All fingers and toes crossed, hoping that April Fools Day does not find me infected with the confounded conficker worm.
Will I know if I am?
Will I accidentally blow up the world?
Will I lose all my memory - not just computer memory, but my real, live, actual memories? Will I be walking around as a blank slate, entirely unaware of who I am, or where I live, or what my Blogger username is?
*shudder*
I am going to hide under some blankets. See you April 2.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
NewWorldSon
"You must see NewWorldSon!"
"Seriously, you'll LOVE them!"
"...NewWorldSonNewWorldSonNewWorldSon..."
Our friends were relentless.
And they were also right.
We saw them on Saturday night, and I must say - WOW.
If you get the chance - you REALLY should see NewWorldSon.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
wishes and dreams
They got me.
I like to consider myself a cynical, realistic consumer whose eyes cannot be covered with wool. I mute all TV commercials, unless I want to mock them. I smugly denounce any marketing ploy that promises a utopian-like quality of life if I would only buy their overpackaged product.
A few days ago, I pulled yet another person into the recurring conversation between Spike and I. It's about the Wish Book. You remember the Wish Book, don't you? It came out every year, about November. As an undersized child until age 22, I'm fairly certain that the Wish Book weighed more than I did.
And it was beautiful. Full of dreams. Unlimited possibilities. Glossy pages, with a crisp new smell. Brilliant colours. Perfect descriptions. My sister and I would lay on our stomachs on the floor, poring together over each page, feet kicking dreamily in the air.
(Or we engaged in a hostile tug-of-war, threatening to tear it to shreds - that's actually more likely.)
My letters to Santa were entirely based on the Wish Book.
"Dear Santa: Hello. How are you? I am fine. For Christmas, I would like page 27, item 37B8, with accessory B, royal blue. Please say hello to Mrs. Claus."
I had a primary list, and then followed it up with a list of everything else in the Wish Book, just in case I won the Santa lottery. It never occurred to me to look outside of the Wish Book - why would I?
This is a recurring conversation between Spike and I. I mentioned it once, and he said, "What's a Wish Book?" I thought perhaps he was having another aneurism. But he truly didn't know. I tried to describe it to him, explained the magic of looking through this catalogue of joy, and finally asked, exasperated - "How is it possible that you didn't have the Wish Book?"
Spike, who grew up in the centre of the universe, looked back, just as exasperated and said, "Patti - we didn't need the catalogue - we had the STORE!"
So, since I cannot dispute the logic of his statement, I prefer to pull other, unsuspecting people into this recurring conversation, following the "majority rules" model of recurring conversations. This week, it came up again, and I referenced another friend who grew up with the Wish Book, and Spike rolled his eyes at the small-town girl he married.
But somehow, somewhere, the marketing powers-that-be must have overheard. And they realized they had found the key to my cynical, realistic, mocking, smug consumer heart. Because today, I noticed a pleasant glow emanating from within the pile of flyers. Birds sang, and the sun rose, as I investigated the source. I gasped as the glossy cover page was revealed - it's The Dream Book, from Home Depot.
They got me.
(P.S. As I write this, I must tell you that the sunrise is particularly stunning today. Were Spike awake, I'm certain he would explain it in one word - "pollution". What a romantic.)
I like to consider myself a cynical, realistic consumer whose eyes cannot be covered with wool. I mute all TV commercials, unless I want to mock them. I smugly denounce any marketing ploy that promises a utopian-like quality of life if I would only buy their overpackaged product.
A few days ago, I pulled yet another person into the recurring conversation between Spike and I. It's about the Wish Book. You remember the Wish Book, don't you? It came out every year, about November. As an undersized child until age 22, I'm fairly certain that the Wish Book weighed more than I did.
And it was beautiful. Full of dreams. Unlimited possibilities. Glossy pages, with a crisp new smell. Brilliant colours. Perfect descriptions. My sister and I would lay on our stomachs on the floor, poring together over each page, feet kicking dreamily in the air.
(Or we engaged in a hostile tug-of-war, threatening to tear it to shreds - that's actually more likely.)
My letters to Santa were entirely based on the Wish Book.
"Dear Santa: Hello. How are you? I am fine. For Christmas, I would like page 27, item 37B8, with accessory B, royal blue. Please say hello to Mrs. Claus."
I had a primary list, and then followed it up with a list of everything else in the Wish Book, just in case I won the Santa lottery. It never occurred to me to look outside of the Wish Book - why would I?
This is a recurring conversation between Spike and I. I mentioned it once, and he said, "What's a Wish Book?" I thought perhaps he was having another aneurism. But he truly didn't know. I tried to describe it to him, explained the magic of looking through this catalogue of joy, and finally asked, exasperated - "How is it possible that you didn't have the Wish Book?"
Spike, who grew up in the centre of the universe, looked back, just as exasperated and said, "Patti - we didn't need the catalogue - we had the STORE!"
So, since I cannot dispute the logic of his statement, I prefer to pull other, unsuspecting people into this recurring conversation, following the "majority rules" model of recurring conversations. This week, it came up again, and I referenced another friend who grew up with the Wish Book, and Spike rolled his eyes at the small-town girl he married.
But somehow, somewhere, the marketing powers-that-be must have overheard. And they realized they had found the key to my cynical, realistic, mocking, smug consumer heart. Because today, I noticed a pleasant glow emanating from within the pile of flyers. Birds sang, and the sun rose, as I investigated the source. I gasped as the glossy cover page was revealed - it's The Dream Book, from Home Depot.
They got me.
(P.S. As I write this, I must tell you that the sunrise is particularly stunning today. Were Spike awake, I'm certain he would explain it in one word - "pollution". What a romantic.)
Monday, March 23, 2009
birdies
He's back!
The big, bright, beautiful blue jay is back in our yard!
Do blue jays go south for the winter? I don't know. He went somewhere.
The cardinals returned a couple weeks ago, the male apparently having remarried immediately after his wife's death-by-cat. It's caused a bit of gossip among the yard wildlife, but she's here, and they're happy, so whatever.
But no one knows where the blue jay went. All we know is - he's back. Perched just a few feet outside my patio door, so Spike and I could admire him yesterday morning.
The big, bright, beautiful blue jay is back in our yard!
Do blue jays go south for the winter? I don't know. He went somewhere.
The cardinals returned a couple weeks ago, the male apparently having remarried immediately after his wife's death-by-cat. It's caused a bit of gossip among the yard wildlife, but she's here, and they're happy, so whatever.
But no one knows where the blue jay went. All we know is - he's back. Perched just a few feet outside my patio door, so Spike and I could admire him yesterday morning.
Spring has sprung
The crabgrass is riz
Back in my yard
The birdies iz!
Thursday, March 12, 2009
pet peeves
With thanks and props to Rick, the doodler, who did done doodle this pet peeve.Off the top of my head, I suppose it's possible that I may have one or two pet peeves.
Such as....
- Random apostrophes
- Poor customer service
- Reality TV
- Using "literally" in a non-literal way
And once, when Spike and I stopped briefly in a store to look at last season's leather jackets, and the cute salesgirl came over to help Spike (specifically Spike, not me), and then deliberately placed herself in between me and Spike, with her back turned to me, entirely ignoring my existence, and blocking me from the conversation, as she told my husband how nice that jacket would look on him ....
Well, I just about pet-peeved her right into next week.
Let's just say she lost the sale.
Other than that ... I'm a nice, easy-going person. With strong opinions.
bone-cracking conversation
I was chattin' with my chiropractor today, as he rearranged my back.
I was telling him about someone I know that I don't bother to argue with, because they are rather strong-minded.
"Mmm," he said. Then he paused. "Of course - so are you."
I paused.
"Yup," I said. "I am. But I choose my battles."
"On your back please," he said. I turned.
"You," he said thoughtfully, "have a very strong sense of self. You know who you are."
"Yup," I said. "I do."
"That can be a rare thing, especially in women," he said.
"Yup," I said. "It is."
Arms over the head, one more crack.
"You must have good genes," he said.
"Yup," I said. "I do."
And that was that. I may have a strong sense of who I am, with strong opinions, but I was fresh out of words to express what those opinions might be.
Fortunately, me and my chiropractor - we think the same, so he already knows anyway.
I was telling him about someone I know that I don't bother to argue with, because they are rather strong-minded.
"Mmm," he said. Then he paused. "Of course - so are you."
I paused.
"Yup," I said. "I am. But I choose my battles."
"On your back please," he said. I turned.
"You," he said thoughtfully, "have a very strong sense of self. You know who you are."
"Yup," I said. "I do."
"That can be a rare thing, especially in women," he said.
"Yup," I said. "It is."
Arms over the head, one more crack.
"You must have good genes," he said.
"Yup," I said. "I do."
And that was that. I may have a strong sense of who I am, with strong opinions, but I was fresh out of words to express what those opinions might be.
Fortunately, me and my chiropractor - we think the same, so he already knows anyway.
Monday, March 09, 2009
answering an ad
I was reading the classifieds on the weekend. I like to see what people have for sale. I never, ever buy anything, although I came close once when I saw incredibly low-priced mason jars listed. Alas, they were already gone.
The most interesting ones are the $5 ads. You know - $5 for a leisure suit, size 12. Or $5 for yarn. (Yarn. Try saying "yarn" over and over, slowly. Sounds weird, doesn't it? What an odd word. Now it's stuck in your head for the day.)
It's not that they're not good deals. It just would never, ever occur to me to sell off my leisure suits, one at a time, in the classifieds. My theory is, it's a form of entertainment to the vendors - they just rotate obscure items they own through the ads, to see if anyone wants what they have. If not - no harm done - the ads are free. If someone calls - well, hey, you've made $5.
Anyway. I'm feeling adventurous today. I'm gonna answer an ad, right after I finish this post. It's not a "for sale" item. It's a "wanted" item. A new local food producer is looking for back yards for "eating locally - growing locally".
Imagine the possibilities. My back yard, transformed into a beautiful, bounteous paradise, full of tender berries and brightly-coloured vegetables. The stones that have drifted by the thousands from the invisible "driveway" into the yard over the years, all miraculously disappear. Crabgrass is a thing of the past. And I am an urban hero, growing food aplenty for the masses, and maybe making a little money too.
Then there are the less-appealing possibilities. People I don't know in my back yard at all hours. *shudder* This is my safe space, my alone space, my very favourite place from April to September, and I would hate to give it up to ... you know ... strangers.
So, I'm sending a cautious email response. "Looking for more information."
Meanwhile - I have a "like-new" soap dish, burgundy. $5 obo. Call me.
The most interesting ones are the $5 ads. You know - $5 for a leisure suit, size 12. Or $5 for yarn. (Yarn. Try saying "yarn" over and over, slowly. Sounds weird, doesn't it? What an odd word. Now it's stuck in your head for the day.)
It's not that they're not good deals. It just would never, ever occur to me to sell off my leisure suits, one at a time, in the classifieds. My theory is, it's a form of entertainment to the vendors - they just rotate obscure items they own through the ads, to see if anyone wants what they have. If not - no harm done - the ads are free. If someone calls - well, hey, you've made $5.
Anyway. I'm feeling adventurous today. I'm gonna answer an ad, right after I finish this post. It's not a "for sale" item. It's a "wanted" item. A new local food producer is looking for back yards for "eating locally - growing locally".
Imagine the possibilities. My back yard, transformed into a beautiful, bounteous paradise, full of tender berries and brightly-coloured vegetables. The stones that have drifted by the thousands from the invisible "driveway" into the yard over the years, all miraculously disappear. Crabgrass is a thing of the past. And I am an urban hero, growing food aplenty for the masses, and maybe making a little money too.
Then there are the less-appealing possibilities. People I don't know in my back yard at all hours. *shudder* This is my safe space, my alone space, my very favourite place from April to September, and I would hate to give it up to ... you know ... strangers.
So, I'm sending a cautious email response. "Looking for more information."
Meanwhile - I have a "like-new" soap dish, burgundy. $5 obo. Call me.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
a history of faith
My town took it on the chin last night, with the announcement that one of the steel companies is closing, temporarily. It's a psychological blow to a community with a "steel city" identity (although recent years have seen that identity shift to other things).
I happened to be at the church last night. We've turned our sanctuary into a creative, artistic kind of place for Lent. Fabrics hanging - candles burning - guided 15-minute times of prayer on the screens - quiet music - sketchbooks and journals available. A drop-in space for anyone at all who wants some undisturbed time to personally pray.
So that's where I was. Technically to host, but with the luxury of being able to sit and quietly reflect as well.
And slowly the realization of where I was sitting impacted me. On antique wooden pews, in a 94-year-old building. Hardwood floors that have seen more shoes than I will ever see. Walls that have watched generation after generation pray, sing, take Communion, just like me. Generations that survived wars and the Great Depression, that had stories to tell of how God walked them through it. An ongoing community of faith that holds each other up, and endeavours to engage their world with extravagant grace and love, no matter what the headlines and the bank accounts say.
Our congregation is relatively new - less than 20 years old. But our history is already full of stories that we tell over and over again, remembering what God has done. And now our history is joined with a century of stories, in the building we just renovated. And then I remember that our history is joined with centuries of history, around the world.
There is no silly, naive sense of how perfectly blessed and trouble-free life is.
But there is a deeper trust that God is not unaware, and that he is near.
---
By the way ... if you live near where I am, you are welcome to drop by to pray during Lent. Or ... if you live far ... there's a simpler version on our website. Click here for info.
I happened to be at the church last night. We've turned our sanctuary into a creative, artistic kind of place for Lent. Fabrics hanging - candles burning - guided 15-minute times of prayer on the screens - quiet music - sketchbooks and journals available. A drop-in space for anyone at all who wants some undisturbed time to personally pray.
So that's where I was. Technically to host, but with the luxury of being able to sit and quietly reflect as well.
And slowly the realization of where I was sitting impacted me. On antique wooden pews, in a 94-year-old building. Hardwood floors that have seen more shoes than I will ever see. Walls that have watched generation after generation pray, sing, take Communion, just like me. Generations that survived wars and the Great Depression, that had stories to tell of how God walked them through it. An ongoing community of faith that holds each other up, and endeavours to engage their world with extravagant grace and love, no matter what the headlines and the bank accounts say.
Our congregation is relatively new - less than 20 years old. But our history is already full of stories that we tell over and over again, remembering what God has done. And now our history is joined with a century of stories, in the building we just renovated. And then I remember that our history is joined with centuries of history, around the world.
There is no silly, naive sense of how perfectly blessed and trouble-free life is.
But there is a deeper trust that God is not unaware, and that he is near.
---
By the way ... if you live near where I am, you are welcome to drop by to pray during Lent. Or ... if you live far ... there's a simpler version on our website. Click here for info.
Monday, March 02, 2009
healthy self-esteem
Saw the sweetest little 3-year-old yesterday. I haven't seen him since he was a newborn baby.
I was talking to his mom, and finally couldn't help myself - I leaned down to the little guy, and said, "You are ADORABLE. You are so cute, I just don't know how you can stand it."
He gazed back at me, his face unreadable.
Then he turned to his mom, and said in a tiny voice, "Mommy?"
"Yes," she said.
"I am ADORABLE!"
I was talking to his mom, and finally couldn't help myself - I leaned down to the little guy, and said, "You are ADORABLE. You are so cute, I just don't know how you can stand it."
He gazed back at me, his face unreadable.
Then he turned to his mom, and said in a tiny voice, "Mommy?"
"Yes," she said.
"I am ADORABLE!"
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