My mini-vacation took me to Kitchener, Orangeville, Woodstock, Cambridge, Guelph, Elora, Freelton, St. Jacobs and Fergus, where I visited some old friends and family and made some new friends, including Quinn and Branden.
Quinn:
Branden:
I did lots of scrounging in antique malls and flea markets and nostalgia shows. Knowing that I had to carry any purchases home on the train, I exercised restraint and mostly just looked. But I did buy two paintings:
I got this one at the Beaver antique mall. It’s an old Mennonite oil painting by J. Martin.
And I got this one at the Aberfoyle flea market. It’s an oil by Mary Herisay.
I’m thinking I should maybe collect old paintings instead of new paintings. They’re a lot more affordable.
I also got a couple of cameras for my camera collection, including this Flexaret TLR.
This is my friend Henry’s house. Everywhere you look, there’s something interesting to look at or play with. It’s like a hands-on museum.
Here are some fly fishermen on the Grand River, which is the third best fly-fishing river in Canada. Maybe North America. Maybe even the world. That’s what Henry says anyway, and he was Angler of the Year in 2006, so he should know.
The trip got off to a bit of a rocky start because when I got to the bus stop I realized I’d forgotten my camera. I don’t go anywhere without my camera, so I don’t know how that happened. Anyway, I figured if I really boogied I could get home and back before the bus came.
But then, while I was rushing home, I saw an old man sitting on his lawn waving at me. I waved back. He called out and asked me if I could help him. It turned out he wasn’t just sitting on his lawn (and why would he be, since it was cold and windy and he didn’t have a chair). He had fallen down and couldn’t get up. So I crossed the street and set him back on his feet. He thanked me and continued mowing his lawn and I continued hurrying home to get my camera.
Unfortunately I missed the bus. But I always leave myself a little elbow room in the schedule, so I wasn’t too worried at first. I started to worry when the next #14 was 15 minutes late. There went my elbow room. Then I had to transfer to the 102.
I asked the driver if he could get me to the train station on time.
“Probably,” he said cheerfully.
So I sat down and next thing I knew, the 102 was jammed full of afternoon commuters and it was taking forever at every stop because the back door was broken and everybody had to shove their way through the crowded bus to the front door. I was getting nervous.
And THEN, as if the gods were conspiring to keep me in Ottawa, the bus driver pulled the bus over at Hurdman Station and said he was sorry but he had to shut the bus down for repairs and everybody had to get off.
There was no elbow room left in my schedule. I was down to the wire now. I grabbed my stuff and ran to the nearest bus and asked him if he went to the train station.
“The train station,” he replied in a flat monotone.
“Yes,” I said, “Do you go there?”
“Go there,” he said.
“Do you?” I asked.
“Do you,” he replied.
Another day I might have found it amusing, but on this particular day I didn’t have time for a profound lack of communication skills. Plus he was wearing mirrored glasses and looking out the window, so I couldn’t even read his expression.
I took a chance and jumped on. Luckily he went to the train station and it was the very next stop.
I ran in, and rushed over to one of those self-service kiosks. I’d bought my ticket online, and apparently all I had to do was scan my credit card and it would print my tickets. I scanned my credit card. It didn’t print my tickets. Instead it said it was having trouble reading my card. I ran to the second of the three self-service kiosks. Same thing. I ran to the last self-service kiosk. It clicked importantly and spit out my tickets.
The train was boarding. I made it!
(Oh. And on the way back, I took a taxi home. Three of the last four taxis I’ve taken have been from the train station to my house. In all three cases, the drivers spent the entire time on the phone. I don’t like that. Call me neurotic, but I want the driver to have both hands on the wheel and to be concentrating on driving. Two of those three drivers took a route that overshoots my house and then doubles back, which adds a couple of dollars to the fare. Last time the fare came to $21 and I gave him $30 and asked him to give me back $5. That’s a $4 tip – that’s reasonable, right? He then rummaged through his pockets, and said he only had $3 change so could he have an extra $2 tip? I just wanted to get inside, so I dropped it. But you know what? It still pisses me off that I got manipulated into giving him a $6 tip.)
Okay, this post is kind of rambly and ranty and all over the place, which isn’t what I intended at all. I should clean it up before I post it. But you know what? My living room needs a cleanup even more than this post does, so I’m going to do that instead.
Duncan missed me. You know I love him, but ever since I got back he has been annoying as hell. I don’t mind when a cat meows, but Duncan’s been whining. A lot.
Check out this video. It’s Duncan whining in a whiny little voice. Whoever heard of a twenty pound cat with a squeaky little whine? He’s never had a really robust meow, but his voice changed over the last week and it’s kind of pathetic now. If I had a meow like that, I think I’d stick to purring.
Last night he was desperate for bedtime, and then when we went to bed he was like a mosquito in a tent. He whined and clung to me. He lay on my face. Not the nice way, when he sleeps with his face on my face, but the annoying way when he lays his whole 20 pound body on my face. I pushed him off. Then he wanted to knead my neck with his sharp pointy claws. Somebody really ought to trim those things, they’re getting dangerous. I covered my neck with blankets to protect it. He stuck his paws in my mouth and licked my eye sockets.
I turned over with my back towards him. He followed me. I flipped on my stomach and buried my face in my arms. He bit my head and shoved his nose in my ear. When I pulled away again, he raked the ear with his not-fully-retracted claws. I pulled the blankets over my head and under my body. He repeatedly rammed my head with his head. Then he used his paws to poke along the perimeter, looking for a weakness in my fortress. Next thing I knew, he had muscled his way in and he was all claws and tongue and drooling weirdness.
Eventually we went to sleep, but he made a point of waking me up approximately hourly throughout the night.
I don’t think he liked being left alone. Emilie and Jacob the Scary Baby dropped by every day to feed him and scoop litter and give him a little cuddle, but they didn’t sleep with him. As we know, Duncan is a cat who lives for his bedtime cuddles; he gets a little psychotic without them.
When I got home I had several messages from people who were concerned because I hadn’t blogged or played scrabble on facebook for four days. It’s kind of reassuring, since I live alone, to know that when my time comes, my absence might be noticed before the smell draws the attention of the public health department.
Hopefully that’ll be many years down the road because I still have hundreds of things to do before I die, including writing a book, creating a frame-worthy piece of art, learning ventriloquism, and much much more.
Anyway, to those who were concerned, thank you – I’m alive! I was just off on a little mini-holiday. I rode the train and visited people and bought paintings and everything. It was excellent. Regularly scheduled blogging will return tomorrow, because right now there’s a cat who is being a bit of a bully, and I’m a little bit intoxicated from the train.
You know what I would be doing this weekend if I were in Ottawa, which I’m not?
Jane’s Walk is a coordinated series of free neighbourhood walking tours given by locals who care passionately about where they live, work and play. Jane’s Walk is a pedestrian-focused event that improves urban literacy by offering insights into local history, planning, design, and civic engagement through the simple act of walking and observing.
Jane’s Walk was held last year in Toronto and New York City. In 2008, there are plans to expand to seven more Canadian cities: Calgary, Charlottetown, Guelph, Halifax, Ottawa, Vancouver and Winnipeg.
“No one can find out what will work for our cities by looking at garden suburbs, manipulating scale models, or inventing dream cities.
You’ve got to get out and walk.”
— Jane Jacobs, “Downtown is for People”, The Exploding Metropolis, 1957.
Duncan has a deep, dark secret – one he managed, until now, to hide from me and the world in general. But last night his secret leapt out of the shadows and into the light and – if you like mixed metaphors – the cat was out of the bag.
I’ll give you a hint: Duncan’s not such a big brave lion. He’s afraid of something.
He’s feeling a little sheepish about it this morning, now that his secret has been exposed. I’ve tried to reassure him that everybody’s scared of something. I, for example, am afraid of bulls and public speaking. My son, as a toddler, was afraid of hair in the bathtub. I know someone who gets hysterical if a butterfly flutters by.
I’ve known cats who were afraid of carrying cages, vets, rides in the car, dogs, loud noises, screaming children and wet grass.
But Duncan’s the first cat I’ve ever met who is afraid of human babies.
Last night Emilie and Jacob dropped by. Jacob’s nine weeks old and he is very sweet and quiet. Emilie put his little recliner chair down on the floor and Jacob just sat there quietly looking around. He did not look in the least little bit intimidating.
But Duncan’s eyes were big as saucers and he was freaked. He could not take his eyes off Jacob, and not in the good way that I can’t take my eyes off Jacob.
It was a bit alarming, actually, because at first I couldn’t tell whether he was afraid of Jacob or feeling aggressive towards him. It’s hard for me to imagine Duncan being aggressive, but they told me at the Humane Society that he is aggressive towards other cats. Maybe he was thinking Jacob was half-cat/half-human, since he is roughly cat-sized with a human face.
At any rate, I didn’t like the way he was looking at Jacob, or the way his tail was twitching. Jacob, however, didn’t pick up on any weird vibes, and just fell into a peaceful sleep.
Duncan preferred the baby asleep, but still couldn’t take his freaked-out saucer eyes off him. Eventually he crept closer and closer to the baby and then, very tentatively, started to sniff him. He was in that hyper-vigilant pose, ready to flee at the first sign of sound or movement. He sniffed the baby all over, and he sniffed the chair and the blanket.
After he had thoroughly smelled the baby, he retreated and laid down about six feet away.
He still kept an eye on the baby, but he didn’t seem as weird after that. When they left, he watched through the window as Emilie pushed the baby carriage down the street, and he didn’t stop watching until they disappeared from sight.
I wish I’d gotten a picture, but I was in hyper-vigilant mode too, poised to intervene if necessary. Instead, here’s a picture of him in his harness in the back yard, wondering if he can flatten himself enough to squeeze under the gate.
Does anybody understand the point of meatless meat? Who is the target consumer? I’m a carnivore, and I don’t want to eat it. I don’t think it would appeal to vegetarians either. So who is it for? People who have given up meat for Lent? People whose spouses are forcing them to be vegetarians against their will? Who??
Here’s a marketing tip. If you have a restaurant which serves ugly food, do not take a harshly lit photograph of the ugly food, enlarge it, turn it into a giant poster and hang it in the window of your restaurant. Please.
And don’t be fooled into thinking that getting all artsy-crafty with your ugly food will make it look more appealing. It won’t.
Speaking of ugly food, I think this seagull was auditioning for Fear Factor when he ate the human vomit off Preston Street.
Today was a lump-in-my-throat emotional kind of day. It got off to a lumpy start, and then the lump just stayed pretty close to the surface for the rest of the day.
On my walk to work, I came across a dead duck on Prince of Wales Drive. Roadkill. It was very sad. And pointless too, because he had wings and he could easily have flown across the road. He didn’t need to waddle through traffic.
And then, if that wasn’t sad enough, I spotted his widow keeping vigil on the other side of the road, just sitting in the grass looking lost and shocked.
I’ve seen this pair before – they always hang out in the same vicinity – and they looked much happier when they were both alive.
Mallards are one of those species that mate for life, which makes it infinitely more heartbreaking.
I crossed the road to see if she was okay, and she didn’t even budge until I got about two feet from her. Then she moved a few feet away. Poor thing. It was so sad. I wanted to do something to help, but what could I do? The only thing I could think of was to bring his body over to her, so she could get some closure.
But that just seemed weird. And it did occur to me that I was projecting human feelings onto the duck, and who knows what ducks really think and feel? But they must feel something if they mate for life, don’t you think? Do you think they grieve?
I didn’t do anything because I couldn’t think of anything helpful to do. I just told her I was sorry. I had a big aching lump in my throat.
A few minutes later I was crossing through a park to Carling Avenue, and the lump was starting to recede. That’s when I saw the dead frog in the middle of the path. It wasn’t as sad as the mallards, but it was sad enough to make the lump swell up again.
I felt a little better on the path beside the train tracks because I saw a bunny and it was alive. And then I cheered up some more when I got downtown and saw the new Swap Box where the Mayor Larry Swap Box used to be – thank you Elmaks. I left a Tarot card in the swap box and continued on to the gym.
Afterwards I went to a meeting and the lump came back and I was sitting there wondering why I was feeling so emotional about this meeting and was anybody else feeling the same way or was it just me?
After the meeting one of my friends stopped by my cubicle and asked “What did you think of that meeting?” and I tried to say something but the lump got in the way and then I was trying really hard to fight back the tears. (I wasn’t successful.) (I hardly ever cry at work.) (I wonder why it’s easier to listen without crying than it is to talk without crying?)
I walked home after work and looked for the ducks, but both of them were gone. I wonder where she went. I still wonder what she’s thinking and feeling.
Near where the ducks had been, I saw my first two groundhogs of the year. I love groundhogs.
Remember the baby snake charmer sweater that I managed to cut a hole into just as I was putting the finishing touches on it? Well. Word spread like wildfire and within moments of returning from her holidays, my knitting guru was at my desk, surveying the disaster area . Then she took a day or two to contemplate various solutions to the problem. And then! She. Fixed. It. I’m telling you, this woman can work miracles.
I’m not sure I completely understand how she did it, but the surgery went something like this:
1. Clamp the cut ends of yarn with binder clips (David Scrimshaw! Did you hear that? ) to prevent them from unravelling further.
2. Lasso each of the cut ends of yarn with a looped length of split yarn and then fuse them with a no-fray glue intended for fabric. (This is because the cut yarn ends were too short to work with – this step essentially lengthened the cut strands of working yarn without having to further unravel the work.)
3. Rework the missing stitches in duplicate stitch using the newly created yarn extensions.
It’s perfect now! (Except for the fact that it’s still neon green and covered with snakes.)
And what do we have here? Only the world’s most adorable baby booties, that’s what. These booties are for the next baby to come along, because they only fit newborn babies for about five minutes and all the babies on my to-do list are older than five minutes. (Aggie – you should try these – there is no heel-turning involved in these baby booties.)
And last but not least, I’ve started the Central Park Hoodie. I’ve got both sleeves done and I’ve started the back. But when I started the back I realized that I’d done the sleeve cables wrong – it’s a 10-row repeat and I was doing a six-row repeat. But it’s okay, it looks fine, and I can live with knowing it’s not technically perfect. It’s Good Enough and that’s good enough for me.
Remember when I told you that Norwegian Forest Cats are known for taking off their long underwear in the Springtime?
“The back legs are adorned with knickers. A once or twice-weekly comb-through is sufficient except in springtime, when the cat begins to ‘take off its winter underwear’.” (Source)
They make it sound so sweet, don’t they? Like the cat just slips out of his knickers and if you’re lucky, you just happen to be there at that moment and you get to watch. And then you just pick the knickers up off the floor and fold them and tuck them away with his baby teeth and other mementos.
Well you know what? That’s not what happens. What happens is that his underwear comes off by disintegrating into billions of bits of fluff. The air around here is thick with soft, fine, downy fur. It’s everywhere. I’m eating it and breathing it and my clothes are covered in it. My eyes are magnets for it. It’s even in behind my eyeballs.
Strangely, Duncan doesn’t look any less furry than usual, so I don’t think he’s anywhere near done yet.
He had himself a nice two-part wretch in the middle of the night, complete with some pretty impressive sound effects. I am blaming it on the fact that he has been eating his own underwear lately.
The other thing that’s going on with Duncan is he has suddenly got himself a severe case of Spring Fever and he is obsessed with going outside. This is new: throughout the winter, he quite sensibly chose to remain oblivious to the existence of Outside.
I’m torn on the whole indoor/outdoor cat thing. All my other cats were free to come and go as they pleased. Hunting bugs and climbing trees and hanging out with other cats are essential components of a full cat life. Who am I to deprive Duncan of the simple natural joys of being fully a cat?
On the other hand, cats who are allowed to go outside have a significantly shorter life expectancy than indoor-only cats. He could get hurt or killed or stolen. There are lots of dangerous possibilities out there in the world.
However, we’d probably all live longer if we never took any risks and just stayed inside where it’s safe all the time too. That doesn’t mean it’s the right thing to do. It’s the whole quality vs. quantity of life dilemma.
On a selfish and pragmatic note, if he was spending some of his time outside, he’d be doing some of his shedding outside.
I’m going to try the compromise route first, and see what happens. I bought him a size Large harness, which had to be adjusted to its largest settings. I put it on him yesterday and he seemed okay with it. Duncan and I are going to go sit in the back yard and take off our underwear now. Euphemistically speaking, of course.
I met this dog on Elgin Street the other day. He rides in a stroller because he only has three legs. So when his companion made him sit up and wave to me, he was balancing on only one leg.
Then, shortly after running into the three-legged dog (which reminds me of a joke I’d love to share it with you, but I can only remember the punchline: “I’m lookin’ for the man who shot my paw.” Ha ha ha), I ran across another piece of street art by Elmaks.
It’s the City of Ottawa official graffiti station. I had heard of it a week or two earlier but couldn’t find it when I was looking for it. By the time I stumbled across it, it had been vandalized. Maybe Elmaks will tell us what it used to look like. You can see what it used to look like here.
Speaking of vandalized, I was saddened to see that the Mayor Larry Swap Box, on Lisgar near Bank, had its door ripped off. That swap box is part of my daily life, and it’s just not the same when I can’t open the door and peek inside. I’m still putting things in it, but it’s not the same. I miss the door.
From vandalized to scandalized – this poster freaked me out. Yikes. I have a question for the men. How much does it cost to go to the barber? Does it make any sense on any level to spend $20 to get your neck waxed “in between barber shop visits”? (Click the image to enlarge it.)
Here are a couple of groovers I’ve seen lately. You can’t tell from the picture how funny she looks when she walks; you’ll just have to take my word for it. She definitely marches to the beat of her own drummer.
This guy walks normally for about 20 seconds and then spontanously bursts into dance for ten or fifteen seconds. Then he walks normally again for 20 seconds. He seems unable to resist his own reflection in store windows: it just turns him into a dancing fool!
For those of you who live in Centretown, there’s a new vet clinic opening up on Somerset near Preston.
At the intersection of Chinatown and Little Italy, a Chinese bricklaying scaffold. Yikes.
Last but definitely not least, I was pleased to see that the Lysol Woman survived another winter.
Popular Posts