As I've shared before, though I am not a particular fan of winter, I will grudgingly credit the season with occasional days of brilliance. Today is one such day - a combination of bluebird skies, and sun and snow so bright that the world looks like one big Delft plate. Periodically, a hint of wind nudges a branch, exhaling a shimmering puff of icy crystals. Granted it's a bit chilly, at minus ten, and that hint of wind comes with a northerly bite, but the sub-zero temperature keeps the snow firm upon the trees and unsullied on the ground. Clearly a beautiful day, begging to be embraced.
But here's the rub with winter: not every day is like this. Not by a long shot. There are plenty of days when a metaphorical crowbar is the force necessary to pry oneself from the comfortable confines of the great indoors. Some days even the dog, generally an ardent fan of ANY outing, peers outside only to pooh-pooh the ill-advised idea of facing the elements (a statement which, unfortunately, significantly increases the chance of him also pooh-poohing on the carpet...).
The worst thing about those inclement days, particularly after a generous spell of good weather, is that I am suddenly confronted with the unpleasant reality that I have not engaged in anything remotely resembling housework in several weeks. I am forced to look around me and admit that, yet again, the magic cleaning elves, in whose existence I so fervently wish to believe, have failed me.
My faith shattered, I have no option but to mount an offensive attack on dust, dog hair and downright dirt. To be honest, neither I nor the man known simply as Geoff is particularly fussy about general household cleanliness. Nonetheless, given that societal norms discourage such things as an unidentified black substance overtaking your toilet bowl, or a layer of animal hair so thick it completely obscures the underlying floor, I feel obliged to conform.
In my mother's day, house keeping was a relatively simple task, unhampered by any inconvenient urge to question the environmental impact or general toxicity of the cleaning products being used. (My mother, for the record, is of a rapidly-diminishing secret society of individuals who fully comprehend the mysterious function of the iron). In the sixties, I believe that had weapons-grade plutonium been proven to clean a toilet, it would have been readily available on your average grocery shelf (cold war be damned!). I grew up believing anything less than a spotless house was an indication that one was, at best, mentally deficient, and at worst, a socialist. Whatever chemical price was necessary to avoid these crippling stigmas was well worth it.
Today, I am compelled to shed the blissful ignorance of the perils of household toxins, and attempt to wrestle our house into a semblance of cleanliness using more benign substances than, say, weapons-grade plutonium. This is not without its challenges. Simply put, those toxins-in-a-bottle work like a hot damn. When it comes to removing unidentified black substances, goopy bathtub scum and the abundance of general grime created by, well, living, you just can't beat a good poison. And let's be honest, a dishwashing detergent without bleach or phosphates? Sure, fish love it, but it's not all that effective at washing dishes. Nor is the eco-friendly laundry liquid particularly 'tough on stains'. Cleaning a bathroom with baking soda and vinegar? Feels good for the soul, but is a helluva lot of hard work for the body! How I long for the simple days when soaking baby clothes in a solution from a container labelled with a skull and crossbones made perfect sense.
But another thing my mother taught me is to stick to my principles. While that may have back-fired on her, given my raging socialist tendencies and considerably-less-than-spotless home, it does mean I am committed to avoiding toxic household chemicals wherever possible. As a consequence, my bathtub may sport a residue of soap scum, my clothes may have the odd faintly-discernible stain and, if you're super fastidious, you probably wanna check inside the mug before pouring a cup of coffee, but I don't think that's too big a trade-off against pouring litres of poison down the drain each year.
And good news abounds... I have discovered that things look virtually spotless when viewed without glasses. I knew there would be a silver-lining somewhere in this failing vision thing.
Note: for those of you looking for some good information on eco-friendly cleaning check out http://www.ecoholic.ca/. Great website and the book 'Ecoholic Home' by Adria Vasil is a great resource.
Saturday, 19 November 2011
Saturday, 12 November 2011
Bring on the Snow
November in a ski town is an interesting time. Like hormonal teenagers at their first high school dance, a combination of frenzied excitement and palpable stress emanates from every pore of every resident. The weather, if things are going well, is crap - cold, wet, and snowy. If it is not those things, and is, say, pleasantly mild, or delightfully dry and sunny, people are miserable. Like an unfortunate virtual facial tic, obsessive refreshing of Environment Canada's weather website for signs of an incoming storm cycle becomes the telltale sign of unbridled anxiety. Weather is dinner conversation, coffee shop conversation, commuter conversation, date-night conversation.. hell, eight year olds on the school playground will tell you whether the freezing level is expected to drop to the valley or just hover at mid-station. The only other conversation even in the running for top spot is speculation on opening date for the mountains.
As I sit and write today, I am happy to report that the weather is crap and the freezing level is low. While there is no snow on the ground in the valley as yet, flurries pass through, and the mountains have been coated in white, at least the top halves, for a couple of weeks now. A collective sigh of relief is being cautiously, tentatively exhaled throughout the town.
It's about this time of year that Whistler takes on a decided demographic shift. The average age in the resort drops to something akin to that of a university campus, as scores of l9-25 year-olds pour into town for a season-long binge of skiing/snowboarding and 24/7 partying. Riding the bus becomes an exercise in 'name-that-language' as ultra-amped conversations in at least four different languages prevail, and any English spoken is accented by vowels liberally broadened by the Ozzies, clipped by the Kiwis, or 'BBCed' by the Brits. The general 'League of Nations' similarity makes me smile, as it is a big part of what makes my town what it is.
As the season commences, and the fresh hatch of eager winter fry arrive and settle in, I go about my business under the assumption that I am one of them. This is, after all, my home town of 30 years. Then it hits me like a brick: I must look like a middle-aged accountant, or worse, somebody's mother! Do these whipper-snappers even understand that I (and others of my generation) wrote the book on irresponsible over-consumption of alcohol, liberal use of the 20-centimetre rule on a work day and moving furniture to hide lumps of base-filling compound melted into the carpet after a ski repair session gone horribly wrong? Can they comprehend the number of knee surgeries, trips to physio and custom-fit orthotics it has taken for us, the original ski-bum spawn, to keep up in this town of youthful hardbodies?? My guess is, no.
But age has taught me something. It probably doesn't matter whether or not these youngsters realize we 'old folk' pioneered the art of ski-bumming in Whistler. While some will remain to age in-resort, most of these babes-in-bumming will return to their lives to become accountants and parents, their Whistler season a fond, but fading, memory. They will complete university, incur debt on mini-vans and houses with child-friendly yards, develop a taste for expensive red wine and, if they are very, very lucky, return to Whistler for vacations.
I, on the other hand, will have the last (evil) laugh, remaining in Whistler to hobble about on my failing knees and witness future Novembers and the accompanying annual rebirth of the ski season. Oh ya, and rejoice in crappy weather.... gotta love crappy weather....
As I sit and write today, I am happy to report that the weather is crap and the freezing level is low. While there is no snow on the ground in the valley as yet, flurries pass through, and the mountains have been coated in white, at least the top halves, for a couple of weeks now. A collective sigh of relief is being cautiously, tentatively exhaled throughout the town.
 |
| Photo Credit: Geoff Playfair |
As the season commences, and the fresh hatch of eager winter fry arrive and settle in, I go about my business under the assumption that I am one of them. This is, after all, my home town of 30 years. Then it hits me like a brick: I must look like a middle-aged accountant, or worse, somebody's mother! Do these whipper-snappers even understand that I (and others of my generation) wrote the book on irresponsible over-consumption of alcohol, liberal use of the 20-centimetre rule on a work day and moving furniture to hide lumps of base-filling compound melted into the carpet after a ski repair session gone horribly wrong? Can they comprehend the number of knee surgeries, trips to physio and custom-fit orthotics it has taken for us, the original ski-bum spawn, to keep up in this town of youthful hardbodies?? My guess is, no.
But age has taught me something. It probably doesn't matter whether or not these youngsters realize we 'old folk' pioneered the art of ski-bumming in Whistler. While some will remain to age in-resort, most of these babes-in-bumming will return to their lives to become accountants and parents, their Whistler season a fond, but fading, memory. They will complete university, incur debt on mini-vans and houses with child-friendly yards, develop a taste for expensive red wine and, if they are very, very lucky, return to Whistler for vacations.
I, on the other hand, will have the last (evil) laugh, remaining in Whistler to hobble about on my failing knees and witness future Novembers and the accompanying annual rebirth of the ski season. Oh ya, and rejoice in crappy weather.... gotta love crappy weather....
Wednesday, 9 November 2011
Totally Terrier
Ever noticed that there is no such thing as an ugly puppy? I don't think the same can be said about the human species - there are, without doubt, ugly babies. Oh ya, no one ever says it out loud - 'Wow, that is one ugly baby..' but we definitely think it. Not so with puppies... with those wee floppy ears, rolie-polie tummies, and black button noses, they are 100% certified cute. And even better? They grow into dogs rather than teenagers - a decided plus.
When our Fox Terrier first came home with us, I was of the opinion that he was pretty much the cutest dog in the world. That was, of course, until he had spent 15 minutes in our home. There is a reason why terrier owners are more apt to refer to themselves as 'terror' owners.
Not to say that Saddler is a true terror, but there is an intensity to this dog that is alarming. Any newcomer to the house will find themselves confronted by a quivering mass of white and brown fur exhibiting textbook OCD symptoms. And woe betide the unsuspecting guest foolish enough to acknowledge an offered toy. That is just opening a big ole' can of 'tell you what - you try to grab it while I try to stop you. Ya, so don't stress the hand getting caught in the teeth part - totally normal - ignore the blood.'.
Terriers are often unfairly maligned as being stubborn and difficult to train. Nothing could be further from the truth. Saddler, a model of canine behaviour, comes immediately after the twelfth time he is called, sits on command when you use a gentle karate-chopping motion behind his knees, and has only dislocated my shoulder twice while 'walking' on a leash. He has lived peacefully with our ginger cat for many years, and the times I am required to remove orange cat fur from between his teeth are extremely rare.
One thing I do find somewhat surprising is the amount of hair that is produced by this animal. The mathematics behind an 18 pound dog producing 40 pounds of hair in one day defies my generally-mathematically-sound logic. Rather than wasting time vacuuming, we simply celebrate the additional insulative value the layer of hair provides on our floors and clothing. While I have never had the energy to complete the experiment, I am fairly certain that if I brushed long enough, I could turn Saddler into a Mexican Hairless.
And then there are his quirks. For example - his fear of buzzing insects - the day I found him on the bed barking maniacally at the ceiling. Canine delusion? No - a bumble bee caught in the skylight. He is painfully sensitive to the 'F' word, exclamation of which will send him scurrying, tail between his legs, to another room. And let's not forget the chocolate thing. He LOVES chocolate - picture Christmas, an entire Whack-em Chocolate Orange missing, chocolate and kibble on the breath and me Googling 'induced vomiting'... not pretty.
All that said, though, I still maintain that my Fox Terrier is significantly less trouble than a teenager. And waaaay cuter than a lot of babies....
When our Fox Terrier first came home with us, I was of the opinion that he was pretty much the cutest dog in the world. That was, of course, until he had spent 15 minutes in our home. There is a reason why terrier owners are more apt to refer to themselves as 'terror' owners.
Not to say that Saddler is a true terror, but there is an intensity to this dog that is alarming. Any newcomer to the house will find themselves confronted by a quivering mass of white and brown fur exhibiting textbook OCD symptoms. And woe betide the unsuspecting guest foolish enough to acknowledge an offered toy. That is just opening a big ole' can of 'tell you what - you try to grab it while I try to stop you. Ya, so don't stress the hand getting caught in the teeth part - totally normal - ignore the blood.'.
Terriers are often unfairly maligned as being stubborn and difficult to train. Nothing could be further from the truth. Saddler, a model of canine behaviour, comes immediately after the twelfth time he is called, sits on command when you use a gentle karate-chopping motion behind his knees, and has only dislocated my shoulder twice while 'walking' on a leash. He has lived peacefully with our ginger cat for many years, and the times I am required to remove orange cat fur from between his teeth are extremely rare.
One thing I do find somewhat surprising is the amount of hair that is produced by this animal. The mathematics behind an 18 pound dog producing 40 pounds of hair in one day defies my generally-mathematically-sound logic. Rather than wasting time vacuuming, we simply celebrate the additional insulative value the layer of hair provides on our floors and clothing. While I have never had the energy to complete the experiment, I am fairly certain that if I brushed long enough, I could turn Saddler into a Mexican Hairless.
And then there are his quirks. For example - his fear of buzzing insects - the day I found him on the bed barking maniacally at the ceiling. Canine delusion? No - a bumble bee caught in the skylight. He is painfully sensitive to the 'F' word, exclamation of which will send him scurrying, tail between his legs, to another room. And let's not forget the chocolate thing. He LOVES chocolate - picture Christmas, an entire Whack-em Chocolate Orange missing, chocolate and kibble on the breath and me Googling 'induced vomiting'... not pretty.
All that said, though, I still maintain that my Fox Terrier is significantly less trouble than a teenager. And waaaay cuter than a lot of babies....
Tuesday, 8 November 2011
The Aged and the Age of Digital Devices
Apparently one of the cardinal rules of this blogging thing is to keep your content fresh and varied. Seems readers desire a respite from acres of text, and exhibit a veritable yearning for interesting links and visual ticklers such as inspirational photos, brilliant graphics and captivating videos.
This is indeed unfortunate. I mean I can probably cop some forgiveness if I'm shy on the graphics and videos... not everybody is a brilliant graphic designer or captivating videographer. But photos? Everybody can take a photo!!!
Here's the deal at my house, however. The man known simply as Geoff takes the photos. I know it sounds lame and almost... well... anthropologically irresponsible, but I just don't do photos. As a consequence, we have volumes and volumes of digital photos in which the man known simply as Geoff does not appear. (OK - that's a lie - there are a few photos of him, but they're all self-portraits - head angled, double chin, just a hint of the shoulder showing? - you know the ones).
Perhaps you are pondering this phenomenon (or perhaps you are just thinking 'Merciful Heavens, how I wish there were an interesting link on this tortuous piece of work so that I may hyperlink my way out of blog hell...) - why, in this day and age of ridiculously simple cameras, does this woman not take pictures?
Reading glasses. That is the simple and most relevant answer. Digital cameras (and cell phones and iPods and GPSs and all manner of electronic gadgets) were invented just about the time I began to investigate arm extensions. In fact, I believe that these devices (read oozing disdain here) were a deliberate attempt by malicious youthful techies to frustrate and humiliate middle-aged accountants. What possible hope does one have of mastering the functions of a camera or telephone when the screen is the size of a postage stamp and the text so teeny it makes ant footprints look like volcanic craters?? And have you ever considered the odds of capturing a fleeting glimpse of a departing moose on camera while you search for your glasses in your backpack??
I know, I know - it's possible that I am a tad over-reactive on this one. However, having enjoyed perfect vision for my entire life, it is rather unsettling to realize that no matter how hard I squint or how far I crane my neck back, I won't be able to figure out whether I am about to swallow an ibuprofen or the dog's worm medication. Numbers, the life blood of any accountant - assuming, for a moment, that accountants actually have 'life blood' - betray me (the difference between $8 million and $3 million is, for the record, deemed to be material by your average auditor).
And so, it is with grumbling resignation that I accept my dependence on reading glasses and abdicate any photojournalistic responsibilities to my better half. Given that the man simply known as Geoff is a pretty decent photographer, that's not an entirely bad thing. It does bode badly for this blog, however. Ah well. As I am quick to tell my boss on an almost-daily basis, you're just going to have to lower your standards.
This is indeed unfortunate. I mean I can probably cop some forgiveness if I'm shy on the graphics and videos... not everybody is a brilliant graphic designer or captivating videographer. But photos? Everybody can take a photo!!!
Here's the deal at my house, however. The man known simply as Geoff takes the photos. I know it sounds lame and almost... well... anthropologically irresponsible, but I just don't do photos. As a consequence, we have volumes and volumes of digital photos in which the man known simply as Geoff does not appear. (OK - that's a lie - there are a few photos of him, but they're all self-portraits - head angled, double chin, just a hint of the shoulder showing? - you know the ones).
Perhaps you are pondering this phenomenon (or perhaps you are just thinking 'Merciful Heavens, how I wish there were an interesting link on this tortuous piece of work so that I may hyperlink my way out of blog hell...) - why, in this day and age of ridiculously simple cameras, does this woman not take pictures?
Reading glasses. That is the simple and most relevant answer. Digital cameras (and cell phones and iPods and GPSs and all manner of electronic gadgets) were invented just about the time I began to investigate arm extensions. In fact, I believe that these devices (read oozing disdain here) were a deliberate attempt by malicious youthful techies to frustrate and humiliate middle-aged accountants. What possible hope does one have of mastering the functions of a camera or telephone when the screen is the size of a postage stamp and the text so teeny it makes ant footprints look like volcanic craters?? And have you ever considered the odds of capturing a fleeting glimpse of a departing moose on camera while you search for your glasses in your backpack??
I know, I know - it's possible that I am a tad over-reactive on this one. However, having enjoyed perfect vision for my entire life, it is rather unsettling to realize that no matter how hard I squint or how far I crane my neck back, I won't be able to figure out whether I am about to swallow an ibuprofen or the dog's worm medication. Numbers, the life blood of any accountant - assuming, for a moment, that accountants actually have 'life blood' - betray me (the difference between $8 million and $3 million is, for the record, deemed to be material by your average auditor).
And so, it is with grumbling resignation that I accept my dependence on reading glasses and abdicate any photojournalistic responsibilities to my better half. Given that the man simply known as Geoff is a pretty decent photographer, that's not an entirely bad thing. It does bode badly for this blog, however. Ah well. As I am quick to tell my boss on an almost-daily basis, you're just going to have to lower your standards.
Monday, 7 November 2011
Ya Learn Something Every Day
Ya, so today I went to a seminar on blogging and social media. Great timing, eh? What I learned was that I probably should have gone to the seminar before I started writing a blog. (timing is everything!)
Apparently my first post was something akin to the 'War and Peace' of blogs (in terms of length, NOT literary relevance). My apologies to Tolstoy and my followers (all one of you ... thanks Chris...).
That's OK - while extended verbosity would be my go-to style, it will do me good to have to 'tighten it up' a bit. And, hey - I'm new to this, so am hoping for a little forgiveness as I find my way. I have to admit that I have never kept a journal, as I have never been able to commit my thoughts to paper.. far too personal and far too permanent. Does anybody else see the irony in me choosing, as my first foray at writing, to publish to the world... ??
Apparently my first post was something akin to the 'War and Peace' of blogs (in terms of length, NOT literary relevance). My apologies to Tolstoy and my followers (all one of you ... thanks Chris...).
That's OK - while extended verbosity would be my go-to style, it will do me good to have to 'tighten it up' a bit. And, hey - I'm new to this, so am hoping for a little forgiveness as I find my way. I have to admit that I have never kept a journal, as I have never been able to commit my thoughts to paper.. far too personal and far too permanent. Does anybody else see the irony in me choosing, as my first foray at writing, to publish to the world... ??
Sunday, 6 November 2011
Confessions of a Summer-loving Mountain Dweller
I am a karmic ingrate. No other way to look at it: I live in paradise and am insufficiently grateful of the fact.
I came to Whistler with a man whom I will refer to simply as 'Geoff' (largely because that is his actual name).We came for the season and we came for the skiing. (Well - our unemployed status coupled with an offer of rent-free housing from my parents may have contributed to the decision, too). You know, it was just going to be a few months - work the season, hit the real world in April. I mean, who stays past April in a ski resort, right?
So - thirty years, a marriage (to the man known simply as 'Geoff'), a mortgage, two kids, a dog, and five cats later, it would seem that I stay in a ski resort past April.
It would also seem that Whistler has a hold on me not dissimilar to a middle-aged woman hugging her one-and-only eighteen-year-old son as he leaves home for scary-points-unknown for an undisclosed amount of time. Tight, if you weren't sure... it's a tight hold.
One assumes then, as I have succumbed to this death-grip imposed by my hometown, I would be a dyed-in-the-wool, fresh-tracks-or-die, live-for-opening-day skier. Clearly, someone blessed with the good fortune to be living in one of the most awesome ski destinations in the world would be lapping up the bountiful benefits offered at her doorstep. You would think...
Truth? I live for summer. I love summer. I love cruising the trails, I love that special smell of the forest on a hot day, I love how a sunburnt sky at ten o'clock at night makes you feel like worry is a useless emotion and life will go on forever... Summer is epic mountain adventures, alpine meadows choked with colour, five am sunrises, meat on a barbecue...ah, the joys are endless!
Maybe the reason I love summer so much is because it is so fleeting in the mountains. When folks at sea-level are seeing daffodils, we're still shovelling snow. If you measure shovelful to shovelful, spring, summer and fall, in total, last six months, and, of those, you'd probably only call two months 'hard' summer.
And winter. Winter is a relentless trudge of cold, snow, grey, with the odd direct-from-Hawaii pineapple express thrown in for good measure. The man known simply as Geoff has often suggested that I need to 'embrace' winter. I've considered it: I mean there are good winter days, those days when the sky is surreally blue and the snow appears littered with diamonds. Days followed by evenings when the alpenglow is impossibly pink and exquisitely beautiful. Of course, there's also the smell of the first snow. Indescribable and unique.
Incoherent ramblings aside though, winter for the most part is like a thirty-something child coming back to live at home: it's great for a bit, but you quickly begin to wish it would move on.
I've been asked why I stay in Whistler - there's plenty of British Columbia that could provide me with a longer summer. Sometimes I don't know myself - could it be that maybe summer wouldn't be quite so sweet if it weren't for the winter? Possibly. All I know for sure is that I'm facing down another winter, and that I live in guilt knowing how completely I under-appreciate what others would give their left ski to enjoy.
Oh ya.. in case you were wondering, we're not still living with my parents...
I came to Whistler with a man whom I will refer to simply as 'Geoff' (largely because that is his actual name).We came for the season and we came for the skiing. (Well - our unemployed status coupled with an offer of rent-free housing from my parents may have contributed to the decision, too). You know, it was just going to be a few months - work the season, hit the real world in April. I mean, who stays past April in a ski resort, right?
So - thirty years, a marriage (to the man known simply as 'Geoff'), a mortgage, two kids, a dog, and five cats later, it would seem that I stay in a ski resort past April.
It would also seem that Whistler has a hold on me not dissimilar to a middle-aged woman hugging her one-and-only eighteen-year-old son as he leaves home for scary-points-unknown for an undisclosed amount of time. Tight, if you weren't sure... it's a tight hold.
One assumes then, as I have succumbed to this death-grip imposed by my hometown, I would be a dyed-in-the-wool, fresh-tracks-or-die, live-for-opening-day skier. Clearly, someone blessed with the good fortune to be living in one of the most awesome ski destinations in the world would be lapping up the bountiful benefits offered at her doorstep. You would think...
Truth? I live for summer. I love summer. I love cruising the trails, I love that special smell of the forest on a hot day, I love how a sunburnt sky at ten o'clock at night makes you feel like worry is a useless emotion and life will go on forever... Summer is epic mountain adventures, alpine meadows choked with colour, five am sunrises, meat on a barbecue...ah, the joys are endless!
Maybe the reason I love summer so much is because it is so fleeting in the mountains. When folks at sea-level are seeing daffodils, we're still shovelling snow. If you measure shovelful to shovelful, spring, summer and fall, in total, last six months, and, of those, you'd probably only call two months 'hard' summer.
And winter. Winter is a relentless trudge of cold, snow, grey, with the odd direct-from-Hawaii pineapple express thrown in for good measure. The man known simply as Geoff has often suggested that I need to 'embrace' winter. I've considered it: I mean there are good winter days, those days when the sky is surreally blue and the snow appears littered with diamonds. Days followed by evenings when the alpenglow is impossibly pink and exquisitely beautiful. Of course, there's also the smell of the first snow. Indescribable and unique.
Incoherent ramblings aside though, winter for the most part is like a thirty-something child coming back to live at home: it's great for a bit, but you quickly begin to wish it would move on.
I've been asked why I stay in Whistler - there's plenty of British Columbia that could provide me with a longer summer. Sometimes I don't know myself - could it be that maybe summer wouldn't be quite so sweet if it weren't for the winter? Possibly. All I know for sure is that I'm facing down another winter, and that I live in guilt knowing how completely I under-appreciate what others would give their left ski to enjoy.
Oh ya.. in case you were wondering, we're not still living with my parents...
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