Do something, already

It’s not just me. Apparently Canadians in general think too much.

The United Nations Climate Change Conference started today in Montreal. It doesn’t surprise me that that Canada is hosting these talks when, according to a report released last month by the David Suzuki Foundation, Canadians have very strong environmental values. But there is a certain irony considering the same report placed us among the worst environmental performers in the industrialized world.

Not that I think that means we shouldn’t host the talks, or participate in the Kyoto Protocol. I do. (Consider that we placed ahead of the U.S., which, in 2001, backed out of its commitment to the protocol.) I just hope that instead of just talking (and thinking) about climate change, we’ll DO something.

Let it snow

When my little morning person woke me up at 7:15 Sunday morning, I could hear the snow. Not in the way you can hear rain pounding on the roof, but in the way even the tiniest amount of snow absorbs sound and makes everything seem like it’s whispering.

Me: “Noah, go look out the window.”

Noah; “It snowed, Mama! Is it winter now? Can we go to Prince George?”

Three-year-old logic. We’re going to Prince George for Christmas. Christmas is in winter. It snows in winter. Therefore, if it’s snowing, it’s time to be in P.G.

He took it well that the trip isn’t for another three weeks. And since we weren’t getting on the road, he knew what to do.

“Let’s go catch snowflakes on our tongues.”

So there we were, shivering in the cold, raincoats over P.J.s, heads tipped back, catching snowflakes on our tongues.

Made for walkin'

Finally. I bought a pair of boots. Steve likes them, but warned me not to wear them with a red shirt. The boots do have a certain je ne sais Star Trek about them. They’re mid-calf, black patent leather with a square toe. And they’re comfortable. Really. Not in that “considering these shoes were made for someone with four toes, and if I never walked farther than to my car” comfy. These boots are grippy soles, cushioning, and arch supports comfortable, and they’re just groovy enough for me.

I was originally looking for something a little dressier, a little more chic. But then I realized I’d have to buy a new wardrobe, and a car. I take transit and walk a lot, so comfortable is key. And my wardrobe is pretty casual, so ultra-chic just wouldn’t work. The catch is that I’m too vain to buy ugly boots, and I’m cheap frugal thrifty, so $300 boots were out of the question. I guess that’s why I’ve spent two-and-a-half months looking for boots.

I really like these boots. They aren’t perfect, but I don’t think the perfect boot exists. Comfortable, gasp-inducing boots that no one else has (yet wishes they did), that cost $49, aren’t a realistic goal. These are very comfortable, pretty groovy, and were on sale for $100 off, so I’m just going to stop re-re-re-thinking my choice (I returned the last boots I bought) and just WEAR the boots outside. Or I could go out today to just see if there’s something a little more perfect available…

Don't feed the animals

I’m not a real fan of squirrels (flea-ridden rats with fuzzy tales and good P.R.), but when they started digging up and eating bulbs in my garden, they dropped into the Endangered Species category.

We planted the first batch of bulbs in October on a cold and rainy day, and I was stiff and sore for three days. So as I limped through the garden, the sight of freshly-dug soil and flower bulb husks definitely added insult to injury.

Rotten squirrels. Evil, mangy, thieving vermin. To make it worse, the parasites seem to favour the most expensive bulbs. No run-of-the-mill narcissus for them (which is too bad, because they’re TOXIC); their taste runs to the more exotic Anemone Blanda (windflower).

So after some online research (thank you, GardenWeb forum participants), when we planted another batch of bulbs this weekend, we added bloodmeal (supposed to smell like death to squirrels) and placed a layer of chicken wire over the newly-planted areas. We didn’t bother doing so where we planted narcissus and allium, since, as I said before, narcissus are toxic. And alliums are in the onion family, and I guess squirrels don’t like onion breath.

But, we discovered on Sunday that just because squirrels don’t EAT those bulbs, that doesn’t stop them DIGGING THEM UP!!! So we’ve added his-and-hers slingshots to our Christmas wish lists. Good-bye, cruel squirrels.

P.S. I think I've improved your ability to respond. Click on 'thoughts' to leave a comment.

A dream, sweetheart

Two posts in one day. I'm trying to make up for the gap.

Steve and I spent last weekend at the Brentwood Bay Lodge and Spa, courtesy of my brother, Bruce, and sister-in-law, Tarra. It was their gift to me for my 40th birthday. When I told my sister, Brenda, about the gift, she didn’t miss a beat. “Oooh! We’re going to have such a good time.” Steve, in turn, begged that I not try to turn the two nights for two into four nights for one.

Now, I’m sure there are people out there for whom a weekend sans enfant at a small luxury hotel is not a big deal. For us, it oh-so-most-definitely was an oversized deal. I could gush endlessly about how fabulous it all was, from the glass of sparkling wine offered at reception, to the meal I could have cried over it was so luscious, to going back to bed (after a room service breakfast) to read (uninterrupted) under the down duvet wrapped in 700-thread-count cotton. And I haven’t even mentioned the 55-minute deep tissue massage. Oh. I guess I just did.

It was such fun to offer an urbane nod as the hotel clerk explained all the room included (free calls anywhere in North America sounded so generous until I considered that I had not gone on a romantic weekend with my darling only to spend it chatting to my friends) then as soon as he’d left, giggle through a dance of joy before taking a running jump onto the king-size bed.

There were so many details that made it all so incredibly wonderful. Not the least of which for Steve, was sleeping in past 6:45 a.m. (when our little ‘morning person’ usually comes into our bedroom to cheerfully announce, “It’s morning! The sun is up!”)

If you have $500 to spare (or have anything of equal value you could sell), book a weekend at the lodge. Really. It’s worth every single penny, and that’s coming from me, with Scottish blood flowing frugally through my veins.

Seriously. Stop reading. Click the link. Oh, don't forget that bubble bath isn't very good for jacuzzi jets.

My magical family

(Apologies for the long delay in posting.)
















The magi, the sorcerer, and … the jacket salesman.

Yeah, I don’t get it either. Noah is dressed as a magician’s apprentice, but when asked, insisted he was a jacket salesman. There’s just no point in arguing with a three-year-old about some things. And since I’d had to force/bribe him to wear the costume at all, I had little energy left to argue this point.

Flea market! Flea market! Flea market!

You know how when you're driving down the road, and you see something interesting, and say, "Oh. Garage sale," and what you really mean is, "STOP THE CAAAAAR!!"? (As opposed to those times when you say, "Oh. Fabric store," and you just mean, "I'd never noticed that fabric store before.")

Well, on a road trip in Ontario (or donut country) with my brother, Bruce, and his wife, Tarra, we came up with a method to cover the options. A single mention of a potential stop means, "Oh. A donut shop. There sure are a lot of them in Ontario." And there are. But, naming any roadside attraction three times (for example: "Tim Hortons! Tim Hortons! Tim Hortons!") means, "PULL OVER. NOW."

So today, I and some friends from church had people shouting, “Flea market! Flea market! Flea market!”

I am a fan of flea markets, garage sales, thrift stores, and second-hand shopping in general (we bought our house out of the Buy & Sell). Big fan. Big, big fan.

And as much as I love shopping second hand, I love working a sale.

I love digging through boxes, checking out and sorting all the weird and wonderful items that have been donated. Oh, the mystery (why does this thing Abby donated look so familiar?) and the drama (Hey! I GAVE this to Abby for her birthday!)

I start the day sleep deprived, miss breakfast, haggle with dealers who feel compelled to tell you that every collectible item they pick up is for their grandson/niece/doctor’s favourite cousin (blah, blah, blah. Just pay me.), eat a cruller for lunch (the least nutritionally offensive of donuts) and drink so much tea I’m talking like Woody Woodpecker.

A great day. Great, great, great.

Oh! And I bought Joe Versus the Volcano for $2. Tom Hanks may be embarrassed about it, but I laughed. Quirky. I like it.

But the real topper for the day is that we raised $700 to rebuild homes destroyed by cyclones in India. While $700 doesn’t get you much house in the Lower Mainland, it gets you a lot in a country where the average person makes $350 per year.

All in all, a good day’s work.

What to think about

When Dances With Wolves came out, some of my family and I pondered what our traditional native names would be if our Cree mother had been so inclined. My once-bow-legged brother, Bruce, was labelled "Walked too young." His wife, Tarra: "Shops too much."

But me? Hmmm.

"Talks too fast?"
"Eats too much?" (this from Bruce)
"Kicks real hard." (my response)

I tossed out possibilities, considered them, reconsidered them, thought of variations, ramifications, possible interpretations... I could go on. Really.

"Thinks too much!" (in unison)

Perfect.

I think.

(What would your Dances With Wolves name be?)