As I haven't yet set up the holiday pic post...

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I was staring at my computer screen, squinting. A colleague passing by said, "Wow, that's really fuzzy". Such blissful relief !  I thought it was my eyes, that my prescription would need to be changed. Again. So soon.

"You mean it's not me?"
"Um, no. How can you work like that?"

One quick call to Mr. IM and it was all fixed.

Unfortunately, I don't really see the crystal clarity of it.  Damn.

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I climb into the waiting bus. It's crowded. Suddenly I hear, "Please take my place m'am, you look tired". This time it's not a 10 year old boyscout practicing his manners because anyone beyond 15 looks positively ancient to him.  No. This guy must be pushing 30. And it's the third time this has occurred in a couple of months.

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So it has finally happened. I have joined that generation of  tired-looking matrons for whom seats are given up on the bus and subway, though manners being what they are today, I thought it would happen much later. You know, when I'm old and decrepit, bent over with osteoporosis, leaning on my walker. I'm not liking this one bit, though I'm not stupid or vain enough to refuse the proffered seat. I don't have that much to prove. Or that much pride for that matter.

Obviously, I'm already seen as old and decrepit. Is it because no one today, even the 80 year old botox-embalmed Westmount ladies who lunch, looks older than 25? In a really really creepy way.

Is it because of the hair? No one has natural hair anymore, everyone colours, even though, truly, does it really fool anyone? Once everything is being sucked into the ground through sheer incapability of  resisting the forces of gravity, I don't believe artfully coloured hair can fool even the blindest among us.

At almost 49 I have joined the ranks of the old and invisible.

I don't know why it bothers me so much, since I've pretty much spent my life being invisible, part of that mass that no one sees, so it's not much of a change. At least now I become visible long enough to get a seat on the bus, that should be a plus shoudn't it?

And yet...

Statistically, the halfway mark is past. And I don't care that 50 is the new 40 or 30 or whatever the hell it is, I can't fathom that I've reached that age. That I'm well into middle age and closing quickly on the "Golden Years" (Golden years my fat ass, more like tarnished pewter maybe).

What the hell happened to my life!?!  Hell, I don't even know what I want to be when I grow up, and I'm supposed to be thinking of what I'm gonna live on when I retire?

Which is a whole 'nother thing. Retire?  I'll probably never be able to afford it and will die working as a Walmart greeter. Now there's a scary thought.

I mean, after all, the only good thing about getting old is being able to stop with the damn work already. And I'm already looking at working at Walmart.

WALMART!

Damn, I need a hot flash to distract me!

And now for the worst. Commercial. EVAH!

And going back a bit to the 50s...

Everyone needs a computer...



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How fucked is it...

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That I am incapable of packing?

I used to leave for two weeks with a gym bag. A month with a small back pack.

Now I'm leaving for around two weeks in France - where lets face it, I can buy toothpaste or a t-shirt if I need them - and having an anxiety attack about it.  I no longer pack light. Hell, I pretty much take everything but my bed. What the fuck!!! Get over it.

I just went outside to chillax a bit, It reeks (in a good way) of lilac out there. There's a word in French - embaumer (which also means, ironically, 'to embalm' - lets not go there), but I can't for the life of me find the English equivalent.

OK, back to the suitcase.

Edited to add: Plus. PLUS!  Whenever I go on vacation I have to clean. I vacuum, I dust, I put stuff away. Who the hell will see that the dust bunnies have been wrestled into submission?  I don't have a problem with breeding dust bunnies when I'm home, why on earth would they bother me when I'm not?

So what did I do yesterday? On top of tearing my hair out packing. I vacuumed, I cleaned, I did a load of laundry. That's just so fucking anal.

But now, I'm done and I will be gone.
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I can't help comparing this to my MacBook Pro...

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Pffft to titles.

Spring seems to finally have sprung in Montreal - though of course my saying that probably ensures that we will barely get above freezing temperatures tomorrow...

To celebrate, it's time for that Spring vacation.

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Come Thursday evening I'll be on my way to France to see friends in Brittany and in the vicinity of Paris. And, if various constraints work themselves out and schedules miraculously mesh, maybe to meet a blogger - that would be Dumdad.

Who knows, maybe I'll haul some inspiration back from Europe with me. That'd be nice. 'Cause right now? Not so much. I try to believe it's because I'm too busy having a life, knowing full well that that's so not the case at this point.

Maybe since we're actually renting a car, we'll have all sorts of driving adventures where I navigate us clear up into Norway. Of course, Mr. Jazz - smart man that he is - went out and bought a GPS (aka Simon) with all those nifty European maps so he doesn't much have to beat his head against the steering wheel while I try to turn the map so that it's headed in the same direction we are because otherwise it just makes no sense whatsoever. Spatially challenged? Me?

And so, to paraphrase my friend Sully, Soon(ish) with more better stuff.
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Our Nation's Capital

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Ottawa that would be. Where I spent the weekend and was tardy about blogging about it so both XUP and Violet Sky beat me to it 'cause they're way on the ball and organized and get everything done right away and make me feel like... hmmm... well, basically like a) i'm completely disorganized and b) total aside, the Habs just scored, so it's 3-2 against the Penguins and Mr. Jazz is a happy camper and I inserted this into the blog because his screams of joy pretty much lifted me 6 inches off the bed. The boy can yell, indeed he can.
And c) as you can see, I'm easily distracted so that might explain why I'm, as always, the last to blog. That and for some reason on Mondays they always seem to expect me to actually work for a living...

Aaanyway.

I seem to have digressed. Par for the course ain't it. And I will not digress into golf. I. Will. Not.

This was supposed to be about my weekend in Ottawa.

Let's start again.

I went to Ottawa to meet XUP and Violet Sky - and a passel of Ottawa bloggers I pretty much had no idea actually existed for the most part.

'Twas lovely it was.

Things I learned this weekend:

• Ottawa bloggers are cool. They meet up once in a while and have Saturday brunches. Hell, I know of two Montreal-ish English bloggers, and though we've been in contact, I've not met either of them. It's a shame really. Paula and Bonnie, I'm talking to you.

• The Ottawa Tulip Festival (the biggest in the whole wide world - prolly 'cause it's the only one) attracts LOTS of Japanese. Lots. Really. Oodles of 'em. Sorta like fall in Quebec attracts them. It's sorta scary actually. They are everywhere, taking pics of themselves taking pics of themselves taking pics of each other. The relationship of the Japanese to cameras is strange to say the least.

• Frigid weather and rain make for cool pics of flowers with drops of water on them, but really, who gives a shit about drops of water on tulips. I mean seriously, this pic has been taken a million times - and way better. And Blogger, bloody minded thing that it it wouldn't let me put the pic here unless I go into HTML and do a copy/paste there and I did it so FUCK YOU Blogger and that's all I have to say about that  and yes, XUP I know: WORDPRESSS.

• It seems the Parliament buildings are not "just a pile of stones" and that I will never live down having said that they were. In my defense, I was cold!

• It seems the Portage buildings (one of the big government complexes) ARE just a pile of ugly. 

• A women's weekend is truly something every woman should experience periodically.  Much as I love Mr. Jazz, an estrogen weekend is something he cannot provide - even though he feeds me.

• The By Ward Market. It's where Obama bought his cookies. It's one of Canada's oldest and largest markets. And the inside part of it has this creepy sculpture hanging from the ceiling. Look, the guy's apron has BLOOD painted on it! I might have creepy ideas, like looking at my face with my eyes hanging out, but damned if I'd do a sculpture with a guy holding a pig (4-2 Habs from what I hear) with blood on his apron. 'Cause, yeah, we all know he's gonna slit that pig's throat (and to hell with Blogger for not lettting me upload. I'll have to try tomorrow. Who knows I might get lucky - yes XUP, i know, WORDPRESS...)  Update: This morning Blogger seems to be in  a better mood, here's the pic

• *le sigh*

• Drinking chocolate milk (through a straw no less) is so many levels of wrong when you're an adult and eating a plate beyond full of beef. Imagine it. A huge plate of roast beef, a domino size of salad and a potato... and a glass of chocolate milk. With a strwa. NO! it wasn't me. But you gotta admit that this image, this whole idea, is beyond wrong. And XUP - she provides a mean colour commentary regarding chocolate milk and beef. A commentary involving stomachs exploding in the middle of the night. Hell yeah!

• On the drive home I noticed that Ontarians generally drive in the right lane and use the left to pass and get right back into the right lane. Probably 80% of cars that drove in the left lane just because it was there were Quebecers. We're such scofflaws we are (have you ANY idea how long I've been waiting to use the word scofflaw? Thank you Quebec drivers for helping me to do so). The law - Pffft.

• There is something inherently wrong about snow on May 9. Even if it's just flurries. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Sometimes I hate this country. Y'all are suprised to hear that eh? I had to say y'all, it warms me up.

• 4-3 for the Habs. Game over. Heh. I said they'd win. No one believes me. Probably cause I'm not a fan. But I know. It's my superpower. Except when it doesn't work. Which is 50% of the time. But tonight I got it right. Hopefully I'll do as well in the World Cup this summer. That is one series I'll watch. Me and Violet Sky.... yep.

OK, 'nuf of this going on and on and on... I'm going to bed.  'Night all.
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A solution to every problem...

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Sometimes you gotta wonder at the things people will buy...



But I guess if it saves a marriage...

As an aside: I'm off to Ottawa today to meet the wonderful XUP and Alison, and hook up again with Violet Sky.  I'll  let you know if I still think they're great after the weekend, but I'm assuming they're be even better in person....
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Dear Cyclist

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Wow. You're doing the green thang!  Good for you...

Must be great, pedaling along, the wind in your hair, eating bugs now and again. We all need protein....

What you don't seem to realize though is that riding a bike does not make you a really really fast pedestrian. On your bike, you're considered a vehicle; as such, you are obliged to follow the rules of the road. You're, like, a really really small car.

So, stop signs are for you. As are red lights. A four way red light with that picture of the little man? It means vehicles must stop so pedestrians can cross.

Yes asshole, this means you!

It doesn't mean, "Hey cyclist, cross now cause you're sure no cars will get in your goddamn way and to hell with whoever is crossing the street".

Because you count as a fucking vehicle you damn moron!

And because, if you don't stop, who knows, maybe a pedestrian will stick out a rigid arm and whip you off your damn "oh look at me I'm so cool on my $6000 rich asshole bike" and stomp on your head when you fall.

Just because she can.

Just sayin' dude.

Jazz

Cottage vignettes

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It’s not all sinking pedal boats and killing rodents.

I’m back in bed on Saturday afternnon, reading a hopelessly outdated (and hysterically funny) issue of Women’s Day from July 1955, learning how to "cook" it in the refrigerator or freezer (jellied tomato-cucumber mold anyone?) and - this was the Woman's Day Workshop - how to cast a fish in plaster of Paris (I shit you not, page 66! - "Once the negative mold has been made, it can be used many times to make duplicates of the fish - fine gifts for sporting friends" 'cause everyone needs a fish cast in plaster of Paris!). I can't help but wonder if anyone actually ever did this, and more to the point, why?

Mr. Jazz is in the living room, watching the hockey game and transferring Gotan Project and the latest Porcupine Tree onto my computer so I can sync my iPod.  Yay, I won’t have to do it for myself. Happy Day.

I push aside the magazine and snuggle down into bed with a sigh, finding that perfect position for a snooze. Mr. Jazz comes in, closes the curtains, kisses me and leaves, closing the door behind him.

I listen to the chipmunks rooting around in the old leaves under the feeders, and to the rain as it starts falling softly - then less so. My thoughts drift to the new hostas and ferns pushing their way out of the earth. This will be good for them.

My body grows heavy as I write this blog post in my head and sink into slumber, to the sound of the hockey game and falling rain.

Life is good.
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Dribs and Drabs Again

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This morning, on the way to work I saw a beautiful Husky. He was obviously thrilled to death to be going on his walk. Bounding at the edge of his leash... I'm sure he was thrilled because it's SNOWING in Montreal today. Yeah, you read that. SNOWING. The magnolias are flowering and it's fucking SNOWING!!  I'm sure BB with his love of all weather frigid must have been thrilled. Me? Not so much­.

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I got this animation of Elizabeth's page in Facebook. Go watch it:  Animator vs. Animation

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If someone somehow managed to pull my eyes out without severing my optic nerve, and they (my eyes) were hanging down the front of my face, could I see the floor and if I turned them towards my face would I see my face without my eyes?

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Has anyone out there heard of a certain type of pillow where the center is filled with water, which allows for perfect adjustment of your pillow size. I'm not sure whether I imagined this or if it really exists. If not, maybe I should invent it and make millions. But just the fact that I've had this in my head leads me to believe that it must already exist. I imagine my friend the omniscient XUP will know. People this woman is a veritable fount of information. And yes, I know, Google - but my brain is slow and I haven't made it to that point yet.

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I have a friend who works for a union. If you work for a union, I suppose you would be unionized, by your union. In case of a strike, who do you negotiate with? 'Course I guess I could simply ask her that.
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Recycling is always good...

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Today we recycle.

But since I'm not recycling my own post, it's more like.. um.... spreading the good news. Warty Mammal, purveyor of all things ridiculous and funny, posted this link. Which before I poached from her, she poached from Slate.

Check this out - a slideshow on "feminine hygiene product" (i.e. tampax) ads, as compared to cigarette ads. It's freakishly funny...  Go read it.

NOW.
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Nature vs. .... ME.

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Warning: This post involves scatalogical issues, blood and gore and general heartlessness on my part. It might be unsuitable for some audiences. On the other hand, the very thought of blood and gore might reel you right in. Feel free to proceed. Or not.

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You know.

When you climb the stairs to the main floor of the cottage and the first thing you see is squirrel poop all over the floor, you know it's going to be a pain in the ass weekend.

Because poop on the floor entails poop on the counters, on the table, in the bed. Pretty much everywhere you don't want poop to reside. Poop in prodigious, mind boggling quantities, poop beyond your wildest dreams - if, of course, you're into scatalogical dreams.

And if you are? I really don't want to know.

At least he didn't get into the food.

All this poop obviously entails much vacuuming, stripping of beds, washing down/bleaching of countertops, tables, etc. And of course, possible ruining of jeans with said bleach. Jocelyn (I believe) once offered this nugget of wisdom: "Bleach Naked", which is all well and nice in certain circumstances, but when it's deep winter and about 3 degrees above freezing in the house, overall not the most user friendly idea evah.

Indeed, naked and frigid are concepts that do not sit well with me when placed side by side, or one surrounding the other as it were. Hell, frigid is a concept that doesn't sit well with me, period.

But I digress. Always I digress. What's with the digressifying.... CONCENTRATE Jazz!!! I blame menobrain. Yep, I do. Um. So...

All this poop obviously means a squirrel got into the house - a little red one like this dude, they grey ones are either too big or to stupid to find their way in. I actually quite like them, they're redheads and they have major attitude. But they shit entirely too much. How can a 200 gram rodent fabricate that much poo? Did I mention there was poo all over the place? Felt like it was pretty much carpeted in excrement. Ok, maybe I'm exaggerating.

But just a little. The cottage was definitely poopy.

So yeah, they're cute, they're smartasses, and I really like them. Except when they find their way into the house, which happens every couple of years. They try to make you believe they just happened to wander in through some crack somewhere and needed to relieve themselves. Be that as it may, in such a case, in the immortal words of Bugs Bunny, "Of course you realize, this means war".

A war to the death.  Yours not mine Red. I'm bigger, I'm smarter and most of all, I'm meaner.

I hauled out the rat trap** that hadn't seen action for a couple of years (last time Red - probably this guy's great grandfather - tripped the trap, got the peanut and vanished, leaving behind only a whisker or two. He was a smart one who deserved to live), baited it with a peanut and wandered back upstairs for a well deserved and very stiff drink - all that vacuuming, bleaching, changing of bed linens and baiting of traps that I tend to trip myself and squwoosh my finger in, on a Friday evening is utterly exhausting.

Knowing that the little buggers are diurnal, I figured we'd be ok until the next day.

We were.

Until breakfast when I heard the fatal crack (of course he couldn't have waited until after breakfast, no he had to ruin my appetite).

And so, downstairs I went, grabbing a pair of gardening gloves along the way. Poor thing hadn't even gotten the peanut. He lay there convulsing on the floor, blood spreading beneath him.

It was totally a Sopranos moment, it was. Totally.

So I picked him up gently and wrung his pretty red neck - amazing how hard that is considering his tiny size. You'd think it'd snap like a twig, but nope, more like a somewhat bigger branch. Aaaanyway.

Then I threw him outside, where, within a half hour, a crow made off with the corpse. I'm a big fan of recycling I am. To quote Bugs again: "Ain't I a stinker!".

Then I promptly collapsed into Mr. Jazz's arms shaking like a leaf. Why I didn't just back off and tell him, "Dude, you're the guy, you do it", I'll never know. It was one of those moments where you know what has to be done so you just do it without thinking. Easily actually. It's so very very bizarre.

So, after a mouse and a squirrel, I guess next on the list is a cat. They say serial killers tend to graduate this way to larger and larger animals... Food for thought.

** Yes one of those evil kill traps. Cause if the thing gets in and we don't catch it before the weekend is over, there's no point in having a live trap since it'll simply slowly die of thirst or hunger over the week. Quick and neat is the way to go. And believe me, there are enough of them out there that one less won't make much of a difference. The Darwin Awards principle at work - if it's stupid enough to get caught it deserves to die. Viz, great granddad who I was most definitely pulling for, though he probably ended up eaten by a cat. Or Bugs Bunny.
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The grim reaper...

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A blog is a broadcast, not a publication. If it stops moving, it dies.  - Andrew Sullivan

Gasp, gasp...

Shudder....

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What with the scandals in the Catholic church...

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...this is just brilliant. I just had to post this, poached from Patrick Lagacé's blog

Marc Murphy is a brilliant cartoonist, his website is here

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