Turning Out The Lights

If you came by yesterday afternoon / evening, you may have noticed a slight difference in my blog...

Blatently copying Google's black appearance, I wanted to pass on information about Earth Hour to anyone stopping by, so I created a temporary page that would direct readers to the Earth Hour site.

Our own "Lights Out" began early at dinnertime, lighting our candles at 5:30 instead of waiting for 8:00. By 7:00 I was alone, so I turned off the TV and powered down the laptop too... which, for our house, is a rarity.

This Saturday night was eerily quiet as I enjoyed my "Time Traveler's Wife" novel by candlelight.

With an early Spring storm howling fiercely outside, it was surreal. At 8:30 I grabbed my brass candlestick to peek out the front and back windows; and happily most of the neighbors were dark too. I returned to my chair by the front window and continued reading as the wind buffetted the trees outside and heavy sleet pelted the windows.


Even the cats and dog found the atmosphere strange, not used to the dark quiet and the flickering of the numerous candles illuminating our dining and living rooms.

A few times I was forced from my reading to supervise all the open flames; with curious kitties, one must be on the lookout for singed whiskers or tails...




You know, I don't think I'll wait another whole year to do this again. Whenever possible, I'm turning off the lights, the TV and whatever else, to enjoy a nice quiet evening reading by candlelight.

As long as my feline housemates keep from lighting themselves, and the house on fire that is.

Spring Cleaning

I knew the day would come...

It was inevitable.

And I dreaded it.

For no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shove ONE MORE piece of paper into my office file cabinet.

Oh, I tried the old "pull up a huge sheaf, slide in a new page and push it all back into place", but that trick no longer worked... the bitch stubbornly refused to close anymore.

So I had to bite the bullet and Spring Clean.

At work.

Crap.

But once I started with a hot cuppa joe at hand, I became a whirlwind of F5 magnitude.

Papers flew into the recycle bin.

My garbage soon overflowed with demolished disks and manuals of long-obsolete software.

Paper clips were de-clipped, re-boxed and sent back to the supply room.

Whole projects were chucked.

Crisp new folders were recruited into action.

Coherant labels were printed.

What little survived the storm was re-sorted chronologically, filed in the proper folder (for a refreshing change) and placed back into logical order in the now-pristine cabinet.

After two days, I reduced three vertical drawers bulging at the seams to less than a single one of nice, neat files.

"But Maureen..." co-workers foolishly enquired, clearly jealous of my complete Mastery Of Office Organization (or "MOOO" for short).

"Aren't you afraid you tossed something important?"

Yes, I am am shaking in my boots at the prospect of swift dismissal if we are ever in need of:

- Dozens of certificates and licences for Windows 95:



- Thirteen year old computer quotes like this one for a 486 with 8 MB RAM costing a mere $2,000:

- Hundreds of "Y2K" reports I was assigned to complete not only from MY department, but many others in the hospital too. Yes, I am surely risking severe retribution if it were discovered this critical data is now lost to the world:

That's just a small sampling of the junk I literally filled this entire blue bin with. A recycling container that is intended to serve the whole floor for a week, I must confess.

But it felt good. After all the time, effort, strong coffee and paper cuts, it was worth it.





And just think. In 13 years or so, I'll have to do it all over again.

Don't Call Me Martha

Just because I spent the entire weekend washing floors, scrubbing toilets, doing laundry, dishes, vacuuming, dusting and shopping,

Just because I hand-made six family Easter cards,


Just because I decorated the house with baskets of eggs, bunnies and spring flowers,

Just because I blew out two dozen chicken eggs to decorate,

Just because I created little Spring Chicks for each place setting at our family dinner table,


Just because I organized an Easter egg hunt for daughter and her boyfriend,

Just because I put together Easter baskets for hubby and daughter,

Just because I made dyed devilled eggs, served on a platter with a matching larger Spring Chick,


Just because I cooked a ten pound ham with a Merlot brown sugar glaze, scalloped potatoes, and all the trimmings for the family Easter dinner,



And just because I set up Egg Decorating Class with Grandma and Grandpa after dinner,


Don't call me Martha.

In fact, don't call me at all today.

I've collapsed and am recuperating on the couch.

Good Friday Traditions

I really look forward to Easter... and no, it's not because I'm what you'd call Religious per se.

Unless you consider strictly adhering to two traditons a Religion, though.

Then I am. Oh yeah.

No, my giddiness involves two activites our family has upheld for years:

1) Painting Easter eggs.

A full-day affair; for we don't simply dip each egg in solid colors.

Oh no. I have to make it complicated, messy and time-consuming.

Daughter and I go full-out: I carefully blow out real chicken eggs for our Ukranian style decoration, using melted beeswax and six highly-stainable food dye colors.

All the while, futilely attempting to keep little feline paws OUT of the six highly-stainable food dye colors.

Each year I also hand-draw and paint a few eggs; using an airbrush, acrylic or even oil paint. I have done Star Wars eggs, Captain Jack Sparrow and cartoon eggs, whichever obsession er theme I decide upon that year.

Yup, they are works of art that I haul out of storage each year to display with pride.

Unless of course, they become sad victims of Feline Abuse... stealthly abducted from their basket on the table and batted about the floor until they are smashed into hundreds of tiny eggshell shards.

The other tradition?

2) Watching Jesus Christ Superstar.

Whilst trying, in vain, to NOT sing along to each and every line I know by heart.

At full volume.

To my family's horror.

I fell in love with this movie (and Ted Neeley) back in the early 70's when I first saw it in the theatre.

And since both daughter and I met "Jesus" after the stage show in 2007, it's a movie we hold near and dear to our hearts.

Actually, last year was my second time meeting Ted... back in the 90's I was ushered backstage to meet both he and Carl Anderson (RIP, Judas) too.


And I even admitted to him that during the show, I was singing along with every word.

At full volume.

Much to my family's horror.

Again.

Too Lazy To Speak

The DJ on the radio had an interesting topic today about people's obsessions with text messaging. Now this is a Top 40 station, with the listener demographic running from early teen to middle-age.

A lot of callers chimed in with stories about their kids text messaging each other while in the SAME room, or while AT the Christmas dinner table. Then one adolecent called in to defend texting by saying "it taught kids to read!"

Hah!

The DJ quickly put the girl in her place by asking her to read her last two messages.

The first one?

"Hey" (Wow, now that WAS important).

The second one?

"What are you doing later?" (Another earth-shattering emergency message).

Then he asked her if "You" was spelled "U". Um, yeah, she sheepishly admitted it was.

"And was "Are" spelled "R"?" he further queried? Of course it was!

Her defense?

"I said it taught kids to READ, not SPELL."

*Sigh*

But the best one was the fellow who phoned in to say while on a date, his female friend actually said "LOL" to his face.

That was the end of the date for him.

I had to shake my head at how lazy people are becoming... using acronyms instead of attempting to speak properly to each other in real life.

How sad, I thought...

... until I remembered what I did today while taking the dog out the back door for her morning constitutional.

I told all three cats sitting in the kitchen waiting for their breakfast:

"BRB"

Yes, I SAID "BRB".

To CATS.

Oh, Gad.

Yeah, they sure won't understand that.

I mean, really. They don't even HAVE thumbs to text message.

Kiss Me I'm Irish

Okay, to be perfectly honest, I'm HALF Irish.

Yup... my family came to Canada hundreds of years ago.

Both my mother's and father's ancestors were half Irish and half English. (My mother's ancestry has been traced back to Drogheda, Ireland (familiar to anyone who has read or watched The Thorn Birds), father's English side back to Nottingham, England).

Cool, no?

Therefore, according to my limited mathmatical skills, that still makes me half Irish.

So I take St. Patrick's Day ver, ver seriously.

Okay, maybe not that serious...

I vaguely know that St. Patrick rid Ireland of snakes.

And, er. Leprechauns have pots of gold they guard with their lives (thank you Bugs Bunny).

And shamrocks and four leaf clovers are good luck.

But the most important thing about today is that I get to wear green, make a huge pot of Irish Stew and dive into those green lime cookies I baked yesterday.



My ancestors -- Gosh and Begora, they'd be proud.

Procrastination

(Sung to the tune of "Anticipation")

"Procrastination.

Procrastina-a-tion.

I'm making you wait.

Making you wa-ya-ya-ya-yait."



So apparently last week was "National Procrastination Week".

I don't believe I require an official Week to remind me NOT to do something. I am very good at acheiving that myself thankyouverymuch. Even though I have severe OCD, there are some things I hate doing and put them off for as long as humanly possible. I'm constantly re-shuffling (re-priortizing, if you will) jobs at work, placing "Should Dos" at the bottom of my To Do pile.

Sometimes though, Procrastination can work to my advantage.

There have been many instances that by the time I reach the depths of that To Do pile, either the person requesting the vile task forgot they ever asked, or it's no longer even needed.

Which convinces me that 50% of the work I'm assigned isn't that important anyway.

So Procrastination has, over the years, become my Filter of Useless Assignments.

Not that I'd ever be foolish enough to admit that fact to anyone here at work.



Oh, and I had already drafted this story awhile back, and meant to post it LAST week, but then, well.... you know me...

Set the Wayback Machine to 1977 Sherman

When my siblings and I were young, Dad cut our hair.

Yup. My DAD.

And no, he wasn't a barber. But he did have an official "Barber Kit" that held his long sharp scissors, a mirror and a little soft brush to sweep our faces clean of clippings.

For home styling, he actually did decent cuts for my sister, brother and me. I still remember the towel draped over my shoulders, fixed with a big safety pin as I sat obediently on the kitchen chair. He was so careful and never nicked an ear, patiently ensuring everything was even and perfect.

The only time I cried getting my hair cut was after I received Silly Putty for my birthday. I was so amazed at that stuff (pressing it to the comic pages, bouncing it all over the house), I fell asleep with it clasped tightly in my hands.


Well, until some time in the night when I let go.

And awoke the next morning with hair a Silly Putty Mess.

So father got out the Barber Kit once more and gave me a "Pixie Cut" to remove the pink goo from my six year old head.


When he was done I looked like a boy.

A crying mess of a boy.

I was teased at school and I couldn't wait for it to grow out once more.

From that day forward, I've kept my hair long so I'd never be mistaken for a boy again.



Then came 1977.

I had a job.

I had money.

And I had really long hair.

So I spent $80 for my first professional cut and perm for my flowing locks.

It was also the same time I was dating my future husband on his sheep farm.

Gad. Looking back at this photo I have to wonder...

Seriously.

Who should have been more worried about the Shearer; that little lamb?

Or me?

Time Travel

While I waste spend time surfing the net, one of my favorite radio stations to tune in to is in Sydney, Australia.

I don't know why I get such a kick out of listening to it. Perhaps it's because:

1) I LOVE Australian accents. Heaven help hubby if I should ever get hit on by an Aussie... one word out of his mouth and I'd be putty in his hands. And on a plane to Down Under before you could whistle "Waltzing Matilda".

2) Their seasons are completely opposite to our Canuck ones, so I find it strangely bizarre listening to commercials about termites, gardening and the heat of summer while the snow is piled six feet high up here.

3) It's kind of like Time Travel. While I'm surfing away at 9 pm in the evening, I'm listening to their news and traffic reports from 2 in the afternoon THE NEXT DAY. I mean, really, it's like I know what's going to happen tomorrow!

Actually, I realize I don't. I just like to pretend I do.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to Triple M radio; the same station I was ON about 10 years ago...

Yeah. That one IS a fact.

I'm not pretending this time.

Honest.

I was interviewed by Andrew Denton on his Breakfast Show along with another Star Wars nut fan from the UK. Too bad I was such a Dork then... 'cause I melted when he spoke to me in that sexy accent of his.

I'm sure he was REALLY impressed with the Geek from The Great White North.

Now if I could only travel back in time and tone back on my Nerdiness I might be enjoying a hot summer day today on the beaches of NSW...

I Told You So

My daughter, the typical Health-Conscious Teen Of Today (HCTOT), has passion for bagels. But not just ANY bagel; whole wheat ones that are ... of course,

Good for you. (Damn kid...)

Well, I will admit they are tasty. So delish in fact, hubby has a hard time finding them at the bakery. When he does, he brings home as many as he can.

Me, being the Health-Conscious Mother Of Today (HCMOT) [Hah!], threw them in the freezer after a few days so they'd stay fresh. But that didn't sit well with daughter, who insisted we keep them on the counter.

The battle begins.

Round 1:

I come out swinging, regaling daughter with stories of my childhood when decorative metal breadboxes were all the rage in every 1960's kitchen... beautiful on the outside, but they hid the terror of gross moldy loaves everyone forgot were in there.

It's no wonder I'm now obsessive about keeping all breads safe from fungus in our freezer.

Round 2:

Daughter counterpunches by insisting that the bagels are too hard to slice open when frozen.

Round 3:

I jab with a suggestion she mic them to soften before cutting.

Round 4:

She dodges, bobs and weaves at my solution, declaring that ruins them; making them tough.

Ding! Ding! Ding! The match is over and the ringside judges declare a TKO.

The bagels are sitting on the counter once again.

As a consolation prize, this morning I noticed another bag with a single bagel still remaining in the freezer, so I brought it to work. Lunchtime came and I couldn't wait to get to that chewy whole wheat treat. So I took a big bite and realized that yes, it HAD in fact gone stale.

Actually, it had passed Stale.

Way past.

Stale was just a dot on the horizon, it was so far past...

AFTER I swallowed that first bite (of course), I see the evidence. The green and white spots of "fur" that had me gagging and reliving that breadbox nightmare from childhood.

Spore Zoom

I would have smugly told daughter "I told you so!"

... if I didn't feel like throwing up.

My Husband, The Linguist

If you're old enough to remember "All In The Family", you'll no doubt recall one of Archie's funniest traits was his ability to mix up words that sound similar (Malapropism). Well my own hubby is following in Archie's footsteps with vigor. He constantly chooses exactly the WRONG word for what he's trying to say.




One of his worst mixups is "Blogging".

"So you going to be Googling tonight?" he asks in earnest.

I shake my head in dismay. "Blogging.... I am Blogging tonight."

"Oh. Yeah right." He shrugs and goes back to watching television.

At least this time he didn't say "Boggling".

You'd think after listening to me go on and on (and on) constantly about my favorite blogs and wonderful bloggers he'd learn.

Hey! Now that I think of it, this just proves he tunes me out 99% of the time.

But this evening he even outdid himself when he overheard me reminding our nearly 17 year old daughter of her doctor's appointment tomorrow.

Pointing to his eyes, he said "What appointment? Obstetrician?"

Um. No honey.

"Optician" I corrected him with a snicker. "OP-TI-CIAN".

"Oh. What did I say?"

I patted my tummy "You said 'Obstetrician'."

"Oh."

"Oooooh...." (The lightbulb over his head goes on).

"OH NO NoNoNoNo! Not that!" The look of shock on his face was hilarious.

"No dear. Not THAT."

Thank goodness daughter, or her boyfriend, both sitting in the next room, didn't hear him.

Gad, at least I HOPE they didn't...

Apologizing To Animals

It's not enough that I embarass myself on a daily basis in front of people.

Oh no.

I have expanded my audience, for now I am a Dork in front of the Animal Kingdom as well.

I have always been an animal lover; but sometimes I don't think they would quite believe it.

Especially if our cats had anything to say on the subject.

"Beware the fluffy slippers. They may look soft and innocent, but they are not. They are Weapons of Mass Destruction. And never park behind her when she's wearing them in the kitchen" they would warn.

"Not if you want to keep your tail intact."

Okay, I WILL admit to stepping on a few tails in my day... but in my defense they DO have a nasty habit of sneaking up on me when I'm making dinner, waiting for food to drop from the sky.


When I'm not tripping over the three felines, our dog feels the pain of my bungling ways too.

She would surely have a story to tell about the other day. The day I forgot she was outside... for a few hours:

"Yup. Here I am her faithful lapdog... an "Inside Dog". And she just LEFT me out there! In the snow! In the cold! I ran around the back yard for hours, chasing bunnies and digging in the snow. But did she remember me? Did she even CARE?"

"Nooooo... She's just lucky it wasn't 40 below. I would have frozen my cute floppy ears off!"


I love them. Really I do.

But I do find I spend an inordinate amount of time apologizing, hugging and heaping treats on the little furballs in hopes of forgiveness for my various shortcomings.

They'll just have to come to sad fact that they have a Dork for an owner, that's all.