A Winter Poem

Now winter nights enlarge

The number of their hours,

And clouds their storms discharge

Upon the airy towers.

Let now the chimneys blaze,

And cups o’erflow with wine;

Let well-tuned words amaze

With harmony divine.

Now yellow waxen lights

Shall wait on honey love,

While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights

Sleep’s leaden spells remove.

This time doth well dispense

With lovers’ long discourse;

Much speech hath some defence,

Though beauty no remorse.

All do not all things well;

Some measures comely tread,

Some knotted riddles tell,

Some poems smoothly read.

The summer hath his joys

And winter his delights;

Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,

They shorten tedious nights.

By Thomas Campion

Reading in Public

Last night I was busy at a gathering, a fundraiser for the school library. The thought was to gather as many parents and students together as possible and have them read for 6 hours. You got to sit on the floor and read with your kid in public. Such a novel way of raising funds for more books. I agreed to this only because at times I feel that the only answer I ever give my son is "no". I thought that since I love to read and never seem to have enough time to do the thing that I really love to do ( really it is all about me, and my needs) it would be an OK thing to sign up for. The pledge sheet came home with the line "only one pledge needed to guarantee your entry". Yes, you had to collect money to go read. Easy enough, I knew Russel had $10 sitting on his dresser so I signed him up ( relax I put money in too). Pledges were not the most pressing issue in this bonding exercise ( I so miss my books and the time we used to have together) what was more important was, what was I going to read in public? I don't very often notice what type of shoes people are wearing, or brand of blue jean or really any other thing about them, but, if they are reading, I stand up and take notice. What a person reads is a precursor as to what sort of person you are dealing with. Think about it. If a person only reads romance novels, chances are they have no romance in their lives so they need to live vicariously through other maidens/damsels/handsome dudes lives. A friendship with them could turn into a very needy,dependant friendship. In other words, you will have no free time and every conversation with them will only be about how they wish they could find someone special to share their world with (gag me with a spoon). In a world that is full of e-harmony ads and other Internet matching sites it is no wonder that romance novels are outselling murder mysteries. There are just so many lonely, unhappy people out there. So if I see someone reading a romance novel out in public I think " Aw, poor person, they must be so lonely and empty and sad to have to advertise for love on the bus". If I see someone reading one of the old classics, like, Catcher in the Rye, I think, aha, someone who just doesn't want to live in today's world. They are still firmly ensconced in some happier time in their earlier days. If I see someone who has put a brown paper cover on their reading material of choice, I take the seat next to them. I wanna know what they are reading that is so top secret that they dare not share the information with the general public. This person is someone I want to say "hi" to and start reading over their shoulder. So with all this information in my brain I want to be sure that I present the proper image for the read -a -thon. Romance novel, I think not, I don't want people thinking that I am a sap when it comes to love. Murder mystery, don't want to scare anyone off from talking to me, I mean they give a lot of "pertinent" information in those books, saves me a lot of research time. The Karma Sutra, too big and really just a picture book, and I don't want to form a whole new group of friends. My spells and incantations workbook, hmmm, tempting, but some things are just better left under the cloak of discretion. No, I chose to take a book that is mainstream without being upstream, conformist without being linear. I took the Dan Brown novel, Lost Symbol. I like his work and I will tell you why. He writes a good story, and assumes that you the reader has a smidgen of intelligence to understand some of the scientific concepts which prevail in all of his novels (not just the religious stuff) but more importantly he ignites a quest in me to find more information on the very subjects that he writes about. After reading Da Vinci Code I had to investigate further the life of Leonardo. What an intriguing persona. That to me is the sign of a good read, one that makes you think about what really is, or has gone on in our world and the need to find out more. Oh, my son, well, he chose to read the National Geographic on the reading night, he said it was easier to look at the pictures and still talk to his friends. After all for him it was strictly a social event, one to see his friends and prove that he is one of the gang, that he is allowed to stay up late and have some fun... once in a while.
Checking out for now,
Cat x

Sucked Dry

We are finally in the last throes of January. True to winters form it is bitterly cold. I hate the cold weather. Not just for the obvious reason of it is just bloody cold, but also because the cold just sucks every ounce of energy out of me. All I can think of is getting warm, and keeping warm. It consumes my every thought, almost like an alcoholic thinking of where their next drink is going to come from, my thoughts are "Man, am I cold" " I hope Russel put lots of wood in the wood stove" "I don't think Russel turned the heat on" "Where is that Russel, putting more wood in the stove I hope". Poor Russel, I keep trying to talk him into moving to a more temperate climate (read here, scorching hot) but problem is Russel hates the heat. He hates it real bad. I know, poor grammar, but just need to get my point across. As soon as the thermometer hits 58F (just can't wrap my head around Celsius, never sounds hot enough. I mean 25c, that just doesn't sound that hot, not as hot as 97F in the shade!) Russel is sweating bullets, wants the air conditioning on every where he goes, talks about the "heat wave" we are having. What! it's only 58F, barely warm enough to take off one of my three pairs of socks that I wear 8 1/2 months of the year, never mind the long underwear. So, here is one of the main differences between man and woman. Men are hot, women are ice queens. I will be the first to admit that this is true. The only good thing about this is that when heat and ice mix, someones going to melt. I put my money on Russel. Just a thought for today, stay warm with someone hot... if not, there are more socks in the drawer.
Chilling for now,
Cat x

Past Lives

Do you ever get the feeling that you have done something or have been somewhere before, and yet know that it wasn't in this life? Some may call it deja vu, but I really think that we have all had a past life. I took a course at the local college where the instructor explained ( theoretically) why we may have unfounded abnormal fears of certain situations. For instance, I have a primary fear of dark water and sharks. I mean I can't even look at a picture of either without a great sense of foreboding. Yet, I have never had an encounter with a shark or been lost in an open sea of dark water... at least not that I am aware of. The instructor at the college explained that you have these fears because that is probably how you died in one of your past lives. Hmmmmm, an interesting concept at best. So the person who has arachnophobia must have been bitten to death by a band of cross venomous spiders. The person who has claustrophobia must have been a bell ringer, but minus the bell. In case you don't know where the phrase "saved by the bell" comes from I will enlighten you ( I sound all religious- yesch). Back in the olden days (now I sound like my father, bless his soul) people would often (key word- often) be mistaken for dead. I can see how this could happen, people slip into a coma after falling off a horse, eating poisonous mushrooms and falling into a coma like state, reading a blog and slipping into a coma like state ( just checking, snap out of it!) so these poor people would be buried. Well, sometimes these people would be dug up (missed the reason why, must have dozed off at that point of the lecture) and low and behold the inside of the lids of the coffins were found to be ripped to shreds. A frantic attempt by the boxee to escape their confines. Well, of course being 6 feet under no-one is going to hear you (heck, sometimes being in the same room with someone they don't hear you, selective hearing I think it is called) so the entrapped would soon suffocate and die (again). So came the invention of rigging a line from the coffin's interior to above ground where it was attached to a bell, which was next to an attendee who would sit there and wait for the bell to ring. If the slumberer was not ready to be permanently slumbered, they would only have to pull the string to ring the bell and they would be dug up and saved, so, saved by the bell. So after all this, I think that in one of my past lives I must have somehow been involved in something medical. I am fascinated by all things medicine. I collect old medical books, watch all the medical shows (the real ones, not ER and things like that, although I do love House because they always have some weird unknown medical condition that they only manage to diagnose in the last 4 minutes of the show and save a life, usually) and pore over texts that describe the many illnesses and plagues that have, well, plagued man since the beginning of time. Morbid you might think. I however find science fascinating. I regret not having had the smarts to carry on academically to secure a career in the medical field. I am rather jealous of a good friend of mine who is lucky enough to work in said field. She gets to look down the throats of people all day long, lucky her, I say! Well, I do not despair, oh no, because there is always my next life.

Ringing off for now,

Cat x

A calf is born or how to scare the crap out of a cat

Today the weather turned back to its normal winter self. Bloody cold and windy and what else was there... oh yeah, it started to snow again. The local weather is brilliant, every day this week they ( the weather gurus) are calling for sun, clouds and a chance of snow every day... wow, how do they do it?
Anyway, I am getting ready for work when the man I sleep with calls to tell me that my cow (lets call her Bessie) has had a calf. I am so excited, a new calf. Is it a boy or a girl, where are those cigars? Is it too late to order balloons from the florist... ah forget it I'll just take her out a bagel, I know how much she loves those. Anyway, I say to the man in charge of the barn also the man I sleep with... (relax it's the same guy) give it a needle, give it a first defence ( I am good at giving orders... apparently)to be greeted with, I don't have time now, later. Those are the most dreaded words that I want to hear when it concerns my calf. Time is of the essence when you are dealing with livestock. Oh yeah, they look so tough and able on those National Geographic specials, but really, they aren't. Sometimes the will to survive is just not enough. Living on a farm (any type of farm, even fish farms) you see your share of life and death. That steak you ate tonight... took a lot of work to keep it alive and healthy long enough to kill so you could eat. Not a nice way to think of where your food comes from but anyway, back to my story. When Russel says "We'll do it later" panic strikes... did I shave my legs, anything stuck in my teeth, I'm only thinking that when the paramedics come I want to be sure that I am in prime condition ( remember your mother always said have clean underwear on). For going into a barn full of cattle, especially one who has just had a calf, scares the crap out of me! I remember one of the first times I went out to the barn to see a new calf. I hopped over the safety fence ( key word) and slowly walked over to the newborn and the mother standing over it. My first clue should have been the growling and the baring of teeth, really, I just thought she was smiling. Anyway, I walk around the barn with Russel all the time, I push the huge bales of straw or throw hay around while he sucks back a beer telling me to "hurry up", he was missing Dr. Phil (Naw, just joking, he doesn't watch Dr. Phil) and the cows never even looked twice at you. So I am walking towards this cow and calf saying things like "Ahhhh, you had your baby, it is so cute, it has your ears and papa's tail... ahhhhh... hey cutie how are y... that is as far as I got, for the words just dried up in my mouth as I realized that mama cow was pawing the ground, head down, eyes rolling back in her head as the want/need to kill me took over. All I can say is thank god I can move a little faster scared than that 1800 pound bitch mad! I dodged behind a support post, as she crashed into it head first, I rounded it and flew over the "safety" fence. She was right behind me ready to grab me with those fangs of hers (well they looked like fangs from where I was laying) and bring me back into the ring for round 2. Ever since that occasion I have (well OK there were a couple of other incidents) been terrified of the cattle beast. So, I get home from work and Russel is gleefully waiting for me. It is as if he has just got off the phone with his bookie knowing that he has placed a winning bet... a sure thing.... sure thing that I am probably going to get maimed while trying to needle this calf. I however have been thinking all morning about how I can get out of the deed. I have thought of cutting off one of my legs, but, not enough time. I thought of coming down with the "flu" but already used that one not too long ago. I was done for. I got into my barn clothes, see barn clothes are dull colours for a reason, you don't attract too much attention going in, and when you are running for your life you just become a blur, really nothing more than a clump of brown hay moving really fast across the yard. Sometimes I think the cows look at you and wonder at what you have been putting in their feed, must be the cheap drugs, 'cause they ain't getting the full effect. So we go out and get the ear tag, the drugs etc ready. Russel's brother is out there working in the shop. Ah Ha, a plan. I shake the box of cereal around, a lot, to make him realize that something is up. The cereal is a diversion. I feed the cows all our left over grain products (things like the end piece of bread that no one will eat) and all the veg clippings. When they see me coming they go crazy (on their side of the safety fence) and hop around trying to be the first to see what I have in the bag. So I ask Ron if he would please go in with Russel and needle this calf or at least help hold said calf if necessary, I told him I would even pay him the going rate... $5.00... thankfully he agreed. Off we went to the barn, I stood at the side away from where the calf was and shook the cereal box like I needed to dislocate my shoulder. All the cows came running, except (yep you guessed it) for the one I wanted to come over and have some cereal. It was a sea of long black tongues reaching for me like lost souls seeking refuge. Followed by excited snot blowing (from the cows not me)that landed on the sleeves of my barn coat (another reason to have barn attire). The two guys made their way into the barn and did the deeds that were to be done. The cow came over and stood very close but did not attack them, she would look at me with the cereal box and realized that well, she didn't really like cocoa puffs that much, the others could have them all today, she was needed at her baby's side. Maybe because she is my cow, maybe because she is younger than the others, maybe she was just in a good mood, maybe she just felt like all mothers do after giving birth, thank god that watermelon passing is over, for whatever reason she was OK with what was going on and left everyone alone. The calf, she, yes she, ( you have no idea how happy I am that it is a female and not a male, one day I will tell you the story of trying to move my bull calf over to the other barn for his "operation", 5 hours, 4 men and a couple of shots from the tranquilizer gun and it was done) got up and calmly walked away with mama. Phew, I am so glad that I survived another day of being a farmers wife. Did you know that farming is one of the most dangerous jobs on the planet? With all the machinery and animals not to mention the paper cuts from trying to rip open a box of cereal in haste, no wonder the farm population is dwindling.
Till next time, moooovinnngly yours,
Cat x

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A Technical Update

After spending 15 minutes with "Emily" the computer voice which is almost set to take over the world, I have fixed my Internet Connection. After listening to all the advice from India and going through the underwear of my computer I still had no luck on being connected. With a large disgruntled sigh( intermingled with some colourful metaphors) and a extra large cup of tea at my side I decided to dial 911 yet again, this comes in the form of 310-BELL. I patiently and nicely said "English" then pressed 1 to get me to another menu to press 1 to get me to the next menu, then pressed 1 to carry on to the next level to press 2 because I missed half the options of the previous menu to press 1 to hear exactly what I should have done in the first place, the most logical thing to do when it comes to anything technological... yep.... just unplug the s.o.b. count to 100 and plug it back in again. Don't know why this works but it does. Phew, I am exhausted by all this extra work of getting something that I need so badly, to make my day complete.
Unplugging till tomorrow,
Cat x

Technical PhooPhoo

I am aghast with myself for becoming so reliant on technology. Here I set a resolution of meeting my own criterion for a successful year of rambling writings only to be shat on by the gods who run my Internet service. Where I live (also known as the middle of b*tt f*ck nowhere) the Internet connection has a bad habit of acting up when the weather gets wet. Good thing I don't use this provider and live in the rain forest. Anyway, that is why I have not been able to post for the last couple of days. Well my life at times moves at the speed of a cat escaping China Town and at other times like a dog picking his way along a crab infested beach, there can be no rhyme or reason for these differences. The work week always has its hectic moments most work does... except maybe the funeral home, I mean really, what's the rush, they're not going anywhere. The longer you prolong the service/memorial the longer total strangers bring you casseroles to console you. This is something that I have come to realize about food. Food is not about eating for the health and maintenance that food gives us, it is all about the feeling of comfort and happiness, and dare I say it, the fullness. If you look at all the fairy tales they have one common element. The peasant in the tale is always looking to get a wish for doing a good deed. The peasant always wishes for the same thing... food, something to eat. Sometimes as in an example of a German Fairy tale the farmer gets his wish (3 actually) and for his first wish he asks for a sausage. His wife standing next to him is furious that he wasted his first wish on a sausage and scolds him (the female peasant is always the smarter one in the story). The husband not to be offended and shown up by his wife's outburst calmly makes his second wish... that his wife's nose would turn into a sausage. Poof! The once lovely woman now has a sausage on her nose. She is distraught that 1) she has a sausage for a nose and 2) that her husband would even do this to her. The husband is full of remorse almost immediately after making his wish and quickly uses his last wish to change his wife's nose back to its former button glory. In the history of Europe the battles have all come down to being won or lost on the hunger of the peoples. Hungry, unhappy people and you have a recipe for disaster, not to mention a lot of funerals.
Till next time, may your cupboard be full.
Cheers, Cat x

Sleep in Living Colour and Stereo Sound

I saw the funniest thing today. Apparently there is this fellow in London who talks every night in his sleep. He says the strangest things. Even stranger is that his wife has set up a voice activated recorder to record him (and her) every night. She also has a blog (haven't found it yet, will pass it on to you when I do) where she posts the things that he says. She has even had T-shirts made with the funny things that he says. For example, he will say "Elephants in thongs, that would be a sight" Actually, I think I have seen a couple of those... elephants in thongs that is. Then there was the line " Vampire penguins and zombie guinea pigs... now we're done for". I think this fellow must drink a little before he goes to bed, that plus he must have an amazing imagination (I am very jealous). I wish that there was a way to record the dreams that we have, as if it were a film playing and the recorder were attached to our brain. All the images would be flashed across a screen for our viewing pleasure whenever we wanted to relive some of our wildest dreams. Just think of all the new material for Hollywood, not to mention the porn film makers as well (yeah right, everyone has those sorts of dreams, I don't care what your religion is!). The interesting thing about dreams is that although we think that they go on for hours, they really are only snippets, literally seconds long. Sleep is a complicated process for the body and the mind. Sleep is supposed to be a time of healing and recuperating, yet sometimes when I wake up I feel as though I have run a marathon or feel as thought I have been run over by a very large truck... then I realize that I have been in a battle the whole night, a battle against vampire penguins and zombie guinea pigs. I really am done for.
Sleep well my lovelies and sweet dreams... careful what you say or what you think just before you close your eyes and nod off.
Cat x

A Bedtime Story

It was an escape, a respite from the noisy, dirty smelly streets of London. It was a holiday we could barely afford, but my father said that us children needed fresh sea air, sunshine and a chance to frolic in the sand. Every August we would pack our bags with beachwear, and beach toys. We would cram aboard the train at Victoria Station along with hundreds of others, all destined for the south coast of England. Amid the excited chatter my fathers voice would resonate loud and clear- "Stay close, lets not spend our holiday looking for lost children." some of the holidayers would be heading to Brighton, some to Hastings but we were bound for Eastbourne. Eastbourne with the grand promenade of whitewashed buildings overlooking the English Channel. Standing at the end of the pier the salt air would blow across our faces telling us tales from whence it came. My father (being a Navy man) would call this wind a "Frenchie Kiss" as these winds blew straight up from the coast of France. They had swirled up the streets of Paris, rounded the Eiffel Tower and roared up the Normandy coast. But the biggest excitement to us kids was the prospect of a donkey ride on the beach. We would beg our father, promising to be good, to do our reading and help our mother, if we could only please, please,please have a donkey ride. My father would purse his lips and furrow his brow as though in deep concentration of the request and the response. My brother and I would stand like angelic orphans holding our breath in desperation of the chance of a donkey ride. My father's face would suddenly explode with joy, partly from making us sweat and shake with anticipation of his answer, and he would shout "Why Not!" What's a holiday for if you can't have a jolly good time?" My brother and I would jump with glee, greedily grabbing the proferred 60p from my father's outstretched hand. As we raced down the beach to the donkeys, my father would shout above the wind "look after each other". Now all these many years later I think back on those days and realize that it was a small price for my father to pay for not only our happiness but his as well. While my brother and I would spend an hour with the donkeys, my parents would sit on the beach in their rented deck chairs looking towards France, eating their jellied eels in blissful peace and quiet.
Cheers,
Cat x

Family Ties

I have just watched on the news the horrible events in Haiti. I cannot imagine the lengths of suffering that a country which has so little to start with, reduced to a pile of rubble. The sad and desperate faces of many men,women and children. The after shock that ripped through Haiti this morning set many screaming with terror into the streets. I have also heard on the news that the government of Canada and Haiti are working on getting orphans to Canada and into homes without all the usual long wait times and red tape. I am sure that there is a long list of people waiting to adopt these children. I remember when a good friend of mine went to Romania to adopt two children. The politics and government officials were corrupt to the ninth degree. The only way to move up the long line was to have plenty of cash, cigarettes and liquor on hand. The corruption even went as far as to the testing of the available children for H.I.V. My friend said that you wouldn't dare have a possible candidate (child for adoption) tested in Romania. The blood sample would be sent to France and the results would be anxiously awaited. If the result was positive you would either have the choice of taking the child anyway, or going to the back of the line and going through the whole process of search and rescue all over again. My friend and her husband were lucky, they only had to go to the back of the line once. The first child that they tried to adopt came back with a positive result for his blood test. The next two were both negative, their Romanian adoptees are now almost 20 years old. A happy, healthy family. One would wonder what would have happened to these two children if they had not been adopted, I also wonder what happened to the one who tested positive and was not adopted. There are so many sad tales in this world. Sometimes a catastrophe can turn into a blessing. Haiti has the attention of the whole world, in it's darkest hours the light of caring humanity has shone through. I say a little prayer for all that died in Haiti, also a prayer for the ones that have survived.
Yours in light,
Cat x

A River Runs Out of It

Don't you just hate having a cold? I mean when you have a cold there is just no way to disguise it. You try to delicately wipe the constant stream of clear (or worst case scenario- green) liquid that flows like a spring stream out of either one or both nostrils. The feeling that your head is about to explode from the pressure that is building up in your sinus's. The sneezing that instead of the usual delicate , achoo, sounds more like - WHAPACHOOEEE!!! The sneezing is constant for the first few hours of the "cold", I now know what Cyrano De Bergerac would have felt like if he went on a tour of a pepper factory. Your forehead can't decide whether it wants to bead with perspiration (but more like sweat) or break out in goosebumps. Your body is engaged in full blown battle with all the nasty little mucus guys that we have all seen on those TV commercials. I think that when we are having a mild heat stroke that is the "heat" of the battle, the cold snap right after is your innards gathering all the dead "soldiers" to dump into your lungs so you can spend endless nights barking like a dog that thinks he can hear predators outside his door. I wish someone would invent a cure for the common cold. When that cure is found I am buying as much stock as I can. That would be one of the greatest cures developed, probably the greatest in the history of inventing cures for what ails man. Snot isn't funny, it is everywhere, even where you least expect it. Gonna shake hands with someone, hmmm, snot likely. Gonna give someone a hug, snot loves ya. Yep, that snot could be a lethal weapon, in fact I think it has been. So the common cold, the lowliest of ailments but such a pain in the... nose. But, rest assured you won't catch my cold over the Internet by reading my blog. If we meet in the street or at the cafe you'll know its me 'cause I'll be the one with the big red nose and a wicked bark. Till next time, be happy if you don't have a cold.
Snottily yours (literally)
Cat x

An Accusation

Monday is always a surprise day. You wake up (hopefully) refreshed from a day or two of rest and relaxation,ready to face another week of whatever. My days always start the same, honestly, I feel like the first half of my day is the movie "Groundhog Day". I am sure that I am not the only one who feels like this, such is the dictation of life. Today however I had a little surprise. Seems that the man I sleep with (Ruffel) feels that I am using him as a tool of comedic/slanderous instigation. Pooie! say I. Why the greatest compliment one can give is to use your name as much as possible... so long as you get it right, so here I need to make a correction, Ruffel, is really Russel. He is my Dan Connor to my Roseanne, my Jack Benny to my Gracie Allen, my Abbott to my Costello, my Ralph Kramden to my Alice, even so far as to say he is my Ricky to my Lucy, minus the chachas. In other words I would not find as much fun and laughter in my day if it were not for Ruffel,er, Russel. So here's to you dude, may you see the humor in some of your actions and ideas as I am sure you find the lunacy in many of mine.
Cheers, Cat x

An Ode to Molly

The weather here today was rather... different. It wasn't cold but it was chilly, damp and whore frost covered the trees. The fog was very thick and made it impossible to see down the road to Creemore. It was the perfect day to clean out the outdoor wood stove. This is how we heat our house and dispose of things that you, well, want to dispose of. I used to raise chickens and when one of the dear things would perish before meeting the professional wringer, I would toss it into the wood stove and that would be the end of it. Whilst the carcass was being "toasted" the dogs and Ruffel would lift their noses into the air and ask "what's for supper?" This wood stove heats our 4000 square foot home, heats our hot water and heats the garage (the dogs are particularly thankful for this). We have saved more garbage from ending up in the landfill and "recycled" garbage to heat our home and keep us warm in frigid temps. While the cost of the initial installation of said wood stove and pipes and insulation was a bit of a lay out, it has more than paid for itself several times over in the last 5 years. The nice thing about this stove is that you don't have to drag wood into your house (and the resulting mess), there is no fear of embers falling out onto the floor or of having a chimney fire. I wouldn't go back to an indoor wood stove for all the tea in China. Anyhow, I am out on this grey day cleaning out the wood stove when an awful thought hit me. My dearly departed cat was cremated in said stove, and her ashes were still in there. When my parents passed away my brother gave me all the gory details of cremation and detailed information on what does not "burn" down and what needs to be done to the left over big bits. I will spare you this information although I am sure your own imagination can fill in the blanks. I was hit with sudden panic that I would find some "nonburnable" bits of Molly coming at me from the black depths of the wood stove. Let me tell you, it is bloody difficult to clean out a stove with your eyes closed! I didn't look at the black bits of coal or the grey ash to closely. Then there is the part of you that just has to look... you know what I mean you are driving past an accident and although you don't want to look you just have too. Call it morbid curiosity if you will. The good news is I didn't see anything that I didn't want too, and Ruffel is glad that the wood stove is cleaned out ready to go again. (He has a bad shoulder you know)

So I end the day on a happy note, my Molly has been scattered (all be it with the ashes of at least 1 bush cord of wood) at the back of the farm. Now she is free to hunt mice and squirrels and roam the bush with at least 10 chickens. Bless you Molly.

Till next time Cat x

My Apologies

To the few who read my blog religiously every day... my apologies for not fulfilling my contract yesterday.
Fridays I take Anthony to gymnastics. This week was also my son, Jesse's birthday. Friday evening after gymnastics I was to stop in at a house and have a slice of celebratory cake with the family (and extended family). Custom says that it is bad luck not to take an offering of such. To say no to a piece of birthday cake (no matter how small or large the slice) is akin to standing in line to be blessed by the pope, only to be at the head of the line and say "You know, I think I'm OK for now, maybe next week" Well, let me tell you, next week won't come, that is how superstitious I am. If it is custom... just do it. Reminds me of a story my dad told me about his early days in the Navy. This was during the Suez Canal troubles, (in the middle eastern part of the world). The Mediterranean area has many different ideas on eating. There is bounty from the sea as well as bounty from the land. Greek salad jumps to mind whenever I heard the word Mediterranean. Hmmmm, feta cheese comes from goats (sometimes sheep too) and when a goat is "done" (if you catch my drift) the animal is thrown in a pot, or stuck on a spit or roasted in a pit. Nothing goes to waste on the animal, everything is eaten. My father was a pretty brave man when it came to nuclear warheads, gun ships even living with my mother (she could be a bit of a tempest). However, when it came to food, especially meat, he was faint hearted. He loved his Sunday roast beef dinners with Yorkie pudding, loved his beef and bisto with mash, loved toad in the hole (his specialty) but somehow the sight of a whole goat head peering out at him from under the tomatoes and bay leaves was just not something that he thought that he could do. But, custom is custom and he did not want to insult his host and hostess, so he clenched the table with one hand and his fork with the other and ate with a formidable gusto that had never been witnessed at this Greek table. Not that my father enjoyed what he ate, but he said that he just had to do it quick before he thought too much about what he was about to eat. I think the word Ouzo was in the story a couple of times to. So you might wonder where I am going with this story and how it ties into birthday cake. Well, almost a year ago now I had a gastric bypass, the results have been amazing (to me) yet have left some side effects which can be disastrous. While your stomach is the smart one in the body, your brain continues to say "Oh, go ahead, one little piece won't hurt... go on...you know you want too" So since your brain rules the neurological functions like lifting the fork to your mouth, you decide to have a sliver of dastardly delight. Well, this cake was a manifestation of heaven on earth. Never have I experienced such a melodious melding of butter, cream,sugar, chocolate all in one tiny bite. Sex doesn't even come close to how this morsel of celebratory custom can make you feel. As Mrs. Brown would say "It's like getting ten numbers on the bingo card". Only thing is after the brain has gotten its way, it is off the hook and the rest of your endocrine system has to deal with the toxic shock of "getting a piece". There is a syndrome called "dumping syndrome" which is a major to do with gastric bypass patients. The symptoms range from mild to severe and can last any where from half an hour to hours on end. I have been very careful (not to the point of being a saint, I must admit) to stick to what I know is OK for me to eat. If the brain is begging for a hit of sugar, then I will seek out the lowest level of sugar available while still getting some ( 6 grams seems to be the magic number) This cake last night was probably in the 6 gram mark... but with a 0 after the 6... yeah about 60 grams for a sliver. Read here: holy crap. Now, the word dumping syndrome would make you think: dumping... hmmm. probably involves sitting on a white throne for several hours begging god to take you quickly 'cause if you "dump" any more the paramedics will only find a shadow of your former self and you will be inside out sitting on the john. Not necessarily the case, most of the time for me (thank god) it is a matter of extreme shakes, the feeling of being hot and cold at the same time, clammy skin and an overwhelming desire(and need) to puke out everything down to my toes. Thing with gastric bypass is that when you do vomit, it tastes the same coming out as it did going in. Your upset that you're puking, but you're going "wow, that really was great cake". No bile in your new stomach so you don't get that horrible bitter taste, and it comes back out the same tract that it went in, so nothing through the nose. I know, lots of info, but I really want you to know what kept me from my writing promise of 2010. The good news is I feel much better this morning, the effects of the cake did not last more than a couple of hours, and I will never again listen to the grey mass that thinks it rules my stomach, in my internal world the stomach is queen, or as Rumpole of the Bailey would say "She who must be obeyed!"
So there be it, I am happy that I ate cake for my son, happy that I didn't have to be scraped up off the bathroom floor and happy that it is a new day.
Cheers, (and don't pass the cake)
Cat x

A play on words

In the same theme of the Sunday afternoon...

It was one of those Sunday afternoons that a writer can only hope for, a day of delicious resignation. The storm served only as a catalyst for my inner energies; I would use this manifestation of mother nature to nurture my own literary longings. The birth of a masterpiece, a child of my creative conscience; a veritable labor of love. Ah, but to construct such a formidable feat would require many acts and rituals. There is the act of finding the right subject for this liaison, the art of research and feeling out of the form, the ritual of the actual making, of taking pen to paper or fingers to keys, whichever would be your pleasure, all leading to climatic explosion of theme, plot,character and dilemma, only to be left with a smoking gun at the end; to be in bed with the knowledgeable satisfaction of a job well done! Ah, the glory of a dreary, stormy Sunday afternoon.

Sunday Afternoon

In the same mode of "Don't you just hate January" I found this in my writing log. I hope you enjoy it.

It was one of those Sunday afternoons which left you free, free to do as you please. The weather outside was cold and dreary, so cold and dreary that the warmth of the fireplace was paralyzing. You knew you should do something, anything to make use of this free time. Instead your head turns slowly from left to right. On the right is the hypnotic dancing of the fire in the grate. On the left is the gray dismal chill of a January afternoon. This right, left action is similar to the action of a tennis game, only this ball is one of thought passing from one side of the brain to the other. It was one of those Sunday afternoons that drove me crazy. All I really wanted to do was to go out snow-shoeing , but the freezing rain had put an end to that idea. Instead I was sentenced to spend time locked in this prison called home with a man called my husband. A man whose idea of fun is to assume a position of comatose repose, staring through half opened eyes at the blaring box of intellectual ridicule called a T.V. I can only ask the question "Why?" Why did the god of weather choose my Sunday to ruin?

I think there is a threat of freezing rain in the forecast... so forgive me I must fly and get some snowshoeing in before it is too late.

Frostily yours,
Cat x

Don't you just hate January

January has to one of the most depressing months of the year. I mean, where I live it is a constant battle. A battle to get the boots on, the long underwear, the car door open, the car started, the foot of snow that has frozen in a hard drift onto the front windshield of your car (they have not invented a scraper that can get through that stuff). It is a battle to rouse oneself to get out of bed in the morning. It is still dark at 7 a.m. and frigging cold on the feet. Now I know why bears hibernate... winter is just too cold, too dark, and just too much work. When you compare a winter morning to a summer morning... well, there is just no comparison. Mornings are just so bright and warm, the birds are singing, why it is just like a Disney cartoon, you just want to jump out of bed and get going. Not only is the weather better but you don't have to apply layers of cotton, polyester and wool just to go to the bathroom! In the summer you run around almost naked it is so nice and warm and cozy. Oh, I have had the odd July 1st when we have had to light the wood stove as the temperature has dropped to 60 , how dare mother nature pull an ugly on us like that. The only good thing that I can say about January is that being the first month of the year we get it over with quickly, the rest of the year can only get brighter and warmer. My son is born in January. I wish I had paid closer attention to my breeding cycles so that I could have given him a birthday in a warmer month. He doesn't seem to mind. People are just starting to get ready to party again after the holiday season. Hangovers are a dim memory. You've managed to drop a couple of pounds because thank god the shortbread and the fruitcake is all gone. The only chocolates left in the box are the ones that no-one really likes. I mean who thought of putting green cream into a dark chocolate? Somehow that just doesn't seem right. January does give us the excuse to go to bed early (without feeling guilty) reading all Sunday afternoon (just too cold to go out, you know you could lose your nose after just 15 minutes out there!) and wearing your wool socks to bed without feeling like you aren't being sexy. Fuzzy warm feet are a might sexier than sleeping with the ice queen as Ruffel likes to say.
So here is to January, may you hurry up and turn into February, the month of chocolate and love. Funny how those two seem to be a perfect match.
Be happy where you are, may it be warm and full of fun things to do.
Cheers,
Cat x

The Point of Fairy Tales

I am reading a great book called "The Great Cat Massacre." Quite a catchy title don't you think? Even the author, Robert Darnton, is quick to point out this fact. I am not too far into this literary eclair but already it is a delicious read. Mr. Darnton has introduced me to a few new words like- exegesis. Don't know what it means- look it up- I had to. He also uses great old quotes that I have never heard before like " He who is snotty, let him blow his nose." Now other than the obvious, there is also another meaning to this little ditty, but you'd have to read the book to find out what it is. Did you know that in the 18th century there was an obsession with braiding dung to display on manure heaps? Now around this farm we have all sorts of manure, and I will be the first to say that I have never, ever obsessed over braiding some of that shit. Not only do I not know how to braid manure, I don't know how I would possibly braid, what could only be described (in consistency) as loose brown oatmeal.
One thing that I have found very interesting is the fact (according to Mr. Darnton) that most fairy tales, nursery rhymes and unusual practices were circulated and kept alive by peasants, French peasants no less. After reading this fact I had an Oprah a-ha moment. This little tidbit of information explains why I have a love of reading, writing, words and the learning of the French language , I come from a long line of European peasants, gypsies and rogues. Now everything makes sense, thanks Mr. Darnton.
So I close again for another day, thankful for the peace of being happy where I am, ensconced in my own little world reading about the weird and wonderful practices of some of my ancestors.
Cheers,
Cat x

Mrs. Brown

A good friend of mine recently sent me a link to a video on YouTube. The name of the video is Mrs. Brown. It is a popular (and extremely funny) stage production travelling 'round the UK. The main character, Mrs. Brown, is an Irish woman who has a particular take on life in general. As I watched the clips my own English side of the family came to mind. My dad was English (the proper kind) as was his mother and father. My dad was even born within the "sound of the bells" in London, making him a true Londoner. My Nana (Kitty) had a German father and an Irish mother. She was one of seven children, which was fairly typical of that time period, after all there was no television or central heating to pass the long dark winter nights. So people resorted to what comes naturally to bored, cold partners. This is usually after the man has been down round the local watering hole to chat with his mates and neighbours. Sometimes the Mrs. would join him, but there was usually a wee one at home, so the wives visit was considerably shorter than the the males. In my nan's family there was one sister in particular who sticks in my mind, my dad's Auntie Ivy. Auntie Ivy and Uncle Fred lived at the end of a track (goat path) just the other side of the railway track. The train would rumble by a couple of times a day and once in the late evening. I swear the house was literally yards away from the track. Ivy and Fred had no children, but they did have hundreds of pigeons. Fred raised them for racing, quite a popular past time back in the 60's. Anyway, whenever we went to visit Fred and Ivy we would all end up down at the local (me being a wee tot, wasn't too much of a bother back then, so long as I sat under the bar stool with the dog, as there is always a dog in the pub under the bar stool, then no-one would say a word). I have fond memories of Ivy in her brown wool coat, hat (usually the brown beret) bright red lipstick and a fag stuck in the corner of her mouth. A fag in the U.K. is not what a fag is here in North America, just like a fanny is the front of the female anatomy and not the back end. Uncle Fred would yell out "Come on Ivy! up to the piano wi' ya, and play us a song!" Thing was Ivy had never had a music lesson in her life, but she could belt out a song on the ivories as if she had taken lessons from Scott Joplin hisself. The joint was jumping with my parents doing a jig (as well as a few others) Ivy squinting with the smoke of her fag trailing straight up into her eye (usually the left) and everyone singing at the top of their lungs. The more the Guinness flowed the better the singing and playing. Now my nan was a bit of a straight lace, but get a couple of glasses of sherry into her and look out! Watching the video of Mrs Brown was not only hysterical at the time, but left me giggling and smiling broadly at the memories of those days. It makes me wonder what ever happened to the spontaneity of just having fun. Of meeting with your neighbours and having a laugh or for that matter a sing along. Oh, I know, the Japanese gave us Karaoke, but really is it the same? I think not. Then there is the question of drinking and driving. Living in such a small community gave us the luxury of just walking down the road and over the tracks, all hanging on to each other, not because they were all so drunk, but because that is what friends and family do.
So I leave you with the thought of, no matter where you are or what you are doing, don't forget the past. No matter how trivial it might seem at the time, it is sure to come back and give you great joy.
Cheerio for now,
Cat x

Happy Birthday Irma

Today I am writing a very short message, Happy Birthday Irma. I hope you enjoyed your dinner and liked the gift. It was nice that the family was able to get together and celebrate this special birthday. As Zsa Zsa Gabor would say" You look marvelous, dahling!"
Cheers,
Cat x

Pass the Fear Factor

Watching my son do gymnastics I am reminded of the theory of evolution... of how we are supposedly evolved from the monkey. Watching Anthony jump, tumble and roll I realize that some of us have ventured a little further away from that banana grove than others. There is not only the question of dexterity, I mean, given enough warm up time I can almost get my ankles up around my ears ( sometimes a litre or two of white wine helps) but mostly it is the total absence of fear. The fear of falling, the fear of not getting it quite right and the greatest fear of all... failure in front of an audience. I used to ski (downhill) when I was younger. Growing up in the Gatineau region I was offered fabulous ski opportunities with my school mates. But it seemed that once I reached the ripe old age of 20 I developed a new sense of fear. It's not as if I'd grown a foot taller, taking me just that much further from the earths surface, I just plain lost my nerve. It is this fear that has ceased all attempts to ski downhill, put a halt to my dream of shark wrestling (Ha, not likely that I was ever going to try that!) Nah, I am quite happy to sit on the side lines and watch my little monkey fly through the air with the greatest of ease with absolutely no fear at all, may his naive abandon last for many years to come. To those of you who live life fearlessly... I raise my glass of courage and salute you! So be happy where ever you are- whether you are filled with courage or looking for a shred of bravery to face your fears- go forth and conquer!
Cheers!
Cat

At least I didn't faint or pass gas...

One of my worst nightmares came to fruition today. It is such a phobia of mine that it makes me literally sweat bullets, really, huge bullets of sweat form in all regions of me. My heart pounds, I develop a headache of migraine magnitude, the whole nine yards. Oh what might make me respond as thus you ask, well, let me tell you... it is the dreaded taking of personal photos. That's right the family group shot that hangs on the family room wall. The picture that reminds us that we are part of a unit, a clan, a gathering of people with the same last name. The other people in the picture look great, big happy smiles, great colour to their skin and then there is me. My eyes either disappear in the squint of delirium or I look like I'm trying not to pass gas in this intimate setting, so clenched is the jaw region. I do not look good in photos, that is simply what it comes down too. In fact you could say that I have a great face for radio. This is the first time that I have ever even been in a group/family shot, and I have to admit that the lady taking the photos was very good at making us all feel semi-relaxed. I had popped a couple of tranqs before I went just so I would not have that deer in the headlights look. The only good thing about this photo is that the photographer has the good sense to put me to the outside edge of every shot... so much easier to cut me out later.
I guess you could say that this is one ugly who is not going to be on the wall... at least not at my house. I am sure that I have a black photo album with a sticky page in it all ready for my shot.
So be happy where you are... even if it is in the back of a paperback being keep flat for eternity, at least you'll damage no eye balls there.
Cheerio,
Cat
P.S. to the rest of the photo subjects, you all look amazing!

No Guts... No Glory

Well, I did it, I finished the painting. I showed it to the guy I work for and to my relief he didn't fall over laughing or roll his eyes so far back into his head that he looked dead. Instead he seemed rather surprised that I could paint a red square with little black hatch marks on it. The painting was/is of a house here in town, complete with a tree or two and some leaves on the ground.
I walked into the gallery to hand it in and they accepted the offering. They even asked how much I wanted the bidding to start at. Bidding? They are going to try to sell this thing? Apparently there is a silent auction with 30% of the sale price going to the gallery and the remainder going to you. Well I upped the anty to 50%, I really didn't do this for monetary gains. Then again 50% of nothing is nothing. The gallery person asked if I would be attending the show on Saturday, I fairly guffawed with shock. Moi... at an opening... with a piece by me on the wall? Hell yeah, I'll slink in when no one is looking have a quick roam around and slink out again before I am noticed. I think I have an idea of how the great artists must have felt before their works were on display (not that I am saying that I am great). Andy Warhol, why he must have eaten a case of Campbell's soup before his premier. Van Gogh probably kept readjusting his hat so no one would notice the little detail of part of his ear missing. Picasso... well who knows what he would be thinking, I can't figure his art out at all. As the world of critics say "Art is subjective" or is it objective? Hmmmm, I'll have to look that one up. So if you are in town this Saturday, go check out the show, I am sure that you will see many different interpretations of this little village I call home.

Be happy where you are... no matter what is on your wall.
Cheers Cat

A preview to a column

New Years has never really meant much to me. When I was a kid living at home, New Years Eve was a night of titillating giggles and stolen kisses... oh not for me, you see my parents were married on New Year’s Eve at the Ritz Hotel in London... no, the other London, the one across that great gulf of water known as the Atlantic. What a clever idea to get married on New Year’s Eve, you’ll never forget your anniversary. It will feel like the whole world is celebrating with you, some places even setting off fireworks just for the occasion. As I grew older New Year’s Eve meant having Chinese food and watching the Times Square ball fall in New York City. One day I am going to gather enough courage to actually go to New York City and partake in those celebrations, well, probably not, maybe I’ll just say hi to that cowboy who sings in his underwear, almost the same thing, right? The point is that New Year’s can mean many different things. Oprah said “Cheers to a New Year and another chance to get it right”. A very good thought indeed. So I wish that we all might get the chance to get it right this year, whatever you think you didn’t get right last year. This is where the idea of resolutions came from. I only made one resolution this year, which is one more than I made last year. My resolution is to write every day, so determined am I to meet this self imposed discipline that I started my own blog. Yeah, I know, I am way behind the times, blogging was so last decade. I just don’t like to jump into things; I like to think things through. So wish me luck. If I fail in my quest, I won’t be too hard on myself, after all there is always next year. Till then here are a few sayings to keep you thinking.
Many people look forward to the New Year for a new start on old habits. – Anon
A New Year’s resolution is something that goes in one year and out the other. – Anon
Good resolutions are simply cheques that men draw on a bank where they have no account. – Oscar Wilde
With sufficient thrust, pigs fly just fine. – Anon (in case you use that till pigs fly excuse not to do something)
You can’t turn back the clock, but you can wind it up again. – Bonnie Prudden
And very appropriate for this year:
The New Year begins in a snow storm of white vows. - George William Curtis

What was I thinking?

Life is an adventure.... a long and winding road that we never know what is around the next corner. Sometimes we pack a lunch and prepare for the next leg of the journey, sometimes (and this is my favorite way to travel) we fly by the seat of our pants. Such is the quandary I find myself in today. I have this notion that since my father was rather artistically gifted (in the good sense, not like he was artistically challenged, you know all that politically correct terminology for being a reta*d) I thought that maybe a little of that talent fell into the pool of cells that became moi. Hmmmmmm. So I thought why not set a challenge for myself and enter the local art contest. See, you buy a canvas for 20$ and then you have to paint (minor detail) what Creemore means to you on it. Well my imagination tends to run on overload 99.9% of the time so I formed these magical images in my little mind of what I would like to paint, create, etc. Only thing, I've never painted a thing before in my life, well, unless you count that chalk outline I did to help someone out... but that is another whole story. So I, being one who loves to leave things to the 11th hour ( I perform much better under pressure) am in an artistic flurry of panic induced creative activity. Oh, I have art friends that I could call for help, but, I don't have any eyes to do... I don't have any abstract circles or squares in my piece and I certainly don't need help from B.A on a guitar rift to set my work ablaze. So I will blunder on. The good news is... if I totally screw it up, I will paint it all black and call it a blackout, hell, what with all those trees down the main street so close to the hydro wires, well, you know the rest.
I leave you with one of my new fave sayings which seems apropos for the art side of me....
"If love is blind, then why is lingerie so popular?"
Thanks for reading and as always... be happy where you are, even if it is at the end of the line.
Cheers,
Cat x

What a start to the new year- UGH!

OMG... words escape me... wait, no they don't. Two words come to mind... Cabin Fever. That is what I am feeling after enduring day three of being locked (by the weather) in the house with a bored/hyper kid and the man I sleep with. Ruffel (also known as Russel) is my husband. He loves this sort of weather as it makes him feel like a god... the god of snow blowing. Many weekenders are reliant on him and his mighty tool (tractor and blower) to help them escape from clogged driveways and mile high snow drifts. Many mornings he is on the road by 5 am to help people get to work or to the mall, whatever is more important for that day. My preference is the mall, although work is OK too. The snow is relentless in its quest to reach the telephone wires. Winds shift snow like the sands of a desert... only this desert is white and icy cold. I can hardly wait for July 1st. Canada Day to some, but to me the day that it is safe to remove the long underwear. Oh, you laugh, but there have been many July 1st's where the wood stove has had to be lit to provide some heat.

Well, I told you yesterday that I was working on my new column for the local paper. I am going to do a bit on what the New Year means to people, everyone has there own take on what it means. Oprah said" The New Year is another chance to get it right" so here's to hoping that I get it right. Some feel that with the start of a New Year they can get out of the "rut" they might feel that their life has become, this reminds me of another saying "the difference between a rut and a grave is the depth". Hopefully it is only a rut that you find yourself in, and here's hoping that the New Year hands you a shovel to start digging your way out.

Well cheerio for now or TTFN (ta ta for now as my Nan used to say), remember, be happy where you are, even if it is covered in snow.

Cat x

What will I do with this day?

Well, the second day of January has dawned (surprise, surprise) even wilder than the first. The snow continues to bellow in from the bay, pushed by the vicious artic winds from... you guessed it, the artic. Even the hounds want no part of this extreme climscape, ( a word I made up, that is part climate, part landscape). If I was any sort of computer techy I would find a way to put a video clip up of the scenery here, but alas, since I am only a lowly newbie, you will have to take my word for it.

So the lazy side of my personality won in the question of whether to go snow shoeing with my son yesterday. I went back to the couch to read my book, which is fascinating, only thing is I can only read it during the day as I find it too scary to read it at night. The book is The Historian, by Elizabeth Kostova. It is about the quest for the finding of the final "resting" place of Dracula. Very well written and very interesting, worth picking up. Even if you are not a Dracula fan, I really think that you might enjoy it... Dracula is not one of my fav characters in the long list of novel personalities.

I have to close now, I need to work on an upcoming column for the local paper. I write a little ditty about "sayings" with a little personal touch to them. If I was smart enough I could set up an archive site with all these things.
Till next time,
be happy where you are, any way you can.
Cat

First day of my blog

Well here it is the first day of a new year. The snow is blowing straight in from the bay. My son has just asked me if I want to go out snowshoeing. I would love to but I hate winter. Why would I want to leave the warmth of this house to battle the elements all in the name of ? fun? exercise? bonding? Hmmm, maybe I should just be wonder woman and put on the snow shoes and curse all the way out to the 6th line and back. There will be no respite from the howling wind and blowing snow as it will hit me from the side the whole time. I mentioned the idea to the dogs but they seem to have the same attitude as I do...only one of them answered me with a huge yawn. Actually, I think one of them farted too, either that or it is just the scent of the brocolli soup I made for lunch still hanging in the air.
I'll let you know tomorrow what I decided to do, till then, be happy where you are.
Cat