Busy September in Chumplet Land

Let's see... We filled a dumpster with useless junk so the Danger Room isn't so dangerous any more.

We packed up our kids and shipped them off to college. They actually stayed put for two weeks at a stretch, so Chumpletland is quiet and reasonably tidy. They're here now because... well, because.

We had the eavestroughs and gutters replaced, with two extra downspouts at the front of the house. When the rain rain rain comes down down down, it no longer pours from the fireplace and it doesn't crawl across the basement floor. I no longer dread downpours. Let it rain, baby!

Three days ago, the furnace quit. I huddled in my bed with three layers of fuzzies and a magic bag warmed in the microwave. It almost lasted through the night. Almost. My little nose got cold. Hubby scheduled the furnace guy to visit the next day so I quickly swept up the furnace-slash-laundry-slash-ugly room so the repairman wouldn't be too grossed out.

I also gathered up the newspapers from the floor of the downstairs bathroom, just in case. Would a repair guy ask to use the bathroom? Nah, he wouldn't -- that would be inappropriate, right? Still, the downstairs bathroom is a bit of a shithole. Excuse me, I mean an ugly room lined with that paneling you see in construction site office trailers.

We've known the furnace guy for a while. He replaced our old oil furnace with a gas unit fifteen years ago and returned for a few inspections along the way. He moves a little slower these days, and I empathized as he plodded down the stairs and groaned while he crouched to look into the furnace's guts. He poked and prodded the innards of the furnace, then concluded that it had been shooting out almost twice the gas required to do the job. This caused the furnace to overheat and shut down in self-defense.

I was wondering why the gas bills had been slowly rising the last couple of years. I thought it was the rising price of natural gas.

Furnace guy headed out the front door to get a replacement part, but promptly returned asking if he could... OMG... use the bathroom. He looked a little anxious, so I instinctively said, "Okay." I mean, what heartless person could possibly say no?

My mind's eye flashed, seeing the crappy basement bathroom and the slightly less crappy main floor bathroom. I pointed him to the main floor loo and he thankfully retreated, tugging at his stained coveralls.

He was in there for what seemed like forever, but it was only about five minutes. Obviously the guy was suffering from some kind of gastric distress. I tried to ignore the sounds coming from the bathroom but living in a bungalow, you can't get far away from ANY sounds.

After profuse thanks, he went to get the part and returned with a couple of extra filters. $378 dollars later, I waved him out the front door. I ventured into the bathroom to give it a quick squirt of Airwick, and noticed the dust bunnies, toothpaste encrusted sink and the pile of towels on the floor. Boy, he must think we're total slobs. Oh, I forgot... we are.

I don't know who was more embarrassed, him or me. To lessen my pain, the least he could have done was throw in the $5 filters. I don't know what I could have done to lessen his pain.

The next day, my coveted box of books arrived: twenty shiny copies of The Toast Bitches. Hmm... maybe I should give one away? How about a contest?

The Toast Bitches Released in Paperback!

I dawdled over to Amazon to check whether my sexy chick lit The Toast Bitches was in print yet, and whoopee! There it was! I don't know how long it was available in print (it says September 11) but it showed up in the search tonight.

I hope my friends will order a copy - reviews are on the sidebar. Be warned: it has adult content, so it's a little spicier than Bad Ice, and a LOT spicier than The Space Between. Still, it isn't quite as hawt as some of the other Ravenous Romance fare.

The ensemble cast features Hana, Paige, Connie and Pepper as they form a lasting bond at Dempster Media, gathering in the break room for tea and toast. When Pepper leaves the company, the girls add a new venue – Paige's cottage in the woods – where, over cocktails and gossip, the four friends trade secrets and sex tips.

Pepper abandons her domestic life, restlessly flitting from man to man looking for the perfect balance of sex and compatibility. Will she find it, or was it always right in front of her?

Sweet, sexy Connie's infinite patience can't save her when her jealous husband leaves her for another woman. Now single, she attempts to relocate her sensuality with a hunky handyman.

Paige is the earth mother, sprinkling snippets of advice like herbs on a salad. Married to her high school sweetheart, she seems to have the perfect life. But she carries her own secrets…

Small-town Hana tests her sexual boundaries with hot editor Adam, but she gets more than she bargained for. When he asks her to experiment with BDSM, she panics and calls off the relationship, setting off a chain of catastrophic events that brings the four women closer than ever.

The Toast Bitches juggle families, boyfriends, ex-husbands, bosses and each other in a hilarious and sexy roller coaster ride.

Who's a Bad Ass?

Eric Stone's post on badasses immediately made me think of my dad. At first glance, Dad doesn't look like tough guy, but as a child I always saw him as some mysterious entity hiding much more than the naked eye could see. His posture, his raised eyebrow and his dry comments told a deeper story than the accountant personae he revealed. Often, he struck fear in our misbehaving hearts with just one intense glare.

He once told me a story about being in a bar fight. He was minding his own business, having a beer when a fight broke out. Someone tossed a guy across his table just after he picked up his beer. He didn't spill a drop. When the table was swept clean of said guy, he put his beer back on the table. At least, that's how I remember the story.

He grew up in Minto, a mining town in northern New Brunswick. He has lots of tough guy stories, some true, and some probably not so much. He had many jobs: fim reel delivery guy for a major movie distributor, coal miner, tobacco picker. He used his razor sharp mathmatical brain to work his way to a white collar position at a national construction company, then was wooed by an international construction company to help out with a financial mess in Algeria. He still cruises around the world, having worked in places like Mexico, El Salvador, Saudi Arabia, Nigeria and soon, Siberia.

In his travels, he made many friends. Some were high profile leaders of the equality movement who died for their beliefs, and some were associated (by family) with enemies of Democracy. He always seemed to leave a project just before a coup, an earthquake or a major government shakeup. I often joke that he's really a spy.

Gee, Dad, I hope I didn't blow your cover.

Happy 73rd Birthday to my favourite Bad Ass.

Where Pixies Abound

I'm a guest blogger over at Rachael de Vienne's blog Sha'el Princess of Pixies. I met Rachael in her pixie personae while visiting blogs like Miss Snark and Evil Editor. Her enchanting book, Pixie Warrior, is published by Drollerie Press.

Isn't that the sweetest cover?

Another Starry Night

The views from our hotel

For our anniversary, we went to one of those places that folds the bathroom tissue into a point in the public washrooms. We arrived according to my on-line receipt, but the lady behind the counter said we were a day early. Good thing I’d printed out the receipt – I showed it to her and she corrected the info on the computer. We were given a room, stat. I’m glad to say it still had a balcony facing the waters of the Trent-Severn waterway. It was also pretty fancy.

We had a few hours before meeting my friend Val and her husband Ted for dinner, so we took a walk into beautiful downtown Port Severn. It has forty marinas, ten residences, two hotels, an ice cream place and one general store. Bonus item: one liquor store. It’s also the kind of place where everyone says hello, even the kid riding by on his bike.

The Severn Bridge is a combination of a swing bridge (to let big boats through) and a lock for the smaller vessels. The bridge was closed to automobile traffic due to construction, so we had to walk across the locks to get to the bustling downtown area.

Closing the lower gates

Waiting for the water to rise

Two large wooden gates hold the water at bay, and the operators turn big cranks to open and close the gates. As one gate opens, the water rises in the lock, and boats rise with them. Then they close the gate and open the other one. It’s kinda like an escalator for boats so they can get past the falls. (John Elder Robison would love this stuff. He's totally into large turning cog things made of iron.)

Cogs 'n stuff

We explored the lower portion of the falls where the water churned violently from the dam opening, wearing the Shield rocks smooth. After exploring the rocks, we climbed up the stairs and squeezed past the mechanisms on the gates to reach the other side.

Lower portion of Severn River

We fought pedestrian traffic (one kid on a bike and a family of four) and picked up a bottle of wine to take back to our room in case Val and Ted decided to accompany us for a nightcap. They had promised a moonlight boat ride through the waterways after dinner.

We met them at the other hotel dining room and had a lot of laughs. Ted charmed Natasha the bartender into creating some pretty wild fruity-tinis for him, and we enjoyed the outrageously expensive meal.

After paying our half of the bill ($100 yikes!) we followed Val and Ted across the lawn to the darkened boat slips. I expected them to have a little 12-foot runabout with an outboard motor, but he stopped at a large pontoon ‘party boat’. I thought he was just joshing us until he turned on the motor. Woo Hoo!

Val had beers and coolers and a couple of blankets ready for us, and we pushed off into the waterway. We had a delightful leisurely cruise through misty waters and under a fantastic explosion of stars. The chill in the air collided with the soupy water and created swirls of mist on the surface. I stood at the front of the boat and felt as if we were floating on clouds.

Captain Ted on the SS Rodd

Ted knows these waters like the back of his hand - he spent every summer of his childhood around the bays and inlets. He pointed out sprawling cottages owned by CEOs and sports heroes. At one point, he cut the motor and we sat on the cushioned benches in the middle of Gloucester Pool, a wide area of the Trent waterway. We sat silently in the darkness, listening to loons. Someone at a cottage beyond the trees set off fireworks and I felt like they were doing it just for us.

I lay on my stomach on the deck and reached through the gate, dipping my fingers in the warm water, disturbing the start that studded the black surface.

On the way back to the Inn we made a quick pit stop at their house for a potty break. We collected their Labrador retriever Trooper so the old girl could have a little ride with us. She’s 13 going on 50 - just like my Chester - and she leaned against my leg to keep her balance whenever the boat wobbled over gentle swells.

Val and Ted slid the pontoon boat into one of the slips at our Inn and delivered us safely to our doorstep. What a magical evening!

Still Crazy After All These Years

The first time I saw him, I had just completed a 1.5 hour bus and subway ride from Newmarket to my first day on the job as a camera salesperson in a retail shop in northern Toronto. I was 20 minutes early and sat in the quiet mall, reading my book. A young man arrived to unlock the sliding partition and disappeared behind the counter.

I got up and and peered through the slats of the partition until he re-emerged from the small rear office. "Excuse me, I'm starting here today," I announced.

He peered at me through his oversized glasses and I noticed his big-ass brown eyes. "Finally! They decided to hire somebody!" He let me in and showed me around. I knew my way around a camera store since I'd worked for the same company at another location. This was just a temporary assignment until my local store had an opening.

He was the assistant manager, and I quickly made friends with him and my other fellow workers. Within a couple of months, we were a tight group and a crack team in the store.

He had a girlfriend, but the relationship seemed a little rocky. Just before Christmas I was sorting lens filters in a drawer and casually asked one of the girls, "So... is he going to the company Christmas party with her?"

She said, "Oh, didn't you know? They broke up last week."

I grinned at the filters. "Oh... that's too bad."

During the company shindig, we started to talk about horses. I mentioned I liked to ride, and he said, "We should go trail riding sometime."

He mentioned a stable to the east of the city. We made arrangements to meet up at the bus stop (he didn't have a car) and went riding on a cold, clear day. It wasn't a date, just a couple of friends enjoying a winter activity.

It wasn't long before a blizzard moved in, and the guide led us back to the barn, slipping and sliding on ice patches covered with powdered snow. We went back to the bus stop and the wind and snow battered us. The stop lacked a shelter, so we stood withour backs to the wind and huddled for warmth until an old model car with pom-poms all around the windows rolled to a stop beside us. The kind man gave us a ride to the closest stop with a glass bus shelter.

Our second non-date was closing time on New Years Eve. I was scheduled to catch an overnight train to Cochrane, a town in northern Ontario to visit my sister and her husband. There was enough time to catch a bite before boarding the subway to Union Station, so we decided to grab some dinner before he went home to his parents' house.

Several restaurants in the area were already booked, but we found a table at a little pub on Yonge Street. We both noticed we mixed our peas with our potatoes and laughed. The waiter gave us free champagne and we toasted the arrival of 1982.

I paid for my portion and accepted a little peck on the cheek, then boarded the Yonge subway south while he hopped on the Bloor Street West train. Again, it wasn't a date.

We went out as a group with our co-workers to movies and dinners for the next few months. As springtime thawed the ice on the sidewalks, we gathered at a little restaurant with a second floor lined with bookshelves.

When the other couple left to visit the facilities, he leaned toward me and said, "This has been a long time coming," and he kissed me.

When he visited me in Newmarket, he had to take a city bus, then the subway and then a regional bus, then walk up my street. I often waited at the top of the hill and my heart gave a little jump when I saw his familiar silhouette.

We married in 1984. Our wedding was modest -- Dad provided the catering and I made my own multi-tiered banana wedding cake. It was ugly as Hell but delicious. We danced to Blue Danube and then enjoyed all the 80s dance tunes.

Along with the arrival of two children and lots of tears and laughter, we skidded through the years.

Today is our 25th Anniversary. As long as the laughter outnumbers the tears, we'll cruise together far into the future.

(I'd show you a picture but I can't find the damn photo album!)

From Star Fall to Tree Fall

My friends to the south have the sense to take proper precautions when active weather approaches. However, being a wide-eyed innocent when it comes to disasters, I react in a different manner.

When I arrived home from work yesterday afternoon I heard an ominous rumble to the west. Yup, another storm a'comin'.

We have several estimates out to have our eavestroughs replaced but in the meantime we have to batten down the hatches every time a thunderstorm approaches. My husband and I placed a sheet of plastic across the front of the house and made sure the fireplace was equipped with buckets. Since our Shop Vac is on the fritz, I didn't want to deal with a wet floor and wringing out towels and Sham Wows.

Sure, it burns calories but who needs that kind of exercise?

I parked myself near the living window to watch the rain and wind lashing the trees. I didn't have a good view of the sky (too many trees) but every flash and boom made me go, "Ohhh.. that was a good one!"

I had no idea things were serious until the Weather Channel started talking tornadoes. They're rare around these parts - maybe ten F2s per year, but yesterday there were about five funnel clouds or suspected tornadoes in one afternoon.

The first was northwest of here, in Durham. Several people were injured at a day camp, and one 11 year old boy was killed by flying debris.

A large cell went through Vaughan, southwest of my location. 600 homes were damaged, with about 60 deemed unsaveable. Minor injuries, but no deaths reported.

The same cell traveled east and curled north, just missing the centre of my town. A tornado touched down at a local riding academy east of here, where a show was in progress. Witnesses say trailers were overturned and a pony was lifted with all four feet off the ground. A young rider gripped her horse's lead while a section of arena roof tore away above their heads. Nobody was hurt at that location.

I love storms. The power of weather is awesome to me, and the photographer and writer in me wants to absorb every moment. In another life I would have been a storm chaser. I had to resist the urge to run outside to take pictures. If we were forced to hide in the basement, I had my little mini lappy all ready to record my moment-to-moment experience.

Once when we were kids, my sister stood in front of our picture window and shouted, "I LOVE the lightning!" and a bolt struck the house across the street with a giant fireball. The lights went out, everyone screamed, the dog ran under the couch and my grandmother missed the bathroom by about two feet and ended up in the hall closet.

When I was a teen, the trees in front of our house were small so we could see across the street. A lightning strike caused a phenomenon called "St. Elmo's Fire" - a ball of fire rolling across the ground.

Later, when my daughter was a baby, we were driving in the countryside when a massive cold front rolled in and caught us unprepared. We parked the car as close to a ditch as we could and hunkered down. Before the storm hit my husband and I brought out our cameras and captured images of a solid wall of blackness careening across the sky. This was before the digital era so all I have are some slides and negatives somewhere.

My daughter sat in her car seat in the shaking vehicle, her brown eyes wide. She was only a little nervous, probably because her mommy and daddy were so calm. I guess our fear of mortality hadn't set in yet. Even today she sits in her room during storms, ignoring the call to round up the cat and dog and hit the basement.

I saw a funnel cloud try to form while we watched from the observation deck of the CN Tower in Toronto. I've never really seen a tornado with my own eyes, but I dream about them all the time. I wonder what that means?

The house (and the fireplace and the basement) survived yesterday's onslaught. I had visions of our office being carried away overnight, but alas I had to report to work this morning. Sigh. We have one tree split in half by a wind shear last week, but it's safely tucked into the crook of another tree. We'll call the tree guy after the eavestroughs are done.

Our problems are miniscule compared to the many families in Vaughan and those who lost a little boy in Durham. My prayers go out to them.

When all is said and done, I'm rather thankful we live in a section of town where nothing ever happens - except, of course, for the elephants.

In the meantime we plan to take advantage of a rare weekend of sun and hit the beach. Unless, of course, there's a storm.

Star Fall

Last night I wrapped a blanket around me (to keep the mosquitos at bay) and ventured out to my backyard to watch the Perseid Meteor Shower. Trees surround my yard so I had to position my patio chair in the middle to get the most coverage. By the time I was settled, my quilt was dripping wet from the dewy grass.

I didn't realize how quiet a town can be at midnight. We're a sizable community, but all I heard was the distant hum of traffic from the 404. A single cricket chirped off and on. I thought there would be more crickets in August but it's been damp and cool most of the summer. I also heard the sleepy peep of a bird in the next yard.

Although the sky was clear, dew fell, each drop hitting the leaves of the trumpet vines on the back of the house like soft, intermittent rain. I guess I'm not as deaf as I thought I was. It's odd to be surrounded by a kind of silence you can actually hear.

I tucked my head into the quilt and felt the cool night air on my nose. I stared at the sky and could swear it was visibly rotating. You know how you stare at something long enough, it seems like it's moving?

A few things did move. A satellite drifted past, like a star that had broken away from the pack to seek its own fortune.

After a half hour of patience, I was rewarded by one meteor that passed over the house in a long streak. No multicoloured tail like the websites promised, but it was enough to make a wish.

Then the mosquitos located me and I retreated into the house.

Maybe tonight I'll try to add to my wish collection.

Chester

Thirteen years ago his mom, a Siberian husky, backed up to a snowbank to accommodate his dad, a Shetland sheepdog.

That's what the owner told us when we went to Mount Albert to pick out a puppy.

Seven of them romped around in an enclosed dog run. Some resembled mini-collies, and others looked like grey-furred huskys with blue eyes. We'd Googled "How to pick the perfect puppy" and tried all the tricks:

1) Call the pup. If it comes to you and follows you, it gets points.
2) Pick up the pup and turn it on its back. If it struggles briefly, then settles, it gets points. If it freaks out, no dice.
3) Stroke the pup from nose to tail. If it tries to reach back and bite you, it loses points.

There were more, but I can't remember. Two pups were in the lead. They looked the same - sable tri-colour markings - except the female had a broad strip down her nose and one blue eye. She lost the contest because she was a little nippy (bitchy). We chose the male.

During the drive home, the kids listened while Mark and I discussed names. We went through a list of my former pets - Sabado (Saturday in Spanish) Quasanche (Little Girl in Ojibway) Gidgimidge (Asshole in Mik'Maq), Tippy (well, you know, tippy). Can you tell I'm into languages?

My husband's past name choices were simpler: Morris the cat, Chloe the sausage dog, Chester the other cat, Chester the cockatiel, and Simon and Garfunkle the budgies. And he's the one with English as a second language. Go figure.

While cuddling the puppy in the back seat, my four year old son picked up on the name Chester and declared that should be the puppy's name. And so it was.



Chester passed more tests - housetraining, sit, stay, speak etc. There was one bad habit we couldn't break. He was an excellent escape artist, and when he got loose he ran. He ran and ran. It must have been the sled dog in him because we couldn't get him to stop. Several times, neighbours called to tell us our dog was in their backyard playing with their kids.

During one chase I drove around the neighbourhood in the dark and caught the white tip of his tail waving in my headlights. By that time he was exhausted and glad to get a free ride home. Another time my son (by then about ten years old) chased him for blocks and lost a shoe in the snow. He didn't take time to stop and kept running through the slush until he caught up with the little bugger. We never recovered the shoe.



I posted a while back about Chester's aversion to loud noises. Lately, it seems his hearing is suffering. When a storm brews, the cat hides behind the furnace but Chester keeps snoozing. This was a welcome relief during the last fireworks display at the end of the street. At least my rugs are now safe from panic pee.

I ask him if he wants to go out, but doesn't respond until I point at the back door. Hand signals I'd taught him years ago are now alternative forms of communication.

He gets up slower and walks bowlegged. I taped squares of carpeting to the hardwood stairs so he could make it to the main floor of our raised bungalow without stumbling. His butt is disappearing. If he was human, he'd look like one of those guys who yells at kids to get off his lawn. He sleeps most of the day and paces around like a Nervous Nelly most of the evening. He's starting to smell like an old couch.

I know he's getting older, and the inevitable scenario approaches, but like Scarlett O'Hara I don't want to think about that right now. His vet says he's healthy considering his age. My daughter, however, worries about every wart and lump and nosebleed.

I always took the logical approach when dealing with pet loss, offering condolences when needed and looking back with affection at the lives of various beloved companions. I took my neigbour's dog for her final journey to the vet when he couldn't. It was a sad event, stroking Gypsy's ears when the life left her eyes, but I didn't cry. She was no longer suffering. She was going to a better place.

When a co-worker recently chose to euthanize her dog due to age and disease, I gave her a hug and wondered why they'd taken so long to make their decision. The dog had seizures, couldn't stand on her own, didn't eat, etc. They had made repeated visits to the vet with no diagnosis for her various symptoms that had taken away her quality of life.

A couple of weeks ago, I watched Marley and Me against my own advice. I teared up more at Jennifer Aniston's post-natal depression than Marley's decline. I wondered if something was wrong with me. Am I some kind of emotionless bitch?

Yesterday I looked at Chester and called him over to me. He stiffly sauntered close and I stroked his smooth forehead like I always do. The fur on his forehead is so soft unlike the mass of unruly fur that only leaves his body to infest every corner of the house. He closed his eyes and sighed with apparent contentment.

I started to cry.


Pictures: My daughter took these while Chester slept through a yard sale.

The Real Canadian Stupid Store

We're more than halfway through our brief, shining Canadian Summer and I haven't broken a sweat. At least, not a real sweat (hot flashes don't count). We've barely crept above room temperature and almost every day has been blessed (I use that term loosely) with rain.

The air is thick with humidity and everything is sticky, from doorknobs to the hardwood floors. The front door won't open unless I put a shoulder to it. This morning during a downpour I mopped up another mess in the basement and changed the water bucket in the fireplace. We have to get the eavestroughs and downspouts replaced, but Handsome But Not Handy Husband hasn't started calling around for estimates yet. I silently scream at every raindrop.

Later, the skies cleared long enough for a quick foray to the local super grocery store for emergency supplies: toilet paper, bread, Aleve, wine and Twizzlers. My daughter and I threw on our jackets (yes, it's that warm) and hopped into the car.

In the bread aisle, a lady inspected the Wonder Bread Plus Whole Wheat. I didn't want to get my shopping cart in her way, so I waited patiently. Instead of grabbing a loaf and moving along, she checked each expiry tab, throwing loaves back in disgust. She took one, moved as if she was about to leave, then backed up and started the process all over again with the white bread.

We decided to call her Angry Bread Lady. She stopped every time I wanted to stop, reading labels and throwing items into her cart, glaring at each item as if daring them to escape.

In the freezer aisle, another woman held an impossibly tiny infant in the crook of one arm while sorting through frozen waffles. The baby fretted while the woman shifted it awkwardly. If she'd forgotten her stroller, why didn't she use one of those handy carts with a bucket baby seat? The image of a baby hitting the hard floor flashed before my eyes, and I winced.

Of course we bought more than necessary. That's what happens when you cart along a kid who had skipped lunch. Yeah, she's twenty, but she's still my kid. She gasped in wonder at every ice cream carton and raspberry tart like a puppy distracted by a squirrel. I powered through, only allowing a chocolate bar and a bottle of Orange Crush. After all, it was my money, right?

The young lad at the checkout reminded me of the Target Lady on Saturday Night Live. He and a co-worker launched into a lively discussion about the merits of Taco Bites, and he inspected my DVD of Love Actually as if he'd never seen it before. I fully expected him to drop everything and dash to the Electronics department for a copy of his own.

I'm home now, waiting for my daughter to wander off to her room so I can watch Love Actually and eat a Twizzler or ten.

Video Killed The Radio Star

Everything is getting smaller except my waistline.

Hi-Fi sets became transistor radios, then Walkmen, and finally MP3 players no bigger than your thumb. Computers once took up an entire floor, and now you can check your email and work on your manuscript on a teensy weensie laptop.

Big, clunky mobile phones became sleek cell phones. A guy even wrote a novel on a cell phone!

Heck, our laundry detergent is getting smaller! 65 loads per ounce!

It didn't take long for networking to follow suit. First, we passed out newsletters at meetings and left them in foyers. We attended meetings in person, and talked to our friends on the phone. Now we combine several internet social networks in order to get our messages out.

When I started writing, I joined Blogger and got a shiny little website. Later, I joined several Yahoo groups to pimp my books. Facebook soon followed and I reconnected with old family members and school chums. Then all those book reader sites cropped up and I dutifully posted book covers and attempted to keep up with ravenous readers everywhere.

When Twitter came along, I rolled my eyes.

"I don't need another beak to feed."

"Only 140 characters to get your thoughts across? Pffff! What's up with that?"

"I'm wasting enough writing time already."

One Saturday night during a weak moment (and after a vat of wine), I gave in. I became a Twit.

Every half hour, I check to see what the latest hot celebrity is having for a snack. My faltering ego crawls up a notch when a bestselling author or a dream agent decides to follow me. Oh, the pressure!

Which brings me to the title of my post. Is Twitter killing blogs? I'd noticed a drop in visits here and wonder if it's just a summer lull. Or are buddies reading tweets instead?

I have to admit it's fun, but I gotta rope myself in. I need to finish one of my two works in progress. I struggle getting past 40K in a novel, but tweets seem to curtail the real messages. Does a 140 character statement really bring across a message? Along with the fun of spying on movie stars and Martha Stewart, I suppose I could use Twitter to post links to this blog (whenever I get around to an update).

'Scuse me while I Tweet this Post. Gah.

Red, White (and Blue) Skies

Happy 4th, my American friends! They're still setting off firecrackers outside, probably to make up for the rain we suffered here on Canada Day evening.

The beginning of July usually triggers all summer activities -- picnics, barbecues, swimming and the smell of fresh-cut grass. This year, that doesn't seem to be the case, at least in this area. We're still wearing sweatshirts and dodging downpours. A wild beast ate our propane barbecue valve hose, so we haven't done any outdoor grilling yet. The cooler weather didn't stop the hummingbird-sized mosquitoes from attacking between the car and the front door.

Some gave up on the idea of cutting the grass. Literally.

This is my neighbour's yard. It looks like the job was abandoned mid-mow.
I wonder who's been shirking their duties for the last three weeks.


My daughter and I took advantage of a break in the weather to check out The Canada Day festivities on Main Street.

We saw a little red...

A little white...

And my daughter had a little of the blues.
She apparently didn't approve of all those cut-off blue jeans...

The line for the beer garden was astronomically long, but the line for the food was mercifully short. We grabbed a couple of charred burgs and walked past the beer garden, where a local band played 70s rock with more enthusiasm than skill. Two bare chested guys danced with abandon in front of the stage, somehow managing to balance their beers. I wanted to take a picture, but Beth wouldn't let me.


Happy rest of the weekend, folks! I hope you get to do summery things.