This column, published in The Perth Courier on Tuesday, June 9/09 effectively updates everyone on the Miracle Headache Cure mentioned in the previous post. The jinx headache lasted about a day and a half. Oh joy. BUT! On Monday I went on a field trip with Boychild. It featured about 40 Grade 1 students. I travelled on a school bus for about two hours. I spent the morning at a museum and half the afternoon at a McDonalds with a Playland. At the end of this six-hour field trip? No headache! It's a first! So I still haven't lost hope that I'm on to something....
Call me anything but patient
Depending on who you ask, people will say I’m a lot of things: charming, funny, stunningly beautiful, brilliant, humble, prone to hyperbole, etc. Ahem.
I can’t imagine anyone describing me as “patient.”
A million years ago when I worked at The Courier I did a feature interview on a high-ranking military person who had retired to the area. As per usual, I showed up five minutes early. I can’t stand being late for stuff. I’d rather be an hour early than 10 minutes late. I get this trait from my dad. Anyway, my interview subject greeted me at the door with a hearty, “Ah! You’re right on time! In the military ‘right on time’ is five minutes early.” Clearly, then, I should join the army.
This need to be early does not bode well with the more relaxed members of my family, who call me impatient. I’m the “C’mon! Hurry up! Let’s go! We’re going to be late!” mom. It does not help in reducing anxiety levels among the not-so-relaxed members of my family.
Most of the time I like to finish a job I have started. (Disclaimer: this does not apply to the 2006 spring cleaning, which is ongoing.) Some people in my house find this annoying. I think they are unreasonable. Let’s take the dishes for example. No, really, please take my dishes.
Ahem. Anyway, if I’m going to do the dishes, I stack them, fill the sink and do the darned things. Other people in my house stack them, fill the sink, wander away to “let them soak” and come back hours later to either a) wash them in tepid water or b) waste the water by refilling the sink.
Can you believe it? (Big, dramatic sigh.)
It puts me in a tough position. I complain about not getting enough help with the dishes, so when others make overtures to do them, I should be pleased. Should I be pleased about the sink being tied up for several hours while the dishes are “soaking”? If I get particularly impatient, I will just go ahead and do the darned things myself before the water gets tepid. Then, of course, I grumble sarcastically about it. (I have been described as sarcastic. Even sarcastic and short.) That’s when I get guff. “Well, I told you to leave them for me to do. If you’re weren’t so impatient….”
I would probably let the dishes soak for days if it weren’t for the fact we a) don’t have a double sink and b) would run out of dishes. This leads me to question the difference between being impatient and being practical.
Speaking of practical, I have learned I need to sometimes quell my enthusiasm. Patience would be helpful.
Here’s an example. I am prone to headaches. Not bad ones – just annoying ones that make life more tedious. Recently I came to the pleasant realization that weeks had passed since my last headache.
“Oh, joy!” I proclaimed. Then I pondered what could possibly be causing this new, happy thing. What was I doing differently? The only thing I could think of was that a couple of months ago I started taking cod liver oil capsules to boost overall health (since my diet and exercise habits have, um, relaxed to the point that even my fat pants are laughing at me).
Could that be it? I did some online searching. Not surprisingly (since you can find stuff on the Internet to support pretty much any argument) I found some articles that heartily endorse cod liver oil as a way to prevent headaches.
Naturally I announced this good news to all who would listen. “I’m cured!” I proclaimed. “It’s a miracle! Who would have guessed cod liver oil capsules are the headache remedy of champions!” Because y’all know I’m a champion. For sure.
Surely you can guess where this is going. Even though I touched wood, spun in circles three times and said “no jinxies” forwards and backwards, the inevitable happened. It’s the first one in weeks, but welcome back headache.
Clearly my personal clinical trial needed a few more months of experimentation before any grand proclamations were released.
Patience. Definitely not my middle name.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Insert Jinx Here.
Hello, Internet! I have missed blogging. I wish I had more time to post more than my weekly newspaper column. Today I am inspired, however, to reveal that I may be on to something. Why? Because I don't have a headache.
I get headaches. Lots of headaches. Not debilitating ones, not exactly migraines, just frequent, annoying headaches that make it difficult (but not impossible) for me to get stuff done. I'm tempted to say "chronic," only because in a typical month I am usually guaranteed to get between five and ten headaches. They usually pester me for the better part of 24 hours - sometimes longer. I considered it a fact of life - a charming part of being me. Often I will get a headache when something new disrupts my routine even if I don't feel particularly stressed about it. I don't get that, but I've come to expect it.
Many years ago - sometime in the 1990s - I kept a headache journal to try to figure out what my triggers were. Many of the usual suspects (cheese, chocolate) were not factors. Lack of sleep, stress and "certain times of the month" were sometimes culprits. What stood out, though, was that drinking beer, wine and cider, even just one glass, ALWAYS resulted in a headache that lasted for hours and hours. So I have avoided beer, wine and cider for more than ten years. That definitely helped, but still the headaches persisted.
The other day it dawned on me that I haven't had a headache in a several weeks [insert jinx here]. I went on a field trip with Boychild's Grade 1 class a couple of weeks ago (almost always a headache trigger) and had no headache. I participated in several days of archaeology last week, which I truly enjoy but which often adds stress as I try to schedule it in, and had no headache. Not only that, but a good friend visited in the midst of all this busyness and - you guessed it - no headache. That time of the month? No headache. To top it all off, though, I have been experimenting with wine. I've had a glass here and a glass there - even red - and no headache.
Whoa.
So what is up with this beautiful, beautiful thing? What have I been doing differently? Well, I certainly haven't been getting extra sleep (ha!). I haven't cut down on my workload nor stress (ha ha!). I'm not exercising more (ha ha ha!). I haven't improved my diet (note to self: take better care of body).
Then it dawned on me. About a month and a half ago I picked up a bottle of cod liver oil capsules, thinking they would be good for memory and cholesterol and such. I started taking one every day. Could that be it? I did a little hunting on the Internet and it seems some folks swear by cod liver oil for headache prevention - who knew? Of course you can find pretty much any argument supported on the Internet, so who's to say for sure.
Miracle cure or coincidence? I guess I'll find out now that I have completely jinxed myself. Stay tuned for news of my next headache....
I get headaches. Lots of headaches. Not debilitating ones, not exactly migraines, just frequent, annoying headaches that make it difficult (but not impossible) for me to get stuff done. I'm tempted to say "chronic," only because in a typical month I am usually guaranteed to get between five and ten headaches. They usually pester me for the better part of 24 hours - sometimes longer. I considered it a fact of life - a charming part of being me. Often I will get a headache when something new disrupts my routine even if I don't feel particularly stressed about it. I don't get that, but I've come to expect it.
Many years ago - sometime in the 1990s - I kept a headache journal to try to figure out what my triggers were. Many of the usual suspects (cheese, chocolate) were not factors. Lack of sleep, stress and "certain times of the month" were sometimes culprits. What stood out, though, was that drinking beer, wine and cider, even just one glass, ALWAYS resulted in a headache that lasted for hours and hours. So I have avoided beer, wine and cider for more than ten years. That definitely helped, but still the headaches persisted.
The other day it dawned on me that I haven't had a headache in a several weeks [insert jinx here]. I went on a field trip with Boychild's Grade 1 class a couple of weeks ago (almost always a headache trigger) and had no headache. I participated in several days of archaeology last week, which I truly enjoy but which often adds stress as I try to schedule it in, and had no headache. Not only that, but a good friend visited in the midst of all this busyness and - you guessed it - no headache. That time of the month? No headache. To top it all off, though, I have been experimenting with wine. I've had a glass here and a glass there - even red - and no headache.
Whoa.
So what is up with this beautiful, beautiful thing? What have I been doing differently? Well, I certainly haven't been getting extra sleep (ha!). I haven't cut down on my workload nor stress (ha ha!). I'm not exercising more (ha ha ha!). I haven't improved my diet (note to self: take better care of body).
Then it dawned on me. About a month and a half ago I picked up a bottle of cod liver oil capsules, thinking they would be good for memory and cholesterol and such. I started taking one every day. Could that be it? I did a little hunting on the Internet and it seems some folks swear by cod liver oil for headache prevention - who knew? Of course you can find pretty much any argument supported on the Internet, so who's to say for sure.
Miracle cure or coincidence? I guess I'll find out now that I have completely jinxed myself. Stay tuned for news of my next headache....
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Past Deadline: An Inspiring Week of Archaeology
Dig it! Published in The Perth Courier on Tuesday, June 2/09.
An inspiring week of archaeology
I never cease to be amazed by the power of education, the willingness of volunteers and the generosity of community. Those three elements combined are a powerful force!
For the fifth time since 2004 I have had the good fortune to be part of an amazing experience bringing education, volunteerism and community together in an inspiring way. The Friends of Murphys Point Park’s Archaeo Apprentice program, a week-long archaeological excavation for Grade 5 students, took place last week. Conceived almost 10 years ago, archaeology seemed like a bit of a dream for a small organization like the Friends. (I’ve been involved with the group since it formed in 1995, so I’m gonna wax rhapsodic for a bit. I’m a little attached.) Nevertheless, a committee formed and a group of talented volunteers assembled to make a public education program for young people happen.
We raise money in the community. Year after year we have received support from local businesses, service clubs, municipalities, individuals and corporate sponsors. Sometimes we jump into frozen rivers on New Year’s Day, too.
Each year close to 150 students get to excavate at an historic homestead and saw mill site on Hogg Bay (off of Big Rideau Lake) and unearth the very tools and dishes the pioneers used.
For some local kids with deep roots in this area, they are touching things their own ancestors might have handled. How cool is that?
They learn from a crew of professional, licensed (real!) archaeologists how to conduct the excavation. The things the students find are cleaned and catalogued, and then the archaeologists assemble the information into an official report as required by the provincial Ministry of Culture. This is the real thing.
The students who have worked on this site should be proud because not only is this a real, licensed dig, but they have helped us to solve mysteries about the site. We have learned the existing restored homestead is not the original house – there is evidence of an earlier building. We’ve confirmed there was a blacksmith shop servicing the mill. We know there was lots of activity at a structure that may have been a bunkhouse for the mill workers.
Through all this digging and solving of mysteries led by the archaeologists stands an equally devoted team of volunteers. This past week, rain or shine, they came day after day to help children with activities in the on-site lab and at the excavation units. At the beginning of the week they set up enough shelters to keep everyone dry in the event of rain, and at the end they disassembled this tent city and let dozens of tarps dry in the sun that finally appeared.
Again and again I am amazed by how willing this group is to do the work. From patiently and quietly helping a child to assemble fragments of an artifact to hoisting shelter frames and lugging boxes around the site, this bunch is enthusiastic, energetic and fun.
By the end of the Archaeo Apprentice week I stand in awe of many other things, too.
One is the continued positive reception by the students, teachers and parents who participate in the day-long field trip. I’ve seen many rambunctious 10-year-olds settle down at a unit and meticulously excavate around tree roots and rocks for nearly two hours to uncover a “treasure”: whether it’s a fragment of a bottle, a horseshoe nail wrought by a blacksmith or even some bits of shingle or mortar.
It’s a sight to behold. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard a parent say, “Wow. I wish we’d had field trips like this when I was a kid.”
I’m in awe of the crew: Most of the archaeologists return year after year to teach young people about how their profession truly helps us to understand our history – and so much more.
The park staff throw themselves into making this a successful project, from site preparation and logistical support to interpretation of features on the site.
And, of course, the community has repeatedly supported this unique approach to educating students in a meaningful, tangible and interesting way.
To all of you – from organizers and volunteers to funders to participants – I say thank you.
An inspiring week of archaeology
I never cease to be amazed by the power of education, the willingness of volunteers and the generosity of community. Those three elements combined are a powerful force!
For the fifth time since 2004 I have had the good fortune to be part of an amazing experience bringing education, volunteerism and community together in an inspiring way. The Friends of Murphys Point Park’s Archaeo Apprentice program, a week-long archaeological excavation for Grade 5 students, took place last week. Conceived almost 10 years ago, archaeology seemed like a bit of a dream for a small organization like the Friends. (I’ve been involved with the group since it formed in 1995, so I’m gonna wax rhapsodic for a bit. I’m a little attached.) Nevertheless, a committee formed and a group of talented volunteers assembled to make a public education program for young people happen.
We raise money in the community. Year after year we have received support from local businesses, service clubs, municipalities, individuals and corporate sponsors. Sometimes we jump into frozen rivers on New Year’s Day, too.
Each year close to 150 students get to excavate at an historic homestead and saw mill site on Hogg Bay (off of Big Rideau Lake) and unearth the very tools and dishes the pioneers used.
For some local kids with deep roots in this area, they are touching things their own ancestors might have handled. How cool is that?
They learn from a crew of professional, licensed (real!) archaeologists how to conduct the excavation. The things the students find are cleaned and catalogued, and then the archaeologists assemble the information into an official report as required by the provincial Ministry of Culture. This is the real thing.
The students who have worked on this site should be proud because not only is this a real, licensed dig, but they have helped us to solve mysteries about the site. We have learned the existing restored homestead is not the original house – there is evidence of an earlier building. We’ve confirmed there was a blacksmith shop servicing the mill. We know there was lots of activity at a structure that may have been a bunkhouse for the mill workers.
Through all this digging and solving of mysteries led by the archaeologists stands an equally devoted team of volunteers. This past week, rain or shine, they came day after day to help children with activities in the on-site lab and at the excavation units. At the beginning of the week they set up enough shelters to keep everyone dry in the event of rain, and at the end they disassembled this tent city and let dozens of tarps dry in the sun that finally appeared.
Again and again I am amazed by how willing this group is to do the work. From patiently and quietly helping a child to assemble fragments of an artifact to hoisting shelter frames and lugging boxes around the site, this bunch is enthusiastic, energetic and fun.
By the end of the Archaeo Apprentice week I stand in awe of many other things, too.
One is the continued positive reception by the students, teachers and parents who participate in the day-long field trip. I’ve seen many rambunctious 10-year-olds settle down at a unit and meticulously excavate around tree roots and rocks for nearly two hours to uncover a “treasure”: whether it’s a fragment of a bottle, a horseshoe nail wrought by a blacksmith or even some bits of shingle or mortar.
It’s a sight to behold. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard a parent say, “Wow. I wish we’d had field trips like this when I was a kid.”
I’m in awe of the crew: Most of the archaeologists return year after year to teach young people about how their profession truly helps us to understand our history – and so much more.
The park staff throw themselves into making this a successful project, from site preparation and logistical support to interpretation of features on the site.
And, of course, the community has repeatedly supported this unique approach to educating students in a meaningful, tangible and interesting way.
To all of you – from organizers and volunteers to funders to participants – I say thank you.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Past Deadline: Creepy Old World
Because we don't have enough to worry about. Published in The Perth Courier on Tuesday, May 26/09.
Creepy old world
I have a sweet seven-year-old in my midst. I’m told that, in general, this is a magical age. Seven-year-olds are still full of wonder; they are inquisitive and curious and ask “why” a lot but usually in a sensible way, with thoughtful questions and their opinions and ideas thrown in. Seven-year-olds are loving, loveable and still seem to like doing stuff with their parents. It’s a great age.
Seven is one year away from being eight, which is the same age Victoria Stafford was when she was abducted after school one day six weeks ago and subsequently killed.
Man oh man.
Unless you’ve been living under a rock, which certainly has its merits, you’ve probably heard of Tori Stafford. Her disappearance was highly publicized and there was also that surveillance video showing the woman with the white coat and long, dark hair walking with Tori away from her Woodstock elementary school.
You don’t want to panic about these things, but they make you think. Being a “helicopter” parent, hovering over junior all the time, is just no good. Kids need to be kids and they need to learn how to do things on their own. I already struggle with this a bit because my lovable seven-year-old is a worrier like his mom. (As an aside, I stand in awe of my three-year-old, who embraces every new experience with gusto. I’m hoping she’ll rub off on us a bit.)
Our society has become paranoid. Even though I tell myself that child abductions, especially by strangers, are a rare thing and we don’t need to immediately fall into hyper-vigilant mode, I still find myself wondering how something like this could happen.
As I write this, the police haven’t revealed much about the two people arrested for the abduction and murder of Tori Stafford. It has been reported in the media there may be some sort of connection between the girl’s mother and the woman accused in the abduction. That’s where it gets scary.
It’s one thing to tell your kids not to talk to strangers. It’s fairly straightforward to explain they should never get into someone’s car, even to help give directions or for candy or to see puppies. Just don’t go anywhere with a stranger.
But what do you tell them about people they kinda know? What if it’s some person they’ve seen Mom chatting with in a friendly way? What if it’s someone they recognize from a store or a restaurant? Or someone Mom or Dad has worked with before?
What if someone you know and have no reason to suspect or distrust suddenly becomes that person who shows up at your kid’s school and spins your trusting little guy some yarn about Mommy needing her to pick him up instead that day?
It’s not right to teach kids to be suspicious of everyone. It’s not fair to fill them with fear and distrust. Childhood should be about exploration and growing and fun and just not having to worry about stuff. During childhood kids should be learning how to become thoughtful citizens who will help other people – even strangers.
This kind of fear erects fences around us. If, for example, I see a child who I don’t know in some sort of distress (skinned knees and many tears), if I offer to help will it a) scare the bejeebers out of the kid (“Ah! Kindly stranger! Run away!”) or b) make me think twice about helping because I am a stranger?
All we can do, I guess, is help our kids to develop their common sense and to trust their guts. If the story doesn’t make sense and it doesn’t feel right, then tell an adult you do know and trust – such as a teacher if you’re at school.
I’m not looking forward to the day when the details about Tori Stafford’s case are revealed. On the one hand, I feel a need to know how the accused woman allegedly lured Tori away. What did she say to her? On the other hand, will it give rise to new worries? How can I prevent this from happening to my kid?
Yes, living under that rock looks pretty good sometimes.
Creepy old world
I have a sweet seven-year-old in my midst. I’m told that, in general, this is a magical age. Seven-year-olds are still full of wonder; they are inquisitive and curious and ask “why” a lot but usually in a sensible way, with thoughtful questions and their opinions and ideas thrown in. Seven-year-olds are loving, loveable and still seem to like doing stuff with their parents. It’s a great age.
Seven is one year away from being eight, which is the same age Victoria Stafford was when she was abducted after school one day six weeks ago and subsequently killed.
Man oh man.
Unless you’ve been living under a rock, which certainly has its merits, you’ve probably heard of Tori Stafford. Her disappearance was highly publicized and there was also that surveillance video showing the woman with the white coat and long, dark hair walking with Tori away from her Woodstock elementary school.
You don’t want to panic about these things, but they make you think. Being a “helicopter” parent, hovering over junior all the time, is just no good. Kids need to be kids and they need to learn how to do things on their own. I already struggle with this a bit because my lovable seven-year-old is a worrier like his mom. (As an aside, I stand in awe of my three-year-old, who embraces every new experience with gusto. I’m hoping she’ll rub off on us a bit.)
Our society has become paranoid. Even though I tell myself that child abductions, especially by strangers, are a rare thing and we don’t need to immediately fall into hyper-vigilant mode, I still find myself wondering how something like this could happen.
As I write this, the police haven’t revealed much about the two people arrested for the abduction and murder of Tori Stafford. It has been reported in the media there may be some sort of connection between the girl’s mother and the woman accused in the abduction. That’s where it gets scary.
It’s one thing to tell your kids not to talk to strangers. It’s fairly straightforward to explain they should never get into someone’s car, even to help give directions or for candy or to see puppies. Just don’t go anywhere with a stranger.
But what do you tell them about people they kinda know? What if it’s some person they’ve seen Mom chatting with in a friendly way? What if it’s someone they recognize from a store or a restaurant? Or someone Mom or Dad has worked with before?
What if someone you know and have no reason to suspect or distrust suddenly becomes that person who shows up at your kid’s school and spins your trusting little guy some yarn about Mommy needing her to pick him up instead that day?
It’s not right to teach kids to be suspicious of everyone. It’s not fair to fill them with fear and distrust. Childhood should be about exploration and growing and fun and just not having to worry about stuff. During childhood kids should be learning how to become thoughtful citizens who will help other people – even strangers.
This kind of fear erects fences around us. If, for example, I see a child who I don’t know in some sort of distress (skinned knees and many tears), if I offer to help will it a) scare the bejeebers out of the kid (“Ah! Kindly stranger! Run away!”) or b) make me think twice about helping because I am a stranger?
All we can do, I guess, is help our kids to develop their common sense and to trust their guts. If the story doesn’t make sense and it doesn’t feel right, then tell an adult you do know and trust – such as a teacher if you’re at school.
I’m not looking forward to the day when the details about Tori Stafford’s case are revealed. On the one hand, I feel a need to know how the accused woman allegedly lured Tori away. What did she say to her? On the other hand, will it give rise to new worries? How can I prevent this from happening to my kid?
Yes, living under that rock looks pretty good sometimes.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Past Deadline: The Lullaby Sounds of Downtown
It's just a different kind of screaming in the 'hood now. As published in The Perth Courier on Tuesday, May 19/09.
The lullaby sounds of downtown
I’ve been trying to remember what triggered vague feelings of nostalgia for living in my old apartment. Is it because there was a dishwasher? Nope – just a big double ceramic sink that was good for a) smashing glasses and b) hiding hoards of dirty dishes. Was it because it had a large closet right by the front door for stashing coats? Nope – although I do miss that. Was it because we had to lug our groceries up two flights of stairs? Nope – although that was darned good exercise (and, coincidentally, it was a good 20 pounds ago).
Ah. I betcha it was the fireworks.
Some knucklehead was setting off fireworks not far from my neighbourhood a couple of weeks ago. It would happen randomly – a couple here, a couple more an hour later – just enough to be annoying. It reminded me of other random noises and, ahem, interesting personalities we encountered when living downtown about a decade ago.
Yes, even though some folks would argue the streets of Perth roll up after 9 p.m. and everyone toddles off to bed or to watch a reality show, I can assure you there was always interesting stuff happening.
After we got married, Groom-boy and I lived in a great apartment right downtown. Not only were we a mere half block from our workplace, The Perth Courier, but we could really keep an eye on things. This was super handy when it came to such matters of importance as which way the fire trucks were going. We could see them and hear them from our third-floor perch. We became experts at distinguishing sirens and directions travelled.
When we moved from there to a house a few years later, the relative silence of our neighbourhood was unnerving. That’s not to say our new neighbourhood, which isn’t really all that far from downtown, is exceptionally quiet – it’s just that living downtown can get, well, a bit noisy by times.
There’s that truck-route factor, for one thing. You eventually get used to the sound of 18-wheelers gearing down under your bedroom window as they prepare to turn off of Gore onto North in the middle of the night. When we moved, though, I distinctly remember being kept awake by the sound of my own blood coursing through my veins. For the first time in years I started sleeping like the dead – at least until we had kids.
The bulk of the charm of living downtown has to be handed to the interesting people who occasionally linger too long in one spot.
One of my all-time favourites was the drunk guy who stood on a nearby corner for two hours in the middle of the night. Every time a car went by he’d yell, “Woo hoo!” followed by something I can’t say in a family newspaper.
I am also reminded of those days because I’m hearing the familiar “chug chug chug” of the line-painting dudes currently doing their thing all over town. One year, late at night, they were working on the lines on Foster Street below our window. One guy kept hollering at another guy. “Kenny! KENNY! Over here! HERE! KENNY!” Kenny was either a) new, b) drunk, c) not very good at painting lines or d) all of the above.
Speaking of drunk (not that it happens much downtown), some sort of “Most Persistent Downtown Drunk Woman” award should probably go to the lovely lady who spent an hour yelling up at a closed window across the street from us one time. “Jimmy! Jimmy! JIMMY!” Over and over and over. Jimmy clearly did not want anything to do with this woman, who we affectionately remember as Unstable Mabel. Finally, so we could get back to listening to the roar of the 18-wheelers in peace, Groom-boy went to our window. “He’s not home!” he hollered, before ducking down out of sight. Oh, did we giggle over that. Good times!
Yes, those were the heady days of our youth. Now our sleeps are sometimes interrupted by different sounds – usually followed by a whispered, “Mom!” or “Dad! Can you snugaminute?”
Beats the sound of 18-wheelers any night.
The lullaby sounds of downtown
I’ve been trying to remember what triggered vague feelings of nostalgia for living in my old apartment. Is it because there was a dishwasher? Nope – just a big double ceramic sink that was good for a) smashing glasses and b) hiding hoards of dirty dishes. Was it because it had a large closet right by the front door for stashing coats? Nope – although I do miss that. Was it because we had to lug our groceries up two flights of stairs? Nope – although that was darned good exercise (and, coincidentally, it was a good 20 pounds ago).
Ah. I betcha it was the fireworks.
Some knucklehead was setting off fireworks not far from my neighbourhood a couple of weeks ago. It would happen randomly – a couple here, a couple more an hour later – just enough to be annoying. It reminded me of other random noises and, ahem, interesting personalities we encountered when living downtown about a decade ago.
Yes, even though some folks would argue the streets of Perth roll up after 9 p.m. and everyone toddles off to bed or to watch a reality show, I can assure you there was always interesting stuff happening.
After we got married, Groom-boy and I lived in a great apartment right downtown. Not only were we a mere half block from our workplace, The Perth Courier, but we could really keep an eye on things. This was super handy when it came to such matters of importance as which way the fire trucks were going. We could see them and hear them from our third-floor perch. We became experts at distinguishing sirens and directions travelled.
When we moved from there to a house a few years later, the relative silence of our neighbourhood was unnerving. That’s not to say our new neighbourhood, which isn’t really all that far from downtown, is exceptionally quiet – it’s just that living downtown can get, well, a bit noisy by times.
There’s that truck-route factor, for one thing. You eventually get used to the sound of 18-wheelers gearing down under your bedroom window as they prepare to turn off of Gore onto North in the middle of the night. When we moved, though, I distinctly remember being kept awake by the sound of my own blood coursing through my veins. For the first time in years I started sleeping like the dead – at least until we had kids.
The bulk of the charm of living downtown has to be handed to the interesting people who occasionally linger too long in one spot.
One of my all-time favourites was the drunk guy who stood on a nearby corner for two hours in the middle of the night. Every time a car went by he’d yell, “Woo hoo!” followed by something I can’t say in a family newspaper.
I am also reminded of those days because I’m hearing the familiar “chug chug chug” of the line-painting dudes currently doing their thing all over town. One year, late at night, they were working on the lines on Foster Street below our window. One guy kept hollering at another guy. “Kenny! KENNY! Over here! HERE! KENNY!” Kenny was either a) new, b) drunk, c) not very good at painting lines or d) all of the above.
Speaking of drunk (not that it happens much downtown), some sort of “Most Persistent Downtown Drunk Woman” award should probably go to the lovely lady who spent an hour yelling up at a closed window across the street from us one time. “Jimmy! Jimmy! JIMMY!” Over and over and over. Jimmy clearly did not want anything to do with this woman, who we affectionately remember as Unstable Mabel. Finally, so we could get back to listening to the roar of the 18-wheelers in peace, Groom-boy went to our window. “He’s not home!” he hollered, before ducking down out of sight. Oh, did we giggle over that. Good times!
Yes, those were the heady days of our youth. Now our sleeps are sometimes interrupted by different sounds – usually followed by a whispered, “Mom!” or “Dad! Can you snugaminute?”
Beats the sound of 18-wheelers any night.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Past Deadline: It's Enough to Make You Swear
I swear this was published in The Perth Courier on Tuesday, May 12/09.
It’s enough to make you swear
The other day I walked into the den and Girlchild was wandering around saying, “Ship ship ship ship.”
Boychild was sitting on the couch watching TV.
“What are you doing, Girlchild?” I asked.
“Oh,” Boychild pipes up, “She’s saying a bad word, but she’s not saying it right.” He turns to her. "Girlchild, that’s not the way you say it!”
“Ship ship ship ship.”
He looks at me exasperated. The hamster is running furiously in my brain.
“Where did she learn the word that she’s not saying right?” I ask.
“Well, I told her but didn’t really say it,” he says, adding, “I told her we’re not supposed to say that word.”
“Don’t tell her stuff like that, Boychild!” I said in my best Archie Bunker voice. Edith! “You know when you say stuff like that she’s just going to repeat it!”
“Ship ship ship ship ship.”
“See? And where did you learn this word that you’re not supposed to say?” I always hate asking questions like that because I’m afraid I won’t like the answer; that it’ll be something along the lines of, “Well, Mom, you said it the other day.”
Groom-boy and I try really hard not to swear around the kids. We prefer to let all our naughty words come out late at night long after the kids are in bed while we do wild and crazy things like watching the news and making fun of the anchors. Sometimes, though, ship happens. My spacious office, for example, is located right outside Boychild’s bedroom in the dormer window area. I do a lot of work after he goes to bed. I freely admit that if the computer isn’t cooperating, strings of not-so-nice words might come flying out of my mouth. “Listen you icky, poopy darned old machine,” I have been known to say. “If you don’t open that file I swear I’m gonna throw you out the oopsy window!”
The only other time I have been known to cuss is after watching The Sopranos, which taught me all sorts of new words. Of course since that show has been off the air for a while and I don’t have time to watch the reruns on A&E, I haven’t really sworn much at all for a couple of years. Ahem.
Anyway, much to my – uh – relief, sort of, Boychild didn’t point a finger at his hardly-ever-foulmouthed parents. Instead, he named an older boy at school. Apparently the primary kids let fly with the s-word and f-word now and again. Sigh.
“Ship ship ship ship,” continues the parrot.
“Alright, Girlchild, that’s enough,” I say in my best parental-authority-about-to-be-ignored voice.
I turn back to Boychild. “You know those are grown-up words that kids shouldn’t use,” I say, adding quickly that grown-ups probably should use them either. “If anyone hears you using them at school, you’ll probably be sent to the principal’s office.”
“I know,” he says.
Of course I really have no idea if he would be sent to the principal’s office. You may have noticed I am prone to exaggeration by times. Perhaps I should have suggested he would be expelled and sent to jail.
I gotta hand it to Boychild, though; he plays the game well. He seems to have a good sense of right and wrong. For example, as two of his buddies were taking a toddler push bike to the top of the slide in our backyard and running it down, he apparently stood there and lectured them about how they shouldn’t be doing it because it’s dangerous. Atta, boy. Too bad he didn’t come and tell me before one of them fell off backward and landed on his head.
Like any good older sibling, though, Boychild knows how to get things going with his sister. I’m sure he would have loved to have seen my reaction had his sister indeed mastered the correct pronunciation of the s-word. Ah, the fine art of getting siblings in trouble. Perhaps it’s genetic, in which case he got it from a pro. Just ask my parents. And my little brother, for that matter.
I have no doubt whatsoever that one of these days the ship will really hit the fan.
It’s enough to make you swear
The other day I walked into the den and Girlchild was wandering around saying, “Ship ship ship ship.”
Boychild was sitting on the couch watching TV.
“What are you doing, Girlchild?” I asked.
“Oh,” Boychild pipes up, “She’s saying a bad word, but she’s not saying it right.” He turns to her. "Girlchild, that’s not the way you say it!”
“Ship ship ship ship.”
He looks at me exasperated. The hamster is running furiously in my brain.
“Where did she learn the word that she’s not saying right?” I ask.
“Well, I told her but didn’t really say it,” he says, adding, “I told her we’re not supposed to say that word.”
“Don’t tell her stuff like that, Boychild!” I said in my best Archie Bunker voice. Edith! “You know when you say stuff like that she’s just going to repeat it!”
“Ship ship ship ship ship.”
“See? And where did you learn this word that you’re not supposed to say?” I always hate asking questions like that because I’m afraid I won’t like the answer; that it’ll be something along the lines of, “Well, Mom, you said it the other day.”
Groom-boy and I try really hard not to swear around the kids. We prefer to let all our naughty words come out late at night long after the kids are in bed while we do wild and crazy things like watching the news and making fun of the anchors. Sometimes, though, ship happens. My spacious office, for example, is located right outside Boychild’s bedroom in the dormer window area. I do a lot of work after he goes to bed. I freely admit that if the computer isn’t cooperating, strings of not-so-nice words might come flying out of my mouth. “Listen you icky, poopy darned old machine,” I have been known to say. “If you don’t open that file I swear I’m gonna throw you out the oopsy window!”
The only other time I have been known to cuss is after watching The Sopranos, which taught me all sorts of new words. Of course since that show has been off the air for a while and I don’t have time to watch the reruns on A&E, I haven’t really sworn much at all for a couple of years. Ahem.
Anyway, much to my – uh – relief, sort of, Boychild didn’t point a finger at his hardly-ever-foulmouthed parents. Instead, he named an older boy at school. Apparently the primary kids let fly with the s-word and f-word now and again. Sigh.
“Ship ship ship ship,” continues the parrot.
“Alright, Girlchild, that’s enough,” I say in my best parental-authority-about-to-be-ignored voice.
I turn back to Boychild. “You know those are grown-up words that kids shouldn’t use,” I say, adding quickly that grown-ups probably should use them either. “If anyone hears you using them at school, you’ll probably be sent to the principal’s office.”
“I know,” he says.
Of course I really have no idea if he would be sent to the principal’s office. You may have noticed I am prone to exaggeration by times. Perhaps I should have suggested he would be expelled and sent to jail.
I gotta hand it to Boychild, though; he plays the game well. He seems to have a good sense of right and wrong. For example, as two of his buddies were taking a toddler push bike to the top of the slide in our backyard and running it down, he apparently stood there and lectured them about how they shouldn’t be doing it because it’s dangerous. Atta, boy. Too bad he didn’t come and tell me before one of them fell off backward and landed on his head.
Like any good older sibling, though, Boychild knows how to get things going with his sister. I’m sure he would have loved to have seen my reaction had his sister indeed mastered the correct pronunciation of the s-word. Ah, the fine art of getting siblings in trouble. Perhaps it’s genetic, in which case he got it from a pro. Just ask my parents. And my little brother, for that matter.
I have no doubt whatsoever that one of these days the ship will really hit the fan.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Past Deadline: Who's Calling, Please?
A friend of my mom's told me today that she reads my column in the paper and that I am "so normal!" I'm not sure if she had already read today's issue of The Perth Courier (Tuesday, May 5/09) when she said that....
Who’s calling, please?
Remember when the busy signal was king? When answering machines didn’t exist? How the phone would ring and ring if someone wasn’t home and you’d just hang up?
I do. I even remember rotary phones with their clickety dial and real-bell ring. Yes, kids, that’s why folks talk about “dialling” a number instead of calling or pressing it.
I think today we’re too connected and accessible. It just might lead to brain damage. (See below.)
This is a busy house filled with small kids, noisy cats and a Groom-boy. Sometimes when the phone rings I prefer to let the answering machine get it while the din dies down. I know it’s hard to believe, but occasionally people are shrieking at my house. Usually it’s not Groom-boy; it’s often the small blonde one who isn’t old enough to go to school yet.
There are some good things about call display. One is, as I’ve alluded to, that it gives you a chance to collect your thoughts or papers or small screaming children before answering the phone. This is especially handy when one wants to portray a somewhat professional appearance with one’s home-based communications business.
Another great thing is it lets you be a goof. When Groom-boy knows the caller, he can gruffly answer, “Puffy’s Pizza, Puffy speaking.” There’s a guy who knows how to have fun!
It’s also a reasonably good screen against telemarketers. Sometimes the telemarketers will give up after a few tries of no one answering. Not always, though. Even call display cannot counter persistence.
There is one drawback, though, for people who are compulsive about these sorts of things, and that is the “gotta know who’s calling” syndrome. With call display you start to recognize which numbers are probably telemarketers. That’s all fine and good, but sometimes people with legitimate-looking numbers and names have the nerve to call without leaving a message.
Gasp!
I’ll say, “Groom-boy,” because that’s what I call him at home, “do you know Joe Smith? It’s a Perth number.”
“Nope,” he’ll respond.
“Well he called here and didn’t leave a message.”
“Uh huh.”
So then you scratch your head and wonder what on earth Joe Smith could want. Who is he? Is it important? Are you missing out on something crucial? A new client? So you look it up in the phone book and see he lives on Hwy. 7. That sure narrows it down. “Aha!” you say. It still means nothing.
Eventually you slam your head against the wall with the futility of it all – these people who call once and never call back and leave you guessing as to why. And then you get a life and remember that, yes, sometimes people call wrong numbers. There’s no need to leave a message when you realize you’ve done such a thing.
Getting a grip, now.
Recently a number came up that had a 613 area code but no name. I bravely answered it. A very polite woman introduced herself and asked if Groom-boy was home (only she didn’t call him Groom-boy). I said he wasn’t and asked to take a message, whereupon she asked me if I was a supporter of a particular federal political party. There must have been something emphatic in the way I quickly said “NO!” because she thanked me and that was that.
Later, because we’re fun-loving folks with small children who go to bed early, we Googled the phone number. That can be a fun pastime – try it with your own number sometime! Invite your friends! Anyway, a long list of hits came up consisting chiefly of people posting notes on reverse-look-up websites complaining about harassing phone calls from this political party. One writer said the party is “annoying the entire country one phone number at a time.”
Hahaha! Ah, the Internet. What fun!
It was odd to see so many perplexed people posting rather desperate messages wondering why certain numbers had called them. (Kind of like this column, I guess.)It makes me think we were all better off when we had less of this sort of thing to contemplate.
Who’s calling, please?
Remember when the busy signal was king? When answering machines didn’t exist? How the phone would ring and ring if someone wasn’t home and you’d just hang up?
I do. I even remember rotary phones with their clickety dial and real-bell ring. Yes, kids, that’s why folks talk about “dialling” a number instead of calling or pressing it.
I think today we’re too connected and accessible. It just might lead to brain damage. (See below.)
This is a busy house filled with small kids, noisy cats and a Groom-boy. Sometimes when the phone rings I prefer to let the answering machine get it while the din dies down. I know it’s hard to believe, but occasionally people are shrieking at my house. Usually it’s not Groom-boy; it’s often the small blonde one who isn’t old enough to go to school yet.
There are some good things about call display. One is, as I’ve alluded to, that it gives you a chance to collect your thoughts or papers or small screaming children before answering the phone. This is especially handy when one wants to portray a somewhat professional appearance with one’s home-based communications business.
Another great thing is it lets you be a goof. When Groom-boy knows the caller, he can gruffly answer, “Puffy’s Pizza, Puffy speaking.” There’s a guy who knows how to have fun!
It’s also a reasonably good screen against telemarketers. Sometimes the telemarketers will give up after a few tries of no one answering. Not always, though. Even call display cannot counter persistence.
There is one drawback, though, for people who are compulsive about these sorts of things, and that is the “gotta know who’s calling” syndrome. With call display you start to recognize which numbers are probably telemarketers. That’s all fine and good, but sometimes people with legitimate-looking numbers and names have the nerve to call without leaving a message.
Gasp!
I’ll say, “Groom-boy,” because that’s what I call him at home, “do you know Joe Smith? It’s a Perth number.”
“Nope,” he’ll respond.
“Well he called here and didn’t leave a message.”
“Uh huh.”
So then you scratch your head and wonder what on earth Joe Smith could want. Who is he? Is it important? Are you missing out on something crucial? A new client? So you look it up in the phone book and see he lives on Hwy. 7. That sure narrows it down. “Aha!” you say. It still means nothing.
Eventually you slam your head against the wall with the futility of it all – these people who call once and never call back and leave you guessing as to why. And then you get a life and remember that, yes, sometimes people call wrong numbers. There’s no need to leave a message when you realize you’ve done such a thing.
Getting a grip, now.
Recently a number came up that had a 613 area code but no name. I bravely answered it. A very polite woman introduced herself and asked if Groom-boy was home (only she didn’t call him Groom-boy). I said he wasn’t and asked to take a message, whereupon she asked me if I was a supporter of a particular federal political party. There must have been something emphatic in the way I quickly said “NO!” because she thanked me and that was that.
Later, because we’re fun-loving folks with small children who go to bed early, we Googled the phone number. That can be a fun pastime – try it with your own number sometime! Invite your friends! Anyway, a long list of hits came up consisting chiefly of people posting notes on reverse-look-up websites complaining about harassing phone calls from this political party. One writer said the party is “annoying the entire country one phone number at a time.”
Hahaha! Ah, the Internet. What fun!
It was odd to see so many perplexed people posting rather desperate messages wondering why certain numbers had called them. (Kind of like this column, I guess.)It makes me think we were all better off when we had less of this sort of thing to contemplate.
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