The Place We Call Home

Do you realize that we have been wandering happily through our lives completely ignorant of the fact that pan-dimensional beings on every plane of existence are snickering up their sleeves at us*?  How embarrassing, not to know the name of our own universe.

I am going to do Human-kind a favour.  I am going to name the universe.  Traditionally the person credited with the discovery of something new is honoured to give that thing it's name; the name which will define it for all eternity.  Clearly I am not the discoverer of the universe but I think I am the first to realize no one has named it yet.   So.  I recognize this universe in which we live to be unique and distinct from all other universes and hereby proclaim it's name to be Becky. 

I assure you that I have done us all a great service.  Spread the word.  You're new address is:

Street

Town,State/Prov

Country

Planet Earth, 3rd Rock

Sol

Milky Way

Becky

*Or pant legs, frimpts, bloogle suits or other article of clothing suitable for snickering up.

Christmas Diet

Breakfast:

2 cups of coffee

4 shots Baileys

Snack:

3 pieces of fruit (Terry's Chocolate Orange)

Lunch:

1 Eggnog latte

1 Peppermint Brownie 

1 Tums

Snack:

1 c caramel corn

Dinner:

Salad 

Ice water with lime slice

Five-layer chocolate torte (dessert) 

Hey, Virginia!

I can remember the last Christmas that I believed in Santa.  I was the usual age, whatever that is, about 6 or 7.  My brother started in on the whole Santa story in early August once he discovered I was responsible for the dirt in his toothbrush while we were camping (my flip flops weren't going to clean themselves).


My older brother, The Enemy, explained to me how Santa would just know when I was being naughty because he could see me all the time.   And he kept score.  Good stuff meant more gifts, naughty stuff meant those gifts went to The Enemy.

This changed a few things.  For one, it meant that for about a week I refused to pee or take a bath with the lights on. It also meant The Enemy, once a figure to be pitied for being two whole huge years older and therefore stupid, had some inside information that I wasn't aware of.  The balance of power had shifted.

This bore study. 

I watched my brothers' every move that Christmas and it didn't seem to make sense to me that Santa didn't notice him shake all the gifts under the tree or lick all the Tutti Frutti candy canes and put them back, things he did without fear of losing gifts to his little sister.  Yet Santa could tell when I snuck broccoli to the dog or left my wet boots on the kitchen floor.  Hmmm.

The Enemy finally fouled up when he tried to convince me that good deeds done for older brothers were worth extra Nice Points.  Now, I am not saying I came into this world a cynic, but even at the tender age of whatever I knew when I was being played.  The gig was up.  I tested this be-nice-to-brother hypothesis by grasping my big brothers budding obsessive compulsive disorder around the neck and riding it like a trick pony for days.  I  hid hair in his mashed potatoes. I stole his Garfield stuffy and did horrible things to it. I dressed Starsky and Hutch in Barbie fashion.  I moved his juice glass to the opposite side of his plate. I committed acts of evil The Enemy still has not recovered from to this day.

It was a thing of beauty.

And did Santa retaliate?  Was I naughty listed and left nothing but coal that year?  No.  I made out like a bandit as always.  So did The Enemy although, instead of the usual hunting and fishing-themed gear, his gifts tended more towards soft toys and bouncy balls for some reason.

So that is the story of how I stopped believing in Santa. 

Or "How My Brother Got That Twitchy Eye"

Appocalypse sNow

It snowed today, about 3 cm total.  This is barely a skiff back home where snow is measured in real units, the smallest of which is an hour.  As in "It took me an hour to dig to the shed to get the snow plow out this morning."  3 cm of snow in It-Never-Snows-In-Comox is cause for a Meteorological Alert on the Weather Network and for the Air Base to issue the following warning which I swear I am not making up:

"Attention all personnel, this is the Control Tower.  There is a severe snow fall advisory in effect for the Comox Valley.  Accumulations of up to 4 cm are expected.  We don't understand how to plow roads or drive our vehicles in less than perfect conditions so kiss your asses goodbye.  Honestly, it never snows in Comox. Tower out."

Okay, maybe that last bit was made up, but there was real fear and confusion in the voice.

Where I am from, a snowfall of 3 cm is called September.   Here in 'The Valley' it's considered a life altering event and cause for mass panic in the streets. Or it would be, if the streets were plowed. Even 3 cm of snow, once it gets all melty and turns to slush, can make for treacherous driving but the snow removal budget for this region, I am given to understand, is slightly less than that spent on Big Foot research.  


Also, the folks in my neighborhood seem to feel that any amount of snow, if it is glared at in disbelief long enough, will go away on it's own; no need to shovel it. This is true but I don't have the heart to tell them it's not because they have amazing super powers. Unless you count denial. Inevitably the snow will turn to rain and the rain will wash away the snow and the streets will be safe for another day. 


A guy up the street said 'You're welcome' when I pointed this out.

It's Not Broken If Husband Fixes It Before The Repair Guy Arrives.

Husband can drive a standard and bake cookies.  He can dance the two-step and gut a salmon. Like Franklin the Turtle, he can tie his shoes and count to two.  But he cannot, will not, suffer an appliance repair man in his own home.  I think he thinks they belong to some sort of ancient order which, if allowed to enter, will indoctrinate him in the ways of secret handshakes and routine maintenance schedules.

The dryer broke down on Tuesday.  Foolishly I called an appliance repair person thinking something like "This person is skilled and knowledgeable about why my dryer seems to be malfunctioning."  But apparently what I was actually thinking, according to Husband who can add mindreader to his list of many skills, was "Husband has the reproductive organ of a small shrew-like creature and enjoys knitting."  

He took this rather badly.

The dogs and I watched from our usual perch (behind the sofa) while parts of dryer and wads of lint flew about the kitchen.  Various tools were sought out from the places they shouldn't be and applied to the task.  Tests were conducted.  The internet was consulted.  Words were said which shall not be repeated and for those of you who need to know, I can assure you that you don't.

And now the dryer works.  Not just sort-of-works or only-if-you-hold-the-door-shut works but really works.  

It was at this point that Husband sweetly (and smugly) requested that I phone the Secret Brethren of Appliance Repair and tell them their services would no longer be required.  

They tried to offer me some reading material but I hung up.

If your pedantic, you'll love this....

I studied behavior sciences' in college and I learned two things very very well: 
1.  Maslowe's Hierarchy of Needs makes a cool t-shirt and;
2. Never let Them know what your weaknesses are.

The other day, I found a pet peeve belonging to a friend of mine.                                                        


 And now I am going to play with it.


Love, 
Remote

Monday, Monday

Monday's are the mother-in-laws of the work week.  They arrive whether you want them to or not; they can be a nasty shock to the system and when they are gone you are left feeling small, inadequate and ill-prepared for the road ahead.


My Monday was a lot like that only worse and with Sing-Along Christmas Lights.

Honesty Week: Experimental Truth

As a people, Canadians generally perceive themselves to be open, honest and tolerant.  I think this is a load of litter-box gravel.  Canadians are people.  And people, not to put too fine a point on it, are people.  


This week I conducted an experiment.  I hypothesized that people (defined for the purposes of this experiment as 'random strangers I encounter in malls and at the grocery store') are fundamentally unprepared to hear the truth, even when they ask for it, and are even less prepared to offer it in return.  


To test this I decided to answer any direct question put to me with blunt honesty and gage the results.  After each interaction I asked the folks if they felt honesty was better than the cultural expectation of bald-faced lying and then gaged those results.


I am here to tell you that people don't like hearing the truth so much, but they will certainly deliver it back to you with both barrels when you put them on the spot.


Out of the 45 truthful interactions with random strangers I experienced this week only 1  resulted in a meaningful conversation stemming from my refreshingly honest response to the question "Do you prefer paper or plastic?" (Neither, I prefer wicker.) 

• 12 people told me I was weird.  I thanked them for this honest appraisal and we parted amicably. All 12 of these people were under the age of 20.
• 13 people looked shifty or uncomfortable when I honestly responded to their inquiries about my general health and well-being.
• One gentleman offered me his card (Dr. Blank Blankenstien, Psychologist).
• And 21 people brushed me off or cut the interaction short which I classified as honest but mean.

All in all, this was more entertaining than informative and has no scientific merit whatsoever but I'll be honest with you, I was just bored.

Honesty Week

Watch this space.  
It won't do anything but watching will give you something to do while I conduct an experiment with Truth and then write about it in a slightly different space.  However by that time you will likely have wandered away which will lead me to consider the fleeting attention span of the average person and to encourage you all to meditate more often.
I'm just sayin'.

A rational debate on the theory linking quantum singularities and debris fields

Every now and then Husbands' work takes him away for a week or so. It is during these times alone that I reflect upon the life we share together.  I have wandered through our home, gazing at the spaces where he is not, suddenly aware of the rooms around me, his larger than life his presence no longer filling the house to bursting and I have had a revelation. 

He and I really are incredibly messy people.

A brief inventory of the desk at which I sit has turned up three coffee cups, a spoon, a broken camera, earphones, a zipper,  $0.37 in Croatian coins, a giant pair of novelty sunglasses, miscellaneous patches from various uniforms, a pile of bills marked "WTF!?" and an Ontario license plate currently serving as our mouse pad. 

I like a bit of clutter about, it makes a house feel lived in.  It's always a charming surprise to sit down in a chair and discover a great article in a magazine 4 months old.  Or the car keys. I have books in every room of the house because I like to read as I go about my morning routine.  Husband has multiple projects in various stages of completion scattered here and there because he is brilliant but has the attention span of a gnat.  These are the signs of life which our house displays, the things which cry "Busy minds live here, watch where you sit!"

I think we have elevated clutter to an art form.  There seems to be a heapiness, a largness of piling-upness.  A groaning of counters and kitchen tables.  For example the number of absolutely unrelated items which currently inhabit my bathroom counter is quite breathtaking. None of the items have any business on a bathroom counter or, in one fantastically inappropriate case, outside of a BMW K-Model motorcycle transmission.

To those of you out there in Reader Land who are screaming at your computer screens "For the love of all that is sane and Holy, tidy up before your house collapses, creating black hole and sucking us all to our doom!" I say, relax.  Life is messy.  And black holes are still only theoretical, so there.

Turn off your iPod when you come to my counter. Period.

I was not always a floating head behind a reception desk.  


I used to be a real person.  


My job was to instruct young people with special needs, particularly in the area of social skills.  It was fun and rewarding work, especially when you consider that for the most part kids with special needs have beautiful manners.  I was never greeted more sincerely or offered as much earnest help with my day as I was by my students. I have always found it ironic that the folks who needed the most coaching were usually the people dropping the kids off for the class, not the kids themselves.

I don't mean to start frothing at the mouth here but I guess I am a little out of touch with reality.  

The next person who comes to my counter, barks out one word and then stares at their cell phone while I use my amazing mind reading powers to decipher what they want is going to get the worst thing I can possibly do to a total stranger: a hug.  It's every bit as socially unacceptable to hug a stranger as it is to request service from a person you are standing in front of but refusing to look at.  Yet somehow I think I'll be the one who will win the coveted 'Most Inappropriate in the Workplace' award. 

Weird.

So be warned, all you multi-taskers, all you texters and iPod listeners. Turn off the technology and acknowledge other human beings or face the consequences. 


I've got some love to spread around and you could be next.  

This Old House, The Story Continues

When we last left our hero, he was in the kitchen toying with a palm sander and certain death.  Let's tune in and survey the damage...

(Tour guide in hushed tones):
'As we enter the dwelling, ladies and gentlemen, I will ask that you refrain from using any flash photography.'

'You can see from the trail left in the dust that they lost the drop cloths again, leading one to wonder if there is some sort of black hole in the basement.'

'If you look to the right you will see the constellation Leo picked out in Poly Filla. It extends across the living room and up the hall stairs where it seems to turn into a map of Soho.'

'The debris pattern in the kitchen indicates that sanding and baking are not compatibly concurrent activities.'

'Step carefully in the crawl space and mind your heads.  As you will see there is a collection of hot water heaters down here which seem to indicate this culture worshipped giant hunks of useless metal too heavy for one arguing couple to lift and dispose of.'

'We would normally conclude the tour in the garage which holds a fascinating display of 12 derelict sewing machines however there is a giant spider covered in paint living in there and that's just icky.' 

'Interesting question, ma'am.  I don't believe the husband saw it coming.'

Hail Friday, Greatest of Days

Friday afternoons offer that best of all possible gifts which is hope.

      "I hope you have a good weekend!"

                               "Sure hope is doesn't rain!"
       
         "Hope the traffic isn't too bad!"

When the last of the ignore this until Monday tasks are tidied into a neat pile, Friday afternoon is the lid on the box of Schrodinger's Cat. Much as that postulated feline is neither alive nor dead until the lid is lifted, until that second hand rolls around and you fling open the escape hatch, the weekend ahead can be either good or bad. 

Endless games of cards with incomprehensible rules. A missed bus in the rain. Road trips. Street meat. The perfect bike ride. Vigorous apple slicing leading to a trip to emergency waiting room. Sambuca.  All of this and more awaits as Friday tick-tick-ticks away and the weekend becomes reality.  

Throw open the door. Peel back the lid. Be brave. For fair or foul, 'tis Friday and the world is the small locally harvested organic shellfish of your choice.  




   

A Prayer

O Closet, which art in my room, hallowed be thy contents. 
I have honoured you with fresh offerings from Karan and Klein in the hopes that you have not shrunk any of my clothes like you did last month.
Give me this day a fabulous look which will turn heads,
And forgive me for the corduroy, I knew not what I was doing.
Lead me not into polyester,
But deliver me from shoulder pads,
For Thine is the wisdom of hemlines and colour pairing.
Let my party dresses fit me,
Amen.

This Old House, Part Deux

Three years ago, in a moment of weakness, I Christmas-gifted Husband with a high speed power palm sander he'd been rubbing on himself each time we entered 'The Man Store' for a month previous.

I can't imagine what I was thinking.  Whatever it was, it certianly wasn't "Gosh, I hope he doesn't use this in the kitchen.  Without any prep.  While I'm baking."

It should have been.

Volvo: 'The Swedish are smarter than you and so are their cars'

I bid farewell to an old friend last week.  On Friday, reluctantly and with a few tears, we took the Red Wonder for it's last drive.  Without any ceremony (or notice) Husband decided there was not enough Duct Tape in the world to keep my little buggy on the road and simply replaced it with something far sturdier and with functioning headlamps. 


Turning over the keys to my beloved 'car' felt like limping an old pooch to the vet for the longest walk. As I think back on our time together I know I will never have another car like it. I recall fondly the day I discovered I could put the trunk lid back on all by myself.  I loved knowing there was only one way I could insert the bent key into the ignition which didn't lock the entire steering column.  I remember the day brought it home as a replacement for a car which had failed to function as a mode of transportation in the most spectacular of ways: the brakes failed at the same time as the transmission.  


Formed by impassive ingenuity and running on high octane Swedish chocolate, this new car of mine is not getting off on the right foot, as it were. I confess I look upon it with suspicion.  Firstly, it starts. It also smells clean and new, as though the previous owner was too good for McD's fries.  Furthermore, I have a hard time believing all the wonders the user guide promises, things like 'air bags' or 'anti-lock brakes' or 'gas mileage.'  These sound made up.


This new car, if I am to believe what I read, is also far smarter than any car has a right to be.  According to the manual, I should be unable to lock my keys in this car.  It was designed to prevent this. I am deeply offended by the implication that I would fail to have a back up plan for this situation and I am already searching for a way to disable the passenger window.

Which Wild Thing Was That?

We live with several animals.  I say several for we have two large and slobbery dogs, one she's-not-overweight-she's-just-fluffy cat, and the Mystery Beast.

The Mystery Beast wakes us up in the night to let us know in a booming voice that everything is all right.  Neither dog will have anything to say when the light comes on except "Who, us?"

The Mystery Beast eats unmonitored breakfast toast and leaves a trail of drool leading away from the toilet bowl.  The Mystery Beast leaves a warm spot on the no-dogs-on-the-sofa.  The Mystery Beast will eat baby green tomatoes straight from the vine.  The Mystery Beast eats the cats' food when the cat isn't looking.  The Mystery Beast has gas.

This Beast is not yellow or black and tan or orange and white.  This Beast, to the best we are able to guess based on the sizable dust bunnies under the kitchen table each morning, is grey in colour and, apparently, likes the taste of shoes. 

The Mystery Beast has never been spotted by a Two-Legger although the dogs and cat claim to see him on a regular basis.  Like the Boogie Man of house pets, the Mystery Beast lurks behind our doors and under the stairs, waiting for any opportunity to clear the counter of unwanted loaves of fresh bread or to carefully tie the sewing machine thread to the toaster oven.  Although we have never seen it, we know that the Mystery Beast is here to stay and while it may cost us a few slices of peanut butter toast, it is still far cheaper than the Rottweiller, who still owes me for a $400 dental retainer.

Noises Off

For the sake of peace in the marriage, and in an effort to maintain the illusion that I do not live with a crazy person, here is a list of sounds (and my guesses v. actual cause) that frequently emanate from random corners of the property which I do not question:

1.  Shattering glass.  Possible cause: Husband dropped a mirror while moving stuff in the garage.  Actual cause:  Husband dropped a mirror while flashing a low-flying airplane in an attempt to signal his buddy, the pilot, that he, Paycheck, is a complete twit.
2.  Loud banging - wooden. Possible cause: Wind has simultaneously slammed closed all of the doors on the second floor.  Actual cause: Husband has just walked into an open cupboard door, injured his head and shut the door so hard it has bounced open and hit his head a second time.
3.  Loud banging - metallic. Possible cause: Husband has used a 10 Lb sledge to remove a stubborn brake drum from the van.  Actual cause: Husband has used a 10 Lb sledge to remove a stubborn brake drum from the van (this happens often enough that the sound is now quite unmistakable).
4.  Loud banging - explosive. Possible cause: Husband has just shot himself in the foot with a nail gun (extremely likely).  Actual cause: Husband has accidentally super glued a sports ball to a dry suit with industrial epoxy.  The heat from the resulting chemical reaction has turned the Spider Man basket ball into an IED.
5.  Expletives followed by any combination of the above.  Possible cause: In four years my writers' curiosity has never driven me to investigate this and, should you find yourself overwhelmed with the need for illumination in this regard, I invite you to stop by and see for yourself.  


The dogs and I will be under the couch.

A Subtle Blend of Honey and Blue Collar Sweat

Gentle reader, I am comfortable enough with our relationship that I feel I can admit the following:  I like beer.  Does that make me less of a lady?  Would it surprise you to discover that I like to drink beer straight out of the bottle?  That in my opinion the only thing better than an ice cold beer is another ice cold beer, possibly before the first is even finished?

I have tried wines, red and white.  I am always reminded of tomato juice for some reason.  I don't like rye and until I tried scotch I was unaware that I even had a gag reflex.  I am not sad enough for vodka or crazy enough for rum.  One night in the early spring of this year, tequila nearly put me in the hospital and gin just tastes like tree ass.

Let's face it, beer tastes like pop used to taste when we were kids.  Sweet and fizzy and the feeling is the same only instead of sugar making you do silly things, it's alcohol and a total loss of volume control.  Dark or light, honeyed, red or white, it doesn't matter.  Every one is just as tasty as the next and the best thing?  The very best thing?  They come in packs of six, eight, 12, 24 and (here in BC) 30.  You'd get some funny looks if you showed up at a BBQ with a 30-pack of gin but everyone is happy to see beer.

What am I talking about?  Where is this headed? Why am I writing about beers at nearly midnight in the middle of the week?  And where is my bottle opener?  These are questions which have plagued Man for eons, or at least as long as it takes to get to the fridge and back.

Drinking is serious business to some.  To others, a celebration.  We drink to toast, to honour, to remember, to forget.  We drink in crowds with friends.  We drink in crowds alone.  We drink to health or in spite of it.  I am drinking for that very best of reasons: because Husband brought it home and put it in the fridge.

G'night all.

This Old House

Husband came home the other day with plans. Big plans.  Plans so big they are actually 'Plans.'

"We are renovating!" he said in a deep voice with chest out-thrust and hands fisted on hips.

(Side note:  there are three things Husband and I do not do well together, three exceptions to the marital bliss we call life.  1. Move the sectional, 2. Deal with doggie-sick on the carpets and 3. Renovate. This can only end with bloodshed.)

Without hesitation, without a seconds' pause, without a drop cloth, Husband immediately began to coat the walls of every room in the house with Spackle.  The Polka-Dot Door could film a show in my living room.  And in the kitchen, stairwell, front entrance and upstairs hallway. 

And it didn't stop there.

With zest and vigor and still no drop cloths, Husband began prepping the guest room for paint.  Prepping, for the uninitiated, means shoving all the furniture into a pile in the middle of the room and slapping primer on the walls.  It was while in the middle of this Husband casually mentioned he was glad to be getting the room painted as his mother would be coming for the weekend.  In about three (3) days.

For those having trouble keeping up, let's take stock.  Walls: splattered with Spackle from kitchen to coat closet.  Furniture: in a heap.  ONLY guest room: in shambles.  Mother-in-law: arriving in t minus 3 days. Husband: endangered species.

It was while searching through the basement to find a good edging brush to correct the mess made by the bad edging brush that the drop cloths were found.  It was while laying the drop cloths in the guest room that the dessicated dog sick was discovered.  It was while hunting for spot remover under the kitchen sink that the good edging brush was found.  It was while disposing of the bad edging brush in the garage that the spider dropped into my hair.  It was while explaining to Husband how my hair, face, glasses and shirt got coated with paint that I decided he could handle this situation on his own.  It was after my second beer that I calmed down.

Husband can do amazing things.  He can fly a plane and sew a jacket together from scratch.  He can free-fall and fold laundry. He can paint a room all by himself when threatened with a cot in the 'spider cave' if he is not done before Mother-in-law arrives.  The room looks fantastic.  Mother-in-law made the appropriate sort of fuss over our efforts and Husband has promised that his very next task is to find the spider camping out in the garage and firmly usher it out the door.  I was hoping he would perhaps start on the house-wide game of connect the dots he has created with Poly-Filla but I've learned to pick my battles and will gladly accept having a scale diagram of the constellation Leo on my living room wall if it means spider-free access to my garage.

But only for so long.

Good Morning Sunshine

It may come as a surprise to my cadre of rabid followers (2 readers total) that I am not, in fact, a morning person.  I have 'not been a morning person' for my entire life, including my birth, for which I was 2 weeks late.  Even then I didn't bother showing up until 4 in the afternoon.

Don't get me wrong. Lot's of great things happen at morning time: Christmas... dew... sunrise...birdsong... wood.  No, it's mornings in general that I can do without.  The cat jumping onto my face at 5:30 AM to tell me the dog has been sick.   The chill on my skin when I struggle out from under the blankets.  The sight of my cat peacefully sleeping on my pillow the moment my head vacates it.  Tripping over the Rotwieller.  Wincing in the bright lights of the mirror.  Stairs.

I firmly believe that people who commit random acts of violence would never do so if they hadn't first been ripped from slumber by a harsh world and forced to face the dim reality that they completely forgot to buy more cream for coffee the day before.  The only reason I am not currently naked in a tower with a deer rifle is that I found some coffee whitener in the camp box.

Mornings remind us that our bodies are rapidly moving through time.  They show us the forgotten debris from the night before.  Mornings are usually when appliances break and loved ones become expansively ill on the kitchen floor.  Mornings are when you remember the things you have forgotten and wished you hadn't.  Mornings are the Universe saying: Now I bet you wish you'd stayed in the trees.

Humans are not meant for mornings.  We are meant to be clinging peacefully to the branch, 30 feet above the jungle floor, safe from predators, gently snoring through the dawn chorus.  Not sitting here in an
un-ironed shirt, sipping camp coffee and secretly envying the hell out of my cat.

Ode To My Cat

My worries and troubles tangle in your whiskers and are brushed away with the flick of an ear.
Nose to nose, we stare at each other, unblinking.
Your soft paws pat my chest in a sleepy rhythm.
Do you have to wake me up twenty minutes before my alarm every damn day?

The Little Douche Coup

It is a sad day for me today friends.  My trusty car, The Red Wonder ('I wonder if it will start today') is on it's last legs, so to speak. This is not something that has happened overnight.  It has been a very gentle decline, a sort of coast downhill in Mexican overdrive.

It started with a glitchy ignition, which only engages if the moisture content of the air is just right, i.e. whatever is the exact opposite of that normally found in a temperate rain forest.  Then the horn died, which means I occasionally lean on the airbag in silent outrage when I get cut off.  This is far less satisfying than you think.  

After the horn went, the rear driver-side window followed soon after.  It didn't go anywhere, but it just sort of floats around in the door.  I spent 45 minutes locked out of my car one afternoon before it occurred to me that having a window I can slide down while outside of the car is a great feature, one I wished I'd recalled about 44 minutes sooner.

Once the ignition, horn and window all began shirking their duties, I think the rest of the car just got lazy.  The passenger door sticks.  The interior light won't turn off unless I remove the bulb.  Something is squeaky under the hood.  The muffler rattles.   The only thing that seems to be functioning is the little orange light on my dashboard which assures me that, yes, it has checked and there is an engine.  

But Husband, who would rather ride a Pogo stick to work than take a car in to a garage, finally stepped in and offered help when I fired her up this morning and a sound like the sins of angels came screaming from under the hood.  The squeak has suddenly became an ear-piercing shriek which disturbed Husband  from his morning's slumber and seriously put a passing eagle off his breakfast.  

I am not in the market for a new car. I have faith in Husbands' ability to repair everything from a roof to an electric cheese grater.  A mere car is no match for his skills with the Duct Tape and blow torch.  And I have no problems driving his van in the interim. 

I just wish it had a loose window, since I've already locked the keys inside it.

  

Sweet Goodbye

Summer's over.  There can be no doubt about this.  I woke up this morn to discover that at some point during the night husband had stolen all the blankets.  This is a sure sign that Summer is on her way out.  I could also hear the sound of rain pounding on the roof through my cat, who had wrapped herself around my head like a turban.  All cats know this survival trick, employed when they are in grave danger of having to spend a night indoors in a well-furnished home.
Yes, there are signs about which tell me that while Summer may not be completely gone, She is certainly standing on the front porch, nervously jingling her keys. And as I sit here nursing the first cold of the season I have a chance between sneezes to think over the summer's adventures....

I tried climbing again-for-the-first-time with Husband, who learned that if you buy a girl new shoes, she will do just about anything to wear them. Even if that means scale a craggy mountain side.

We went to Wild Play in Naniamo, an adventure park filled with ropes and bridges suspended in the amazing canopy of the local old-growth forest. I learned that Husband will do anything I ask him to do, if it costs less than a pair of climbing shoes.

Tubing! I could write an entire piece on tubing and still not have said enough about soaking the heat of the day out of your bones as you float down the river.  Each time was a little different from the last as the river winds along its' course.  There is nothing more pleasant, more quintessentially BC than tubing. The fact that it is also moderately low cost (tube:$26; Gas:$10; beer afterwards: $6) means I was on the river 3 days out of every 7 since June.

Camping on Quadra Island clearly made an impression and will hopefully be repeated before we are posted away.

Husband surprised me with a trip to the Pacific National Exhibition (PNE) which was fantastic.  It reminded us both of every great fair we've ever gone to as kids.

BBQ's, backyard parties, dinners on patios, helping friends move, cycling, swimming and generally ignoring the phone were enjoyed to the fullest.  Farewell Summer.  Until next year, I shall think fondly of you as I sit, sipping Neocitron (TM), sneezing and wearing a cat hat.
Cheers.

Day Two: Let's take the bikes for a walk

When the owner of the trail bike shop is wearing a neck-brace, you tend to take his totally unsolicited route advice more seriously.  Which is why we did NOT drive into the northern region of Quadra to do Norton Lake Trail.  Instead we drove out to Morte Lake (that means EXACTLY what you think it means) to do a 'fairly easy route for beginners who are just getting into the sport.'

Right.

Two minutes in I had already switched to my trail shoes and ditched the helmet.  Half and hour later we were still carrying our bikes and thinking maybe we should have asked Steve 'this neck-brace is really itchy' Jones* for some clarification on his definition of the words 'fairly easy.'

However, after hike-riding, a new sport we developed right on the spot, for another hour up and down some of the rockiest slag strewn trail ever seen, we made it to as perfect a little beach as you could imagine.  White sand and cool water, surrounded by massive trees and not a single sign of bear poop (I checked).  We had to admit that it was worth the trek in.  To be perfectly honest, once I had stopped mentally picturing Steve in a series of dangerous situations which would add to his need for braces on multiple body parts, I started to take a more active interest in the scenery we were slogging through.  The route, despite the obvious downfall of being 100% horrible while carrying a 25 lb. bike over my shoulder, offered some fantastic views.  Huge trees you could build a house in, panoramic vistas of Morte Lake with Victoria Peak in the distance.  Those white sandy beaches beckoning us forward, and the ever-present eagle flying overhead.

Morte Lake Trail is a 7.2 km route meant to be hiked on foot, sans bicycle, and it really is worth the look.  Next time, I'll ditch the bike and bring the camera instead.

*Names have been changed to protect the incredibly unhelpful.

Welcome to The Hood

Welcome.  I am Tam, fondly known as 'Remote' by Husband, who is also 'Paycheck'.  That about covers everything.

Let's begin...

What started out as a canoe trip on the lovely lakes of Vancouver Island became a week-long car camping excursion instead.  This in effort to spare Husband's shoulder which had become injured while knee boarding/rock-climbing/trail-biking/skydiving/river tubing/all-night badminton-ing or any combination of the above. It was decided that a quiet camping trip on Quadra Island would be an ideal chance to rest the injured shoulder and escape the daily grind as listed above.

Quadra Island is the largest of the Northern Gulf Island group in British Columbia.  A fjordy place, which is not a word but should be, there is a sense of remoteness and majesty to it's lakes and peaks, even though the Pacific Range looms on the east and lovely Vancouver Isle sits to the west.  Quadra is a special place without the dramatic neighbours, filled with eagles and salmon and peaceful-eyed locals who will happily sell you coffee and offer free advice on trails and routes.  

Day One:  Main Lake Canoe Route

Marriage doesn't come with a manual.  It shouldn't, that would spoil all the surprises.  Like secret fudge addictions or Husband's unfailing ability to attract bears.  What seemed innocent enough, a day spent canoeing a route through Quadra's interior freshwater lake system, turned into the typical comedy of errors which has been and continues to be our version of wedded bliss these four years.  The first clue should have been the vulture.  In a land of eagles, surrounded by eagles, what do we see?  Cathartes Aura, the Turkey Vulture.  Majestic, yes.  Impressively large wingspan, check.  Goodwill ambassador of the avian world, not as such.

Still, wildlife is wildlife and I am a bird freak so after snapping a dozen blurry photos we paddled on.  Lunch was spent watching dragonflies dance over the surface of the water, our paddle-sore backs pressed against a massive mature sitka spruce. Everything you need to know about the difference between Husband and I can be summed up thusly:  I look upon such giant trees as vast fingers of memory, stretching far into our past.  Husband declared, while munching his sandwich, that he could build 'a wicked little airplane' out of it.  

This perfect day was capped by a dip in the waters of Main Lake.  We leapt.  We frolicked.  I might even go so far as to say we cavorted (but ended up re-injuring The Shoulder so we had to stop) and it wasn't until we were toweling off in the the warm afternoon sunshine that I spotted IT.  A big, steaming pile of IT to be precise.   Bear IT.  And, upon further investigation, it turned out that we were surrounded by lots and lots of IT, ranging from white and crusty and nearly dusty to fresh-as-this-very-morning's dew.

Husband who, on our honeymoon, selected a tent site in Algonquin Park which can only be described as ill-advisedly abundant in blueberry bushes (the Black Bear's natural breakfast food of choice) had once again demonstrated his bear-baiting prowess by parking me in Smokey's toilet.