An Ode to Mice, Just In Case

With weather this perfect, my office windows are thrown open to invite the sunshine and clean morning breeze in to whisk away yesterday’s stale air. I love to stand in front of the window when the sun is warming the dewy grass, wisps of steam rising in fluttery tendrils. This, coupled with a fresh, heaving lungful of fresh air. . . GAG! GASP! Lord have MERCY, what on earth is that SMELL?

Falling away from the window in horror and slamming my window shut, I shudder. Seriously, what was that smell? I wonder for a moment if I need smelling salts, anything to burn that smell out of my nose. Ick.

Holding my breath, I slowly open the window and look around. There it is, just 6 inches below my window. Ewww. Decomposing mice.

The gravel below my window has become a mouse graveyard, but the caretaker has apparently taken leave of his job, and has left a scattering of furry little corpses for me to deal with.
Gotta love that little hunter. With this latest offering from Wick, the count is 9 moles and 14 mice. And she’s barely over a year old. Good kitty.

However, as many times as I praise her prowess, as many times as I dispose of those poor little creatures (even thought they are considered vermin, they are still pretty cute), she keeps bringing us more. She might even be getting bored with my ‘good hunter’ litany.

Truthfully? I’m starting to get just a little bit scared.

Somewhere, the Mayor of Mousedom is ticked off that his furry relatives keep disappearing, being offered as gifts at my office window or in front of Peter’s car.

Soon, the mouse kingdom will figure it out. And they know they can’t send a mouse army. I mean really. Wick will wipe them out with one swipe of her mighty paw. The numbers speak for themselves.

So, to give back just a little to the mousy world, I have written a tribute for the fallen comrades of Mousedom. Why? You know– just in case those dead mice are gathered somewhere in the rodent after-world, planning on a ghostly uprising or something.

An Ode to Mice

You’re cute, you’re furry, and you scamper with glee.
Too bad our cat is quicker than thee.
Your life was ended, no doubt in fear.
I’m sorry you suffered while your end was near.
If you could escape our Wick’s mighty paw,
You could report to all mice exactly what you saw.
Mice would be warned, both near and far,
Stay clear of Wick’s house, or a snack is what you are.
Live out your lives in vast wooded land,
Stay out of our walls, consider yourselves banned.
It’s the least I can do to save your little lives,
Hey, it’s that, or Wick’s claws like knives.

If this doesn’t work, come visit us on Halloween. I’m sure the body count will be in the triple digits, and we’ll be able to offer a ghoulish mouse ghost tour like you’ve never seen before.

Lessons in Teenager Painting

Cost of three varying colours of orange paint and primer for a spare bedroom: $121.00. Cost of equipment to paint said bedroom: $83.16. Cost of Joyce and Peter letting four 18-year-olds pretend to paint the bedroom? Our sanity.

Peter’s daughter has moved in for a few months. One of the spare bedrooms, painted in an adorable Noah’s Ark theme (previous owners) was claimed by Blondie as her room for the duration. Noah and the animals had to go, replaced immediately by paint, brushes, and four teenagers with great intentions.

Dire warnings accompany my instructions. I delegate wisely. Blondie is great at colouring outside the lines, so I put her on tape. Her gorgeous friend Alexa gives me strict assurances that she’s done this kind of thing before, and ‘m not to worry.

Did I mention that the two other teenagers are the current toys of summer for our girls? Cute toys they are, too. I place my trust in the boys, telling them that I don’t think I have to worry about giggles flying with the paint as long as their hands are wielding the brushes, and can they please keep an eye on Blondie?

My last instruction is to let me know when they’ve prepped the room completely before they open any paint. The most important rule is to make sure that every single surface was covered in any of the dozens of drop sheets that I provide.

Wait. Did I mention we have beech hardwood floors upstairs?

Thus my last, final, most dire warning. Do NOT get any paint whatsoever on the hardwood floors. Come and get me when you’re ready to start painting. Repeat dire warnings. Cover everything, or die.

Another two hours passes. I go upstairs, cursing myself for letting Blondie talk me into this. I open the door again.

The room has been whitewashed by blind people. Paint and drop cloths are piled in messy hills, paint smeared all over the floor in messy globs, dripping from the floor boards onto the floor. But they have more paint on one another than on the walls. This explains the mysterious giggling.

I take a deep, calming breath and tell them all that they are not leaving the house until there isn’t a speck of paint on our floors. I close the door again and walk away. Peter is already sending telepathic I-told-you-so’s. I can feel it emanating from him as I curse under my breath.
After eight hours, the only thing these well-meaning kids have covered is everything that shouldn’t be painted: floors, door handles, hallway floor, bathroom sink, counter, good brown towels and each other.

Muttering under my breath, I leave them with soap, hot water , scrub brushes and a look that tried to convey the ominous consequences of their actions if I come back and find one spot of paint anywhere other than the walls.

They do well on clean up. But now we have to hire a professional to come finish the job. Sigh. Priceless? I think not.

People Watching and Jammin’ by the Riverside

Riverside Jam from a vendor’s eye view is quite a bit different from being a reveller in the country music scene.

This vendor was selling her yummy smelling Gold Canyon Candles with her wonderful husband all weekend, and let me tell you – the people watching alone was something not to be missed.

Friday night, the crowds were quiet, but the array of dress was as loud as any hard rock concert. Pink, turquoise and wild straw ‘cowboy’ hats adorned heads in alarming numbers. Mini skirts and cowboy boots stomped and strutted on the bodies of young, lithe teenagers. And nota one of them looked like what I call a real cowboy.

There was an element of dress that was laughable at points and mysterious at others (her mother,or daughter, let her out of the house like that?) Exactly how many fat rolls outside the shirt are considered sexy? I'd like to know - really.

The music was foot-stomping fun. There was so much talent on that stage that by the time George Canyon performed on Sunday night, I was thoroughly doused in country music. And George Canyon, with his deep, rumbly voice and chiselled country-boy jaw just cemented my love of the Jam.

However, threre was so much more to see than the performers on the stage (not that I could get close enough to really even see the performers, as people pitched their chairs to mark their spots early in the mornings).

Early Saturday morning (by Jam standards), I was walking back to the car for something and I spotted a couple near the Canoe Club. The morning sun sparkled on the water’s surface as the couple stood under the branches of one of the mighty oaks that grow so majestically near the river’s edge, and they were locked in a tight embrace.

There was nothing seedy or inappropriate about their behaviour. They were just out enjoying a quiet morning stroll when the urge to climb all over one another occurred. The kiss they shared was long and deep, and he cupped her face like a man doomed to love forever. The thing that made it so special to see? They were at least 60 years old. Good stuff.

The music started at 1:00 p.m. every day, but that didn’t stop the couple sound asleep in the cool, breezy shade of another oak. The green grass was their mattress, and his chest was her pillow. This couple in their fifties were having an awesome nap, heedless of the endless noise of motorcycles revving, performers singing and people laughing.

Wandering through the campgrounds was like stepping into a permanent party zone.

Cutie and I passed a darkened-don’t-come-a-knockin’ campsite that was seemingly involved in their private party, if the soundtrack was any indication. And trust me on this - there was so much noise that it was a miracle we could hear any given thing. So, I'm guessing the bouncing trailer was a seriously happenin' party.

We passed barbecues and laughter and dancing. There was a site full of friends seated in a circle, while two shirtless man-boys (20 somethings) played their guitars and caterwauled loud enough to scare the racoons from the forest.

It was all beautiful, and everyone was having a good time. And that, I guess is what that weekend was about. Good times, good friends, new friends and great music. Can’t wait for next year!

My Secret Soccer Life

Okay, most of you know my position on soccer as a whole. Unless Beckham or Cristiano Ronaldo is personally showing me soccer stuff, really – I could take it or leave it.

However, little did I know that the soccer people were working their own underhanded magic on me, and I didn’t even realize it.

It started with the FIFA Youth World Cup. Peter bought tickets for all of the Ottawa games. Peter told me how many people in the soccer club were also buying tickets, and that the World Cup was going to be some awesome soccer. When he asked if I wanted to go, I said yes.

And before you think it was a waste of a perfectly good ticket, I guess I should tell you that I enjoy live action sports – pretty much no matter what the sport. Well, except for tennis and golf. Please. How exciting can that be?

Anyway – I thought that all the countries coming together in Ottawa would be a really cool thing to see, and I was right. The FIFA Youth World Cup was some mighty awesome soccer.

The way those players move their feet and control that ball is something that even I can appreciate. It’s such a different game from what I’ve seen before (like that’s been so much soccer). My eyes were opened completely to the beauty of professional level soccer. And I didn’t even care that Beckham wasn’t on the field.

Lord help me, I might be turning into a fan!

When the U.S. / Brazil match was played, Peter and I showed up like Romeo and Juliet – Peter in his much deserved Brazilian colours, a Brazilian fan for many years. Me? Well, let’s just say that finding red, white and blue in my closet wasn’t such a stretch. And we went to the game that way. Holding hands and getting more than a few double-glances and chuckles. The U.S. and Brazil walked up to our seats in the stands. The teams took the field, and the game began.

And I cheered the loudest when the U.S. beat Brazil. Man, those boys can play soccer. It’s a beautiful thing to see.

I booed with everyone else as we got seriously tired of the Argentinian drama falls, and other poor sportsmanship behaviour at these games. We chatted with fans around us, mostly families from the Carleton Place Soccer Club. It’s like we had our own section. Lanark County was representin’!

Peter recorded all the out of town games. As he watched them (mostly by himself), I found myself asking what happened when he gave a yell, or I would make him rewind the game to show me the goal I’d just missed. I watched the last two games with him, and they were awesome to see. I still wish the Czech Republic had won. I’m so over Argentina.

Something is happening to me. I don’t’ know quite what it is, but it scares me

I have to go. The Boys Mississippi Invitational Soccer Tournament is next weekend, and I’m on the planning committee.

Weights and Treadmills and Trainers, Oh My!

When I was in my twenties, the gym was a place to see and be seen. Sure, we went to work out, but at the time, it was more about how cute the boys looked in their muscle shirts, and how colour coordinated we were in our gym attire. It was less about getting in shape, or being good to ourselves than it was something to do to look cool, and - well, just something to do until it was time to go out and party again.

Now, my metabolism is on permanent vacation, and my body is telling me that it’s quite happy to lead the sedentary lifestyle. My mind is slightly mutinous and tends to side with my body, telling me that laying around isn’t such a bad thing, that it helps with cell regeneration and stuff.

However tempting that may sound, if I don’t fight the laziness, the ease of sinking into that perfect corner of the comfy couch, I’ll soon become another part of the furniture and Peter will never find me again, until I give him clues with general demands to bring me an iced cap from Timmy’s before Paradise Falls comes on (a Canadian soap that is my daytime guilty pleasure).

So, to combat this overwhelming need for laziness, I decided to up my dopamine levels and join the gym. The day I signed away a year of my life I went in all proud and strong and a little too loud “I want to join the gym!” I think I was loud enough to squelch the inner screaming of my muscles, cringing in fear. I think I startled the girl behind the desk. But hey - I couldn't take a chance - I didn't want my mind to win over my vocal chords at this point.

After getting my card, I asked for a training session and was told that I could meet with a trainer the following Thursday. I decided to use the treadmill until then, because all of the other machines look like bionic octopi or something. At the end of my 45 minutes, I thought “I can do this, it’s not so bad.” I kept visiting the treadmill until my appointment, thinking I was going to show that trainer, after I’d built up a week’s worth of cardio.

And that’s where it all went horribly, scarily wrong.

She is way too cute and perky. Her smile lights up the room, and she is as bouncy and energetic as a 6-month-old pup. I loved her and hated her on sight, and kind of wanted to rub her belly. But mostly, I hoped I could catch some of her vibe, so I could build up some excitement for the hell she was about to put me through.

And she did her best, smiling the whole time. Hell started with the legs, then went to the arms, the back, the abs, and, Lord help me, there’s a machine that helped me do my very first pull up. She ADDED it to my routine because she was so proud of me. That brat.

I felt like I kept up pretty well. I only sat the wrong direction on two machines, because her way just didn’t make sense. When I fight a bionic octopus, I want to be able to face it. The trainer won. I did it her way. And the octopus won.

It's two weeks later and I'm still going. What a good girl, right? Ha! I still look for excuses, but then I know that my 34.50 is going to be theirs, and dangit, they are gonna earn that dough from me.

I’ve got to go change now. I’ve got a harpoon and some chum, and a bionic octopus to conquer.

Facebook: My Life on a Wall

There probably aren’t many of you that haven’t heard of Facebook by now, especially if you are between the ages of 14-25. However, there are a startling number of us adult ‘tweeners hooked up on Facebook.

By the way, adult ‘tweeners are those of us that are okay with saying goodbye to the prime of our youth, because we are happy in what we know to be the prime of our lives. The time that is rich with ‘if I knew then what I know now’, usually followed by an all-knowing, wisdom filled chuckle.

But it’s also a time when some of us reflect on those relationships that meant so much to us when we were younger, when we thought we had responsibilities. Yes, if I knew then, what I know now.

Anyway – these friendships were the ones that know all your little kid secrets. Some of these friends were the pals that you smoked your first and only cigarette with, or even the ones that helped you home the first time you got drunk at their house. In any case, they were close, forever kind of friends that I’ll bet you’re thinking of right now, because you have no idea where they are.

Enter Facebook. This creation by Harvard students has now taken 6 Degrees of Hey I Know You to new, frenzied, obsessive heights. But it’s also helped me find a couple of those really great pals I had when I was growing up. One of the great things – unlimited photo storage is allowing me to scan old pictures. I mean really old pictures with us in our hair-feathering 15-year-old glory.

It started out innocently enough. Roxie told me about a cool place to find old friends. I only keep a blog, so I thought I’d check it out. I signed up and immediately added Roxie as my first ‘friend’. I had one friend. I was so excited. But Roxie already had about twelve friends. I was envious, and immediately wanted more friends.

I started typing in names of people I knew in the area. Then my search expanded to my home town, my high school and college. It’s less than six months later and I now have more than 50 friends listed. My husband is on Facebook and I can send him little flirty gifts. Mom is on Facebook now, so I can jot quick notes or put pictures on her ‘wall’. It’s almost like I’m there to mess up her house in person.

The number of friends keeps climbing, and a steady ‘Mini Feed’ tells me what every one of them is doing, through their wall posts and photos. It’s like my own personal reality show, starring people I actually care about.

But now it’s getting bad. I’ve added Chip to “Dogbook”, and Wick has her own profile on “Catbook”. And I think it’s cute. Seriously, somebody help? You can reach me at www.facebook.com, under Joyce Russell-Menyasz.

Wick, the Determined Squirrel Hunter

Sunday afternoon, I decided to have a few relaxing, lazy hours with a book I just can’t keep my nose out of. Because I work at home, I make myself leave my office, and go to our bedroom to read, adjusting the pillows just so, and turning on my side so I can look outside the patio doors to the woods outside.

I am soon engrossed in the latest chapter and forget about the world around me. That is, until some bizarre screeching noise interrupts my Manhattan adventure and pulls me back to Carleton Place.

Living in the wilds of Lanark County, most noises go unnoticed; as they are part of the landscape and every day experience of living out here. However, something outside was really angry. I give an exasperated sigh and put my book down, rolling on my stomach to gaze out the door.

And there she is. Our brave little cat, more than a year old now, swishing her tail in the tall grass at the edge of the lawn, looking up into a sparse oak tree. But she isn’t the one making the noise.
Our sweet little hunter has a giant mutant black squirrel screaming at her from half way up the tree. The squirrel isn’t scared, it’s mad, and it’s giving Wick a stern talking to.

Wick isn’t interested. To show her impatience with lectures, she runs half way up the same tree as the scary squirrel, sending the monstrous black thing twenty feet higher in the tree, shrieking the whole time.

I’m sure my chorus of ‘good kitty, you GO Wick!’ didn’t help matters, but I have a thing against these bizarre Canadian squirrels. They are like climbing black Chihuahuas with furry tails. They are bigger than squirrels I’m used to, and not nearly as cute. So if our cat wants to run one off our property or make it a play thing, I’m okay with that.

My book is forgotten. I have to see how this turns out.

Wick climbs a few more feet and decides to sit and wait on the roof of a bird feeder nailed to the tree. This sends the squirrel into a frenzy, jumping from tree to tree, hanging from branches, screaming the whole time.

Eventually Wick grows tired of the game, and leaves her perch. She follows the squirrel’s progress from tree to tree for a few moments, and gives one loud meow up into the tree before moving on, twitching her tail again in a disdainful dismissal.

I’m hoping the squirrel is moving to another part of the forest, because I’m sure that Wick told that rat-looking thing that it is not welcome in her yard. And, if it decided to stay, its squirrel days would be numbered, and will soon become nothing more than a squirrel flavoured snack.

After all, Wick’s count is up to seven moles and five mice. By the way she stalks that squirrel, it’s only a matter of time and determination.

Girl Cult Summer Opener, Cutie Style

A fellow member of the Girl Cult just bought a house on the Mississippi. She’s not even forty yet, and she was able to do this. I will forever be in awe of Cutie’s determination to obtain this awesome spot. And I will forever be glad that I am part of her inner circle so I can share this with her occasionally

Last week, when the days were scorching, Cutie invited us all over to take in her new digs. We all showed up with icy drinks and swim suits. We congratulated her on her new home and immediately went to dive off the end of her dock into the cool, weed-free, refreshing water.

Once our skin stopped sizzling from the heat, we chatted on the deck of the next door neighbour. Cutie doesn’t have any deck chairs yet, but happens to be close friends with her next door neighbours, as well as two neighbours beyond.

As we laughed and stuff (remember, I can’t tell you everything, or I’d be ousted from the cult forever), I found myself looking over the lake to the West, watching as the sun began its descent into the horizon.

The clouds were sparse but fluffy, dotting the sky with dusty pink punctuation marks, casting shadows on the ground and the water as the sun started its final show. Whether it’s saying goodbye to us for the night, or hello to the other side of the globe, we’ll never know, but I wanted to watch the performance, just the same.

Conversation faded for me (a rarity, I know) as I positioned myself in front of a plate glass window in Cutie’s house, facing the Western sky. Framed by two mighty oak trees, the sun’s bright, blinding rays softened and reached out to touch the water’s surface, sending a message to tell us to pay attention we wouldn’t want to miss what was coming.

I knew at that moment that sunsets from this spot were going to be spectacular.
The slight ripple on the surface of the Mississippi added a glittery sparkle as bright, blinding day rays fizzled to make way for the lullaby song of the sun. It started with fiery pink fingers that stretched its magnificence into orange tendrils, touched the surface of the lake with its reflection and crawled all the way to Cutie’s shore as it tickled us with a good night story.

The oaks swayed slightly in appreciation, proud to be a part of this glory. I could almost hear the hiss of the sun as it hit the surface of the Mississippi, could almost see the steam rise from the water’s face. The sky glowed to a peaceful lavender and blue, sending the last ripple through the water’s reflection once more on a swan song of departure before the sun kissed us all with a bright red goodnight.

And now I am more certain than ever that I must make sure to bring Cutie an expensive, thoughtful gift any time I visit her shore, because I never want her to ask me to leave.