Hello again.

I’ve been away. Well, not away, so much as not here. It has been a busy time for us at the House of Peevish. Going to appointments. Talking to people. Working. Playing. Doing ALL the things!

Alright, not all the things. For one thing, I have not blogged this week. And in general, I’ve been away from my usual internet haunts this week. I’ve been out of the loop a lot, but that is okay.

Sometimes it is good to take some time offline. Sometimes the angst of others and the bad news of the world and the stupid and the petty annoying can get overwhelming, and so it’s okay to skip it. Sometimes, reading about the minutiae of the lives of others or the things going on that you cannot fathom out in the world or the opinions people have of what you should be or the latest greatest things you need to know and have and be are just… exhausting.

Sometimes you just have to turn off the monitor or close the laptop lid and just walk away. And sometimes, it’s just nice to do so.

We’ve had a lot on the go. For the past two weeks I feel like I have been running and planning and doing full tilt. I haven’t, mind you. It just FEELS like it. But I HAVE been busy. I have had lots of work to do. We’ve had appointments. We’ve had playdates with friends. And we’ve spent some time as a family just relaxing and chilling and doing stuff.

It continues to be busy this week. So we’ll see how things go. Maybe there will be things to say. And maybe it will all be too AAAAUUUUGGGHH and dashing to and fro, and that’s hardly worth writing about, let alone reading about. And maybe it’ll just be me, hanging out and soaking up the last little bit of the season with my kid as the summer draws to a close. And that’s good enough reason to be offline for awhile.

So it has been dark here on my blog. But that is okay. Sometimes the darkness is peaceful for the reader, too. Like a little bit of quiet space amid the noise.

A little bit of offline and quiet, sent from me, who has been offline and quiet.

Monday sucks. First, it’s MONDAY. Show me someone who loves Mondays and I’ll show you a person in need of medication. Second, our vacation is done. And that’s NO GOOD NO.

Nobody likes the first Monday morning after a vacation. It’s hard, waking up and getting your poop in a group on Monday at the best of times, let alone the first day after vacation. It’s like morning came along and punched you in the face. HARD. And then laughed about it.

We had a lovely vacation, though, relaxing and visiting with BDH’s family. We did a lot of swimming, and playing with Stinkerbelle, and watching Castle on the giant TV.

(Life-size Nathan Fillion FTW!! *ahem*)

And even though we were, as is usually the case when we go on vacation, sick almost all week with colds, it was great.

So it’s hard to return to our normal everyday routine, several provinces away.

Admittedly, it’s not as bad for me, the stay-at-home mom, as it is for BDH, who had to not only drag himself up and out for work, but also had to steel himself for a shift on call. Nothing says “vacation’s over” like preparing for phone calls at all hours of the night. But even for me, the start of the work week means a change in thinking.

I may not have to get up and make myself presentable and go anywhere, but I do have a bit of readjustment to real life post-vacation. For one thing, it’s just me and That Baby, all day every day, once again. Throughout the week while we were away, there were grandparents and cousins and aunts around, to visit Stinkerbelle and play with her and keep her entertained, which was great for her — she is such a social kid, and she loved having her family around all week.

But it also gave me a break every now and then to shower or knit or read or just relax, which was nice. And it gave me other adults to talk to, which is something I definitely miss being at home all the time.

Stinkerbelle, who developed a love of PBS children’s television while we were away, returns to a life without cable. Fortunately, there are enough SuperWhy! DVDs at the local video store to keep her rocking out to the SuperReaders theme tune for awhile, and the rest we can probably watch online. But we can’t replace her lovely time with Grammy and Grandad and everyone quite so easily, so we’ll have to plan and budget for more trips home in future.

And we can’t make up for the endless diversions of her home away from home… so we have already begun the search for a reasonably priced, and hopefully second-hand, slide for the backyard. Or even a full-on play centre.

We came home to a clean(-ish) house and healthy cats, which is always good. But our voicemail contained a few important messages and our fridge was mostly empty, so this Monday also involved making calls and appointments, getting out and running errands, most notably for groceries. Trucking around with a cold on a humid, stanky day is nobody’s idea of a good time, least of all mine, but it had to be done.

And at least we got out of the house. Overcast, humid and threatening rain: the trifecta of keeping a two-year-old housebound.

But although we enjoy getting away for a vacation, I must admit it IS always nice to be home again. Sleeping in one’s own bed. Routines. And AIR CONDITIONING. Oh how we missed our A/C.

So, you know, it’s not ALL bad.

And Monday morning is now Monday afternoon. Monday can’t last forever.

And when you think of it, our vacation may be over, but we’re one day closer to our NEXT vacation. So. Onwards and upwards.

Dear Shampoo Making People:

I am not happy with you.

You know the saying “ignorance is bliss”? Well, when you and the Big Mucky Mucks of your Company all get together and make your next decisions around the manufacture and marketing of your product, I want you to bear that in mind. Because nowhere is it more true than in the purchase and consumption of shampoo.

Let me illustrate.

Years ago, my husband and I bought your shampoo. It was a nice shampoo, greenish in colour I seem to recall, and it had a friendly, appealing label with flowers and birds and shit on it. It was nice. It was simple. And it went unchanged for many years.

It was a GOOD SHAMPOO. I would wash my hair, and TAA DAAAH. It was CLEAN. And smelled kinda nice.

But then, one day I went into the shampoo aisle at the store to restock our shampoo, only to find that it had changed. It was still the same friendly label, only now it was saying “25% MORE!” Well, who could resist THAT, right? So I bought lots. And we happily shampooed for weeks and weeks and weeks.

Maybe even months. It was the dark ages, and I remember I drank a lot back then, and subsisted on very little sleep. Could have been years.

Anyway. The time rolled around to go buy shampoo again. I went to get our old favourite shampoo, and it was not there! In it’s place was a bottle CLAIMING to be the same thing, only it was made with FRUIT!

FRUIT SHAMPOO! Well, I was confused.

But we tried it, and it was fine.

And then suddenly we started seeing your shampoo commercials all over the telly. Women were having orgasms because of your shampoo! They had taken to washing their hair in airplane bathrooms!

It was NEW! It was IMPROVED! It was TAKING OVER THE SHELVES!

But still at the store, there was one sad, lonely little column of the (now old, but once new) Fruit Shampoo. It was next to a whole shelf full of Orgasm Shampoo and Wash Me On An Airplane Conditioner. We clutched the bottles of Old Faithful Fruit Shampoo to our hearts, and whispered sweet nothings to it in the hopes it would never change.

And then.

Then, we went into the shampoo aisle. We were ASSAULTED. Assaulted by VARIETY. There was shampoo for every possible human condition under the sun.

There was Shampoo for Women who Insist They Are Still Under 30.

There was Shampoo for Hair That is Ever So Slightly Curly and Dyed a Particular Shade of Not Quite Brown.

There was shampoo for Single Men who Like to Bicycle in February.

There was Organic Shampoo Made with Unicorn Tears and Fairy Farts Harvested by Free Trade Agreement by the Indigenous Peoples of Eastern Tribecastan. (Hi Shannon! :fistbump::)

WHERE WAS THE SHAMPOO FOR PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT CLEAN HAIR AAAAAUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHH!

So I had to LEAVE YOU, Shampoo that We Have Used For Years. It’s not me, it’s YOU. And I took up with another shampoo.

A nice, bland, ordinary shampoo that says “SHAMPOO” on the label. No adjectives. No quantifiers. No special ingredients. No conditions. Just “SHAMPOO”.

(Okay, so it comes in 4 different scents. I can live with that.)

NOW. I walk into the store and go into the shampoo aisle. And what do I see?

My shampoo is sporting a “25% MORE” label.

It is the beginning of the end.

So I am here to tell you, Shampoo People: QUIT MESSING AROUND.

It’s enough to make a person go back to traditional methods of hair care. Like beating one’s head on a rock.

Sincerely,
A Peevish Consumer.

I could very well have become a crazy cat lady. It is a known fact. Fortunately, I have lured myself a husband into my odd little life and have also now become a parent, so in truth, full-on “crazy cat lady” status is now beyond my reach.

But still, we have 4 cats — oops, I mean, 3 cats and one ghost-of-a-cat periodically possessing the other cats when she has something to say, fancies some fast food, or is just generally in the mood to be a weenie. So we should, at least, have some sort of honourary crazy cat family status.

Truth is, though, I am a bit nutty about animals. I like them. They like me. It is a relationship that has grown over the years to include all sorts of animals, domestic and not so much, and envelops the furry, the feathered and even some of the scaly variety. As you well know, many bugs do NOT enjoy favoured status — ESPECIALLY EARWIGS. And in this, I could never be a Buddhist, because I have NO problem with seeing the end of an earwig’s life as it meets the bottom of BDH’s shoe.

I am lucky that my husband is also a soft touch for animals (admittedly, mostly just the furry ones). We both firmly embrace what we call The Secret Life of Animals, which basically means we think of animals in much the same way as you’d see them in a Far Side comic: hugely anthropomorphized, with a touch of Daffy Duck thrown in.

It makes life fun.

Our home is in a great location for this, backing onto conservation land as we do, making it easy to be entertained by the local wildlife. Look out our back windows at any time, and you are bound to see someone of the non-human variety milling about the yard, hanging out in the field beyond, or sitting on a fence getting his fluff on.

In recent days we have seen:

• Squirrels x infinity. Black, grey and brown, we see them all. There are a few that come up the steps to the door, waiting for peanuts with hands worrying in front of them like a character from Oliver Twist with his gruel bowl, head tilted to one side. “Please sir, may I have some more?” There are also two mamas that come up, so we make sure they get something to eat, as well as a skittish little guy with a big scar on his face. There’s only one brown one, and he makes the squirrel from Ice Age look positively sedate.
• A chipmunk with half a tail that we have named Pip.
• Bluejays of various size and boldness. One sat on the fence last night and went “FOOF!” and fluffed himself up to the size of a small blimp. We like the ones that bring the comedy.
• Four mourning doves. Two couples who come to the feeder and sit on opposite sides, across from each other, like they’re at a dinner party. Mourning doves are astoundingly stupid, so you will often see one or more of them out there in a blinding storm, too dumb to seek shelter.
• A shrew who lives under the black-eyed susans on our patio. He chews very loudly and can’t see too well, but he’s cute nonetheless.
• Lots of robins and red-winged blackbirds. And of course, a bevy of grackles. (That’s the official collective noun for grackles — “a bevy”. Or if it is not, it should be.)
• A baby bunny.
• A young jackrabbit.
• Zippy the groundhog.
• The odd garter snake. They are stealthy and we often only see them when they’re all “OH CRAP!! PEOPLE!!” and skittering away. But there used to be a couple who lived under the drainspout in our patio garden. I think that ended when Mr. Shrew moved in.
• Various and sundry deer, of varying age and size, including several saucy ones who walk along and eat my flowers without a care as to whether I am standing there or not.

This list obviously doesn’t include the friends we DON’T see, like the raccoons that regularly tip over the feeder and try to take it home with them, the skunks we don’t see but definitely smell, and the legendary Three-Legged Coyote that is reported to be living around these parts, no doubt with his coyote pals.

It’s provided us with endless amusement, watching all our friends come and go. Yesterday, Pip got all feisty with the baby bunny, and there was endless chasing and hopping. Pip got game, I am just sayin’.

One of the things that keeps us living here in this badly-designed house of sticks is the wildlife, and the chance to have these things around us. Location, location, location. We have seen other homes we’d consider, except for the fact that we’d miss all the critters, and looking out on the trees, and the quiet.

Wouldn’t miss the earwigs, though. I gotta be honest.

That dripping sound you hear is the sound of me, sweating. Welcome to southern Ontario in July, folks. It’s 10:30 am and already it’s 29 degrees — 38 with humidex.

THIRTY EIGHT. At 10:30 in the effing morning. It’s exactly like the Caribbean. Only without the tropical charm and the beautiful beaches and the tradewinds and the rum punch.

Okay, so it’s almost, but not quite, entirely unlike the Caribbean. (Thank you, Douglas Adams.)

Walk outside, and it’s actually very much like you’re standing in someone’s armpit. It’s warm, uncomfortably humid, and the air quality is bad.

We’re under air quality advisories here. The air will be thick with humidity and smoggy crapola. And that means Asthma Mom is staying indoors, and, by extension, That Baby is stuck indoors too.

It’s fine, I think. She’s not terribly fond of the heat. She prefers to be cool. She has done, since the day we met her. In our hotel, on that first day, she was never so happy as when she was stripped down to a onesie and wiggling around under the air conditioning vent. Even to this day, she will go over and lie down on the air vents when the A/C is on. So being outdoors and playing in this weather is not her idea of a good time.

And I am okay with that. Really.

I grew up with a pool, as did BDH, and we both miss it. And for many years as adults, we had access to a cottage on a lake, which (despite my fear of fish) was also lovely. Just getting into the water on a very hot, humid day is a luxury we both wish we still had access to. It’s tempting, on such days, to go out and sit with Stinkerbelle in her blow-up paddling pool.

But we don’t. We’ll stay indoors, doing our errands only until around 10 am, and enjoy the air conditioning until the sun moves around the house and there’s some shade in the back yard. And then after naptime, we may go out and play in the water from the hose or splash in the paddling pool. I’ll sit in the shade and That Baby will run only in the shady parts of the lawn, and we’ll maybe invite the kids across the street and their asthmatic mom to come over and keep cool, too.

It looks like a scorching, humid week. So, this routine will continue, until storms or a cold front blow in and offer some relief. Or not.

My money is on not.

But if relief does not come, I’ll be scouring the internet for a good recipe for rum punch. Or some fruity girly drink with an umbrella in it.

So, it is Friday, but it is essentially a long weekend for many since yesterday was the Canada Day holiday.

So do you know what that means? It means that there are people around. Everywhere.

I don’t like people. They make me mental. On the internet, I can close my laptop and oh! People are GONE! But in real life, we are not so lucky.

You know my Naked Neighbours? They are NOT home. And so this means we have No Nakedness to worry about for a month! JOY!

EXCEPT.

They have a son. A book-smart-but-not-so-bright-in-life son. Who, inexplicably, they leave alone to his own devices while they go on these trips. Far too often for my liking, if you ask me, because he invariably does something stupid.

Two years ago? He had a party, in which undue noise was made, guests were drunkified, and neighbours were pissed off. But worse still, against the expressed wishes of His Mother.

Bad decision.

Last year? He was having a girlfriend living with him while they were away. So he invented a story that he was out cycling and got hit by a car and ended up in hospital for several days and then needed supervision and help cooking meals “so my FRIEND volunteered to come and take care of me”.

Uh huh. AND, in the process, trashed the house. (With the help of friends. No explanation why they had to be there.) Well, I’ll give him points for ingenuity; it wasn’t a PARTY per se.

But still… Bad decision AGAIN.

This year? He came out Wednesday evening and said to me, “Uh, you know how my mom said ‘no parties’? Well…” and then proceeded to tell me he was having a party on Saturday night.

So, as I see it, he’s combining the two elements of his epic screwups of the past two summers: 1) having a party against the expressed wishes of His Mother, and (as I watch a poor facsimile of Miley Cyrus pull up and let herself into the house with her own key) 2) having people living in the house.

Oy. This boy is full of stupid.

So, here’s the thing I want to say to him. When judging the relative WIN- vs FAIL-ness of your plan — putting aside the fact that your plans of the last two summers have been complete disasters, and the fact that neighbours will kick your ass AND tell your mom if you are noisy on Saturday at even a MINUTE past 11 pm, and the fact that OMGWTFYOURMOMSAIDNO!!!! — when did it seem like a good debate tactic to argue the merits of your plan with me by coming at me with “Uh, you know how my mom said no parties? Well…”?

ON WHAT PLANET IS THIS A GOOD PLAN?

Sheesh.

So, when BDH inevitably marches over there after 11 pm on Saturday night, at least once, and tells them to STFU, and when other neighbours inevitably go over there after 11 pm on Saturday night, at least once, and tell them to STFU, and when eventually we call the cops and ask them to come over after 11 pm on Saturday night, at least once, and tell them to STFU… when, if at all, do you think it will occur to him that “Hm. Perhaps this was not my BEST LAID plan.”

Judging from past experience, probably never.

We’re getting the power tools ready for work on Sunday morning, bright and early, though… just to help drive the lesson home. And if anyone wants to come over and chop some wood with a power saw or cut my lawn with a gas-powered weed whacker or chop up a metal double-bed frame with an articulating saw, just let me know. I’ll supply the ear protection. And I’ll put on a FULL pot of coffee. And make you some muffins.

I am having a case of the uninspired.

It has been a week where not much of note is happening, and I have sat down to write on numerous occasions only to realize that I have nothing to say.

It has been a hard week. I have not been in a good place in my head this week, for various reasons, some imagined and some real. I have been fighting periods of feeling frustrated and blue and crabby. A lot of the time, I have not been at my best. Mostly I have been just kind of uninspired.

We all go through times in our lives that are just kind of “down”. Maybe we’re tired, maybe we’re not healthy, maybe we have money woes… there are so many things that can influence your mood as an adult. I look at Stinkerbelle, who goes from the pinnacle of joy to the depths of despair at the change of a DVD, and while I am grateful my moods don’t have such extremes, I am kind of envious of the simplicity of it all. “Hurray! Things are GREAT!” “No, WAIT!! Things are TERRIBLE!!” She does not fret over bills, or her weight, or whether the lawn and garden are being overrun by weeds, or something that somebody said or did or didn’t say or didn’t do.

It would be nice, sometimes, to have things be so simple, wouldn’t it?

Sometimes I feel the need to disconnect. My online life of email and blogs and communities and news can be a source of great interest and enjoyment for me. But then, there are periods where it seems like my tolerance meter shows “full” and suddenly the news I read all seems to be bad and people in communities are just being annoying and people on their blogs are all whining about stupid stuff.

(Like now, for instance. “Hello Kettle? This is Pot. You’re black.”)

So I haven’t got anything useful to say.

My daughter sits here, happily colouring in crayon all over photos in a photo album. And occasionally licking them. (It’s hers. It was a gift. She can do with it what she wants. I am under explicit orders.) Maybe that’s the answer. A little simplicity in thought and deed might do me some good this week.

Or maybe not. Bills and budgets and health problems and the like need to be dealt with. The “forget about it and it will go away” approach tends to not work so well when you are a grown up.

But a little simplicity, for brief periods in the day, might do a world of good, if only to lighten one’s mood.

It couldn’t hurt.

The problems and worries and woes will still be there afterwards, though. There’s a flaw in that plan. But at least one might feel a little more relaxed, a little better able to cope.

So for now, I am short of inspired. But to illustrate, with remarkable accuracy, what I have been feeling recently, I encourage you to go read this post. I didn’t write it, but it looks JUST LIKE MY LIFE SOME DAYS. (Please note: While the illustrations might LOOK just like me, they are NOT, in fact, ME. I know. It’s scary how close they are.)

Behold, my peeps! The newest superhero on the block! Today I struck a blow for humanity everywhere against the forces of evil!

I walk everywhere with That Baby. It is great exercise, plus she likes to get out and see the world. And it’s good for the environment, or so I have heard.

So today, as usual, I popped That Baby in the stroller, and we set off on a trip to the pharmacy and to the grocery store for a few things. It’s not a tough walk, straight down one relatively flat street from our newer neighbourhood through an older one, to the main drag of our fair city. It’s not tough so much as it is long. But because it is mostly flat and mostly tree-lined and shady, it makes for a nice walk where we can get moving pretty quickly and work up a sweat.

The street we walk down is a main artery in a neighbourhood. It is just a regular old suburban street, but it does see its fair share of traffic as an artery through the various other crescents and cul-de-sacs of the neighbourhood. And not only street traffic, but also pedestrian traffic, which is kind of nice, because in the act of sharing the narrow sidewalk, I have taken to saying “good morning” to everyone we pass. People in Ontario just don’t do that. They put their heads down and avoid eye contact and walk. I’m trying to change that.

But that is not why I am donning the superhero cape today.

Today we were walking home, and coming the other way along the sidewalk was an old Chinese man on a bike. He’s older than dirt, anywhere between 150 and 300 years old, and looks like he just fell off a charm bracelet. He rides a rickety old bike, and we’ve seen him before while out walking.

So he’s coming along one way, and we are coming the other. He weaves to one side. He weaves to the other. And then he drives down a driveway and onto the road.

And, as he’s passing, he looks at us mutters none too subtly in Chinese.

Now, I don’t know what he said. I mean, he was speaking Chinese. But I can guess.

Was it a racist remark, directed at me, a white woman, pushing Stinkerbelle, a black toddler, along, and blocking his way? Well, possibly.

Was it a sexist remark, directed at me, the woman, blocking his way where, in a more traditional time and place, I should have yielded to him? Maybe.

Was it an ageist remark, directed at me, the younger of the two, not yielding to him, the older man who deserved respect? Could be.

Was it a weightist remark, directed at me, the fat woman, trudging along and blocking his way? You never know.

It could have been any of those things. I mean, I don’t speak Chinese.

But I am pretty sure what it was, above and beyond all those things: It was a jerk remark from a bike rider who was pissed at me for having to yield the sidewalk!

He had woven right and left, in the hopes that I would have moved over and given him space on the sidewalk. AND I DID NOT. First off, it’s a narrow sidewalk, and I’m a big girl with a big stroller. There’s not much room.

But also? DUDE. YOU ARE ON A BIKE, A VEHICLE. YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE ON THE ROAD.

After two years of walking with my daughter, I just got sick and tired of vehicles cutting close to us and racing through crosswalks and barrelling down the sidewalk at us while we were out walking. And so I decided, in that moment, like a riotgrrl Gandalf in a scruffy t-shirt: YOU! SHALL! NOT! PASS!

Dude was NOT pleased.

But here, as in many places, it’s a well-known thing. Bikes are supposed to be on the road, as they are vehicles, and abide by the rules of the road. It would be different if it was a small child, because first off I would not want them riding out onto the road in front of a bus or whatever, and also they are small so it is easier to make room for them. But this is a full-grown adult, who should know better.

And this jerk is ALWAYS riding on the sidewalk. And I am DONE with making room for him. Whatever else he might think of me, he can add Sidewalk Superhero to the list of what he mutters at me as he passes. I don’t care — as long as he’s doing it from the road.

By now, you may have heard that we had an earthquake here in our little corner of paradise. No cause for alarm; it wasn’t anything big.

Now, having lived in Japan, where fairly large earthquakes are a regular occurrence, perhaps I am just in need of a larger jolt to get me to go “AAAAAARRRRGGGHHH! EARTHQUAKE!” and run around like a panicked chicken in peril. Because today? I didn’t even notice it.

Well, that is not entirely true. I was sitting on the sofa, with my laptop, having just shooed Lucy from hanging over me like a furry vulture waiting to be petted, when I noticed the cabinet doors just beside and behind me had begun rattling.

So my first reaction was, of course, to yell at Lucy to “KNOCK THAT SHIT OFF!!”

(Which is, coincidentally, frighteningly similar to my reaction to my First Ever Earthquake. I was living in Ottawa with a sad bastard of a boyfriend. It was 3 am or so, and I woke up because the bed was shaking. Assuming it was my Sad Bastard Boyfriend rolling over or fidgeting, I punched him and told him to “KNOCK THAT SHIT OFF.” He was asleep, and so I realized it was not Sad Bastard Boyfriend, but an earthquake. Oh well. At least I got the opportunity to hit Sad Bastard Boyfriend. There were never enough opportunities for THAT, I can tell you.)

Anyway. Back to today’s earthquake.

Despite yelling at Lucy, who was apparently not even in the room anymore, the rattling didn’t stop. So my second reaction, being as how we live in a house of sticks like one of the Three Little Pigs, but in a considerably more windy locale and with no fear of wolves, was to then assume that the wind was rattling the house.

So I tossed a pillow up against the cabinet to get it to stop. Which it did, eventually.

However, I looked out the window, and it was not windy. It was calm.

But by then I was all “OOOOOHHH! INTERNETS!!” and had completely moved on.

It was only about half an hour later when I checked Twitter did I realize that there had been an earthquake, centred in Ottawa region somewhere, that had caused all of the Great Lakes Region to tremble.

There were reports of minor damage, some places in the area. I checked in with BDH at work and he was all “Earthquake? WTF?” while That Baby continued her nap, uninterrupted, with a slightly flute-like nose whistle going on.

Somewhere, a Sad Bastard is having post-traumatic stress twitches and feeling like he may have just been punched.

All is right with my world.

So, I spent a long time writing a post today. It was long and involved and very personal and emotional and oh yeah did I mention LONG.

And then I thought, “Meh, nobody comes here for deeply personal and meaningful.” Especially in summer, as my stats drop through the FLOOR because everybody is OUTSIDE enjoying the summertime. Or they should be. At least, that’s where I hope everyone has gone, and not that everybody just decided they don’t like me anymore and have abandoned me here all alone in my great big empty echoing Internetyness.

And then I lost interest.

So instead, I bring you… LOVESICK SQUIRRELS!

Well, one lovesick squirrel, who followed another squirrel around all morning one day in late May, tiptoeing along behind her and lying down to gaze up at her while she ate her breakfast, and was all “O HAI THER MIZ SQURIL UR RILLY CUTE” and “HEY BAYBEE COME HEER OFFEN” all over the place.

Light. Fluffy. It’s what we do best. Enjoy.

Still on vacation. Still doing nothing. Lots of nothing.

Although, today we have very good reason for doing nothing, as it is cold and dismal and rainy. Which is a drag, because last night we not only finished putting in our vegetable garden, but we also got our gorgeous comfy patio furniture put out on our lovely patio… and now we cannot sit in it.

Le sigh. That would be a LOVELY way to do nothing.

So, today’s post is brought to you from INSIDE, in my comfy but-not-as-comfy-as-my-big-cushy-patio-chair chair. But at least I find the weather warrants a giant mug of tea, so you know… it’s not a total loss.

• Our vegetable garden is DONE. Cue heavenly choir. We plowed (HA!) through it last night, and got it done just as dusk was upon us. We have planted tomatoes, and corn, and carrots, and lots of green onions for jerk (HOORAY!) and lots of basil for pesto. (DOUBLE HOORAY!) And one tiny wee squash plant in one VERY big space. We are optimistic. I will talk to him daily, and encourage great things from him. Perhaps I will give him a name, something strong. Something like Hercules. Or Albert.

• In the process of planting in the twilight last night, I was attacked by marauding black flies. Bastards. And today I feel much itching. Does anyone know the Canadian folk song about the little black fly in “North Ontar-I-O-I-O, North Ontario…”? Because I have been trying to sing it and only know the chorus. And BDH does not know it, and just looks at me like I have excessive nuts.

edited to add: I found it! And the Oscar-winning animation that goes with it!

• Did I mention, my patio chairs are big and cushy and comfy? AND that they were on sale? No? Well they ARE, and they WERE. THERE IS NOTHING BETTER THAN A VERY COMFY BARGAIN.

• Today That Baby was, like, MENTAL from the OHMYGOD WHY MUST I STAY INDOORS WHERE THERE ARE NO KIDS IF I DON’T GET OUTSIDE I WILL CUT YOU. So after an hour of Insane Baby, I packed her up and took her over to the Early Years Centre for both access to other kids and someplace new to play. She had an excellent time, holding court in the ball yard, as usual. But I am finding that after some time there, I tend to get a little mental from the OHMYGOD WHY IS YOUR CHILD BEHAVING LIKE THAT IF YOU DON’T GET YOUR KID UNDER CONTROL I WILL CUT YOU. Which is a bit of a problem. I know that not everybody shares my parenting philosophies, and that discipline is not exactly flourishing in today’s parent-child relationship. But when your kid kicks me in the head getting into the ball yard, a COUPLE of times, and then later throws a full on temper tantrum in which he takes a run at a random child playing in the room, who happens to be Stinkerbelle, and PLOWS her to the ground like she’s a quarterback in the Grey Cup game… well then, Sister? I expect a whole hell of a lot more from you as a parent than a few muttered “I’m sorry”s and a few quiet words with the child. I expect STERNLY SPOKEN WORDS. I expect TIMEOUTS. I expect you will REMOVE you little Spawn of Satan from the room. (Just so you know? I was WAY bigger than that mom. I could have TOTALLY taken her. I’m just sayin’.)

• I tried to nap today. This is, to quote the Eleventh Doctor, very very not good. And although, from time to time, I get so tired that I just have to lie down for a nap, I really should NOT. I CANNOT nap. I wake from a nap, of any length, feeling nauseated and dizzy and it takes me hours to feel better. I am Sleep Disorder Woman, and the sooner I just come to terms with it and quit punishing myself, the better for everyone involved.

• There is NOTHING more fun than watching my daughter dance. She waves her arms about, and wiggles her bum, and makes funky chicken moves with her elbows and arms, and stomps and hops around the room. She is a one baby conga line. It is the most joyous and full-bodied expression of her inner groove, and I LOVE it. I hope it never ever changes.

And so, since it continues to rain and be cold outside, I will nurse my giant mug of tea and find myself a comfy spot on the sofa, and after BDH goes to soccer tonight, I will curl up with some BBC television and my knitting.

There are worse ways to spend a day of vacation, all things considered.

We are on vacation this week, which means we’re doing a whole lot of nothing.

Well, that’s not ENTIRELY true. We are keeping busy when weather and time permits. But we’re staying close to home, and we’re relaxing a fair bit, and we’re just generally taking it easy. Except for the yardwork. And the constructiony bits.

So here is what is happening in my world this week.

• We are reclaiming our gardens. Slowly but surely. It has been two years since we have really paid the gardens any mind, because really, who can do yardwork with an under-two child about? It would be easier if we were not in a subdivision which was denuded of trees before construction began and consequently offers no shade under which to plonk a small child while one goes about one’s business. Being as this is not the case, and we have a south-facing yard… well, the gardens have been taken over by weeds. But now, Stinkerbelle can amuse herself for five minutes at a time on occasion, so we are trying to get our gardens back. Both BDH and I have been working to dig out all the insidious bastard weeds in the vegetable garden, and today we will finally finish! And in will go seeds for corn, carrots and green onions, as well as lots of basil, two jalapeno pepper plants, and four tomato plants (BDH has decreed NO MORE because tomatoes thrive back there and after a while, it begins to resemble a grow op out there. Seriously. One year? The plants were FIVE FEET TALL.)

• My daughter has been outdoors with us while we work, which is equal parts fun and annoying as hell. Sometimes, she’ll play by herself — today, she’s quite taken with a bunch of traffic cones we’ve put out there, and she moves them, and stacks them, and unstacks them. Or she pushes/drives her car around until she bumps into something. (We call it “parking”.) But other times it’s just an endless call for the WAAAAAHHHHHHHmbulance. She’s growing, or teething, or tired, or bored, or all of the above, and after playing for a few minutes starts whining and wailing. Teh Drama, it is strong with this one. She’s like a Jedi Drama Knight.

• One thing that works to make That Baby happy is spraying her with the hose. She could run through the water all day long. It doesn’t matter how cold it is — she could be shivering violently and turning blue, and she’ll be all “MORE! MORE! MOOOOOAARRR! MOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAARRRRR!” And she LOVES to have her face and head wet, so she’ll run face first into the spray, gasping and sputtering and loving every bit of it. Last week it was as hot as hell out there, so it was good fun, but this week it may be a little cool for the hose. But whenever we go out, she points at the coiled-up hose and gets all “OOOOOOOOOHHH! MOOOOORE!” So we’ll see.

• My stairs and patio are almost done. It’s awesome. It was BDH’s first project and he’s done very well. Now all we need are some nice chairs to sit out and enjoy it. And some citronella candles. And maybe a barbeque. Damn, we need to win a lottery.

• Going out into the world between 9 am and noon is aggravating. Everywhere we go, there are rude, pushy women, pushing their way in front of me in shopping aisles and trying to muscle in front of me in lineups, and generally forgetting any and all manners or social graces they may have been taught. And women who drive very badly. And, the one that irks me the most, women drivers who must race through the crosswalk at the top of my street as I am preparing to cross with my daughter, instead of stopping and waiting for the one minute the crosswalk lights say they must. It is making me embarrassed for my gender, I tell you truly. It’s like women everywhere are determined to embody every stinking bad stereotype about our gender, and it’s annoying the crap out of me.

• I haven’t been on Teh Internets a ton, nor have I spent a lot of time on email. But I checked it today, and got spam, the subject line of which was “Hi Sweety Disobedient Bozo”. This makes me laugh out loud. I bet it’s from one of the old ladies who’s been butting in front of me in lineups and grocery aisles.

Oh. My. DOG. It is GORGEOUS outside. An absolutely perfect sunshiny day. Sunny and warm and just absolutely gorgeous.

What are you doing sitting here in front of a computer screen? Go outside and get some fresh air, for the love of doG!

*points outside*

(That is where I will be. I’ll see you later.)

I have not, nor have I ever been, a purveyor of bouncy castles.

I know. This shocks you.

It is true. I have never sold, nor manufactured, nor purchased, nor manufactured for the purpose of selling or purchasing, or even RENTED, a bouncy castle. As a matter of fact, I have no intention, insofar as the future looks to me, of ever selling, renting, manufacturing or purchasing any such bouncy castle apparatuses. Apparati. Whatever.

And yet? As soon as winter becomes spring, as soon as warm sunshine replaces cold and snow, as surely as the earth tilts on its axis, our phone begins to ring. And ring and ring and ring.

It rings with people wishing to rent bouncy castles.

Our number is, apparently, one number off the number that is plastered on signs tacked to phone poles and sticking up on lawns and whatnot all over the region, that you would phone IF you were interested in a bouncy castle.

Note, however, it is NOT our number. And yet, this fact escapes many, many people.

So year after year, I have to tell them that, no, in fact, I am not going to rent them a bouncy castle. That is, of course, if I pick up the phone. However, there is no helping the dolts who, when faced with an answering machine that CLEARLY says “BDH and Cinnamon’s house” and NOT “The Company From Which You Might Rent Bouncy Castles”, STILL insist on leaving a message telling us they want to rent a bouncy castle for the weekend of the 31st.

Or the ones who call to confirm their reservation of a bouncy castle. And when they — SURPRISE! — do not get a call back, call again and again and leave repeated messages about their reservation of a bouncy castle on the 17th between 2 and 4.

ALL AFTER HEARING A MESSAGE THAT INDICATES TO ANYONE WITH HALF A BRAIN THAT THIS IS A PRIVATE RESIDENCE AND NOT THE COMPANY THEY TALKED TO WHENEVER TO RENT A BOUNCY CASTLE.

Ahem.

In the beginning, the first time it happened, I actually DID call the woman back who wished to reserve her bouncy castle and tell her that she’d been calling the wrong number. She was less than grateful, and then wanted ME to look up the CORRECT number for her.

After that, I decided I hate the bouncy castle rental people, bouncy castles in and of themselves, and all people who bounce therein.

I have considered, in the past, just stringing people along. I have thought about coming up with some facts and figures and just leading people down the garden path. “Okay, you want one for the afternoon of the 3rd? No problem. You want the deluxe or the regular? The regular? How much? Uhhhhhh… $250. Yeah. $250.” Or coming up with some elaborate song-and-dance about how, yes, we can come to Little Jayden/Aiden/Brayden/Hayden/Caden/Caitlin/Catelynn/Katelyn/Quaatelynnneeee’s birthday and for a mere $50 more we can guarantee a special appearance by Sir Bounce-A-Lot and the lovely Maid Hairflyin’ and also make balloon animals.

And then not showing up.

But it got to be too complicated. And really? I don’t care enough to really sell it.

But the calls keep coming.

So I am here, RIGHT HERE AND NOW, to tell the world that I AM NOT THE ALL-KNOWING ALL-SEEING GURU AND RENTER OF ALL THINGS BOUNCY CASTLE RELATED IN THE GREATER SOUTHERN ONTARIO REGION. Okay? Hear this NOW: You have the WRONG FUCKING NUMBER. I have NO BOUNCY CASTLES, and I will NEVER HAVE BOUNCY CASTLES.

The next sound you hear will be my head banging on the desk. Repeatedly.