and chew. Periodically Dominic is completely confused by certain aspects of the film and asks me to explain it all. He thinks that EVE is actually 2 different white objects. He doesn't like - or agree with - my explanations. Each time he says something FDPG asks me what Dominic said and what I'd said in reply, peering closely at Dominic the entire time. At some point I start laughing uncontrollably, and all three kids ask me what is so funny. Everything, I say. 

Diamonds On The Top Of Her Head

We spent a lot of time in the garden this week, getting the irrigation system in. Ah, listen to me, it sounds as though we've got some fancy-pants system out there, doesn't it? 

Don't think I'll enlighten you TOO much, except to say that it isn't all that fancy-pants. We gardeners, we like to maintain a certain amount of mystery (Sheila says as she stuffs the cracked soaker hoses and broken brass manifolds behind her). It isn't fancy, but it works, and that's all I'll say. It's one of the essentials, having a watering system. Once a garden gets to a certain size, watering it by hand ceases to be a relaxing experience.

After we did the hoses, we watered our hair. Well, some of us did. Some of us really enjoy experimenting with the nozzle choices on the water wand. Some of us really like the mist function. Some of us even looked as if we had diamonds on the soles of our shoes in our hair.

Then, instead of ducking down alley ways looking for bat-faced girls, we went wandering around the garden looking for baby spider balls. Some of us like to poke those tight little balls of spiders and watch them scatter. 

Spiders in the garden. About the only time I like seeing spiders. Teenie tiny and cute. Remind me to tell you about the giant jumping spider in the greenhouse some time...

Weekend Redux

Last night, before the Canucks kicked themselves out of the play-offs, Dominic gave me a demonstration of an almost-goal, using chopped green onions. He did not find this odd in any way. Schneider was a large chunk of white, his goal? Green bits.

I spent two afternoons weeding in the Former Butterfly Garden, removing 5 wheelbarrow loads of couch grass, dandelions, daisies, and bishop's weed. FIVE LOADS. What's eye-rolling about this is that I'm not finished weeding...

The twins entered a 4-H event - a demonstration event - for the first time ever, doing a demonstration on why we should compost. And they won. They were quite shocked, I think. In all the photos I took afterwards, of the entire group of demonstrators, FDPG is studying the comment cards carefully, while Dominic is staring at his gold medal.

The celeriac is FINALLY up. So are the cactus seeds. It only took two weeks and a plastic bag over the entire pot.

Newspaper is a really excellent weed smotherer. I no longer feel irritated by the fact that Max's paper route company gives him far more papers than he needs, because I will use them in my never-ending Battle of the Dratted Periwinkle. A battle that I am winning, with all these newspapers. Ha, take that, you scurvy Periwinkle, you.

Return Of The Ruminant

Yesterday morning, after retrieving yet another badminton birdie from the gutters on the roof (no one in this family seems to have very good aim or perhaps that IS what they're aiming for...) I heard Max exclaiming from the back deck.

"Wow!" he was saying, rather loudly. "Wow!"

Now, this kid is a relatively normal teen at the moment, by which I mean the sort of personality not generally given to exuberant expressions of approval unless they involve i-somethings, music, or food, so I went out to see what he was exclaiming over. Was it my charming garden, I wondered. Or the new Seckel pear, gloriously in bloom? Or maybe those riotous blossoming nectarines? I should have known better.

I got there in time to see a large ruminant mammal in my yard, the kind that are currently menacing our fair city with their non-stop molars. Yes, Gentle Reader, I speak of The Deer. The young female, whom I THOUGHT I'd thwarted in the fall, the one who used to chew her way through my kale and purple sprouting broccoli, seems to have left her mother and was in my back garden, being pursued rather ungently by Calypso, the Schnorkie (was there EVER a more unfortunate moniker for a mix?) from next door. Little Calypso was in fine form, despite being about a twentieth the size; she bounded, she barked, she growled, she raced, and in the end that annoying deer fairly flew over the new deer fence Richard and I installed a few months ago. Yes, that, right: The. New. Deer. Fence.

Sigh.

Stay tuned for the Further Adventures Of...in the very near future. Methinks there will be a Part II. Don't ask me how I know. I'll even go out on a limb and say that it will likely involve wire and posts and other mysterious items of the sort.

Sigh.