Unbearable Randomness

When are people going to learn that animals are not just fashion accessories?

2007-07-23T15:10:00.000-04:00

Betty is not doing well. He went off his food last night and is neither eating or drinking. If it were not for his IV (antibiotics and pain medication) dehydration would be a real worry.

My morning navigation of the morass that is animal control in Canada was eye opening. The laws are not even consistent within a province, let alone the country, and a dog labelled dangerous and subject to immediate euthanization (no appeal, no anything) in one municipality cannot even have his record of aggression and unprovoked attack shared with other jurisdictions. So this dog (which was off leash off his own property--against the bylaws) and committed two unprovoked attacks on a restrained animal without any attempt of the owner to control him, can cross over the river to Ottawa without so much as a notation on his record. There is no way for the jurisdiction where the offense occurred to place a muzzle order on the dog: it is kill him or nothing. And even if they could, that order would cease to be in effect the moment the dog crossed municipal boundaries.

Most unsatisfactory of all is that the animal control authorities (animal control having been outsourced to the Humane Society or SPCA in most jurisdictions across Canada) has no interest in enforcing overly draconian laws (such as automatic and unappealable euthanasia orders) that run 180 degrees counter to their mandate. And where that is the only option available, that leaves the general public in a very uncomfortable position with an animal control enforcment department that will end up doing nothing.

I was very surprised to learn that no jurisdiction in Canada can impose mandatory obedience training (which trains both the dog and the owner) in the case of any animal bylaw infraction. I was also surprised to learn that by simply leaving a municipality, a dog's history becomes a complete blank. The owners of vicious or uncontrollable dogs will often leave an area of jurisdiction to avoid even having a pet muzzled, and the region that they move to will not even know that the animal newly introduced into their midst is dangerous.

Even more surprising, the same thing (a clean slate) is often accomplished just by changing a residence locally, getting a new vet and giving the animal a new name, or by handing the animal into the local Humane Society or SPCA under a new name, without divulging the animal's history of aggression, under some spurious pretext (such a new child with an allergy).

I now see why my friend Krys, and other responsible dog owners are so distressed by (not to say obsessive about) the pathetic state of animal bylaws in this country.

FYI: I could not get all the blood off my clothing.

Animal control? I am sorry, but ... Don't Make Me Laugh!

2007-07-22T14:54:00.000-04:00

It is now nearly 24 hours Since Betty was attacked--twice--by an overly aggressive and uncontrolled black Lab. And for 18 of those past 24 hours I have been trying to lodge a vicious dog complaint with the people responsible for animal control.

It is now very much less than pathetic.

The municipality where the attack occurred, and the municipality where the owner and dog actually live, have both outsourced their animal control efforts to the SPCA (Quebec) and the Humane Society (Ontario).

The local SPCA (jurisdiction for the actual attack) at least gave me a number that I could call and leave a message with the complaint. (In the 18 hours since I left the message I have not heard back from them.)

The Ottawa Humane Society (responsbile for the area where the dog and owner actually live, and where they will be returning in about an hour or two after a nice weekend holiday at a cousin's cottage) does not even have a number listed on their web site, in the phone book, or in the voice mail complete listing of departments for their Animal Control department.

The fact that I cannot reach somebody to report two unprovoked and vicious attacks to anyone (I called the police in both regions first, and they said 'we don't do that any more') has me quite a large amount more than pissed off.

What angers me the most is that when I visited the cottage where the owner was visiting for the weekend to say that my vet had said that I must report the dog, or he would due to the nature of the attacks (the multiple atttack without provocation), I could not get out of my car as the dog was roaming free and unmonitored on that property. I had to wait in my car for somebody to come out and call the dog off. (To be honest, I cannot say he was behaving in a threatening manner or that I HAD to wait, but after what I had seen from that dog in the afternoon, there was no way I was getting out of my car until somebody had their hand on that dog's collar. You make think that wimpy of me, but so be it.)

Status report on Betty

2007-07-22T13:03:00.000-04:00

First off, the funny bit.

I was kind of freaking. The place I took him (Alta Vista Animal hospital, an completely impressive facility) is very much like those ER programs you see on TV; where they keep the family members out of the doctors' way while the patient is being attended to. I have never taken a pet to the vet before where I was not with the animal for everything except Xrays and surgery, and I kept asking to see Betty. I finally got to see him once they had him settled into his cage for the night. The label on his cage was:

Betty
(Mr)

and that made me laugh. (First time since the attack.) From now on I will introduce him as Mr. Betty.

So, now the report ...

Betty is no longer huddled unresponsively in a little ball in his cage, but walking around (stiffly, but quite steadily). He is eating and drinking well. The puncture wounds are draining well but still tender and he was purring his little heart out during all of this morning's evalutation. He is still on antibiotics and pain killers.

He will be in hospital until the surgeon has reviewed the xrays. There is a rather large and disturbing lump outside his abdominal wall, but it does not have the characteristics of a hernia to the duty vet's eyes. Although the xray of the lungs was abnormal, he is breathing well (much better than he was yesterday, when the vet was quite concerned). It may simply be a serious contusion, but time is required before they can be positive on that score.

Because Betty is such a young cat (not quite 5 months old) and the growth plates on his bones are still active, the vet thinks that the pelvic fracture is along one of the plates, in which case the prognosis is excellent for perfect healing.

He will remain at least another day, so the surgical consultant can review a few of the things from the xray that are a bit worrisome, but the vet was very upbeat when he called me, so I don't think I will need to eat the last half of the chocolate cake I started on last night when I was still super-freaked. (Good thing too; I used up almost all of my vanilla ice cream with last night's freak-out cake binge.)

Betty has been savaged by a dog

2007-07-21T20:19:00.001-04:00

I can't really say much now except the basics. As best as the duty vet can tell, Betty has a punctured lung, a broken pelvis, and some pretty serious puncture wounds. There are some things on the Xrays that he cannot read. Betty is staying at the hospital and being medicated for pain until the surgeon can come in and have a look over the Xrays and give Betty another exam.

I am a touch past distraught, and thinking massively evil thoughts about the person who brought an unleashed dog into an area where he was told there was a tethered cat. The dog attacked immediately, with the owner standing off to the side about 15 to 20 feet away saying 'Stop. No, Rufus.'. Others pulled the dog off of Betty. And the owner did not leash his dog at that point, and before I could get Betty out of the bush where he was hiding, the dog attacked again. Others had to tell the owner to restrain his dog: even after the second attack he made no attempt at restraining the animal.

It is going to be several hours before I can think of things milder than a tactical nuclear strike for that dog owner.

I will update on Betty once I get a status report from the clinic tomorrow morning.

I need to go and get the blood off my clothes before the stains set.

Betty .....

2007-07-15T10:47:00.000-04:00

Betty is quite the character.

Yesterday afternoon he spent over 2 hours in the kitchen with me as I was cooking.
His big discovery was the 2 quart strawberry basket.

It was beyond funny.
The game lasted the entire 2+ hours.

Today I tried him out with a harness and lead so he could be out in the garden: but he got out of the harness (Fortunately, he didn't go far at all. I see a lot of trial and error until I get it so he can't get out of it.)

Sunday was a good day

2007-07-11T08:11:00.000-04:00

Some days for me are just good days. I never know quite why: whether it is a better night’s sleep (bad sleep patterns is another ‘hidden symptom’ of the MS), the weather or the phase of the moon. This past Sunday was a good day.

I woke up pretty early (around 5:30 am) and wrote my last blog entry (which took a good deal of time and thought; that was not an easy piece to write, and I am still uncomfortable about it). I then had coffee and breakfast, and feeling pretty good, I started in on the chores.

I oiled 2 of the 3 pieces of wooden furniture in my garden (the table and one of the 2 chairs). I swept off the patio. I did 2 loads of laundry and a load of dishes. I did a complete clean up around the cat’s litter box area. I rewired the lamp I had bought at a junk shop for $10 on my shopping mojo day about a month ago. I deadheaded most of the plants in my garden. I installed a new VCR/DVD unit and programmed all my timer recordings into it. I cleaned and oiled the buffet (1920’s, walnut veneer over ash) that belonged to my grandmother. I collected up all the cat toys Betty had scattered in various nooks and crannies throughout the house and put them into an easily accessed basket for him. I made a potato salad, and sloppy joes. I turned the old VCR/DVD box into a lined cat bed. I made 8 new cat toys (some more appreciated than others).

About this time I decided to take it easy: it was about 5:30 in the afternoon. Dinner, and then I fell asleep.

How can you be yourself when you are no longer who you are?

2007-07-07T09:37:00.001-04:00

That sounds rather pretentious (even I think so) but I cannot think of any other way to describe what I am going through, what I have been going through for the past 30-odd years, so please bear with me. I also have no clear idea of how this is going to present: will I come off conceited and self-absorbed; pathetic …

First off is, I guess, the conceited bit; for this I am going to quote family. Members of my immediate family have often said that I was the most generous and funniest member of the siblings. My mother once said something I took as the finest compliment I was ever offered: that I treated all people the same with the same consideration and generosity of spirit, Queens to street bums. I have always tried (with varying degrees of success) to be a kind, generous, fair and considerate person. My approach to people was ‘believe the best of everyone until proved otherwise’. I genuinely liked people and liked to be with people. I liked parties and large groups, and could do well in them. I had confidence in myself and my abilities.

My problem is that I am no longer that person. And it all came on so gradually that it took me a long time to realize it (denial and self-delusion are amazing things). Even now, I am way worse than I am aware of, excepting that other people tell me how bad I am.

I was diagnosed with Recurring/Remitting Multiple Sclerosis when I was 28, although the medical history done at that time pretty much determined that my first episode was when I was not quite 21. Because I mostly did not ‘look’ like I had MS (I did not use a cane, or a walker or a wheelchair), I was pretty well able to deny the fact of it for the better part of 20 years. Pride induced me to hide whatever physical manifestations the MS took from everybody for many, many years.

The hiding part was easy in many ways because most of my symptoms were of the ‘silent’ variety. There were two general types of silent symptoms; physical (incontinence, pain, numbness, blindness in one eye, extreme fatigue, hearing difficulties) and mental (emotional dyscontrol, an inability to concentrate, increased anxiety, rather radical personality changes, including extreme irritability, a diminished self-censorship ability and considerable reduction in general cognitive abilities, to name just a few).

The emotional symptoms of my MS were never a part of my conscious ‘hide it as best as you can’ coping strategy with my disease, mostly because I was completely unaware of them (except for the really obvious physical aspects of it, such as crying jags of an hour or more over a TV commercial). And that complete unawareness is itself a symptom.

I am increasingly inappropriate in my responses to people and situations. Sensitivity to social clues has gone right out the window, which means that interactions with people will go very, very badly for the most part. I upset, hurt and outright angry people at times, and am disconcertingly unaware that I have done so. Having the best of intentions, a kind heart and a generous spirit are no good when you cannot even perceive when you do things that are in direct opposition to your intent, wishes and spirit.

The last psychological assessment I had done of emotional and cognitive abilities was rather brutal, in that it rather baldly stated that the behavioural and emotional manifestations of my MS were contra indicatory of my being able to function effectively in any full time employment. That was a body blow.

Even harder for me to deal with is that these ‘silent symptoms’ are seen as personality defects that if I was only kinder, more considerate, more thoughtful, more motivated; if I would only exert a little will power, I could fix them. Surprise, surprise. I can’t make it go away, or be better, because none of this is my conscious choice. I am not intentionally cranky or rude or inappropriate. I just am and will never again not be: the brain damage has already been done and cannot be reversed. This is the new me, and I cannot like her.

The fatigue problem is also seen by others as yet another personality flaw. I am lazy, disinterested or unmotivated. This also has very negative repercussions on both personal and professional relationships.

So, where does this leave me? The people I am closest to and need the most understanding from are the people most put-off by my increasing irascibility and inappropriateness and inability to perform at my pre-MS levels. They cannot believe that all the horrible things I now am are not active and conscious choices that I am making about how to behave, or that I am unaware of the effect I have on people. They point out my social solecisms, sometimes lecture me, often yell at me, and I can cognitively recognize (after the fact) that I did probably commit the transgressions I just got reamed out for.

The overall approach of people is that if I just understood the effect my behaviour was having on people, I could correct it and never do it again; would become again the person they remember from 20-odd years ago, before the brain damage from the MS had progressed as far as it has. But being told that I have done something will never, ever mean I will not do it again: that is my reality.

The breaking of social and professional links 'ups' my stress level, which in turn exacerbates the symptoms that are making my being me increasingly difficult. I feel like I am a hamster on a motorized exercise wheel: I cannot get off and I cannot stop running in place while getting nowhere.

What all this is making me do is withdraw more and more from social interactions of any form, particularly if they are intense (large gatherings or noisy, for example) and that is unfortunately taken to be disinterest or dislike. I try to explain my reality, but is almost impossible to not reflect back the attitudes that you encounter: that you are just making up excuses for being a bad and inconsiderate person. (Besides, even I find it hard to believe that I am not just making excuses, and I resist being my symptoms, even though it is increasingly apparent that I am. Even I cannot believe that just a little exertion on my part won't make it all go away.) I can spend days, if not weeks, in flat despair (and deep shame and guilt) as I find all that I was and all that I wish to be slip away; as I become increasingly detestable and unloveable and am unable to halt, or even slow, that loss of me.

Who am I?

Multiple Sclerosis Society of Canada

Family! (argh)

2007-06-29T11:04:00.000-04:00

My dad phoned me last night. He wanted to know how I made my tapioca pudding (one of the things he and I have in common is a like for desserts like that). He didn't quite believe I used the recipe on the Minit Tapioca box, but a few minute's conversation left him feeling able to take it on. Once we had crossed the making of tapioca pudding hurdle, we continued chatting ... the standard 'What's new' kind of stuff.

I thought long and hard, and finally decided to tell him about 'Betty'. (Yes, my new male kitten has a name now: he is Betty.) I knew what the reaction would be, but decided to give Dad the benefit of a doubt and told him.

The reaction was overwhelmingly negative (anticipated) and mildly disdainful (typical). The conversation rather degenerated after that, and I brought it to a close before he had totally overset my pleasure at no longer being the only living and breathing thing in my house. My friends are happy for me with my new kitten: my family sees it as a yet another action of the greatest folly and stupidity.

I wish interactions with my family did not always end with me feeling badly about myself and my life, but they do--and I do not think that will ever change. I wish it did not sadden me quite as much as it does.

I had forgotten

2007-06-24T16:23:00.000-04:00

I had forgotten how totally committed cats are to their nap.

I had forgotten how totally they luxuriate and how cute their little paws are all curled up.

I had forgotten how nice it is to sit a read with a cat curled up in your lap. (I couldn't get a picture of that: I would have had to disturb him to reach the camera.)

I had forgotten how wonderful their purring is.

New kitten is wonderful: he already knows that hands are NOT cat toys. If I could teach him that my legs are not trees, I would be laughing.

In case you can't tell, I am completely thrilled. Now if I could only figure out what his name is.

I did it!!!!

2007-06-24T12:38:00.000-04:00

I got myself a kitten yesterday; a lovely little black fellow about 2 months old, with a tiny patch of white near his naughty bits.

It has now been nearly 24 hours since I brought him home. He seems to be adjusting very well, is a very affectionate little thing and has the same habit Rocky the squirrel did of running up my legs. (Squirrel claws aren't nearly as pointy.)

I have no name for him yet. The naming of cats is a very difficult thing. All the names you had thought of before you got the cat are very obviously not that cat's name. You have to observe, test names out for response, and hopefully arrive at one the cat wants to answer to. There was a bit of a false alarm yesterday with 'Cakes': he did respond for about 15 minutes, but then ignored the name.

I have to be careful: I have been using the words pumpkin, puss, silly boy and ouch around him a lot. I need a real name before he starts answering to one of those.

I am feeling very cattish this days

2007-06-22T16:57:00.001-04:00

It has now been over a year since I had a cat around the house. As I joked to someone today, this means my life plan of being a certified (certifiable?) eccentric old cat lady with 42 cats by the age of 57 very seriously off track. I only have 5 ½ years left! My record was 5 (my entire family thought I was nuts). Two of them were only temporary babysitting for almost-ex while he was in the US on business for an extended period.

All of my cats have been moggies: some from the Humane Society, a few rescued from friends who did not realize that a partner or child was allergic, an acquaintance who had not neutered their pet and were presented with kittens, or who were, for various reasons, no longer able to care for the cats any longer. One was abandoned in my neighbourhood (by someone who discovered that owning a cat takes work) and made the rounds from house to house (mooching beds and food like a champion) through the white-trash central complex of town-houses where I live for nearly 3 weeks before she moved in with me permanently.

I gave up my last two to a friend with a farm when I was supposed to be moving into a house my sister had bought. Her kids have allergies, so pets in the house was out. The house deal fell through, one of the cats was killed by a coyote, and the other was so well settled in I left her with Guy.

Life then got rather complicated for a while, and I resisted getting another cat (I am actually thinking 2 kittens) until I felt a bit more in control. I feel almost in control now, and I am really starting to miss having another living and breathing thing in my home. For a long time I have wanted a pair of Abyssinians (ruddy variant), but I also have a weakness for grey and black cats, and as much as I love the look of the Abyssinians, I would be happier giving a home to some cats who needed homes.

All that being said, here are some photos of my babies (apologies for the quality):

Me at 24 with one of my first cats. I named her Gandalf (I had just read Lord of the Rings), but my sister took one look at Gandalf's skinny 2 month old self and said "That's not a cat--it's a rat." and Gandalf very quickly became 'The Rat'. It was all she would ever answer to. (I am sure my sister's constant exhortations of 'Here, Rat. Here Rat.' had nothing to do with it.) An amazingly sweet tempered but rather stupid animal, she converted almost-ex from dogs to cats.

The Rat died of a heart attack when I was away on business at just a few months short of 20.

Before The Rat died, when she was about 15, the wife of one of the professors in the computing science department had found a stray kitten (only about 5 or 6 weeks old) in the alley beside their house and had adopted it. Her husband turned out to be very allergic to cats, and she was desperate to find a good home for it. The minute I found out this kitten was grey, I said I would take it. And this is how we got Luke.

Luke was a rocket scientist of a cat, gentle and affectionate as grey cats tend to be. (He demanded games of fetch from almost-ex every morning while Brent was having breakfast. I had made little balls from left over yarn for the cats to play with and Luke would throw the thing increasingly harder and harder at Brent's feet until Brent picked it up and threw it for Luke to fetch back.) We had to take the garbage out of the house whenever we had corn on the cob, or we would wake up the next moring to find all the corn cobs had been dragged under the buffet in the dining room and gnawed on. The only thing more unusual in cat tastes that I had ever run across was a cat of my sister's who had a passion, bordering on mania, for cantaloupe, and The Rat, who could not be trusted if date bran muffins were anywhere in the house.

About 6 months after we adopted Luke, Brent was away at a conference overseas. Luke was still playful, and The Rat was getting too old to be pestered: I wanted to get Luke a friend, so when I went to pick Brent up at the bus station, I greeted him with a present, Sophie, a 5 week old tortoiseshell from the Humane Society (found wandering in the road much as Luke had been). She barely covered the palm of my hand she was so tiny. She and Luke (pictured above) were the greatest of friends: there were rarely apart.

Very shortly after we got Sophie, The Rat died. A few months later, Luke got very sick (enlarged heart) and we had to have him euthanized. We were both devastated by this, and after not very much conversation, and in complete agreement, we decided to head off to the Humane Society for another cat.

When we got there, there was a grey male, a couple of years younger than Luke had been and the spitting image of Luke in both physical appearance and sweet nature (not quite the brains, but almost). In the cage next to him was a beautiful little 6 week old tabby. We took both, and they were even closer friends that Luke and Sophie had been. We named the gray male Matthew. I wanted to name the little tabby Marcia (Matthew, Marcia, Luke ... I would only need one more cat to complete The Joke, but Brent didn't find it as hysterically funny as I did). We toyed with Olivia, but settled on Kylie.

.....to be continued.....

Guerilla messaging

2007-06-21T17:56:00.000-04:00

One of my sisters has the most annoying computer manners.

It is not terribly unexpected. She approaches most things in life the same way: her priorities are paramount, often to the exclusion of common courtesy, and she can get quite testy when you cannot see how much more important and busy she is than you are. For years I bought into it. I am still not very good at saying no to her, but my patience has been stretched very close to the breaking point. As with so many irritants it life, it is a lot of little things, all piling one on top of the other for nearly 50 years. The camel’s back is close to breaking.

The computer, with email and messaging, is only the most recent forum for the dysfunctional sibling dynamic we are locked into.

She IMs me at the most awkward times (‘Busy’ ‘On the phone’ or ‘In a meeting’ status mean nothing to her), and because my email ‘doesn’t work’ (subject for another day), she won’t email details on what she wants done, even though I have repeatedly asked her to. (I am very glad she stopped using that wretched wink of the little guy popping his head up and sticking out his tongue. It only took me a year to get her to stop doing that.)

All this is getting past the title of this article. Guerilla messaging is what I call her trick of messaging me with a question and then vanishing to go do something else, and it has become chronic. No ‘be right back’ or ‘Excuse me a minute. One of the kids just set themselves on fire.’ Just nothing! Then 20 minutes later another IM ... did I get her question? Argh!! I leave my home computer IM on permanent ‘Appear Offline’ to avoid getting irretrievably irritated with her, and am seriously considering blocking her on my work IM. The inconsideration is making me quite grumpy, and I don’t like to feel that way.

The Squirrel Lady of Herchmer Crescent

2007-06-19T17:07:00.000-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, a former supervisor and I got into an email exchange about animal things, and it ended with my telling her my squirrel story. I thought I would share it. This is a good memory.
I did not have a digital camera at the time (I don't think they were even being marketed), but I ‘raised’ a family of squirrels once summer.

Almost-ex and I owned a house on a pie-slice shaped piece of property, and 3 properties backed onto ours. At the time, we had three cats. One backyard neighbour had 2 kids under 4: the almost 4 year old Brandon was hell on wheels, never supervised by his 19 year old mother and utterly fascinated with our cats. He also, for some totally unknown reason, thought I was totally great, and would escape from his yard and run over to ours whenever he saw me.

He came running over to me one afternoon, when I was out doing some weeding, and proudly announced that he had a kitty too. He was holding something tiny, black and furry. I asked if I could hold it. He said yes and handed it to me: it was a baby squirrel, eyes not even opened (under 2 weeks old).

I was tempted to freak, but stayed calm and asked him where he got his kitty. He took me into his backyard.

There had been a very big wind for most of the previous night, and tree droppings were scattered all over all the yards in the neighbourhood. Under the deck to his home, huddled in a corner, were 2 other baby squirrels. The branch their mama had built the nest on had obviously come down during the high winds.

I called Brandon’s mama (funny how I cannot remember her name), showed her the squirrels and offered to take them to my home. She agreed (there was a lot of talk about the germs, and not from me). I told Brandon that it was not a kitty but a wild thing called a squirrel and that because they it was a wild thing it needed extra special care. I told him I could take care of all of them very well, and promised Brandon that he could come and visit them any time.

This was how I became the Squirrel Lady: a sort of pied piper to the neighbourhood children (and to the kids of all of my friends).

There were 3 baby squirrels; two black, one gray.

If I remember correctly, it was a weekday mid-morning when I rescued the squirrels: 3 babies so young that their eyes were still closed and they were still totally dependent on their mother for nourishment. There was no ‘nest’ left to put the babies back into, and besides, squirrels are pragmatic beasts: if the nest and babies aren't where they left them, they just leave.

I got the largest of our cat carriers, lined it with an old bath towel, and collected the poor little things. When I got home I phoned the Humane Society to find out what to do. They said I could come in with them (although they could not take over—they are not allowed, by law, to take care of wild animals), but the vet was sweet. He looked them all over, gave me a mix for kitten formula and some little bottles I could use to nurse them. He estimated that they were about 1 week from their eyes opening, and about 3 or 4 weeks until I could start weaning them. I had to keep them warm, and for at least another 2 weeks bottle feed them every 2 hours. After the two weeks I could increase the time between feedings, and introduce Pablum. He also showed me how to use warm moistened cotton balls to stimulate their backsides and induce bowel movements (ick).

At this point almost-ex and I shared a rather large room in our house as office space. The cat carrier with the squirrels went onto a bookshelf between our desks by a window shaded by a huge Blue Spruce, resting on top of a heating pad, which I set to low, and put on a timer so it would cycle: ½ hour on, 1 hour off. I also shredded some newspaper and paper towels and placed it over the towel, so they could burrow and hide as they would in their nest.

The gray squirrel was obviously the most physically advanced, and even though his eyes were still closed, he had personality. He was immediately named Rocky (after the Rocket J. Squirrel character from Rocky and Bullwinkle). We weren't entirely sure what to name the two black ones, but that evening, while watching the new TV cartoon hit ‘Ren and Stimpy’ it came to us. One of the two was very small and quite retiring, rarely poking her head above the newspaper: she became ‘Wren’. The other black one had a very shortened tail: ‘Stumpy’ was the obvious name for him.

Rocky took to the bottle immediately. Stumpy was not as enthusiastic about it, but eventually hunger got the best of him. Wren, from the start, was a worrying little thing: it took her some time to get into the bottle, and she was awfully small and weak.

Not quite a week after I got them, Rocky’s eyes opened. Stumpy’s eyes opened about 2 days after that. Wren was still very small, and her eyes did not open until well after a week later. She spent most of her time hiding under the newspaper. Rocky would immediately go to the cage door when he heard me. Stumpy was not as forward as Rocky, but he eventually would join Rocky in the clamoring for the bottle. I had to feel through the cage lining to find Wren to give her her bottle.

Brandon and his little sister would come by the house every morning to see the squirrels. I would hold the squirrel in a towel on my lap, and let them hold the bottle.

After two weeks, I introduced a small dish of Pablum into the cage, and got one of those hamster cage water bottles. Rocky figured out the water bottle and the Pablum dish immediately. Again, Stumpy got the hang of it shortly afterwards, and Wren was still hiding, and not even trying the water or Pablum.

About this time I noticed that Wren was not just very small, she was starting to lose her fur in little clumps. Back to the Humane Society. Poor little mite had a type of mange, which could explain her slow development. The vet gave her a shot and a supplement I could add to the kitten formula for her bottles, and later to the Pablum.

She improved almost immediately, and within 2 days she was trying out the Pablum and the water bottle.

So, I now have 3 baby squirrels in a cat carrier who are starting to eat by themselves (very little, but it was a start) and getting increasingly active. I decided to take the carrier out into the yard on a warm and sunny day, to give them their bottle in the great outdoors. Brandon and his sister showed up, and three other neighbourhood kids (all under 5) also came to help feed the squirrels.

Trips of the carrier and contents to the backyard now happened every day, weather permitting. It was left outside as long as almost-ex or I were in the yard. I started leaving the cage door open. Rocky was first out to explore, with Stumpy close behind. Although it was shorts weather, I had to go back to wearing jeans, for the minute anything would startle Rocky, he would run up my legs. Stumpy would head for the cage, which he did not stray far from for the first few days outdoors, but within a couple of days I also became his escape route. Wren’s explorations had not begun yet … she was still very small and weak.

This photo is of me feeding Wren, and the child of a friend (Elizabeth … now doing a PhD in Engineering, if I remember correctly … God I feel old) feeding Stumpy. The son of another neighbour is sitting behind Elizabeth giving Rocky his bottle.

At the side of our house we had a large pile of cedar rails left over from building a fence. Rocky soon graduated from running up my legs to exploring the cedar rail pile. By this point he was off the bottle, and he had started eating ‘real food’. Within about a week and a half Rocky would not get back into the cage: he had moved into the pile of cedar rails. Stumpy joined him a few days later. Wren was still loathe to leave the cage, and was still on the bottle and Pablum with supplements.

We stuffed various crevices in the rail pile with various solid food (peanuts, sunflower seeds, etc.), but gave them Pablum first thing every morning, until they no longer came for it. Rocky was an incredibly messy Pablum eater (if I hadn't kept the bowls small, I swear he would have sat in it).

Our cats (we had three at the time) seemed barely interested in the squirrels. But the squirrels were cautious of them.

(Rocky in the wood pile with our tortoiseshell Sophie trying to feign disinterest.)

Within another couple of weeks Wren moved into the wood pile. A few days later Rocky vanished. Then Stumpy left. A couple of weeks after that Wren also left.

They did come back every now and then for a while, and did ‘answer’ to their names (particularly Rocky), but they were busy living squirrel lives, and people did not figure much in their world any longer. We could certainly spook them as easily as we could the ones we hadn't raised. But the goal had been to raise wild squirrels, not pets. So we were satisfied. And the memories of all of it are good.

Running into old friends

2007-06-19T06:40:00.000-04:00

This past Sunday was the Queen's Alumni BBQ at Kingsmere Farm. The Speaker of the House of Commons is a Queen's grad, and he has hosted a summer event for many years now at the Speaker's official residence.

Last year was the first one of these events that I attended. I was never a big Tam wearing, Oil Thigh singing student, and Queen's student culture was ultra Rah-Rah (not at all my style), so I avoided Alumni events for years assuming that would be as annoying as the home-coming weekends I witnessed as an undergrad.

Anyways, last year, for some unknown reason, I decided to attend the event at the speaker's residence. I ran into a couple I had worked at the Queen's radio station (CFRC) with back in the mid 70's. We have crossed paths off and on occasionally since we all graduated, but this was the first time in about 10 years. I got to meet their kids, and catch up. There were speeches and the mandatory bagpiper at the event, but it was amazingly un-rah-rah for a Queen's event.

That experience decided me to try some other local Alumni events. I attended the Alumni bonspiel, the beer-tasting pub night, and although I rarely ever ran into anyone I had been at school with (and I did my degree part time while working full time, so I had a lot of years of people to choose from), I did get to meet some new people and have become a very big fan of the monthly pub nights as an excellent way to get out of the house (working at home can be very isolating). The last pub night I attended was totally great: I met a retired doctor (in his late 80's, who car pools into every pub night with the Alumni Ottawa branch social convener--Kleo) and Andy and I spent most of that evening chatting up a storm. He was beyond charming.

Anyways, back to the BBQ on Sunday. I wandered around looking for familiar faces, introducing myself to people in groups as I wandered, eating my green SnoCone. Almost-ex and his girlfriend were there, and so was Kleo. I chatted all around the event area for a while and finally decided to head back to the car and go home. As I was moving off, I was still glancing around at the various groups of people, just watching groups chatting and kids playing. Then a figure struck me as familiar, so I walked over, not sure if it was who I thought it was. It was. A couple that almost-ex and I had been friends with for some time before they moved away: I had not seen either of them in nearly 20 years. This was the first Ottawa branch Alumni event they had attended, having avoided previous events much for the same reasons I had. It was a total blast running into them, and we caught up until the event wound down. (In the small world category of conversation, it turns out that Carlisle and Marion live in a house about 1 block from almost-ex's house.) I hope to get them out to an Alumni pub night some time.

Speaking of which, there is another one scheduled for this Thursday.

Cha Cheil!

Busy week

2007-06-16T10:17:00.000-04:00

My week has been busy, in large part because an old problem with gastro-enteritis has reared it ugly head, and I have spent the better part of the last 2 weeks feeling quite sick to my stomach, and having almost anything I eat come back on me. Saw the doctor (no huge help), and then remembered what a previous GP had done when I went through this: a diet of innocuous foods, phased in over a period of several weeks. This a) allowed the inflamation/irritation to heal, and b) a way to discover which foods I had developed an intolerance to.

The drill is nothing but plain rice, jello and plain water for 4 to 5 days, until I am no longer experiencing the symptoms of severe gastric distress. Then phase in new foods every other day, and watch for the signs. (It was this process that taught Dr. Lynn and I that sweet peppers should not make up any part of my diet: within 6 hours of eating them I would get very sick.) The hardest thing to eschew is my morning coffee, but not having coffee in the morning beats feeling ill all day long, and requiring long naps just to escape the nausea.

Got my 2 portable air conditioners (one for each floor) delivered in the middle of the week. They are currently sitting like great hulking beasts in my hallway. I cannot move them or install them: the job requires two people. I think I will have to impose on almost-ex if I am ever going to get them installed. And installation in my office is imperative: yesterday the office temperature (not humidity corrected) was 38. And it is not even summer yet.

I am geting a lot of nonsense banking done: transferring accounts, topping up GICs and RRSP. Also other assorted bookeeping and paperwork tasks done. Dead boring, but necessary.

Mr. Car Alarm seems to have finally figured it out (praise be).

Queen's alumni reception at the Speaker's (Arts'68) residence at Kingsmere tomorrow afternoon. I always love these events: a lot of good catching up gets done.

Making a friend

2007-06-09T07:11:00.001-04:00

You can make friends almost anywhere. I made a new friend yesterday; online at work.

A lot of us at my company use Microsoft Messenger for quick communications (faster than email, cheaper than the phone). Yesterday I was updating the contact information for contacts that showed there had been changes, and I noticed on the contact information for one individual included a couple of book recommendations. One of the books recommended was Richard Dawkins 'The God Delusion'.

I have not read that book (it is on my every growing list of 'must read': I will need to live to be 150 to get it all read), but I am familiar with Dawkins' work, largely through a podcast that I listen to regularly. (See link at the end of this post.) Being a secular humanist can be tough and often very lonely, so seeing a recommendation like this immediately tweaked my interest, and I scooted off a message to Rik.

We had a lovely conversation, and I pointed him towards the Point of Inquiry podcast. He was thrilled to learn of it. As he flipped through that various episodes, he got more and more excited: "The Amazing Randi?" 'Oh, wow ... Anne Druyan!", and so on and so on.

We talked a bit about the difficulty of being a secular humanist in the midst of highly religious environments. I have a very large number of relations who are regular church goers and a sister who consults psychics for advice on her life with a degree of credulity that leaves me gasping. We talked about how we are both commonly addressed with the comment 'How can you not believe in anything?', to the point where both of are ready to scream. (He joked that I had probably heard the screams he voiced in the Maritimes at that question here in Quebec.)

We shared other discoveries with each other: favorite bands (he pointed me to an Arcade Fire video on uTube), best music for background to various work-related tasks, and generally had a very nice, if brief, sharing.

This is not the first work friend I have made through a connection to my peronal comment on Messenger. My first week at this job (August 2005) that comment read 'Free Cycle Rules'. Karen contacted me immediately to tell me she was also a fan of Free Cycle, and she and I have been chatting ever since. My friendship with her inspired me to blog: she has her own blog (http://sassymonkey.ca/) and also blogs on books for BlogHer.

I spoke too soon

2007-06-07T07:46:00.000-04:00

I rejoiced over the absence of the car alarm way too soon. It went off 7 times after 3:30 pm yesterday--the last time at 2:30 in the morning.

As my cousin Lenore used to say (when she was getting really, really annoyed), "'Grr, Grr!' dit le tigre."

Cold nose

2007-06-06T08:47:00.000-04:00

This morning I woke up to a cold nose, and it was quite delicious. The experience was not quite as transcendent as my cold nose of a couple of weeks ago (probably because it was a work day, and not a Sunday).

That Sunday was the best 'waking up' that I had had in a long time. It was just after dawn and the birds were doing their morning song thing. I was cuddled up in an incredibly cozy litle cucoon of warmth, with only my head poking out from under the covers. I just lay there, breathing in the cool, fresh air and listening to the birds. I snuggled into my covers, closed my eyes and just listened and breathed for about 20 minutes (maybe longer ... I am not sure ... I was just revelling in the deliciousness of it).

I then opened my eyes and just looked around; still snuggling and being very conscious of my breaths and how the cold air felt. From the center of the ceiling I could see a fairly largish spider letting itself down on a thread. It went on for quite some time (nearly 3 feet), and then he or she slowly climbed back up to the ceiling and headed off toward a far wall. I lost sight of it. After I lost sight of the spider, I finally convinced myself to get up.

This morning was not quite the same: no spider, no birds, and the morning traffic into Ottawa was already in noisy full force. I knew I had to roust myself to get up to my office and start working, so I did not have the luxury of reveling: but I still had a cold nose and cold fresh breaths, and a very warm and cozy bed.

Even better, the neighbour has finally figured out his car alarm. Life is good.

Things that frost my gourd (Part 4)

2007-06-02T09:37:00.000-04:00

This one is now, officially, way WAY past annoying! Sometime last week a neighbour of mine got either a new car with an alarm, or had an alarm installed in their existing car.

I am forced to the sad conclusion that whomever owns this car has yet to figure out how the alarm works. I reached this conclusion after nearly a week of the alarm going off between 15 to 30 times a day (we just had the 3rd alarm since 5:00 am this morning).

This is not one of those beep-pause-beep-pause-beep .... at a medium volume alarms. This is one of those incredibly loud everything-but-the-kitchen-sink type alarms: a few loud chirps, followed by a bit of fire engine, a bit of police car, a bit of air-raid siren, a smidge of big truck "I'm backing up" alarm and one noise I can only describe as a high pitched sort of fog horn sound. Then begin again.

Average time from beginning to end: 1 minute, 45 seconds.

Longest alarm duration to date: 18 minutes.

Whoops .. thar she blows!

Time of alarm: spread out across the day quite evenly, but a few really nasty (as in more than 5 minutes) episodes between 1:30 and 4:00 am three nights this week.

I wish they would read the manual and learn how to set the sensitivity level, how to open their car to go to work at 5:30 in the morning without setting the alarm off, and how to shut the thing off when it has been triggered (under 30 seconds would be nice).

Crap! There it goes ... again!

Snarl. Argh! Spit!

Oh my God ... AGAIN!

Humours saves (cont)

2007-06-02T08:23:00.000-04:00

I must acknowledge as a part of my indebtedness to humour (and people with senses of humour) in the workplace, Moni--a manager at a client company--who's ability to recognize the ridiculous is unmatched and who has an imp of slightly naughty mischief in his make-up, along with a low tolerance for ka-ka, an incredibly professional manner, and a work ethic that may end up doing him an injury if he is not careful.

Throughout an incredibly annoying couple of days at the beginning of the week, he was always considerate of our needs and requirements, he never left me hanging out to dry, he never failed to either make a joke or laugh at one of mine when things got beyond silly, and he never ceased to be supportive. What could have been stressful to the max became a mere bagatelle. I was never given the feeling that I did not have a say, that the effort involved was not understood and appreciated, or that I was alone in finding some things beyond ridiculous. He is a gem.

Things that frost my gourd (Part 3)

2007-06-02T07:25:00.000-04:00

I've got two of them today:

My week involved making a lot of extra-frantic super-emergency very-important last-minute changes and additions to some documentation some days after the documents were 'finalized'. What bugged me is that these changes were either because:
- the reviewers reviewing the documents did not review them properly some months ago when they were supposed to, or
- new software (requiring the complete reworking of most of a chapter and the addition of an appendix) had been developed over some weeks, and the first I hear of it is 3 days before the documents are to be approved and published (publication being a 5 day process).
Snarl, argh and spit!

Numbers (of any kind) as a substitute for effective management. I do not mind collecting statistics for management purposes; if the stats I have to collect actually mean something.

A good analogy to the type of stats I was asked to collect would be '"How many square feet of garden did you make changes to in the past month?". The gardening involved 2 beds, each 5' by 10', for a total of 100 sq ft, so you give them that number.

The back story to this number is that there are two beds in the garden. One bed already existed. It was planted with perennials some years ago, is well mulched and has an automatic watering system. The only effort those 50 sq ft required was weeding (two hours once a week, maximum twice a week).

The second bed was a new bed that you decided to add. The effort for those 50 sq ft was:
- double digging the bed to a depth of 4 feet and adding soil amendments to adjust for low Ph and little organic matter in the sandy soil (3 x 7.5 hour days)
- purchasing the plants, soil amenders, mulch and fixings to expand the automatic watering system (1 x 7.5 hour day to find everything if you are very lucky)
- planting the plants (1 x 7.5 hour day)
- mulching the bed (4 hours)
- installing the extension to the automatic watering system (6 hours)
- repurchasing plants and replanting when deer ate 1/2 of your new plants (1 x 7.5 hour day)
- fencing in the new plot (2 x 7.5 hour day) to keep out the deer
Over the month in question, 50 sq ft involved a maximum of 16 hours, the other 50 sq ft a minimum of 70 hours.

How does the statistic of 100 sq feet convey anything even remotely meaningful about the effort involved in the garden? (This certainly has me completely baffled.)

Dance fools, dance!

2007-05-27T11:02:00.000-04:00

Well, the die is cast. Our subscriptions for the 2007-2008 dance series have been finalized:

Series C - NAC Studio:

Crystal Pite/Kidd Pivot: Lost Action
Tedd Robinson/10 Gates Dancing Inc.: REDD
Ballet de Lorraine: La Nuit des interprètes

Series B - NAC Theatre:

Diavolo Dance Theater
Ballet du Grand Théatre de Genève: Compelling Contemporary Choreography: Para-Dice, Selon désir, Loin
Rosas: Fase, four movements to the music of Steve Reich
Emanuel Gat Dance: The Rite of Spring, Winter Voyage
Black Grace Akram Khan + The National Ballet of China

And a designer series (make up your own).

- from Series A - Southam Hall

Cloud Gate Dance Theatre of Taiwan: Wild Cursive
Lizt Alfonso Danza Cub

- from the Canril Ballet Series - Southam Hall

Royal Winnipeg Ballet: The Passion of Carmen
Les Ballets de Monte-Carlo: Le Songe (A Midsummer Night's Dream)

One of the performances in Series A for next year is by 'Les Grands Ballets Canadiens de Montréal'. We went over the program and made our decisions in the NAC lobby (over the chocolate chip cookies that was the special reception for the end of season) immediately following a performance by "Les Grand Ballet" that left both of us significantly less than impressed (for the second time in a row with this company), and the thought of seeing them again at that particular point in time was very unpalatable. We also feel that the Series A selections are based more on what is most likely to appeal to the broadest audiences, and we have found that our preferences over the years have tended towards the less mainstream.

So we decided to mess around with our standard practice of A, B and C subscriptions. (Given our reasoning, I am still a bit stunned that I was able to talk almost-ex into a couple of classical ballet performances. The clincher was that whenever we have seen the Royal Winnipeg Ballet, the quality of the dancing was blisteringly spectacular, and we can enjoy almost anything if the dancing is really, really good.)

Almost-ex's girlfriend will be joining us for Series B. I think almost-ex was a little leery of suggesting it, quite adorably so. I would really like her, I was told. And although we have only met a couple of times, I do like her, and I am really looking forward to having her there next year.

Humour saves

2007-05-26T07:18:00.000-04:00

This week I finally ‘met’ someone who I will be working with over the next few weeks, maybe even months. I use quotes around met because I rarely get to meet my colleagues. I work from home (I live in Hull, Quebec—just across the river from Ottawa, Ontario) for a company based in New Brunswick. (I haven’t even ‘met’ my supervisor, even though I have been working with Lee for nearly 4 months.) I have met most of my Ottawa area colleagues, but very few others: employees of this company are scattered all over North America, from coast to coast, and as of early this year, overseas.

Working from home and conducting all of your business by phone and through email is not an easy thing. For all the fact that telecommuting has been touted as the way of the future since the early 80s, industry has been very slow in developing effective attitudes, strategies and policies for creating a environment where effective working relationships can be both built and maintained over long distances and across time zones (where some team members are going to bed just as others are getting up).

What invariably suffers from the fairly outdated management principles still in practice is the sense of community. There is no water cooler. No photocopier or coffee station. Developing and maintaining personal connections with the people you work ‘beside’ is not nearly as natural when you have never actually met as it is when you can meet face to face on an almost daily basis. The team building and moral boosting plans they come up with invariably require proximity: you must work at head office to participate in any of them, which leaves the remote workers (more than half of the company’s employees) feeling like second class citizens within the corporation. (I am still waiting for the company magnet, supposedly distributed to all employees, so that when the corporate ‘Secret Shopper’ visits my cubicle I will be eligible for the prize awarded for prominently displaying said magnet. I have totally given up on the ice cream gift certificate promised a year ago.)

Anyways, back to my ‘meeting’ a new colleague. Her name is Greshma, and she lives and works in Bangalore, India. And as best as I can tell, given that we have just 'met', she and I are going to get on like a house on fire.

We had our first ‘meeting’ this past Thursday morning; a conference call set up by Lee (who has just spent a few months over in India putting together the partnership project between my company and the India firm). The agenda was simply to introduce me and Greshma to each other and for the three of us to go over the work to be done over the next month while Lee is on vacation. The call lasted about 15 or 20 minutes and consisted of hellos, a review of some project highpoints, and Greshma and I saying how much we would miss Lee while he was gone. Not really much space for the kind of convivial conversation that would allow Greshma and me to become really acquainted. One of the final acts of this conversation was Greshma and I exchanging our Messenger ID’s.

The call ended, and the first thing I did was to check on the company’s virtual office site for any details about Greshma. I located her self description, and knew that I was totally in luck:

If I had my life to live over, I'd dare to make more mistakes next time. I'd relax; I'd limber up. I would be sillier than I have been this trip. I would take fewer things seriously. I would take more chances. I would climb more mountains and swim more rivers. I would eat more ice cream and less beans. I would perhaps have more actual troubles, but I'd have fewer imaginary ones.

I was just reading this over when the Messenger window requesting authorization for Greshma appeared. I authorized, and within seconds we started chatting. About family, pets, food, philosophies of life, and a lot of stuff I no longer remember; about 20 minutes of very important trivialities. This is how you build a team: one relationship at a time.

The beginning of my day is the end of hers, and to open or close a day with a simple chat can go a long, long way towards building a personal relationship in the long-distance world of the telecommuter that no corporate exercise (like ‘Secret Shoppers’ visiting cubicles and handing out prizes, or ice cream socials) ever could ever accomplish. A Messenger (Yahoo, ICQ, whatever) chat can bridge the chasm of relationship building where face-to-face meetings are unlikely or even impossible. And, to mix my metaphors, humour is very often the grease on the skids.

“I would be sillier…” To read that Greshma felt silliness an important aspect of a good life instantly drew me to her: silliness is a specialty of mine. (I also do irreverence, but we can go into that another time.)

“I would take fewer things seriously.” That ties into a favorite quotation of mine. “Always take your work seriously. Never take yourself seriously.” (Dame Margot Fonteyn) I can take myself incredibly seriously at times, and I often have to make a concerted effort not to. The Fonteyn quote often helps me get back on track again.

I am very lucky. I have several colleagues (only two of whom I have met face-to-face) that have great senses of humour. Most don't get me, but at 50+ I cannot NOT be who I am.

Making a friend of a colleague over very long distances is ever-so-much easier if you joke together. (Good emoticons also help!)

I have been remiss ... and gardening

2007-05-20T10:56:00.000-04:00

I should be ashamed of myself for not having written in the past couple of weeks, but I have been doing my level best, in most of my waking hours, to get my garden ready. The weather has been inordinately mild, and I really had to get onto it before the job became insurmountable. (Dandelions are aggressive little you-know-whats.)

I live in a rented townhouse, with a 12' x 24' patio and full south exposure. My garden is a container garden: various planters and pots of various sizes, and automatic watering system around the edges to drip irrigate the pots. Spring clean up of my garden is quite a bit of work.

My yard is right next to the parking lot for the complex I live in, and people seem to think that my yard is just a second dumpster for the complex. This year was better than most ... only 1 1/2 large green garbage bags of Macdonalds' wrappers, Big Gulps, newspapers, candy wrappers, cigarette butts and packs, and so on. Garbage detail went pretty quickly this year.

The next thing is to survey the damage that winter wrought. The watering system is tested for leaks, and any components that did not make it through the winter are replaced. The perennials and shrubs (a dwarf lilac and a Tulip Magnolia) are checked for winter die back. (I lost 3 perennials this year: my 2 Purple Cone flowers and a white Campanula. The jury is still out on the bulbs: Siberian Iris and Liatris.) Pots and other garden accoutrements that show damage are tossed. (This year I lost my arbour to advanced rot. It was, however, 12 years old, and did not owe me anything.)

My poor ex-arbour in happier days.

Step three is removing the plants that died over the winter and cleaning out the dandelions and plantain, and about 8 other types of weeds that I do not recognize, from the cracks between the pavers in the patio. (Another 2 green garbage bags to the dumpster.) Crack cleaning will be an unending duty until the fall as I will not use Round-up or other herbicides.

Now we start onto the actual planters and pots.

Weed and loosen the soil around the perennials and shrubs, and throw out any peanuts that I find burried. (There is an elderly couple down at the far end of my unit that keeps the local squirrels well supplied with peanuts from late August to early May. These squirrels have decided that my garden is a wonderful place to cache their nuts, and every spring I come across between 50 and 70 peanuts that are starting the thrown out roots.) Then, a new layer of mulch (water retention is an issue with container gardening).

All the pots that held annuals, or plants that did not survive the winter, and that were not damaged in the winter are dug out and the soil mixed with organic fertilizers and organic matter for moisture retention. This year I am adding a new item to the soil rebuilding: a very interesting polymer crystal, about the size of kosher salt grains, which will absorb water and release it when required. I saw it on a P. Allen Smith gardening program, and it sounded very interesting. I'll let you know how well it worked at the end of the season.

Now, off to the garden center. Replace any pots, perennials and anything else that did not make it, and load up on mulch. I have used cocoa husks as mulch for the past couple of years and it has been working very well for moisture retention and weed suppression: besides they release a subtle aroma of chocolate when the sun falls on it. I found a couple of nice terracotta planters to add to the design, but I have been totally unable to find a replacement for my arbour. (sob) Then supplement the perennials in the garden with annuals and some herbs.

Finally, the furniture brought up from the basement, reassembled and prepped for the summer. This is the stage I am at now ... and with luck I will be finished this weekend.

Rambling

2007-05-05T09:03:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was a very full day.

I trashed somebody's document by accident (it is hard to not mess things up when the instructions and processes published and maintained by the company are wrong, out of date or incorrect).

I called the tech support people, and while waiting for the return call got a phone call from the security company for my sister's house that the alarm had gone off (about 15 minutes at top speed away). So, a mad dash up to Chelsea to make sure that nothing horrible had happened. Nothing had, but there are mysteries to be resolved. (So much for my plans to get on with my garden today.)

I had a long talk with my bank. As you know from an earlier post, I had deposited a substantial cheque to my account about a week ago, and then hit a shopping groove. I wasn't worried about the funds: it was a Government of Canada cheque. Then I discovered that my rent cheque had been bounced back (first time ever), because the branch where I made the deposit placed a hold on the cheque.

When I moved to Gatineau Quebec from Kingston Ontario I was going to transfer my accounts to the branch of my bank closest to me. I decided not to, for any number of reasons (mostly because they often outright lied to me about what could or could not be done--and I knew that because I had worked for this bank on and off since I was 18), and because in the age of electronic banking, it was not as necessary as it had been 50 years ago, when passbooks and statements were still all generated by hand.

The banker I talked to (same bank, Ottawa Ontario side of the river) about this return of my rent cheque said that this was a not atypical behaviour from the Quebec-side branches. A large percentage of the accounts they held were moved over to Ontario around the time of the last referendum, and these branches are starting to resort to bullying clients by making it impossible for them to do any business with the branch until all that client's accounts have been moved to that branch. (This explained a lot of the garbage I have been through with the Quebec branch I have been dealing with for over 11 years.)

Last night was the last in our dance series for the season: Les Grande Ballets Canadiens de Montreal. Both the almost-ex and I were really looking forward to this (and not only because of the cookies reception for the entire audience that was to be held following the performance). Past shows of theirs had been great. Last night's was a disappointment: the choreography was OK, the music (Shostakovitch Suite No. 2 for Jazz Orchestra) for TooT was marvellous and the piece was mildy amusing, but the dancing was sloppy. Not what we had come to expect from this group. The second part of the program, Noces, had deeply annoying music and was essentially uninspiring. The audience was incredibly moderate in their reactions to both, and got 'bullied' into applauding more than they wanted to by the guy manning the stage lighting and the obviously formula curtain call routines the troupe had. (At one point it was kind of sad: the dancers knew that the audience did not want to clap any more, and they were almost all off the stage when the lights that had dimmed were turned up and the company was sent back out to finish the curtain call routine. I felt kinda sorry for them.)

While we were eating our cookies afterwards, we started talking about our subscriptions for next year. For the past couple of years we had been finding the series A events (which are presented in the premier venue, Southam Hall) very hit and miss. Some were spectacular (Alvin Aliley American Dance Theatre, The Forsythe Company), others (like La La La and Les Grand Ballet this year and a Belgian company Rosas from a couple of years ago) ranged from OK to boring/icky. The presentations in the smaller Theatre have been more uniformly engaging.

Our theory is that the A series bookings for Southam Hall are those most likely to attract a broad audience (over groups that would appeal more to the modern dance aficionados, like the B and C series); a triumph of brand recognition over substance. We are thinking of being a little more selective about which A series performances we get with the subscriptions (an idea prompted by the presence of Les Grand Ballet on next season's A series schedule). I even managed to get the almost-ex seriously considering a couple of classical ballet performances from the CANRIL Ballet series: Royal Winnipeg Ballet The Passion of Carmen and Les Ballet de Monte-Carlo - Monaco Le Songe (A Midsummer Night's Dream). We finished our cookies, and decided to think on for a bit before we made our decisions.

Chefs and Cooks on the Internet

2007-05-03T17:01:00.001-04:00

Back when I was cooking professionally (actually, even before then, when I was studying cooking) my husband gave me his old computer and we shortly thereafter got connected to a local ISP. While poking around on the very young Internet, I discovered a newly formed listserve for food professionals. It was very early days for the list. I lurked and just read for some while, fascinated just to follow the discussions.

It was a fascinating place for a newbie to the industry to be, and some of the discussion was rather heady: great discussions on kitchen and personnel management, resolving problems (like the cracking cheesecakes that was making me crazy), sharing tips and sources for equipment, pointers to articles and news stories that affected food producers and purveyors, or bone-chilling stories about a newer set of yet lower standards for foods to served in schools to our children. There was a lot about behaviour in kitchen (was the arrogant chefs who abused all around him becoming more of a cliché than a reality?), food safety, pricing, tipping, salaries.

One list member runs a placement agency for food professionals, and her insights were wonderful and helpful, and her semi-regular posts of resumes (names deleted to protect) from new CIA or some other culinary institute graduates with grandiose expectations, appalling grammar and more 'what not to say if you want a job' items in their resumes than any of us could possibly imagine. (And the covering letters were even worse.)

I eventually graduated to contributing to the discussions. At times people would get shirty. In the early days of the list, we had some real knock-down-drag-out flame wars over some highly volatile topics like food irradiation, transgenic food plants and milk. The list owner eventually had to set up 'rules of conduct' and a rota of volunteer 'moderators' was established. The list required authorization to join once the housewives wanting a new recipe for jello-mould salads with carrots had finally found us.

During the busy seasons (harvest time for the farmers, Christmas for almost everybody), postings were few and far between. In the slower seasons, there were often more than I had time to read. Shortly after my business was well in hand I was asked to be one of the chocolate experts in an 'ask the expert' section of a San Francisco newspaper's bulletin board. I made some friends on the list, and lost some too (rest well, Pastorio).

I am still a member of the list, although I no longer cook professionally (MS and the attendant stamina issues made continuing in that line of work impossible). I don't read everything that comes through the list, but I read a lot of it, and I find out about things I did not even know existed, get annoyed at the latest thing some government or the WTO is doing to our food, or discover an approach to handling something that I had never considered. Unless they kick me off, I will stick around. I get a lot of really cool stuff from that list.

See The fall and rise of good bread featuring 2 articles by a favourite writer of mine from my chef's list, David Auerbach (the man who saved my beans cooking). He has other articles there too. Check the archives.

Menopausal mind-funk

2007-05-02T09:45:00.001-04:00

I have had a heck of a time concentrating for the past 48 or so hours (not helped by virtually no sleep at all for two nights due to constant waking with hot flashes).

I can think clearly (if somewhat laterally) most of the time, but for the past couple of days I keep reading the same sentence or paragraph over and over again, and cannot make any sense of it, mostly from a complete inability to concentrate for more than 3 seconds on anything. My mind keeps wandering all over the map, and to the most irrelevant and unrelated things.

"You really have to get to work on that garden." "The chicken soup you made yesterday was good...but you needed bread with it. Pity the noodles have soaked up the remaining broth in the soup...it would have made a good lunch." "I wonder how Dad is doing visiting Donna in Italy." "Did I take my shot this morning?" "I really should get myself a kitten. The house is lonely without a cat around."

And so on, and so on ...

All of it is a constant distraction to whatever task is at hand. I am not even going to admit how long it actually took me to get the vegetables ready for the soup, but it was well over 10 times as long as it should have taken. I would notice something on the coffee counter, and stop the chopping to go and clean it. And then would chop two mushrooms more before deciding I needed something from my office (no idea what or why), would go upstairs for it, and forget what it was by the time I reached the top, only to have the idea pop back up the minute I started the chopping again. It has been like that since mid-Monday, and I am truly getting nowhere fast. At the best of times I distract incredibly easily, which drives my sister Donna quite nuts, but these past couple of days seen my distractibility quotient rise to an entirely new level.

There is a set of funny 'prayers' for the Myers-Briggs personality types that a friend found once and passed over to me. I am Myers-Briggs type ENFP (Extraverted iNtuitive Feeling Perceiving), and the prayer for my type is "God, help me to keep my mind on one th--Oh, Look...a bird!--ing at a time." That is so-o-o Me, except that I rarely return to the original thought!

Sometimes I can focus quite intently, to the exclusion of everything around me. (When I was renting the second kitchen at a restaurant in Kingston for my small business, the restaurant's head chef used to climb very quietly up the stairs, stand right behind me and, after making sure I didn't have a knife or anything else dangerous in my hand, say 'boo!' right into my ear. I was always caught totally off guard and would jump clear out of my skin. He never tired of that game, saying that he liked my 'finely-tuned flight response'.)

I have a bunch of banked overtime at work, and I am thinking that rather than sit here and try to accomplish things when I am in this state that I should go through all the busy-work I have to do--which should take about half an hour--and then use up some of that banked time getting distracted from household chores rather than my job.

I do not shop

2007-04-29T08:56:00.000-04:00

I am not a shopper.

I used to be, up until I was about 22 or 23. Back then I shopped too much. (My mother's almost-funny joke was "If you drop Susan in the middle of a forest, she would find a tree she wanted to buy."). But over the years, especially with the explosion of malls and big-box outlets and the loss of the non-chain neighbourhood stores, I completely lost patience with it.

Clothes were always an issue. I am tall, with very long legs and arms and very broad shoulders. Up until I was 29, I weighed under 115. Finding clothes that both fit and suited me was incredibly difficult. I take a size 10 shoe with a combination last (B foot with AA heel), and those are very hard to find in anything other than bug-ugly.

But it is not just clothes and shoes that I hate to shop for. I hate most shopping. I will go out looking for a piece of furniture, some paint, some good bread or almost anything, usually with a very specific idea of what I want or a specific requirement to meet. I find nothing even close, and I very soon (about 2 hours) get beyond frustrated and just go home.

Yesterday, inexplicably, I had the shopping mojo. Every place I went had exactly what I was looking for (or not looking for because I had given up). I got some new jeans for my new waist (31, down from 36: I nearly plotzed!) at the first store I went into. Then some decent rolls and a lovely bowl for my fruit and a matching, perfect butter dish, all in the space of about an hour.

I stopped by at a friend's place around noon and was invited to stay for a barbeque, but I did not dare: the shopping gods don't often bestow their favours on me and I did not dare to laugh at them while they were smiling on me. En route to the grocery store I noticed a couple of stores I did not remember, and I stopped at them on a whim. I found a TV stand that totally met the vision I had held onto for over a year (to replace the wobbly microwave stand I have been using), the perfect unit to hold my scanner (currently residing on a chair in my office) and both of my printers (one still in the box) and a lamp for $10 that was exactly what I needed for a particular place.

I am spending my morning getting my TV and stereo into the stand, and setting up the office electronics, while having coffee with my rolls. And, I may even get into shopping again, if I have another day or two like yesterday.

Taxes and Dances

2007-04-28T11:06:00.000-04:00

I got my tax refund in the mail yesterday, and when I went to file the papers (before taking the cheque to the bank) I discovered my file cabinet had returns back to 1974 and no room. So, I spent the better part of the morning with my shredder, and I now have room for this year's paper work.

Last night we had yet another dance performance to attend (this has been a very rich month dance-wise), and it was thoroughly enjoyable. Compagnie Marie Chouinard "bODY_rEMIX/gOLDBERG vARIATIONS". Last time we saw this company and this choreographer's work was a couple of years ago, with her version of "Le Sacre du printemps", and we were thrilled by it. Last night's performance was wierder, but it did not disappoint.

Also received yesterday with the 2007/2008 NAC dance season calender (http://nac-cna.ca/en/dance/index_0708.html), so part of this afternoon will be spent pouring over it. We will still get series A, B and C, but I love looking over it and starting the anticipation early.

Off to deposit that cheque.

Things that frost my gourd (Part 2)

2007-04-27T16:05:00.000-04:00

I've got two of them (today has been one of those days).

People who answer your questions with the answer they want to give, not the answer to the question you asked.

For nearly 3 weeks I have been asking one simple (well, to my mind it was simple) question: what are the rules for naming an 'x' you are building to hold a 'y'. Once the strange looks (I thought I had sprouted horns out of the center of my forehead) had passed, I was told how to do something with 'y', how to write a procedure describing how 'y' is used, how to build an 'm' to hold an 'n', that 'x's did not need names and eventually that 'x's did not even exist. All of that accompanied with a semi-condescending look that said "Every idiot knows that.". Today, I found the rules (which I knew existed, because we had to take a course about the use of 'x's but where we were not told the rules of naming them.).
Businesses who make their employees answer the phone with "How can I give you excellent service today?"

To date I have resisted the urge to say something like "Wow-You really do dare to dream the impossible dream!" or "You can't. I want the same crappy service I have come to expect from ....." or "By tapdancing your answers to me in Morse code.", but some day I will (unless I come up with a better one between now and then, and I am accepting contributions). Being greeted like that (expecially after spending 20 minutes on hold) generally means that the excellent service bird has already flown the coop.

Ciao for now

Curmudgeons-R-Us TM

Recipe for Angel Biscuits

2007-04-27T16:00:00.000-04:00

2 1/2 cups flour
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
1 pinch soda
1/8 cup sugar
1/2 cup shortening
1/4 cup warm water
1 pkg dry yeast
1 cup buttermilk

Dissolve yeast in warm water. Set aside. Mix dry ingredients in order and cut in shortening. Stir in buttermilk and dissolved yeast. Blend thoroughly. Can be refrigerated at this point in covered bowl 3 days.

Knead lightly on floured board. Roll out and cut with biscuit cutter. Place on greased baking sheet. Let rise slightly.

Bake in 400 degree oven until brown.

Can also be used for coffee cake and cinnamon rolls.

Things that frost my gourd (Part 1)

2007-04-26T13:23:00.001-04:00

One thing that has annoyed me increasingly since they first started appearing in restaurants with pretensions to god-knows-what are the Giant Pepper Mill People.

This insidious species shows up at your table 0.01023 seconds after your plate is placed in front of you with The Giant Pepper Mill, and their signature vocalization "Would you like some fresh pepper on that?".

How am I supposed to know if I want pepper? The aroma from the plate hasn't even had time to reach my nose, so how can I have tasted it yet to see if it is in need of pepper?

Equally annoying are the subspecies of the Giant Pepper Mill People (homo idiotus phalusspapaver); the Parmesan Cheese Shakers (homo idiotus fromagus) and the new to science Giant SeaSalt Grinder Grinders (homo idiotus sel-de-mer-oh-merde).

When I attended the Stratford Chefs School, we were taught the importance of tasting the food we were preparing (always with a clean spoon! and at every stage of the process) to insure that the seasoning was balanced and appropriate. (Which was hard for me to learn: years of low-to-no-salt cooking for someone with blood pressure issues had made me highly sensitive to salt, with the result that I under salted things as a matter or course, and found salting appropriate for the general public taste was highly over-salted to my taste.)

But I digress ...

This pouncing on you, armed with giant condiment dispensers, before you have even tasted a bite and identified what, if any, deficiencies in seasoning exist in the dish, means that these restaurants do not trust the food coming out of the kitchen to taste the way it should (assuming the kitchen staff actually prepares it, which is a subject for a future rant).

Another way to look at the Giant Pepper Mill People (GPMP) is that they know that fresh ground pepper tastes better than anything ground more than 4 hours earlier. And that restaurants were going broke replacing pepper mills that people had swiped. Fine ... I could almost buy that, except that these things are so huge that I cannot imagine them walking out of restaurants in any great number, so why not just leave them on the table until the diner is ready (or not) for extra pepper? It might entail them standing up to pepper their food, but I believe that freshly ground pepper is worth a standing ovation every now and then.

Still, a pepper mill on the table may not be seen as an optimal (from the restauranteur's point of view) solution to the problem of presenting diners with freshly ground pepper. But that still leaves question about why the GPMP pounce on you mere micro seconds after your plate was delivered, and why the GPMPs, or restaurants owners, feel this is appropriate or fitting to 'a fine dining experience'?

I have noticed, though, that restaurants that could or do rate 1-3 Michelin starts rarely, if ever, employ GPMPs (or either of the subspecies). And when they do, these homo idiotus have obviously been through extensive behaviour modification by trained professionals, so that a suitable interval (approximately two mouthfuls worth of time) is allowed to lapse before approaching a diner with the Giant Pepper Mill. This is infinitely preferable to the Pavlovian response most of the species has to seeing a plate go onto the table in front of a customer.

La La La Whoda Thunk revisited

2007-04-25T16:15:00.001-04:00

Last night was our next dance at the NAC, and as April 23rd was the almost-ex's 50th birthday I treated him to dinner before the performance.

While we were have our preprandial beverages (I really must write about my choice, Delerium Tremens, some time ... if only for the utterly divine and transcendant flavour and aroma, kick like a mule and the cute pink elephants on the glass it was served in), we talked a bit more about the last performance we saw. The music was extraordninary--clever homages to some of the most famous ballet music ever, teasing because it went beyond imitative while still leaving you in no doubt of what the inspiration was. Discussion about the choreography and perfomances, and we both felt that we wished we could see it again, as there was still much to consider, and by talking it through we both felt we could see different things than we had at first viewing. Maybe that is what it is about: exploration to see new things in the same piece in the same way you look at a Van Gough many times, and always for some while.

The performance of Un peu de tendreses bordel de merde!/A little tenderness for crying out loud! was in many ways less comprehensible than Amjad, but infinitely more enjoyed by both of us. We have no idea what it was all about, but were rivitted from the beginning (when we realized that the woman who, without a ticket who was in Brent's seat and tried to argue with him about it, was actually one of the dancers for the show) straight through to the end.

I got to thinking about my previous comments on Brent's and my feelings about modern dance, and I think I did us both an injustice with the "but we know what we like" gibe. Our conversation over dinner, and after last night's show, indicate that we both think about it a lot during and afterwards, and have both learned a lot more about dance than we knew when we started on this particular journey.

Angel biscuits

2007-04-24T09:47:00.000-04:00

For years I have been intrigued by a recipe from Finland called Angel Biscuits. A mix between baking powder biscuits and yeast rolls, the recipe looked interesting and the name was irresistable.

I put it off for some time because I am just one person, and if I do make things like those biscuits, I often end up throwing half of them out, because I cannot eat them all before they are stale. (Note to self: write a recipe collection for singles who believe in real food.) Then I found an Angel Biscuits recipe that says it can remain in covered in the fridge for up to 5 days.

I made them Sunday, and have had biscuits with dinner for the past two days. The Angel Biscuits did not disappoint: they were the combination of flaky and tender that I expected.

La La La Whoda Thunk

2007-04-22T08:07:00.000-04:00

Not quite a year after we were married, Brent and I subscribed to a series of dance performances sponsored by our university. It was a series of mixed offerings: classical ballet, modern dance, and a Chinese acrobatic troupe (if memory serves). We discovered that we were both so-so on the classical ballet (I had more patience with it than Brent did) and that we both really liked the modern dance performances. We continued subscribing to the series. There were two great years where both the Grand Theatre and Queen's had dance series: 14 or 15 shows a season between the two. It was super, and I think it was those two years that really made us the modern dance fans that we are.

We are now separated, but still good friends, and since Brent moved to the National Capital region (I had moved here some 6 years before he did) we have gotten back to Modern dance; 3 series at the NAC each season. We are classic 'but I know what I like when I see it' fans of modern dance.

One troupe neither of us have ever really liked is La La La Human Steps. They are not the first universally acclaimed troupe that has left us cold, and probably won't be the last. The founder and choreographer of the troupe (Edouard Lock) has always struck both of us as a bit of a one-trick pony and someone with a propensity for taking a good idea and beating it well past death. We usually find that he is starting to annoy us less than 5 minutes into a performance.

Last night's La La La performance (Amjad) was a first for me, in that it held my attention and interest for nearly 25 minutes. (Brent lost patience with it a bit earlier than I did.) At one point I almost felt I could see where he was going and what he was exploring. Then the lighting (harsh, getting harsher as the evening progressed), the video (blindingly bright, and it glared right into our eyes) and the constant, seemingly irrelevant appearance and disappearance of banners along the wings got between me and the performance and caused me to lose my involvement in the dance, my appreciation of the dancers' skill (extraordinary!) and my fascination with the lines and spaces that were being created by the dance. (I often see dance as the carving of space into there and not there by the dancers.)

My heart will still sink when I see La La La Human Steps on the schedule for the next season, but we will still subscribe to all 3 modern dance series, and some day I may even find that Lock's choreography and staging don't annoy the pants off me. I always go to my seat eager to be pleased. Last night he held me for nearly 25 minutes. Who knows what will happen the next time La La La is booked for an NAC dance series?

Thursday night with the Cousins

2007-04-21T08:39:00.000-04:00

A last minute desperation call from my second cousin (2 free tickets to a Sens playoff game) had me spending Thursday night babysitting his 3 daughters (2, 4 and 5). Kaitlyn (4) had fallen on the front stairs that morning and had a split lip. Ashley (5) was having the time of her life outdoors (17C--It was gorgeous weather). Lindsay (2) is getting very good at naming parts of the body (she really likes saying elbow, probably because that is what comes out most distinctly).

I love being with those girls, and the more often I babysit them or play with them at family events, the more fascinated I become with watching how they process the world. You can see the exploration and experimentation going on behind their eyes as they develop a picture of how the world works. They are stunning examples of the scientific method in action (repeated experimentation to test hypotheses of how things work).

I must admit I also really like the fact that they are always very excited to see me. I have enough of an ego to thrill when one of the girls asks me to pick them up, or hold their hand as we are walking along, and their father says 'Wow...that's amazing.'

I am sorry about one thing about that evening: Kaitlyn presented me with a lovely train she had made out of an egg carton when I arrived and I left it on top of their fridge. Still, I have errands in that neck of Ottawa later today, so I will just nip over to Geoff' and Jane's and pick up my train.

Addicted to ..... (insert your vice here)

2007-04-18T11:04:00.000-04:00

Cigarettes.

But that's TOO obvious. True and shameful, but too easy.

Cookbooks.

That is less readily recognized as an addiction, but there is something about a cookbook that I just cannot resist.

I have had to forbid myself from going into bookstores of any kind as I always end up leaving with at least one, and usually more than one, cookbook.

Not the ones jumping on the latest food/eating craze, be it Low Carb, Low Fat or whatever. Nor the personality publications (those 'chef X is hot/famous/gorgeous this week: let's have him get a book out NOW!'). And definitely not the big glossy gastro-porn coffee table books, where you know the sheen on the roast chicken is from Vaseline or hairspray, where achieving the presentation requires you to manhandle every piece of food until the dish is cold, and where most of the recipes verge on inedible.

The kind of cookbook I cannot resist (the kind that are weighing down my existing book shelves and languishing in cardboard boxes because I no longer have enough shelves to hold them all) are the ones that blend history, personal experience, science and philosophy, and where the recipes are mirrors to a person's experience, to a point in time or a specific location and not simply a list of ingredients and steps.

I want to feel the love of the food and the process of making it. I want a book that you can curl up with and just read. That you can be inspired by, not just to actually cook, but to treat your food, and your life, with a little more respect and wonder.

For the first 100 or so cookbooks, I could honestly say I had made at least 5 recipes from each one. I trotted that one out a lot with my family, as they thought I was nuts: after all, 1 multi-function cookbook like the Joy of Cooking and a few index cards with some family recipes on them would last you longer than a life time. They just didn't get it.

About the time I hit 250 cookbooks, that number had dropped to two recipes from each one, and after 300 or so I had books on my shelves that I had never cooked from.

I had read them all from cover to cover, though. And my tastes changed over the years. I started with books so I could teach myself how to cook. Then I wanted to know why things worked (or didn't). Eventually I wanted to know more about the wheres and whos. That evolved into the whens, and I have no idea where this addiction of mine will take me next.

By the time I hit over 1000, I decided to weed (having been inspired by some de-cluttering programs on television: 'I can do that. I am not controlled by my stuff.'). And the weeding is not going very well at all, as I stopped dead in the process when, after the first liberation of about 50 books to good homes, I suddenly found myself frantically searching around the house and through boxes looking for books I had given away and kicking myself mentally for having done so. So the great cookbook purge is on indefinite hold.

Anybody know a good place to buy a LOT of book shelves cheap?