Last week I turned a corner in my quiet existence. I became a radical environmental activist. ('Radical Environmental Activist' being our Federal government's description of choice for those registering opposition to Enbridge's proposed Northern Gateway pipeline.)
I'm pretty excited, actually - to be honest, I've always yearned to be a radical. The genetic code of people who grew up in middle class homes in West Vancouver generally precludes any tendency to non-conformity of any sort, let alone radicalism. A woman who religiously files her income tax by April 30th, would never consider checking out of a hotel at 11:05 if check-out time is 11, and drives the man known simply as Geoff crazy with her insistence that a paper bag which has been in contact with a loaf of bread is too contaminated to be recycled with the mixed paper is not exactly activist material. Nonetheless, it would seem that this pipeline issue has pushed me right over the top - driven me to the absolute brink - incited me to a desperate civil disobedience. I wrote a letter. Well, sort of.
I have flirted with protest in the past. However, honesty requires me to disclose that my previous efforts were to 'protest' as heating a TV dinner is to 'cooking'. That is to say that they have consisted of electronically signing my name to a form letter (generally passionately penned by the David Suzuki Foundation) and clicking 'send', whereupon, depending on the issue, the letter magically makes its way to the appropriate inbox in either Ottawa or Victoria. (I am particularly fond of the feature that, upon entering your postal code, automatically cc's your MP!!). This time, however, I find that Dr. Suzuki and his team have, to my great inconvenience, yet to provide a suitable letter. What to do?
Recognizing that writing a letter from scratch, much like cooking from scratch, actually requires effort, and perhaps even some time spent researching the facts, I quickly resort to perusing the internet for something I can plagiarize (preferably from a reasonably informed source which shares my views and encourages 'plagiarism for protest'). A few key strokes later, a suitable letter on the Pacific Wild site presents itself. Fantastic! What's this, though? I actually have to research the email addresses and contacts? Merciful Heavens - who knew this would be so much work - there is a rerun of Seinfeld that I have seen only three times starting in five minutes?! (and for the record? - I suspect that governmental email addresses, which are about the least intuitive addresses I have ever encountered, are purpose-built to be undeliverable... but that's a subject for my next blog post: 'How I Became a Conspiracy Theorist').
However, protest is not without a price, and so I persevere. At long last, the email addresses located and entered into my contact list, I have the letter signed and am poised to click the 'send' button when I suddenly think I should just tweak the letter a bit. I mean, there are a couple of phrases that just don't sound like me. Perhaps move a phrase here, change a word there. That paragraph seems a teeny bit wordy, and I would never .... wait a minute.... do I actually think anyone is really going to critique this letter? Will Prime Minister Harper personally open this email and say 'If only Karen Playfair had used the active rather than passive voice and avoided all that hackneyed simile I would stop that Northern Gateway pipeline project. Immediately.'. Probably not. I probably just need to get the damn thing sent before the damn pipeline is built. And so I click. Done. I am an activist. Sure - it took a plagiarized form letter and about fourteen 'Undeliverable' messages from someone called 'System Administrator' to express my outrage, but dammit, I am an activist. A bona fide radical environmental activist.
Thursday, 19 January 2012
Wednesday, 18 January 2012
Sh*t Winter Cycle Commuters Say
In the spirit of the latest trend of 'Saying Sh*t' - this is for my fellow winter cyclists:
- My handle bar light has 740 lumens - I can light up the whole highway.
- I can't feel my face.
- Get off the freakin' shoulder!
- Are you riding studs?
- Hi - ya - do you guys have any stock on the litre size of chain lube?
- Brakes are really just a luxury.
- I can't feel my feet.
- Do you know where I can get a Gortex case for my iPad?
- That's the third battery I've put in my blinkie since October.
- I can't feel my hands.
- I totally wish they made backpack condoms with glow in the dark fabric.
- That grinding in my drive train is starting to really annoy me.
- Had to book it when I heard the snowplow coming up behind me.
- Today my snotsicle actually went from my nose to my handlebars.
- Are you getting any more than 4 gears?
- I heard that Pricepoint has a sale on derailleurs - I totally need to check that out.
Monday, 2 January 2012
Welcome to 2012: Year of the Vegetable
Welcome to 2012. After a longer than intended blogging hiatus, I'm ready to hit the new year with renewed commitment. (no doubt bringing relief to my many, many followers....all two of them...).
Writing, it would seem, requires time and a fresh, optimistic mental state. December is not a month that offers either of those ingredients for me. For several weeks through November and December, I am utterly mired in budgets, business plans, and a general spiritual malaise triggered by limited daylight and a melancholic-yet-seemingly-fruitless quest to recapture my Christmas mojo. (Dude... I soooo need to MOVE on and MAN UP!)
In any event, flipping the calendar inevitably represents a fresh start. Though it will be some time before the increasing daylight kickstarts my non-hibernation mode, just knowing that we're on the upswing assists immeasurably in restoring both optimism and creativity. It's a lot like coming out of the forest on a long ascent... ya, you still have a big, steep above-treeline kicker ahead of you, and it's a royal pisser that the man known simply as Geoff is already at the top waving at you, but just being able to see the extent of the remaining climb somehow provides a second wind.
Of course, the new year also brings with it an abundance of resolutions - in my case, unimaginative resolutions such as 'I will eat better', 'I will exercise more', 'I will phone my mother more often' (well, maybe just the first two - I'm only human, after all...). This year, the man known simply as Geoff got an early jump on the resolution band wagon and, in November, after watching a movie on the alarming correlation between disease and the consumption of animal protein, decided that we should join (if only peripherally) the vegetarian revolution.
Let me be very clear here - we are not vegetarians, nor are we likely to ever be vegetarians - that DELICIOUS piece of venison I ate at the Rimrock only days after embarking on our 'vegetarian journey' is proof of that. However, we are exploring what I would loosely term 'recreational vegetarianism'. This probably doesn't sound like all that big a deal. I mean, what? ... so you leave the meat portion out of the dinner and bump up the vegetables. Can't be that hard, right?
Yaaa... so I quickly learned a couple of things: 1) 35 odd years of cooking experience is useless once the rules change, and 2) I don't really like vegetables all that much. (That second discovery? A bit of a setback under the circumstances.)
Nonetheless, we have persevered. I have resorted to actually following recipes, as my usual 'wing it and pray' approach was resulting in some particularly unappetizing offerings, not to mention an unhealthy rate of weight loss. Thanks to the internet and a couple of engaging vegetarian cookbooks, however, I am managing to prepare meals that are, for the most part, edible and, on the odd, not unwelcome occasion, even tasty.
One of the things I find most striking about this whole experience is the complete change of ingredients one is required to stock. Suddenly ginger, cilantro, parsley, and celery are on the shopping list every week - I don't even like cilantro. We go through garlic, yams and chipotle paste by the truck load, and I am frankly weary of washing spinach. The coriander and turmeric, generally released from the spice cupboard only when we 'cook Indian', are suddenly disappearing at an heretofore unwitnessed pace. And I sure hope we don't see a global shortage of cumin any time soon, 'cause that would really put me into a tailspin.
Don't get me started on the 'legumes', though - seriously - I am a woman who, as a rule, will decide on what to make for dinner guests, say, about seven minutes before they arrive. Like, 'soak overnight' is SO not on my program. (however, I will say that I made a baked black bean dish the other night that was well worth the soaking and boiling effort it entailed... wait...was this some kind of an epicurean hallucination???). Then of course there is the chopping - I never really understood why people were so particular about their knives. Now that I chop vegetables for the better part of my waking hours, I yearn for a knife with an edge sharper than a wooden spoon.
Yup - I wouldn't say this transition to vegetarian-based eating has been seamless. And of course, in a bizarre this-was-all-your-idea-therefore-I-must-make-you-miserable way, I fully plan to grumble and moan to the man known simply as Geoff for as long as possible. However, as with all things challenging, it does provide great material for an anecdote, and seeing as the other option for a new blog entry was 'How I disposed of the leftover Christmas baking', you should probably be somewhat thankful for our efforts.
Now, if you will excuse me, I have a roasted eggplant to puree....
Writing, it would seem, requires time and a fresh, optimistic mental state. December is not a month that offers either of those ingredients for me. For several weeks through November and December, I am utterly mired in budgets, business plans, and a general spiritual malaise triggered by limited daylight and a melancholic-yet-seemingly-fruitless quest to recapture my Christmas mojo. (Dude... I soooo need to MOVE on and MAN UP!)
In any event, flipping the calendar inevitably represents a fresh start. Though it will be some time before the increasing daylight kickstarts my non-hibernation mode, just knowing that we're on the upswing assists immeasurably in restoring both optimism and creativity. It's a lot like coming out of the forest on a long ascent... ya, you still have a big, steep above-treeline kicker ahead of you, and it's a royal pisser that the man known simply as Geoff is already at the top waving at you, but just being able to see the extent of the remaining climb somehow provides a second wind.
Of course, the new year also brings with it an abundance of resolutions - in my case, unimaginative resolutions such as 'I will eat better', 'I will exercise more', 'I will phone my mother more often' (well, maybe just the first two - I'm only human, after all...). This year, the man known simply as Geoff got an early jump on the resolution band wagon and, in November, after watching a movie on the alarming correlation between disease and the consumption of animal protein, decided that we should join (if only peripherally) the vegetarian revolution.
Let me be very clear here - we are not vegetarians, nor are we likely to ever be vegetarians - that DELICIOUS piece of venison I ate at the Rimrock only days after embarking on our 'vegetarian journey' is proof of that. However, we are exploring what I would loosely term 'recreational vegetarianism'. This probably doesn't sound like all that big a deal. I mean, what? ... so you leave the meat portion out of the dinner and bump up the vegetables. Can't be that hard, right?
Yaaa... so I quickly learned a couple of things: 1) 35 odd years of cooking experience is useless once the rules change, and 2) I don't really like vegetables all that much. (That second discovery? A bit of a setback under the circumstances.)
Nonetheless, we have persevered. I have resorted to actually following recipes, as my usual 'wing it and pray' approach was resulting in some particularly unappetizing offerings, not to mention an unhealthy rate of weight loss. Thanks to the internet and a couple of engaging vegetarian cookbooks, however, I am managing to prepare meals that are, for the most part, edible and, on the odd, not unwelcome occasion, even tasty.
One of the things I find most striking about this whole experience is the complete change of ingredients one is required to stock. Suddenly ginger, cilantro, parsley, and celery are on the shopping list every week - I don't even like cilantro. We go through garlic, yams and chipotle paste by the truck load, and I am frankly weary of washing spinach. The coriander and turmeric, generally released from the spice cupboard only when we 'cook Indian', are suddenly disappearing at an heretofore unwitnessed pace. And I sure hope we don't see a global shortage of cumin any time soon, 'cause that would really put me into a tailspin.
Don't get me started on the 'legumes', though - seriously - I am a woman who, as a rule, will decide on what to make for dinner guests, say, about seven minutes before they arrive. Like, 'soak overnight' is SO not on my program. (however, I will say that I made a baked black bean dish the other night that was well worth the soaking and boiling effort it entailed... wait...was this some kind of an epicurean hallucination???). Then of course there is the chopping - I never really understood why people were so particular about their knives. Now that I chop vegetables for the better part of my waking hours, I yearn for a knife with an edge sharper than a wooden spoon.
Yup - I wouldn't say this transition to vegetarian-based eating has been seamless. And of course, in a bizarre this-was-all-your-idea-therefore-I-must-make-you-miserable way, I fully plan to grumble and moan to the man known simply as Geoff for as long as possible. However, as with all things challenging, it does provide great material for an anecdote, and seeing as the other option for a new blog entry was 'How I disposed of the leftover Christmas baking', you should probably be somewhat thankful for our efforts.
Now, if you will excuse me, I have a roasted eggplant to puree....
Saturday, 19 November 2011
Inclemency and the Art of Cleaning
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.
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, 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.
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