Because of a Friend . . .

I have removed my previous post. It's caused a little controversy, and that was certainly not my intent.

It's also caused some trouble for my hard-working friend, and I can't have that.

For those that were offended by my post about your property, please forgive me. Had I known my words would cause such trouble, I never would have written them. You have a lovely property, and you should be proud of it.

I never meant harm to anyone. I'm not wired that way.

There was no secret, no hidden agenda. I really was in awe.

Again, my apologies, especially to my friend.

I Rock. That's All.

Okay, I rock because Guitar Hero told me I do. And so did the legions of screaming fans through the encore session of my latest concert, somewhere on the back of a big-rig truck. It was all so crazy rock-n-roll that I don’t remember where the concert was. But that’s okay, because tonight it will be another concert, another night of desperate, screaming groupies, clamouring for my rockin’ guitar abilities.

Ah, the life of a rock star.

Like the road of any musical genius, my path to superstardom started with guitar lessons that were not as easy as I thought they would be. But eventually (15 minutes), my fingers found the correct colour-coded chords to press, and my strumming hand managed to find its own rhythm. My instructor told me I was ready to start playing in a garage band, and maybe follow them around on their quest for fame.

It was an intimidating offer. Was I really ready? Did I have what it took? Gulp.

I accepted the offer. I donned my torn leathers, teased my hair and shined up my Gibson. I was as ready as I would ever be.

My first song in my first concert? Slow Ride, by Foghat.

I must say that the crowd was not very forgiving. After messing up the first 30 chords or so, those ungrateful fans booed me right off the stage.

Whatever.

Good thing my band members were more forgiving. Slow Ride, one more time please.

After being booed off three more times, I finally got it. 79% of chords hit. YEAH! I rock. What? That's like a C+, right?

But as the songs went on, I didn’t rock so much. Even though I was booed off the stage more times than I was congratulated on my guitar playing prowess, I soldiered on, and it was all worth it, when the final song was played, and the crowd wanted an encore.

That’s right. An encore. From me, the rock goddess. And I gave them one. A rockin’, shockin’, jumpin’, clappin’, throw your bra at me encore.

Oh yeah, I rock alright. When I finally put my guitar down for the night, I was exhausted. My arm hurt from strumming, my fingertips were sore from the guitar chords, but it was a fulfilled exhausted. Because. I. Rock.

Wait – did I tell you that was on the easy level? Doesn’t matter – I still ROCK. And I beat Slash. Who's the rock god now, huh? Huh?

Here’s the thing. It’s just not acceptable to let all the kids have the fun with video games. Although it’s not healthy to spend every spare moment trying to obtain the status of deity in a video game, it’s also not healthy to go all ‘adult’ and pretend you’re too old to enjoy playing one.

I am convinced that Guitar Hero is for our generation, not that of our kids. Go ahead, ask them – who is Foghat? Who is Cream, or Heart? Their blank stares alone should have you kicking them off Guitar Hero so you can show them how to really rock.

Promise me, parents. Promise me you will take just two minutes to try out some of these games that your kids love so much.

After all, we had to play outside when we were kids. We didn’t have this cool stuff. It’s your turn to zone out on the video games that you probably bought in the first place, while you kick the kids outside to study plant or highway life.

I wasn't the only one Dad told to go play on the highway, was I?

Have fun, parents. And don’t forget to get your ROCK ON!

Friday Night With a Thunder Storm

The other day, my brilliant husband (and I mean this literally, the man is wicked smart) was about to get in the shower when I said that I'd heard some thunder.

He responded with, "Yeah, but is there lightning?"

I wasn't sure where to hang the 'here's your sign' on him. He was showering, after all. And for those of you who are asking the same question that Peter did, there is NO thunder without lightning, my friends.

You see, the speed of light is faster than the speed of sound. That's why our parents taught us to count how far away the lightning was by timing the silence between the light and the sound.

Peter recovered nicely by stating that he meant whether or not the lightning was sheet (up in the clouds) or forked (aiming at us), because it’s dangerous to shower when the forked stuff is doing a tap dance across the road.

Uh huh. Cute but dumb. That’s how I like ‘em.

So tonight the Gold Canyon Vanilla Mint candle is glowing, an old episode of Ghost Whisperer is showing, and the lightning is flashing among the puffy night clouds, its rumbly thunder following close behind.

The television is silent. There are crickets and night birds, and I can almost be pulled away into the coming storm, lulled by the sound of the breeze among the branches outside. It is a lovely little moment, and I walk to the window to breathe in some of that great smelling air that comes with an impending storm. . .

Then I hear Peter cry “Shit, the internet is down.”

. . . and I am back, stormy adventure over.

Happy Friday, all. Hope your weekend is fantabulous.

And one more thing. LOVE with abandon and leave no words unspoken. Life is much too short, and when your time comes, you may not have a chance to even say "I wish I'd . . ."

Goodbye to Campbell Melvin, 46, dead from a heart attack while he was playing a soccer game today. He leaves behind four children and a beloved wife. There are no words.

And appropriately, here comes the rain.

Of Wild Turkeys and Woody Woodpecker

I love living in the wilds of Lanark County. I love the trees, the wide open sky and the amazing glittery carpet of stars at night. I especially love the critters, as long as they don’t want to suck my blood.

However, as much as I love the critters (Peter, too- we often will stand by the windows and watch them go by), apparently we don’t love them as much as our tabby, Wick.

I’ve told Wick stories before, and they always seem to start with . . . there was this really strange noise . . . you know, the kind of noise that registers in the cacophony of every-day sounds as not normal?

So there was this really strange nature noise that had me standing up to look out my office window. And what do I see? A fat white wild turkey running helter-skelter down the driveway with Wick in hot pursuit, her legs flying like the fastest cheetah.

I wish I could have seen it from the beginning. I imagine it would have been Wick, thinking to herself that whatever it was she was watching was the biggest thing she would ever try to tackle (besides the dog or me). I imagine she became a mighty huntress, stalking through our too-tall grass, crouched low to the ground, her tail swishing in dangerous arcs, her eyes wide, pupils dilated. She is no longer a house cat, she’s the mighty lioness, ready to bring down the meanest wildebeest on the plains of the Serengeti.

But, of course, all I got to see was the white wobble of the turkey and Wick’s rapid chase. By the time I screamed at Peter to come see, I was laughing and the frightened bird and our mighty cat were gone, only ghosts of dust clouds remaining.

Seriously, what in the world would she do with a turkey if she caught it? Would she expect me to serve it up with some stuffing and gravy? If she’d managed to drag that thing back, I would have served it on a silver platter to her. But the turkey managed to get away.

When the deer munch near our crab apple tree, Wick lays in the branches above or at their feet. I wonder if she provides the dinner conversation?

So there was this really strange noise, this time out the back bedroom door. I crawled out of bed and opened the drape, much to Peter’s dismay. It was kind of early on Saturday morning.

But that danged Woody Woodpecker was back, his full head of red feathers swaying in time with his loud hammering on our birch tree. The woodpecker was a full foot tall, and quite beautiful.

But what did Wick see?

Snack.

So she’s at the base of the tree, and the woodpecker stops hammering and starts bellowing at the cat, six feet below.

Peter didn’t want the woodpecker on the tree anyway, so he started egging her on, telling her to get that nasty woodpecker.

It’s not like she could have caught the bird, but she sure shot up that tree fast enough, accompanied by the ‘good girl!’ shouts from both of us.

You’ve got to love the chutzpah of our little Wick. She dreams big, and she goes after her dreams. I guess we could all learn a lesson or two from our pets, couldn’t we?

Maybe, but I won’t be climbing trees or chasing wild turkeys anytime soon. And the deer? They can have the apples, thankyouverymuch.

I'm sure Wick will let them know when she's had enough.

In Space, Nobody Can Hear You Pee. . .

So the big news last week was that the International Space Station was suffering from a plumbing problem, a broken toilet. And since a broken toilet at home is a big nuisance, I can’t even imagine a plumbing problem in space, where there is NO gravity.

Peter called me from the road when he was off doing some soccer thing or other, and was laughing when he told me that the toilet on the ISS (International Space Station) was broken, and that they had to fly in someone special to fix it.

Which, of course, led me to all kinds of suppositions.

So I did a little research and followed the story. As in, THIS, I gotta see.

First, how did the toilet break? Well, it seems that there was an astronaut using the facility. There’s a fan that pulls liquid waste away from the body and into a liquid waste receptacle. Apparently the fan broke while in use.

So you’re the astronaut, and you’re sitting there, stripped of your one-piece suit, naked, with your feet strapped in so you don’t float away (maybe you’d be jet-propelled into the ceiling for some reason when you sat down), and instead of your waste being pulled away by the fan, the fan stops. . . and then what?

Anti-gravity and a bum wash is what happens. But here’s the question. If you’re the astronaut sitting naked, and your bum is the only thing keeping the liquid IN the toilet, who do you call to say there’s a problem, and how do you get off the toilet?

Did the guy get up and run? Duck and cover while his waste hit the ceiling? Run like mad (in anti-gravity slow-mo) and scream “GET THE PLUMBER!” as he slammed the bathroom door behind him? Was he able to get his suit back on before it all hit the fan (so to speak)?

The ISS toilet is a 19 million dollar piece of equipment. If it cost 19 million to build it and install it, what in the heck is the plumbers fee going to be, and who on Earth (literally) do they call?

Down at Ground Control, Russia has been contacted to supply the parts, and the Space Shuttle Discovery is taking the parts and necessary personnel to fix the toilet.

So there are eleven plumbers in Carleton Place. I wonder what they would charge if someone called and said they needed a space toilet fixed? Would it be like the Bruce Willis movie, Armageddon, when they had to destroy the asteroid or else all would be doomed?

Would Bruce Willis the plumber go in while his daughter watched with teary eyed fear from Earth as he braved what is sure to be a wet storm of biohazard waste? Would the world watch in anticipation, hoping against hope that the pee storm would end?

And while the pump is replaced, will Bruce the plumber die while becoming an international hero at the same time?

Okay, probably not. The truth is that the astronauts managed to bypass the problem until the world’s most expensive plumber arrives on the Discovery. Good thing the Discovery has its own toilet.

As Peter said,” I hope the Space Station doesn’t fly over Carleton Place anytime soon.”

The Parade that Nobody Knew About

If a parade goes down the middle of the street and there's nobody there to watch it, are the clowns still scary?

Saturday I needed to do an errand that involved popping downtown to Bridge Street in our sleepy little downtown area.

I usually take the highway to High Street, and cruise through my favourite neighbourhood in town. This one houses the oldest mansions, the three-fireplace-houses-with-upstairs-screened-in-porches. I have a fantasy that one day I will be able to see (or live) inside one house in particular. Until I do, I will just drive by and daydream.

Anyway, Bridge street was closed off at High Street. There were volunteers that let no passers through, that looked determined and a little too enthusiastic to have a reason to turn on vehicles that didn’t want to heed the big blue barriers that blocked the road. There was no traffic either way, so I decided to park at the barrier and walk downtown, it being such a nice day and all.

I stopped at the barrier and looked left, looked right. I saw no reason for barriers. There were no crowds, nothing. I asked a volunteer, "What's up?"

She looked at me as if I should know already, and said in a tone that chastised me just a bit for not knowing "It's the Shriner's Parade."

I looked left again. Oh, there were some police officers on bikes, and a fire truck, and if I listened carefully, I could hear the parade band tuning up.

I looked right again. But where were all the people? Had I stepped into some weird anti-parade dimension?

I walked on, struck again that I could only see about 30 people sitting up and down the street, most of them local vendors coming out to see what's going on, or people like me, who just happened to stumble on a ghost-town parade.

It was eerie, embarrassing for the Shriners, shameful for our town and frighteningly hilarious to me.

My one errand on Bridge Street netted me a 'closed' sign, so I turned back, and finally saw the parade approaching.

The Shriners in their various forms - on too-tiny-motorcycles, too-tiny-ground-planes, sitting and waving in fancy cars and honking weird sounding horns. There were many of them, some younger than one might expect, and all of them wearing their nifty hats.

They smiled and waved for the few people that watched them go by to the accompaniment of the community band, who actually sounded pretty good.

I laughed at the absurdity of it, and believe the Shriners mistook that for enthusiasm. I received wave after wave from the merry men, which made me laugh harder.

When the clowns came toward me my fun ended.

Clowns are evil and must be stopped. I was afraid for my very soul and couldn't get back to the car fast enough.

The feeling that I had somehow been robbed of something hit me.

I had been gone less than ten minutes and the parade was over.

As I made it to my car (only checking over my shoulder once to make sure evil clowns weren't stalking me) I heard a mother say into her cell phone in a dismayed tone "It's over. The parade is already over."

And it’s just a shame that nobody saw it.

Washington DC Scares Me. . . But Only a Little

 

Oh, my adventures in D.C. Okay, that’s too much of a build-up. But I did have fun, saw many things, had my picture taken with Barrack Obama, and managed to get away from the DEA, the Department of Homeland Security and the Pentagon virtually unscathed.

I say virtually because my feet will never be the same after walking approximately 42 miles in just under three days. In flip-flops.

Our view outside the hotel room was of the Pentagon. I’ve never been so up-close-and-personal to the behemoth, and could have walked to their front door in less than 20 minutes.

Our view was also of the side of the Pentagon that was hit on September 11^th, 2001. The wall has long since been rebuilt, with white markers where windows would be. It made me wonder if it the white rectangles are markers or memorials for those that perished there. It was a stark reminder, and one of the few serious moments of our trip.

To the left of our hotel was a group of high-rise, mirrored buildings. Imposing for their sheer size alone, the cameras at the top of every corner, as well as the posted guard houses at every entrance had my spidey-senses tingling. These had to be important buildings.

Peter and I noticed a flag flapping in the wind. We waited for it to unfurl before we read the following words on its cotton: Department of Homeland Security. Gulp.

If I was a terrorist, I might’ve been a little nervous. Peter found out that the building right next door to DHS housed the DEA (Drug Enforcement Agency). Cool.

Big Brother much?

Again, if I was a bad girl, I might’ve decided to just go back to my room, sit quietly and wait for our flight home.

But I'm only kind of naughty, so that didn't work.

Peter and I were wandering through the super-mall that was just on the other side of the scary-agency-offices when we “met” Senator Barrack Obama and Senator Hilary Clinton. They were both so approachable and easy to talk to. They were accommodating but strangely silent. I never realized how short Clinton is. I’m not sure she could see over the desk in the oval office should she get elected. And seriously, I don't get that frightened look in her eyes.

The last time I was in DC, I was way too intimidated to take the subway. Okay, maybe I was scared. But this time Peter was with me, and descending down those gaping black holes into the dark tunnels of noisy trains below wasn’t as scary as going alone. Of course, my overactive imagination was waiting for any number of aliens, monsters, scary homeless tunnel zombies or serial killers to come lurching out at me from the vast blackness. As we sped along one of those black tunnels, an ad for Speed Racer appeared on the wall outside the train. I almost screamed. Who was showing movies in the subway tunnels? I was sure it was the scary zombie dudes, and was glad the train raced on by.

So we survived. Homeland Security, Reagan National Airport, The Pentagon and the DEA. And as always, I can’t wait to go back. I’m an American (though I qualify for Canadian citizenship this year!), and D.C. is like Mecca for me.

Maybe next time we’ll stay in Arlington Cemetery or something, and I’ll get to see the ghost of the Unknown Soldier and John F. Kennedy playing poker.

 

Pentagon City – This Column Will Self Destruct in Five Seconds. . .

The call has come. It’s time for me to go into active duty. I’m going to Pentagon City in Washington DC and that can only mean one thing; it’s time to activate my secret agent status.

Of course, in telling you this I expect you to keep my secret. If you don’t, I may have to make you disappear to protect national security.

Peter’s mother ship for work is headquartered in Virginia, a couple of subway stops from downtown Washington DC. Every couple of years we go back to the mother ship for Peter to meet with his editors and check in while they treat us like royalty.

And while my poor man works all day, I wander the streets of DC, soaking up all the history, playing the corporate wife, and this time, in Pentagon City, probably to save the country from something dire.

Why else would we go to Pentagon City? Maybe they wanted to keep us safer on this visit. The last visit to DC turned into a White House evacuation- while we were in the building.

May 11, 2005. We’d scored a tour of the White House Press Room because the White House correspondent from Peter’s work force graciously used her pull to get us a short tour.

So there we were, in the White House Press Room. The press podium was at the front of a very small room where such weighty and world-changing decisions and speeches had taken place.

Our guide told me I could go stand on the podium. What? Stand where so many presidents have stood before? Where so many White House Press Secretaries have parried and evaded questions about weapons of mass destruction?

I was behind the podium before I finished the thought. I touched the wood, eyed the room, and wondered about the history that had taken place right where I was standing. Kennedy stood there. Reagan stood there. Clinton denied stuff there, and George W. still makes a fool of himself there.

To say it was cool would not be doing it justice.

But when we left the press room and walked towards the front of the building to exit, we found ourselves confronted by men with guns, telling us to run, run RUN!

We stood there like idiots. . .wha. . .? Was this a joke?

The press room emptied and people with cameras, phones and microphones were busily dialling numbers to find out what was going on.

We were shoved out the White House gates in confusion. Men on foot and horseback, armed with guns chased us across the park to the other side of the square.

To say it was chaos defines understatement. But the presidential cavalcade rushed out of the gates with three rumoured first ladies. W was on a bike ride, and Cheney was probably hiding in one of his giant man-safes.

F-16s flew into the air three seconds after we were out the gates and running across the park. One woman screamed into her phone ‘Not again! Is everyone out?’.

Surreal much?

As the news hit that an errant plane had flown into the no-no zone, stresses calmed.

I watched the snipers on the roof and turned to Peter.

“This is the best White House tour EVER!” He rolled his eyes at me.

So this trip, I don’t need the White House. It couldn’t be nearly that good the second time around.

What kind of excitement do you think I could get up to in Pentagon City?

It's Called Dental-Phobe for a Reason. . . and I'll Introduce You To the Guy. . .

 

My tooth hurt. A lot. That meant I would be going to what I feel is one level up from hell itself, and that’s the dentist. Since there were no available appointments in Carleton Place, I would have to go back to my dentist in Barrhaven. He is a gentle but slow dentist, but I don't mind him much, because my emphasis is on the word gentle.

I try to take care of my teeth so I DON’T have to go to the dentist. I believe that if my teeth aren’t broke, they don’t need fixing. It may not be the wisest course of action, but it's what I can handle.

I can tell you with great certainty that I am not alone, because let’s face it, sometimes dentists are scary.

Enter my dentist’s father, a super-happy dental guy who has been poking at teeth for probably half his life. I swear that after he x-rayed my sore tooth, there was a gleam in his eye as he said those two dreaded words to me. . . root canal.

Gulp.

After the lecture about if I had been getting regular check+ups he could’ve caught the cavity before it killed my tooth (blah blah blah), he told me to come back in a week and he would fix it.

I hate lectures. I travelled 1.5 hours round trip so I could be told to visit the dentist more and make another trip next week.

I should’ve known there would be a problem when I walked in, and Dr. Dentist hollered before I could sit down that I was one minute late and he had to get me in that chair and get me frozen.

I apologized for wasting his 60 seconds and popped my bum in that chair before another 5 seconds was missed. I gave the hygienist a look. She understood me immediately, but offered no peace.

Apparently I was in trouble.

I’d brought my MP3 player with me to listen to music while my mouth was torn asunder. I figured I’d be distracted and could turn up the volume when the drilling in my skull became too loud.

Dr. Dentist would have none of it until he had jabbed the needle into my gum line a few times. It was a better use of time. After all, we had 60 seconds to make up for.

Ever heard of a dental dam?. It’s a piece of balloon that they put around the tooth for a clean working environment. Dental dams are great, I guess, if you like choking on and tonguing latex.

The worst part is that I have a small mouth. Quit laughing, people. Figuratively, I have a huge mouth and I know it. Physically, not so much.

So when Dr. Dentist pulls my lips over my skull and staples them to the back of my neck so there will be no opportunity for my nasty saliva to infect his workspace, I felt my jaw click to the permanent-open status and wondered if I would ever be able to close my mouth again.

I feel like I'm getting an extreme makeover, and I'm gonna look like the Joker when I'm done, with my lips ripped wide open. God be praised for skin elasticity.

Dr. Dentist gives a John Madden play-by-play as he works on my tooth; what’s inside, how the roots grow and die.

The irony is I had my music, but he would talk louder than I could play it. He asked me if I wanted him to shut up about how easy it was to find my canals and isn 't it great that the pulp inside isn't diseased?

Lord, give me strength.

If I could talk, I would’ve told him that if I wanted to know my tooth that well, I’d go out and buy the biography.

Here’s the scary part. As he finished the job, the gleam in his eye returned. He said, as if in a bizarre Apocalypse Now scene that there’s nothing like the rush of a good root canal in the morning. He says he’ll never quit dentistry.

There were beads of sweat dangling from his chin the whole time, spilling onto his scrubs. Yikes, he was leaning over me! Can a human survive a latex-sweat-from-stranger-induced vomit session? Would I choke on my own sick?

Because the panic that set in watching that  bead of sweat hanging from his chin almost sent me screaming from the chair.

No dentist should ever take that much joy in his work, in my pain. It’s just creepy.