Happy Hallowe'en my ghoulish friends. Don't worry 'bout the things that go 'bump' in the night...it's probably just me running into the furniture!

(Now there's a scary thought!)

5x5

Five smells I love ~

1) The heavy, heady smell of rich earth after a summer rain.

2) The smell of wood smoke hanging over the valley of my old hometown. I always try to get back there for that in the fall. So bad for the environment, so delicious for my nose.

3) Oven roasted chicken.

4) Freesia and jasmine. But only the flowers. In my opinion, the perfumes just don't do the flowers justice.

5) Freshly laundered bed sheets. Just the smell of clean. I remember the smell of the sheets as they came off the outside line, but I haven't had that pleasure for such a long time.

Five sights I love ~

1) A new country, waiting to be explored.

2) My mom's smile.

3) A stack of new books, each more interesting looking than the last.

4) Distant blue mountains sparkling with fresh snow in the early morning sun.

5) Whatshisface in a tux.

Five tastes that I love ~

1) A thick, smelly blue cheese topped with a slice of kiwi and paired with a decadent red wine.

2) True French onion soup. Such a simple thing, but the depth of flavour that can be achieved with so few ingredients is amazing.

3) Taco del Mar's burrito's. Don't ask me why, I don't know. But sometimes they are the only thing that will do. It's a shame, because the nearest shop is a 3 hour drive north. Can't do THAT everyday! Which may explain the impact of the craving.

4) A hot cup of tea after a grueling day. Many years ago, after wandering the length and breadth of Ireland trying to find a place to lay our weary heads, Spider Girl and I found a place to stay. The kind man, after hearing our tale of woe, prepared us a cup of tea and some biscuits. That single, simple cup of tea almost had me bursting into tears, it was so welcoming and comforting.

5) A tiny piece of chocolate covered ginger. I'm not really a chocolate fan, but that combination does something for me. And as I have it so rarely (once a year, if that) that it takes on mystical properties!

Five sounds I love ~

1) My favorite sound occurred only in the winter when I was young, and I never hear it anymore. Early in the morning, when you know it had snowed piles, the sound of the snowplow chuffing away on the street outside my window let me know that others were out there, working to make my way safe. That seemed to me, burrowed deep in my warm blankets, the sweetest sound.

2) Sarah Vaughn singing "They Can't Take That Away". You can hear her smile as she sings. It's a sweet sad song. (LOL! It's playing on the radio station right now! Lucky me!)

3) The sound of all my friends in conversation around a delicious dinner.

4) A sax, a cello, a piano and drums. The gentle clap and low murmur of an appreciative audience. Wine glasses clinking. Call it a jazz club.

5) Silence. A deep, complete, make-you-hold-your-breath kind of nothing sound.

Five things I love to touch ~

1) Running my fingers backwards through my old cat Bentley's fur. He's gone now, but I'll never forget.

2) The feel of clean sheets in a newly made bed as I slid into sleep.

3) My steering wheel in the left hand and the stick shift in the right.

4) The keyboard under my fingers as a story spins itself out. It used to be the feeling of my favorite pen and crisp white paper...and that certainly still has it's place, but technology marches on, and I like how the keys feel smooth and firm under my finger tips.

5) My 'snooze' button.

I've been thinking about hummingbirds as of late. In fact, since Ian wrote a piece about birds recently, I can't get them out of my mind!

Yesterday evening, I saw 4 or 5 racing around, sipping what must be the very last bit of nectar just as autumn starts giving way to winter. They must be getting cold, and they must certainly be planning their southern get aways. Now's the time, little birds. Get while the getting is good!

Here's something I know about hummingbirds. You can almost tame them. And you can train them. And they aren't all that shy or timid at all.

The house that I grew up in is an old house. It has a huge kitchen, which is accessed by a windowed-in porch. My dad has always hung out bird feeders for as long as I can remember. Winter had peanut butter and seeds for the birds staying behind, and summer saw bright red sugar water to attract the hummingbirds. We could sit at our kitchen window and watch the little birds whip around in frenzied activity. Sometimes up to 10 or more would be hovering around our feeder, waiting for their opportunity. Sparring and showing off.

My dad decided one day to try an experiment. He would slowly move the feeder through the porch window until it was hanging from the inside kitchen window. Success! After a day or two, the hummingbirds would fly through the open porch window, through the porch and feed at the second, interior window.

Embolden by this success, dad decided to put the feeder on the kitchen table itself. It was snugged up against the window, so it wasn't too much further for them to go. We could sit (very still) at the table and have the hummingbirds feed while we sat there. Amazing!

Not one too let an opportunity like this to pass him by, my dad decided to step the experiment up a notch. Let's have the hummingbirds fly through the two sets of open windows; through the porch across the kitchen to the stove where the new spot for dinner was...wait for it! The FRYING PAN!

Yes, that's right. Placed on the stove, in a frying pan, sat the feeder. And wouldn't you know it, within an hour of the new placement, the little blighters were cheerfully sipping the sweetness from the feeder in the frying pan. They even used the rim as their perch to let dinner settle between sips.

My dad. He's got a lot of time on his hands.

I must then follow this up by saying that, as clever as the little birds are, they would occasionally get lost trying to get back outside. This meant we had to catch them and usher them out. I remember a hummingbird stabbing away at the living room ceiling looking for escape. I've held many hummingbirds now. So small and furiously fluttering.

My Dad would sometimes mark them (with a safe non-toxic food dye, of course) on their chest to see which ones came back.

They all did. Despite the ignominy of the frying pan.

And I shall wear purple.

A woman came into where I work today, a beautiful young woman. Some how the topic of ageing came up and she expressed her great fear of turning 32 (!).

She then went on to say that she had great anxiety around turning 30 as well, and she didn't know how she was going to make it.

Now, I guess I sort of underst...nah, scratch that. I don't get it at all. I'm a firm believer that you are as old as you feel, and frankly, I'm about 24. But a smarter, better, more ME 24. And I'm certainly more capable now than I ever was back then.

Without age you would never learn anything new.

You would remain not only in the same state physically (ok, maybe THAT'S not such a bad thing, though I believe I'm actually getting cuter with age) but you would stay in the same place intellectually and emotionally. And how backwards would that be?

Every time a new challenge came up, you would never be able to say to yourself, "Gee, I remember being in a similar position once years ago and I totally screwed it up. Let's try the other way this time."

You'd never learn anything of import, never experience anything new or learn to enjoy what was put in front of you. Your experiences would stay the same and you would learn nothing or very little from them because you wouldn't be able to put them all into perspective.

And with age (hopefully) comes a fuller understanding of the world and your place in it. Of course, I can only speak for myself I suppose. But it really seems to me that it's only getting better as I go.

And not to ever learn anything new. What a tragedy.

So I'm all for getting older.

At least till my knees give out.

I'm so lucky.

Wolfgrrrl and I playing with scarves. (Safer than knives!)

Me, Blackcrag and Spider Girl on a beautiful beach in front of a roaring bonfire just a few short weeks ago.


And Pol, me and Spider Girl...squished together in a booth on a lunch time romp.

My friends.

I am a lucky girl.

It makes you think.

Since I was young, I've been fascinated with the functioning of the brain.

A book I read (I wish I could remember what it was called. I remember what the cover looked like. It was a very thick book, black with a drawn picture of synapses firing in reds, blues and yellows. I think it was simply called "The Brain". But that was a looong time ago!) at the age of 12 was instrumental in establishing a life long interest in the research, study, history and bizarre occurrences that happen within the hard casing of our skulls.

What really struck me at that age was how strange it was; such a contradiction/complication of the brain having written a book about itself in an effort to understand it's own workings. It seemed as peculiar to me as the liver involving itself in a conversation about it's functionality. And yet it's somehow enchanting.

Over the years, I've read many books about congenital brain problems (autism, savants) and about the difficulties that can arise after the brain suffers a traumatic incident (strokes, blows to the head). The most fascinating incidences, to me, are the ones that people can suffer after a serious accident or injury.
My own brain stumbles in trying to understand how cherished memories become non-existent, or how a man could forget how to read, yet still be able to write.

A book I've been reading recently (Jay Ingram's "The Burning House: Unlocking the Mysteries of the Brain") looks at a variety of brain injuries, and one of the most interesting/disturbing ones is the damage some people suffer after strokes.

One chapter explores an issue called 'neglect'.
The premise being that some people who suffer a stroke become unable to 'sense' the left side of the world. They 'neglect' it. A clock as viewed by a neglect patient may only have numbers from 12 to 6, the others are either simply don't exist or are all squished onto the right side of the clock face. When asked to pinpoint a dot on the centre of a horizontal line, inevitably it's placed far to right side.

The most dramatic examples are of those who are unable to even identify their own left body parts. When asked to identify their left leg, they are unable. When shown their own left hand they sometimes react with confusion, wondering whose hand it is. They are sometimes unwilling to believe it truly is theirs, even when told so.

This in itself is interesting, but what REALLY gets my neurons firing is the fact that these patients, while 'fine' in every other way, also don't seem to recognize that they even have this problem.
In fact, one of the 'symptoms' of this particular disorder seems to be a complete disinterest in it. Pointing out to some patients that they used to be aware of the left side brings about no reaction. Just doesn't seem to matter.

Now. Why would that be? When you have a broken leg, you understand that at one point your leg was whole.
Other head injuries causing blurred vision or memory loss is understood to (generally) be temporary and is worked towards recovery by the patient. Not so neglect patients. Interestingly, this issue doesn't really seemed to be explored in anything I've read, or if it is, it is seen only as a cursory problem to the 'larger' issue of the stroke/neglect itself.

Something else that draws me to this is type of 'medicine' is that so much brain knowledge is gained from patients who are awake and alert while their brains are literally being picked.
The brain itself doesn't have pain receptors, so once the skull is breached (using, what I hope is a powerful local anaesthetic), a patient is able to answer questions put to them by the surgeon and, I suppose, anyone else who's standing around wanting to know what's going on 'in there'.

So much of what we 'know' about the brain comes from those whose injuries have taken so much from them.
We certainly owe them our thanks.

And, while I'm on the topic, I think I'd like to recommend Oliver Sacks as a great author, if this subject interests you.
He, of "Awakenings" fame, has written many many books on neurology and brain science. I've found that he writes very clearly and allows for the average layperson to enjoy his books without dumbing them down.

So that's what gets my brain going!
I can feel new neural pathways being forged by the second.

Hey, I gotta job for ya.

A few years ago I worked in a warehousing facility in Richmond, BC.

It was a big place. Almost 200, 000 square feet of space. We shipped and received fridges, stoves, washing machines, inflatable husbands* and numerous other products and oddities. (What the knitted breast cups * were for was anyone's guess!)

I pushed paper. A little here, a little there. And I had the pleasure of speaking to the irrate customers whose shipments got lost somewhere between the Strait of Malacca (can you say 'pirates') and the Port of Vancouver.

It was a stressful kind of job. It always amazed me the fuss some people would make when their shipment of 'bangle toys'* failed to show up, or their load of 'plastic ster hop'* was damaged. Some of them couldn't have been any more stressed out than if it had been a new heart for their Grandmother's transplant that had gone astray.

One day my boss came to me and said, "C'mon, I've got a job for you. Can you drive standard?"

Can I drive standard!?! You bet I can. With glee. With joy. But I didn't say that. I just said, "Yup."

Turns out, we had also started shipping exotic cars. (No, not illegally! I made sure that all the paperwork for customs was in order, that was the other part of my job. I didn't make friends with all the gun-toting agents 'cus I was scammer!)

Ferrari's, BMW's, Porsches and lovely Lamborghini's.

And my job? My job was to drive those beautiful gleaming cars through the tightly packed warehouse and into a space so small that the mirrors on the cars had to be bent inwards so they didn't scrap off.

Yeah, I drove them into the containers.And then?

Then I had to get out of those cars. Somehow.

Occasionally I could squeeze out the door (after a piece of cardboard had been slipped between the door and the edge of the container) but most times? Most times saw me slithering head first over the back seats and through the trunk. Much to the amusement of my boss and the warehouse employees. I had to kick of my shoes before I even got in the vehicle. Didn't need my 3 inches heels gouging unsightly holes in the buttery leather.

On one occasion, I had to clamber onto the rear bumper of a Navigator, over the roof and then inch along the window frame in my socked feet (thankfully the window was down) to get to the front of the vehicle to unhook the battery. Then I had to turn around and reverse the order to get out.

Containers are really tight spaces when you cram a Lincoln SUV in there.

Once, two BMW's were being shipped over from Germany. These two cars had been shipped over for a commercial so no one was allowed to see them as they weren't 'on the market' in Canada at that time. They were wrapped fender to fender in white plastic, with only a tiny hole opened on the driver's side to see through.

They even flew two men over from Germany to oversee the off loading. I thought they were going to flip when my boss brought me out and said, "She'll be offloading them."

"Ja? SHE vill do dis??" They gruffed unhappily.

Oh yeah.

Offloaded both of them and loaded them straight into a covered truck for them to drive away on their super secret project.

I considered it a perk of the job.

And why did I get to do it?

'Cus everyone else was too scared. Scared they'd hit something, scared they'd scratch the paint, scared of being in the container.

Or they were too big. Crawling out through a car trunk requires a smallish person. Which I was. At the time. Heh.

Lucky for me, I'm not scared of anything.

Besides.

They had plenty of insurance.

*yes, those were real 'things' we shipped.

Kept safe.

My pack was at my feet and I was happily reading, whiling away the time in a tiny semi-abandoned train station on the border of Hungary and Croatia.

A loud male voice startled me out of my book; when I looked up a uniformed man was staring down at me.

Seemed to me he wanted to see my ticket or maybe my passport. I produced both quickly. It was, after all, about 10 days after the attacks on New York, so it seemed to me that the extra precautions were understandable.

He looked quickly at both, then spoke to me in a rattle of Hungarian. My last name is Hungarian so I suppose he was hoping that I would understand.

Not a word registered.

He sat down beside me.

Slowly slowly we started communicating. Mostly by me drawing in my notebook. A really poor map of my travels to date seemed to interest him, as well as my hand drawn map of North America in which I had pin pointed where I lived. Then suddenly he spoke again and finished his sentence with a loud, "BOOM!"

He grabbed my book and drew out the Twin Towers and airplanes and looked expectantly at me. "Boom!" He repeated.

I could only shake my head and look sad, but that seemed to satisfy him.

Around this time I was starting to get hungry (hungry in Hungary!), so I motioned eating and drinking. He understood.
Picking up my bag, he motioned for me to follow him. Out into the dark and deserted night we went.

On the other side of this little train station was a wee cafe. He bought me a sandwich and a beer and kept me company as I ate.

Another security guard had come up and they had a quick conversation, presumably about me from the glances, and satisfied, the other fellow moved on.

Before I was done my repast though, a small knot of old men who had been sitting in the corner smoking and drinking motioned 'my' guard over to their table. There was lots of loud words exchanged and much gesticulating.

The guard came back to me hurriedly and picked up my pack and hustled me out of there very quickly.

Back to my wooden bench, pack at my feet.

This guard continued to sit with me the entire time I waited for my train that night. He helped me with my pack when the train arrived, spoke to the porter on my behalf, helped me on the train and got me settled in.

There was a mix up with my ticket, seems I hadn't paid enough to get to Venice, but my guard helped me straighten it out with a minimum fuss and cost.

I rode the night train through Croatia and Slovenia. Every few hours guards armed with machine guns would yell and bang on the doors. "Passporto! Passporto!".

Until I returned from my trip I didn't understand why I was removed from that smoky little cafe so quickly.

Then a friend, a recent immigrant from Croatia, explained that a single woman, alone in a dark cafe must be up to no good. The old men were suspicious of me and wanted me out of their cafe.

Humph.

In retrospect, my travel tale could have ended very differently and much less pleasantly. My 'guard' may not have been legitimate. Being robbed by a uniformed 'official' is a tale that many travellers have told. That and worse.

To be honest, I hadn't considered that possibility until just now. Hmmm. Seems fortune was with me that night!

Thanks LGS, you inspired me with your own travel tale!

(oh, and unfortunately that picture isn't mine. But it IS a Hungarian train station!)

Just another day in Victoria, BC.

Gargoyles...not just in Paris anymore! This fellow was frowning down from an old bank building.



The view from the inner harbour in Victoria. This is the view from very near the famous "Empress Hotel".



The view from the Malahat. This is from the very top of the Malahat...driven to travel from Victoria to places north on Vancouver Island. In this case, it was for me to get to Nanaimo to visit my darling friends!



Oh look! Me fixing my car!



Ah, Darth Fiddler. Every city needs one.



A Dragon in silhouette.



And tonight...Weird AL!!
I'm so excited. Hope he does "White and Nerdy". I'm thinking about making that my personal theme song!

Hell.

I just read a book that described exactly what resides in my most horrific nightmares.

Alexia sine agraphia: the inability to recognize the printed word.

Howard Engels' book, "The Man Who Forgot How to Read", is a short memoir with a view into a published authors trip into a very dark world.

One morning he discovered that, due to an unnoticed stroke in the night, he was no longer able to recognize words.
He describes that mornings Globe and Mail looking as though it had been translated into Serbo-Croatian.

A self described 'omnivorous' reader.
Unable to read.
Interestingly, he retained the ability to write.
But he couldn't read his own words either.

Now, I recognize that in the larger scheme of things, simply not being able to read isn't truly 'the end'.
But for me it would be close.

I recommend this book.
Though Engel is a cheery, 'make the best of it' sort of fellow, you can't help but feel his constant sliver of fear that he may have read his last word.

Perfect.

This is my favorite time of day and my very favorite part of the week.

It's the Saturday morning of a l-o-o-o-ng weekends.

The sun is (trying) to shine, I've got a fresh cup of coffee in front of me and several interesting books waiting to be read.  

And that's not to mention a Fall Fair to attend and a few local farmers markets as well...3 glorious days stretch ahead, filled with possibility.

Does it get any better than this?

I hope everyone has such a wonderful time ahead of them!

"...the Iraq, everywhere like, such as."

Geez, I almost feel sorry for her.

"Friends".

Facebook.
You either love it or you hate it, I've heard it said.

Having an available 'database' to which you can voluntarily add all your vital (and not so vital) statistics seems a pretty good idea.
You can find people, people can find you.
Your 'profile' can outline everything about you, or very little, depending on how you feel.
Social status and general interests to education, work experience and sexual orientation.

I do have an account, but I can't say I love Facebook.

On the one hand, it is nice to be able to find people who you've 'lost touch' with over the years for one reason or another.
I found one of my old roommates from years ago (or rather, she found me) and I was happy to have some other old friends who had gotten lost in the shuffle find their way back into my life.
But other people have tracked me down as well, and I'm not always so pleased about that.
For instance, an old boyfriend of mine contacted me through this network recently.

What I can't figure out is why.
We didn't part particularly amicably.
Also? It was almost 17 years ago that we dated.
I only reflected on him occasionally over the years, and that was to chastise myself for being such a fool.

So why did HE feel the need to look me up? Why did he need to contact me? And, even stranger, to contact Whatsisface and say to him, "I'm Tai's ex-boyfriend. I don't mean any harm."

Maybe he remembers that 3 months of our lives differently from me, after all 17 years have elapsed. Hmm, nah, it ended poorly. Surely he didn't forget that!

Other people, too, have contacted me and I find their interest in writing to me just as odd.
People I never spoke to in school are sending me 'friend requests'.
Others with whom I had but a passing acquaintance (as in, 'I passed them in the hall at school') seem eager to share with me their life stories.
I don't get it! It baffles me.

Some folks are left in the past for good reason, and I'd rather like them to stay there, thanks very much.
Surely others would like me to stay in their past, too, and I will happily stay there.
Far be it for me to intrude on their present lives, especially if I barely knew them then, and don't know them at all now.
(Though if everyone thought like me, Facebook would surely be a flop instead of the amazing success it is.)
Could just be I'm a misanthrope.

But the more I think about it, the more I wonder if my distaste for the whole thing is derived from my feeling that I haven't really done all that much to tell anyone about.
No cure for cancer, no space walks and no lotto wins here.

My life HAS been interesting and wonderful in it's own way, but it seems odd to me to pull out these individual incidences and dog and pony them for people who I probably wouldn't recognize in the street.
Seems too much an accounting of my life for people that I don't know.

And, it seems like way too much obligation to me.
When these veritable strangers contact me, my inner 'nice girl' requires that I politely accept their 'friend request' and say 'yes'. But all I really want to do is holler "NONONO, I don't want to be your friend. I wasn't then and I don't want to be now."
They tell me about their children, and enquire about mine (I don't have any), tell me about their camping trip (I don't like camping) and ask if I'll join a group (no) they've set up.
I'm a wretch and I don't care.

So I think I'm going to take myself off Facebook.
I just can't handle any more "friends".

Overheard in the Police Station. *

Police Officer (PO): "Hi, can I help you?"

Older man (OM) with a soft English accent: "Well, it's a bit silly I suppose. Sorry to trouble you. I've come in because of my wife, you see. She asked me to come down else she won't be able to sleep."

PO: "Yes? What can we do?"

OM: "It's about that boy in the paper this morning. The boy they found? The murder?"

PO: "Yes?"

OM: "Well, it's just that my son has been missing for a few months now. My wife sent me down to see if it...if this might be him."

PO: "What is your sons name, sir?"

OM: "Dale M-."

PO: "Let me check for you."

OM: "Thank you. My wife just gets so worried. She wanted me to ask."

PO: "Well, sir, that's not the name of the man we found."

OM: "Oh. Well, that's a relief. My wife will feel better about that. Of course, it's terribly hard on her, you see. He's been missing for some time and you always have to wonder.

PO: "I understand, sir. Is there anything else we can do for you?"

OM: "Oh no. That's just fine. Sorry to hear about that other boy though. Blow to his parents."

PO: "Yes sir."

OM: "Right, I'll be off. Won't take up any more of your time."




*I was there to fill out an application for a criminal record check for some volunteer work I'm doing.

Bits from the Island

I've been working and working and moving and cleaning and volunteering and tidying and weeding.

Whew.

I'm beat.

My job started on Monday. It's a short walk from our new place which is wonderful, but OH the filing!

Oddly, I don't mind filing. There's something to be said for a job that allows you to put pieces of paper into alphabetical order and see a sort of accomplishment at the end.

My co-workers gasp at the tremendous piles of paper in front of me (stuff going back 4 years!) and wonder at how I keep my sanity. "Oh, you must be so bored, poor thing!" I nod and smile, back bent to my task.

What they don't know is that I actually like it.

They don't understand that the repetitive task allows me time to think my own thoughts and escape in to my own worlds. Of which there are a great many marvelous and varied creations to keep me occupied.

In other news.
Our neighbours mowed our lawn the other day, which was nice of them.
It was looking rather weed infested (honestly? I don't think there ARE any bits of grass in that poor lawn. I suspect it's 50% dandelion, 30% morning glory and 20% rock) and nasty. And with no trees or plant (besides a rather ill looking Chestnut tree growing much too close to the house) it's in definite need of some tender loving care.

I'm really enjoying this new house of ours, despite the lawn. The kitchen is taking some getting used to as the stove and the fridge are in a different room from the sink and counter space. Odd, no?
But interesting and lovely.

Anything else?
Nope. Not at the moment!
Hope all is well everywhere else!

Meme time!

Big Brother decided I didn't have enough to do in my day what with moving and trying to find a new job, so he tagged me. That's okay, a little aided procrastination never hurt anyone!
Good vibrations...I need to formulate a list of 5 things that take me to my happy place.
It's tough!
So many things give me pleasure.

Well, here's 5. But believe me, they are just the top of a very long list.

Driving. Driving is one of my ways of sorting my head out, clearing out the cobwebs and letting go of problems that have been plaguing me.
When I drive, all my attention is on the road, on surrounding traffic and on the scenes flying. It's about being in the 'now'.
I drive standard, and shifting through the gears on a stretch of open road, windows wide open and music playing wipes away anything that was cause for concern very quickly.
And speaking of music...

Jazz. I love jazz.
I love old jazz. I adore live jazz and new jazz and funky jazz and soulful jazz. It's the music that so easily reflects my moods. How to describe my love of it. Words seem inadequate. Jazz can make me joyful and then break my heart. It kept me company when I was alone and it weaves it's happy magic when I'm with friends. It's a language I understand.

Books. Ah, books. A day without reading is time without oxygen. It's that important to me.

Friends. I'm one of the luckiest people I know when it comes to friends.
I have had my closest friends by my side since I was 11 years old. Nothing in my life is true or real until they know about it. The bad things in my life were eased and softened by my friendships. They give what they have freely and expect nothing in return.
I can't say enough about how my life is made so much better by those 3 being in it.

My mom. I just love spending time with my mom.
I've written about how important she is to me before, so those of you who have read my blog will know.
I want to write about her, but what comes out seems to me be too saccharine. And while she is very sweet, she's also very strong and independent.
She's pulled our family through some incredibly hard times and been through some things that might make other people crumble, yet she retains a warmth and genuine concern for others happiness.
My mom is my reminder that you can go through hell and still be able to love unconditionally. (Damn, this was supposed to make me HAPPY, not make me cry!!)

The Union Club.

This evening I spent some time at the club Whatshisface and I recently joined.

It's one of those elite and snotty clubs that boasts memberships of political representatives and parliamentary movers and shakers.

It was 'Ladies Night' this evening.

An evening not as risque as the title might imply.

No, nothing lascivious going on. It is simply a weekly occasion for the wives of the elect to sit together and play bridge in the 'Card Room' or have a cocktail on the patio overlooking the harbour.

The only "Chip 'n' Dales" I saw were the desks.

And anyway, they wouldn't have made it past the doormen. Dress code in effect. Sparkly thongs are NOT approved.

The 'Reading Room' is one of the largest and most well appointed rooms I've ever seen dedicated to the sublime art of reading alone. Elegant leather couches, giant palms and a collection of daily newspapers from around the world all centered around a grand fireplace.

My dinner guest was a lovely woman. Someone I don't really know all that well, but would like too know better. Being relatively new to a city, finding companionable people is pretty important.

Boy, does she know how to swear.

I have to admit that I've been know to cuss. (Hey, you. Stop rolling your eyes!)

However, when I'm in a place that is designed to hold elderly women and their old friends, I try really hard to 'fit in'. To belong.

To not scare anyone.

And speaking of being scared, I have to admit I found the place intimidating at first. Lots of liveried help. Obsequiousness seemed to be a job requirement.

Takes some getting used to.

But part of me felt like I was being a snot because I looked around guiltily every time she cursed though the rest of me thought, "What the hell do I care?"

So what is the point of this post?

Well, mostly it's to say that I had a nice time, not sure if I fit in and I feel bad that I care how my friend expressed herself.

And boy-howdy, good thing there weren't any strippers. It might have become truly rowdy...some of those ladies were hitting the tea pretty hard.

Theft 101

Along with everything else going on in my life, I'm moving! Not far (a mere 3 blocks) but into an abode that is charming and old and unique and completely renovated.

Spider Girl took some pictures last weekend, for which I'm grateful, as I took pictures too but I seem to have lost the cord to my camera and so can't post them.

Thus the title.

I'm stealing the pictures she took and posted on her blog and directly applying them to mine. Seems fair, no? Her pics, my house?

And anyway, I served her a bbq'd steak to die for last weekend so it's entirely fair, right!?

(Right?)

The house was built in 1914 and, as of late, was vastly abused by the onslaught of tenants that just didn't give a damn.

The bathroom was demolished (completely unusable I've heard), the rooms had been spray paint 'tagged' and the yard was a catastrophe (still kinda is, but I'm working on that!).

Since we've started moving in, all the neighbours have poked their heads out their doors and cautiously asked, "Are you moving in? How many of you are there?"

The look of relief on their faces is interesting and disturbing all at the same time.

I mean, how bad could it have been?

Well, if the mail is any indication, there have been a multitude of folks coming and going. Ben Fudge, for instance.

He was sent mail to our new house.

And Guangdao Yang too.

Not to mention a whole host of others.

I cordially put "MOVED" on the mail and dump it back in the mailbox.

Hope they get it.

So, anyway.

New house.

Hope the ghosts are friendly!

Canada Day, minus the Mountie.

Hey world, we're 140 years old now!

Just babies in the whole scheme of world history.

We didn't spare any time selling out the rights of our precious 'mountie' image to Disneyland, however.

Unfortunately, I can't find any information on the innernets, but I know it to be true.

Why would we do this?

I have no idea.

If anyone can explain this to me, I'd be thankful.

BUT, I still love my country.

Happy Canada Day everyone!

Venice ti amo molto molto!

What can I possibly say about Venice that hasn't been said in a dozen better ways? Well, not much, except that I really really love it.

So, without further ado, I present for your viewing pleasure: Venice!

“If you read a lot, nothing is as great as you've imagined. Venice is -- Venice is better.”
~Fran Lebowitz


“Venice is like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go.” ~Truman Capote

"Though there are some disagreeable things in Venice there is nothing so disagreeable as the visitors." ~Henry James

Streets flooded. Please advise. ~Robert Benchley, telegram from Venice to his editor

"Prosecco! Ti amo molto molto! Heywaitaminute...that's the bottom of my glass!" ~Tai

(Spider and Jeff took some of these pictures, too. I felt secure in the knowledge they would want me to use them, as they are splendid!)