Day off....

Look at our angel, isn't she pretty?
Today I baked a cake. Alex and Olivia wanted to go on a picnic and with little fun picnicky food in the house I decided to bake a cake as our treat when out. Well, avid readers of this blog will know that I have had one chocolate cake disaster on the record. I have had yet another!
We managed to eat cake on our picnic and I left the cake on the counter before we left, making sure no chairs were left nearby, so dogs could jump up and eat it - THIS TIME.
Unfortunately when we got home I didn't account for the two legged invader.
While upstairs putting fresh sheets on all the beds, I asked Alex, who was helping me, to go downstairs to get something. Soon after he disappeared, I hear a shriek and a desperate "come quick". I rushed down the stairs, knowing that Olivia was down there ALONE and wondered what she might be up to NOW. This is how I found the cake; gauged of its icing and crumbled, and this is how I found Olivia - covered in the evidence. I guess even angels have days off sometimes.

Bulbs

So sorry to all those who have requested to see pictures of our house after all the work we have done. You are going to have to wait just a little longer I am afraid. It is kind of in the between stage. You can't mow new lawn for the first three weeks and then you can only mow the very tips for the first three mows, so the garden is a little, shall we say...jungle-like, just at the moment.
Furthermore, we have yet to plant all the plants in the garden. In fact, we have hardly planted any. Aside from being clueless about Canadian plants, and plants that will thrive in this climate, most of the nurseries are closed for the summer. The ones that are open have a miserable selection of stock and the prices are through the roof - so we are hanging off for a little while.
In the meantime, the break has provided opportunity to contemplate what type of garden we would really like. There is alot of green - A LOT of green, so we would like to counteract that by adding plants that flower. We woud like to have some flowers all year round if possible.
Thus far, I have only bought one variety of plant, something called a "blue lady". It supposedly grows well in the shade and produces blue leaf-like flowers in the winter. I have planted the five I bought (from a plant liquidation sale), under the bitter cherry tree, which looks gorgeous in spring with all the blossoms, but will soon be losing all its leaves.
I have found two varieties of Heather that I will probably buy for the front yard - a summer flowering and a winter flowering variety. I would also like some lush large green leaved plants, and was thinking of hydrangas and perhaps some agapanthas.
There is other thing I have been looking into - bulbs. I borrowed a bulb book from the library the other day and was fascinated with all the different varieties. I have absolutely no idea of the cost of bulbs, as they were not yet in the expensive nursery that I checked out the other day. I am rather hoping, when purchasing time arrives, that I will return home with a bundle of different kinds, content and happy, with my heart secure in my chest exactly where it is meant to be, and blood pressure as normal.
I must admit, despite growing up with a couple of garden doting, plant nuts for parents, I am not blessed with the green thumb. I appreciate the apprearance of a good garden and don't like seeing my plants suffering. Nor do I like weeds sprouting up all over the place. I just don't know much about plant varieties and don't want to choose plants that I will hate later. I guess I want to choose right the first time, so I waste neither time nor money.
So I am looking forward to the big plant expedition, which Ashley has expressed little interest in - he prefers the structural aspects, rather than the beautifying processes. So next month, when the nurseries open their doors, filled with fresh stock and bulbs, I will probably be seen muddling around talking insanely to myself with a vague expression on my face, nervous twitch about the eye and clumps of hair in my hands.

defending an icon

A little while ago a friend of mine placed on her blog, a competition of sorts. It was a "guess the object" kind of game, with the promise of a cache of Australian chocolates and sweets for the winning guess and most original guess. Well .... I took the full sweep, baby!!! And the promise of some favourite Aussie treats saw me blue faced with sparks flying off my palms, as I rubbed my hands together with baited breath, waiting for my choccie parcel to arrive. I was a little suspicious however that the parcel might never arrive, especailly after reading a comment left on my friends blog by her sister, someone who probably knows from experience. But last night while chatting to my friend, she decides to let me know that she chowing down on a packet of my prize winning JAFFAS - the cheek of it!
Jaffas, for the unaware, are red or orange candy covered orange-flavoured chocolate balls, about the size of your average marble ("they melt in your mouth not in your hand"). Lets just say that I was not overly impressed, but hey, I got over it. SEND THAT PARCEL ALREADY!!!!
Anyway, in sharing this silly story I tried to find a picture of the said Jaffas and came across this web-site www.bewarethecheese.com. The opening picture, presumably of the website operator, is a little scary, but if you're game, this bloke has a "candy critic" page. I looked up a number of the old favourites and found a review for the beloved Violet crumble by Nestles. The snippet below describes this treat, for any poor souls who are yet to sink their teeth into this Aussie delight. But I must say, I was baffled by the "average" review and apparent lack of appreciation for one of Australia's - dare I say - national icons- it was kind of like scorning the sacred really. The review follows...

Although this is a fine bar it really brings up many questions. The review itself is simple, this is a fine bit of chocolate-covered sponge toffee. The sponge toffee is actually kinda nice because it doesn't seem to be as sticky as a 'Crunchie' bar. So all around this bar rates an average, not bad but nothing to write home about.Now for the questions:Why do they call the toffee inside this treat a honeycomb? It looks nothing like a honeycomb and tastes nothing like honey.Why is it called 'Violet Crumble'? There is nothing remotely purple about it at all. In fact, its more like earthy browns and yellows. A decent bar wrapped in mystery, a great treat if you like to eat and think.

Well you came to the right place to have your questions answered Mister - thats all I can say.The honeycomb effect comes not only from the colour of the toffee, but through the act of sucking the toffee part of the chocolate bar - if thats how you choose to eat it. The toffee then dissolves leaving and tacky honey-like goop - disgusting really, but boy does it taste good. The crumble effect is obvious if you have ever bought one from any number of large supermarkets, and are unfortunate to have your violet crumble unknowingly packed along with the tins of dog food and baked beans. Although a fractured and sometimes sawdust like violet crumble can be a bit of a downer for some enthusiasts (read: Ashley), it is remarkably common. The clever people of the advertising world have turned this negative upside down however; after all "its the way it shatters that matters", isn't it?. As for the whole violet aspect... it refers to Violet's trade mark shiny purple wrapper, not the blooming chocolate bar itself - Geez.

So there you go, I guess some things are just too complex for some minds. I am glad I could offer my expertises in clearing up this very important and perplexing mystery.

coming soon....

It is the final week of winter in Australia and it is likely that you might hear many an Aussie cheering. The end of winter means warmer weather, longer bouts of daylight, and the coma inducing, much dreaded..... cricket (boo hiss!).
Here in Canada you might be lead to believe that it is the final week of summer. You might expect to hear and see many teary eyed Canadians mourning the passing of the bright seasons, and readying themselves for their annual stay in mental hospitals across the nation- preferably ones that provide electric blankets on the beds.
Well you would think wouldn't you? But no...this isn't the case. Summer is extended well into the new month, as are all the season. I don't get it, I don't understand. I don't know when summer finishes exactly and when autumn actually begins. Can someone help me out and explain this whole phenomenon - it is doing my head in!

Alex ROCKS!!!!

Alex is mad about rocks. He has a large box of them in his wardrobe, which he had retrieved from all over the neighborhood.
The sight of Alex's rock collection provokes recollections of a Lucille Ball movie, which sees a newly-wed Lucy and Ricky on an absolutely riotous and disaster stricken caravanning honeymoon, across the USA. In the movie, Lucy takes a rock from each resting stop, as a souvenir of their journey. By the end of their honeymoon the couple are looking at divorce, and the caravan, overloaded with rocks, or should I say boulders, nearly tips this couple over the edge, literally. Too funny!
Well I really don't mind Alex having a rock collection; my brother had a rock collection as a boy, and I had a seashell collection, still do.... somewhere. The problem with Alex's rock collection was well....all the rocks were the same - road base gravel, and he had filled a whole wooden box with them.
He would get them out and look at them often, and ask me which of the similar looking blue chunks "was my favourite"? Well.....errrr...."that's a hard one, mate", was my tactful reply. I did try suggesting (gently of course), that it wasn't the greatest collection of rocks. Sure they were different sizes and shapes, but they were all essentially the same. Alex couldn't see my point, or rather, I couldn't see his. God, what a big meanie I am!!!
Yesterday we went on a walk around the block with the dogs. Alex usually rides his bike, but mid-way, got off his bike to collect rocks - more boring blue road base. Noooooooo! (sob).
The only way I could avoid more road base in the house was to suggest we make a trip to the beach. We did, and with container in hand, we gathered rocks of all different shapes and sizes. Alex colected purple ones, green ones, orange and black; spotted, striped and oddly patterned. Alex was so over-joyed with his new treasure that he allowed the road base to be let loose beside the road where it belonged, without so much as a prayer and excitedly thrust the glistening prizes into Ashley's face moments after he had returned home from work.
This morning he got out all his rocks and named them. Alex's favourtie is a small bright red rock called "volcano". My favourite is the purple one with white speckles. We named it "the milkyway".

Life's little fineries

I do have a penchance for quality. Oh, how I do enjoy a fine meal, fine wine, fine dark choccies, fresh fruit and veggies, and I do have a high appreciation for anything constructed with care and an eye for detail. This stunning revelation does appear contrary to the outer persentation of my good self, with the bodgey hair cut, clapped out attire and rats nest of a house (although the latter is on the improve, I must admit)..... lets just say that I show my appreciation using rather voyeuristic tendencies.
Anyway, it was with much pleasure, when my mail was jammed through the mail slot by the dog phobic postlady this morning, and I found a glossy and rather leafy copy of the latest Restoration Hardware catalogue, poised and sunning itself on the front door mat.
Restoration Hardware is a homewares store after my own heart. It has an array of delicious dark wooded furniture and timeless collectibles that appear to belong to a bygone era; things you might stumble upon in a genuine antique store with an outrageous price tag attached.
For any who might share an appreciation for delightful oldie-worldy inspired treasures, here is a link http://www.RestorationHardware.com.
Unfortunately, while the taste facalties have all guns blazing for the offerings of Restoration Hardware and their similarly stylish mates, the old piggy bank could do with a bit of fattening up before such extravegances can be considered. So at this stage, I am more than happy to be receiving my free quarterly copy of Restoration's catalogue, where I can read it at my own leisure while sitting back on my pet hairy sofa, sipping instant coffee from any one of my chipped coffee cups.....Ah, now that's what dreams are made of.
One of my more attainable delights is found in books - love a good book. But moreso, I love a carefully contructed and luxuriously illustrated book with inspiring text.
My mum gave me her copy of The Pixie O'Harris' Fairy Book. It had been my Gran's and was the orginal 1920's version - this original copy simply does not exist anymore, so I accepted it with the appropriate amount of starry eyed enthusiasm and salivation.
The book itself is filled with fairy stories and poems; beautiful colour printed cards attached to the pages, colour illustrations and unfilled black and white drawing of fairy folk, flowers and the like (although my Mum had coloured in some of these as a child, much to Gran's disgust and horror, I believe).
Since coming into possession of this book, I have researched the author and looked into Pixie O Harris' other books- books simply aren't crafted like that anymore...or so I thought.
Charles Van Sandwyk is a well known Canadian artist, who was born in South Africa and winters in Fiji (did you get all that?). He considers himself an artist primarily, and his art work is quite exquisite. The image at the top is from his book The Gnome Kings Treasure Song and that book, like all his books are a wonderful mix of art and short inspiring poetic prose - I am in love with his work!
Sightings of his books are rare. He self-publishes, prints the artwork himself, hand bounds each book and sells limited quantities in selected "fine"stores. Wierdly enough, one of these selected stores is in my town - an art supplies come nick nacks store owned by a passionate children's book collector. I have managed to snaffle some of the few copies occassionally on offer at my local store, whenever the opportuntiy has presented. But today I was over-joyed when two books that I had not yet acquired were found shining on the book shelf. I decided to purchase both books as a gift to myself, and told the intruding guilt which tends to accompany such an unjustified purchase, to bugger off. After all, "the gift of light-heartedness is the life-blood of the spirit" - Charles Van Sandwyk, 2006 "Animal Wisdom".

Okay.....so we're pathetic

Well.... I am sooooOOOooo glad I had you all rolling in the aisles after reading yesterdays blog revelation that I am NOT "wonder woman" after all...rather, I am just a sad, old housewife who needs to get herself a LIFE. Well even Wonder Woman had an everyday persona.
Ok! I hear you. I didn't really expect any sympathy- especially from the " (boo hoo) I am so, so cold over here in sunny old Australia" crowd, whom I berated with my own form of sarcastic compassionless jibing.
You may be interested to know, however, that Ashley read my blog last night and was suitably mortified by my disclosure, especially since it painted us BOTH as a couple of shaky kneed weaklings, that have been held hostage by a 4 year old brandishing a powerful and ready supply of crocodile tears. And with that, Ashley dropped the dithering Clark Kent act, transformed into Superman, took charge and rang the baby sitter - despite the possible threat of lethal, flesh-eating bacteria writhing in the plain sight of anyone who bothered to look close enough.
So you can all rest assured that the baby sitter has been contacted. We meet her this week when she phones to confirm a time. You may like to know that she is 23 year old ex-nanny, who works in a daycare centre by day and helps look after her 6 year old step daughter. She has all the right first aid experience and is studying early childhood education. I think I have even seen her around, come to think of it, since she lives in THE NEXT BLOOMIN' STREET (Geez!).
So there you go.... you can stop laughing at us now.

Guilty

Ashley and I have had one evening alone together since Alex was born - 4 years ago. It was a gift for my birthday 2004, when some friends, who had just come home from the UK after several years away, offered to baby-sit for us. Of course, we spent the entire meal focused on the kids, and worrying about how our friends were coping, even though we made sure both kids were fast asleep before we left.
No longer do we have the possibility of roping in friends and family for baby-sitting favours; and so, we have spent no real quality time alone since.
Recently we have talked about our need to spend more time alone as a couple, and made the decision to recruit a baby sitter. So armed with the name and number of a highly recommended person, given to us from a very reliable and trustworthy source - why can't a call this person?
I have reached for the phone numerous times only to reel my hand back in horror, stomach full of anxiety, as if I had just discovered that the phone was infested with some kind of lethal, flesh eating bacteria. I just can't do it. I want to do it.... But I can't. We even have a swathe of possibilities for where we might like to go while our "first date". We want to get the kids used to someone good before September 21st, when we hope to go out for the evening to celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary. But at this rate, it looks like it is going to be an intimate evening for four at Burger King.
I will be so disappointed with myself if I don't get this baby sitting monkey off my back before the anniversary. So why can't I take the plunge and just talk with the woman, and see if she suits our family? I don't have to make a commitment straight away....right?
Its not just me, I haven't exactly seen Ashley beating a path to the phone to get this baby-sitting show on the road - we are paralyzed.... in a rut.... afraid that the evening will be a disaster never to be repeated due to traumatized kids. Could I ever forgive myself if something terrible happened and I wasn't there...... probably. I know that avoidance isn't going to make it any better. And I know you think the magnitude of my gut churning misery over this issue is over-the-top, ridiculous, even outrageous. People get baby sitters ALL the time, for Gods sake!!!!!
I have intellectualised this till the cows have come home; talked it through in my head; given myself pep-talk over pep-talk, and I still....I can't bring myself to do it. Its like I am letting my kids down, being irresponsible and am being disloyal to my kids if I let myself feel overjoyed by the thought of time out from the parent role. I think I have a bad, bad, bad case of separation anxiety, and I am NOT proud of it.

dreams and reality

I have travelled before. It is certainly a desire of mine to be touched by the experiences offered by another country or community and its culture or people. I want to visit many places in this expansive world, both near and far, and I am sure I will. There is only the assurance of time for anyone of us, and although the exact quantity of time remaining is ambigous, it is our choice how we spend it.
When Ashley and I travel we tend to get a little carried away about our trips. We study guides and map out full programs along the most efficient routes, in order to fit it all in. We generally come home satisfied that we got to "see" all that we wanted to see, and more, but seeing is one thing, but what about "being"? Well I guess that is where "the dream" comes in.
I have been told a couple of things about "the dream". Not the dreams we have when we are asleep, but the things we would like to see happening in our experience of life.
I have been told that everyone has to have a dream to keep them going - to keep them interested and motivated. A dream or ultimate goal enables us to plug away at the daily grind, endure hardship, and survive - Viktor Frankl discusses this at depth throughout his book Man in Search for Meaning - a book I thoroughly recommend.
Another perspective tells us that a dream is not something that we should actually achieve. Rather, it is something you simply hope to achieve, by thinking about our dream often; imagining every detail; seeing ourselves 'there', basking in the moment of its full, untainted-by-reality, glory. The dream itself, rather than its achievement, gives life meaning. If fulfilled then we would no longer have anything to live for, and besides, the reality of the dream could be utterly disappointing and we would have wasted our life on an unworthy dream - so says the 'crystal merchant/teahouse owner' in The Alchemist (another recommendation). Well find ANOTHER dream, is my response to that, geez!
So....my dream. My dream was to live overseas for at least one year. Ok, done! You can send me to my grave. Just joking.....
Yes that was a dream of mine. I know it wasn't that exotic, people do it all the time. Although I haven't yet returned, so I guess I am still living out my dream. It was a worthy dream, because it wasn't exactly easy to pull off. It took some courage to do and I have learnt much from the experience. But now that this dream has been attained, I do need to grab hold of the next rung and reach for something else along these monkey bars of life.
I think I have had two dreams, maybe more if I really think about it. The living overseas one, which emerged as a teenager, probably inevitable considering all those pen friends!
But the dream to be a writer is something I have held for as long as I can remember, moreso from the enjoyment that writing has always brought me. Mum, Dad and Grandma will recall that I wrote lots even as a toddler (hee hee). I later moved to writing limericks and short poems for Possum Page (a kids creative purge in the local Sunday newspaper. Quantity rather than quality was the general mainstay of the Possum Pages I am afraid- it had to be said!). If published you were sent a certificate and sometimes a prize. While some of my "work" was published, as were teh lovely drawing that my brother always seemed to produce, I can't actually remember any of them to provide an example (they were probably awful not to mention embarassing).
In high school I wrote letters to friends, morbid private poetry full of teenage angst, and silly stories for English class. As a young adult I continued the poetry, but the creative side got lost for a few years, while I wrestled my mind into the rigidity and discipline of the "anything but creative", academic writing. I did write a thesis, and that was my saving grace during the whole academic phase, I must say!!!!
Today I write this blog; I email friends; I have attempted to renew my passion for bad poetry writing; I have even entertained writing short stories, and childrens books, but the dream of becoming a career writer remains as elusive as ever. And since all other career aspirations appear to have been blocked by a higher power to ensure I never take one step down that shaky and questionable road, I am more strongly noticing the writing theme in my life and am testing its importance to me.
Maybe I will never be a great writer, maybe I will have nothing published bar my lonely thesis, which sits in some dank and infrequented corner of the university library (full of my now trade mark editting paux pas - oops), but it is a dream, a worthy dream, and a dream that keeps me going.

The seemingly unforseeable

We trundled off to playgroup today- just for something different. When we arrived Alex and Olivia went straight for the water table as they do everytime. The water table is a tub of water on legs with a scraping of the wet stuff at the bottom; just enough to gather a little into a small jug if dragged along the tub floor. The water is then poured into a container with a hole in the bottom, which makes a wheel spin around.....but this blog isn't really about the water table, it is about paint.
We were at the water table when one of the co-ordinators wandered over to inform us of a 'foot painting' opportunity over in the far corner of the playgroup hall. "Okay....thanks," I hesitantly replied.
A little later, a second co-ordinator came over. She too inform us of the foot painting. I glanced over at the foot painting area; it was as I had feared it to be - a long piece of butchers paper, surounded by some trays of paint (if you can call three pieces of alfoil with paint slopped in the middle, 'paint trays'). At the end of the butchers paper was a bowl of water of questionable stability, presumeably placed there to wash one's feet afterward.
"Do you want to do a foot painting?", I asked Alex in a bored tone, so as not to excite his imagination too much. "No!", came the reply, much to my relief. I looked at the co-ordinator and shrugged, "he doesn't want to do it. Sorry". She wasn't heartbroken, believe me!
Later into the session, I was was playing cars with Alex and Olivia. Many of the other women chatted together, content that their children had settled enough to go play with whatever took their fancy, but this satisfying mid-session calm was about to be brought to an abrupt hault!
A woman who brought her neighbour's child to the group, gasped upon noticing that the fourteen month old was covered in bright orange and blue paint - all eyes were momentarily on the woman and child as she blurted "what have you done"!. Bracing ourselves for what we might see next, the room slowly turned and we lifted our eyes toward the foot painting area (hee hee!).
The evidence demonstrated that the little girl had indeed trapsed through the paints contributing her own set of prints to the masterpiece. But she did not stop there, no siree! She had sat in the paint and had stomped around the perimentre of the butchers paper, all over the wooden floor. She had also toppled the precarious looking bowl of water; the greyish river fully soaking one end of the painting, and spilling under the locked cupboard door running alongside it. To top it off, she then managed to make she squelchy way around the room with her paint sodden feet, to where she now stood, in front of a throng of mouth gapping caregivers. The foot painting was a write off. It was seen scrunched and discarded in the corner of the room after the rest of us grabbed towels to mop up the water or scrub paint off the floor, while the horrified caregiver scrubbed the little girl - who no doubt, had a lovely time!!!!
It was a priceless moment really, but why no one could have forseen such an incident occuring between a room full of 0-5 year olds and a largely unsupervised paint project, is beyond me.

the handwritten

Yesterday I received a large envelope in the mail; the type that you would attribute to holding a small item - not the norm amongst the usual white envelopes with transparent windows. So you could say I got a little excited.
I love getting personal mail - any mail really (except junk mail or mail addressed "to the householder"). Sinks does my heart when the letter box remains uninhabited with the desires of thy soul - (a note from the gas company can have that effect on a girl - NOT!).
When at school I would write letters continuously. I loved reading about my friends lives and what they had been up to- and I also loved the stamps.
When I was 10 years old I joined an international group that connected writing enthusiasts from all over. I had no less than 7 pen friends at the peak of my involvement, and they were just the interenational ones - it was like hands of friendship stretched across the the globe.
Whenever I received a letter I would diligently write back within the week, and while some pen friends would return my letters with equal efficency, months would pass before I would hear from others.
There were two girls in particular, with whom I wrote on a very regular basis; an English girl called Emma and a German girl called Sonja. I started writing to Emma as a ten year old. She was alot of fun and there was the expected amount of silliness within our exchanges, for girls of our age. I think her enthusiasm for letter writing waned upon entrance of "the boyfriend".
I started writing to Sonja as a 12 year old. She was a year older than I, and we continued to write until I was 18. I had moved out of home at that stage, and she had found work in a bank and was about the start a commerce degree at university when our connection ran dry.
I also wrote to friends who had moved away, and friends from my "old town" - all letters were written in a similar style. There was a familiarity that history created, shaped and carved through the exchange of thougths and ideas. Old friends were seldom seen again, despite the writing, and there was never any expectation of meeting the pen friends, so in a way, writing to them was sort of like a diary - something I never kept, despite the obsessive adolescent writing fenzy.
There was indeed something therapeutic about releasing the thoughts; spilling them onto a fresh sheet of paper and mailing them off to some place far far away.
I wonder if that international organisation exists today - I am sure it does. But with the onset of the internet, email, blogs, msn and the countless other pockets of cyber society, I wonder whether the handwritten word is exchanged as frequently...I guess not. These other outlets do provide the pent up writer similar opportunity. Nevertheless, I sure did appreciate the time and engergy put into that long handwritten letter I received yesterday. The exchanging of words on paper - the paper upon which another had poured his or her emotions into; words physically presented..... and the words left unsaid, editted from the physical eye, but thoughts felt through the clutching of paper. Thank you.

Its a cultural thing. OKAY?

I have been accused of bursting the bubble for some people; on more than one occassion, I might add. It is a remark that often makes me stand back and look at myself and question whether or not I had been unecessarily harsh, because most of the time, this is most definately NOT my intention.
But the other day I read a passage that put my conscience at rest....well almost. It was a passage which saw an Australian man describe Australian women to a foreign friend, and it went something like this...
"They're very direct. They hate bullshit. There's nothing like an Austraian woman for taking the piss out of you."
"Taking your piss?"
"Taking the piss, " I laughed. "Letting the air out of your chest, you know, ridiculing you, stopping you from getting too many big ideas about yourself. They're great at it. And if they stick a pin in you, to let a bit of hot air out, you can be pretty certain you had it coming." (Shantaram, p. 511).
Well Amen to that! Its a cultural thing. OKAY? (Phew!)

Alice Lake

Today we headed up "north" along BC's Sea to Sky Highway. This piece of road will take you all the way to Whistler; the future home of the 2010 Winter Olympic Games. There were alot of roadworks going on in preparation for the games, and alot more to come apparently, but nothing that held up traffic on this day.
The views along this stretch of road offered some great scenery looking out across Howe Sound and the many little islands nestling in sleepy coves. The drive also enabled us to see beyond our coastal mountains and into the distance to a more rugged landscape; where summers heat appeared to have scalped all but a few mountains of their snowy white caps.
We had lunch at a great roadside diner which had the best view around -Shannon Falls and Stawamus Chief - the second largest piece of granite after the Rock of Gibraltor.
I wish I took a picture of the "kids meals" that were brought out for Alex and Olivia - they were bigger than ours! Alex ordered "the silver dollar pancakes, and received 4 panakes that were about as big as a bread and butter plate and about a centimetre thick. He almost ate it all too - much to our disbelief. He must be having a growth spurt. (God help us when he is a teenager).
Later, we drove through the town of Squamish - a logging town that is prepping itself to nab as many Olympic dollars as possible, as they trickle their way down from Whistler. We ended our journey north at Alice Lake.
Now I know where Canadians go to swim. They dont' go to the seaside, with all its pebbles, cold water and dirty grey sand. They head to the lakes!
This lake had white(ish) sand and the water was fresh. The lakes are clear, clean and deep; and without the wide expanses, tidal rips and lurking sharks, they are a much safer option for families. Next time we will take our bathers, and sand castle making equipment - you can be sure of that.
You can also pitch a tent and camp out, as many people appeared to be doing - not sure about....you know - given the wildlife and all. 

Shannon Falls

I am disappointed with this shot of the beautiful Shannon falls. They are very grand indeed, but in a photo such as this they look about as grand as Mannum Falls - it is actually a 335 metre drop to the bottom.
If you want to get an idea of how large these falls really are, you may be able to make out an image of a person below a large boulder, below and to the right of where the falls disappear from view. Not sure why that person is standing there really - I am sure it is not allowed, but many people were seen crawling around in the attempt to get up close and personal with ole Shannon.
Had we known what was at Shannon Falls, we could have made the journey soley to check it all out. There was a really nice, and very busy picnic area there, and many lovely shady trails, but.......

But.....

when you see these dotted around parks, you know there are bears close by. These are bear proof bins and the fact that they aren't everywhere, makes you take the "bears in the area" signs much more seriously!

P.S

If you were wondering just how bad my hideous hair cut is. Check out Shaggy in the picture below - for a minute there I thought that was me - minus the goatee, I guess!

Newspaper caper

Last week I wrote about the funny, and the strange things we see when casually gazing out the kitchen window and into the car park next door (I warn you, this could become a regular segment).
Some months back, there was a "plea" for paper deliverers for the local free magazine. A guy and his wife from down the road deliver our paper every Friday, and have done so ever since we have lived here- rain, snow or shine!
When I saw that job advertised in the paper, I thought, "there's a job I could do with the kids, and it would provide some much needed extra cash - if its good enough for the guy down the road, then it is good enough for me".
So I rang up and requested the available route nearest my house..."about 100 households", I was told. "Well, what is the rate of pay?" I asked next. "blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda, yak yak yak, stall stall stall....(silence ).....10 cents a paper", came the drawn out reply. "10 CENTS A PAPER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" (I scream alot in my head). "Righhhhhhhhhht", was my actual less than enthusiastic response, despite the series of "abort! abort! abort!" sirens blaring in my head.
Sensing the "runaway screaming" energy that was definately coming from my end, the woman attempted to dangle a rubbery carrot to entice me to take the job...."you would also get an additional fee for placing advertising flyers into each paper....(pause) each week is different but you can expect an average of 4 flyers, sometimes samples, per paper or household....(pause) that can really add up, you know", she tried to assure me. "Sooooooo....", I asked hardly believing the sums in my head, "how much is the "flyer bonus"? "A penny a flyer", she responded quickly, like someone attempting to rip off a bandaid in the belief that speed will inflict the least pain.
So just to confirm, and for my own humour really, I asked once and for all "so what do you think that route is likely to pay per week...you know...on average"? I was told that I could expect an average of $10 a week. And when she asked me if I would like to give that job a go "just for a month to see whether or not I like it", visons of screaming wet kids and me with a resentful dissatisfied grimace upon my frost bitten face crept into mind. So I said, "Nnnnnnnaaaaaaa".
I know it is a free paper and all, and I was desperate, but not THAT desperate - the people down the road must do it purely for the exercise - I am sure. Someones gotta do it, but I'll pass thank you.
Anyway, with that history and information in hand, I was surprised to see some boys from around the corner wheeling a cart full of newspapers down our street, presumably to the route I had rejected. These boys were perhaps 11 and 13 years old - good on them I thought, although I also felt sorry for them. One of the wheels of their cart had buckled under the weight of the load and they were having a tough time struggling along the pavement. Such an effort for so little reward - and they would have to split that miserable profit between the two of them! But this morning I saw them from the kitchen window. They had crept into the compound of the industrial bin next door, the bin that is there to service the baseball park and tennis club. I watched them wheel their broken cart behind the bin, full of suspicion and mischief, and then emerge quickly without it when momentarily interupted by a passer by - very obviously I might add. Once the coast was clear they resumed their devious plan. The younger boy stood watch as the older one dumped 8 thick bundles of "flyers" straight into the trash. I guess they worked out that they would get their flyer bonus regardless of whether they actually placed them into the papers. It sure amused the hell out of me, because had I taken on that thankless task, I reckon I would have been tempted to do the same. Don't worry boys, your secret is safe with me.

Ok.... I'm refreshed

It has been two full days since the weekend and the yard challenge. I haven't any plans and there are no pressing chores to do. Now what? This is when I start to annoy Ashley with my pacing around and mutterings of "What can I do nooooowwww". Idleness depresses me and so I get nervous when my day begins without any real purpose to achieve.
I like having stuff to do. I like having a plan. We had that long list of outside jobs to do and now they are done. We are proud of our handy accomplishments and now we are able to sit back and enjoy them. That is, if it weren't raining and if we had a garden bench to sit back on!!!!
It is kind of strange that the weather over the past 6 weeks has been clear, bright and warm, and now, once all our work is done, it has rained all week. I am not complaining, the God's must be smiling on us, so I tip my hat, wink at the sky and mouth the words "Thank you".
Scattered thoughts aside, what was I saying? .... chores, work, achievement, purpose ....ah yes that's right.
I was thinking about the chat I had last night with a friend, who said she and her husband were planning a "de-crapping and de-cluttering" weekend. I was almost jealous. I love a good throw out of the stuff that lacks relevance; served its purpose; the long-broken that has awaited in deluded hope of one day ever being repaired (dusty and cob-webbed). Yes, I like a good de-clutter. Things are neat and tidy and organised afterward.
Letting go of the old reduces our load. Somehow we are instantly able to breathe easier, see more clearly and concentrate of fewer things, but with greater intensity. And the best bit, there is plenty of room for NEW crap!

Pearls from a tycoon

Got these tidbits from a local real estate flyer, entitled:

Bill Gates Rules for Life.

Rule 1: Life is not fair - get used to it.

Rule 2: The world doesn't care about your self-esteem. The world expects you to accomplish something before you feel good about yourself.

Rule 3: You will not make forty thousand dollars a year right out of high school, and you won't be a Vice President with a car phone, until you earn both.

Rule 4: If you think your teacher is tough, wait till you get a boss, he/she doesn't have tenure.

Rule 5: Flipping burgers is not beneath your dignity. Your grandparents had a different word for burger flipping - they called it "opportunity".

Rule 6: If you mess up, it is not your parent's fault; so don't whine about your mistakes, learn from them.

Rule 7: Before you were born, your parents weren't as boring as they are now. They got that way from paying your bills, cleaning your clothes and listening to you talk about how cool you are. So before you save the rain forest from the parasites of your parent's generation, try delousing the closet in your own room.

Rule 8: Your school may have done away with winners and losers, but life has not. In some schools they have abolished failing grades and they'll give you as many times as you want to get the right answer. This doesn't bear the slightest resemblance to anything in real life.

Rule 9: Life is not divided into semesters. You don't get sumemrs off and very few employers are interested in helping you "find yourself". Do that on your own time.

Rule 10: Television is not real life. In real life people actually have to leave the cofee shop and go to jobs.

Rule 11: Be nice to nerds. Chances are you'll end up working for one.

Picture Lake

Yesterday we headed over the border and into the USA's very own Washington state for a day trip to Mount Baker. Mount baker is an active volcano which is constantly covered in snow. We could even see steam shooting skyward from its peak. We can actually see Mount Baker quite clearly from home in good old B.C. Canada.
On our way up to the mountain we stopped in at Glacier for lunch at a place aclled "Grahams".
The town of Glacier harks back to the gold rush era, but now is known more for skiing. In the middle of summer however, it did have a bit of a ghost town feel, despite being the last amenties stop this side of the great mountain.
"Graham's Grocers and Restaurant" was also interesting. The menu was made out like a newspaper. The front page detailed the history of the pub and its adhoc restoration during the 1970's. Although it had an original and might I say, rather exquisite mahonangy bar dating back to circa 1800, I wouldn't call "Grahams" an overly classy joint. Its fare consisted mainly of fries and distastefully named burgers, such as the "mutha clucka" or chicken burger for the more conservatively burger. Ashley ordered the "mini mutha" (beef patty burger), while I ordered the "mexi mumma" or veggie burger, which was described as being "unpopular", since it was only included on the menu for the sake of the "small percentage of people who actually cared about their health" (I kid you not).
AFter luch we ventured out to take in the scenery, which was stunning. This is a photograph I took of gorgeous Picture Lake with a snowy mountain (name unknown) in the background. It sure was pretty up there and the weather was warm too.

Nooksack River Washington, USA

What else?

What else would you do on a warm summer day - that rights, HEAD FOR THE SNOW!!!!!
This was a shot taken of Ashley at "Artist Point" at Heather Meadows, which is the best place to take in the views of Mount Baker. It was a warm 23 degrees on this day, so no need for jumpers or any other winter paraphenalia.
There were loads of snow on the ground, which had people taking advantage of the warm conditions by delighting in a snow ball fight to cool off after a hike, and even sledding in their bikinis (not me)!
It was an unbelievable view up there, simply breath-taking. These mountains make the BC coastal mountains seem like mere hills, which reduces Adelaide's laughably named Mount Lofty to that of ant's nest-like proportions.
I had told Alex that we were unlikely to see snow on our trip to the mountains, which was my honest belief, so he was so very excited when snow began to appear on the side of the road. It was a nice reward for the kids after sitting idle for the entire two hour journey and for us too. We could once again indulge our inner child by playing and building things with snow, while also being ridiculously silly.

Aquarium

We did manage to make it to the Vancouver Aquarium, and might I add, what a fine establishment it is. For any who might make the trip over to see us, particularly those with kids, we will most definately recommend a trip there, since it is just great!
Strangly there is more to see at the Aquarium than marine life, even though the marine life alone would satisfy any visitor to the centre. There was a shark enclosure, which is what Ashley and the kids are looking at in the first shot. Dolphins shows, arctic's own Beluga Whales on show (my favourite), sea lions, and the ever sociable and highly energetic otters (the last shot) . The centre also have a rainforest exhibition, showing some of the giant Amazonian fish, snakes and caimons (small crocodile like animals), butterflies, turtles and the brightly coloured scarlet ibis (shown here) which had a nest of grey downy chicks. There is SO much to do at the Aquarium that it would take all day to see it all. The facility is also situated in the beautiful Stanley Park, which is an adventure entirely in itself.
On the way home we saw more "sights" - a biker dude in chaps with the arse cut out standing alone and rather self-consciously out front of a Subway restaurant. It was Gay Pride Day on Sunday - "Subway - Eat fresh"! There is never a dull moment is good ole Vancouver.

patience is a virtue

Waiting, waiting, waiting..............yawn!
My lesson in life is to be patient. How do I know this?
Because I am always waiting for someone or something, and everything is either late or time ambiguous - it is enough to drive this impatient person NUTS!
Today we are meant to go to the Vancouver Aquarium... it is a quarter to 12 and we STILL haven't left. I feel all dressed up and ready to go, actually I am all dressed up and ready to go....you know what I mean.
So why am I writing this instead of marching out the door? Well we were just about to walk out the door, when we did the sensible thing and got the kids to go to the bathroom before we left. This always involved a struggle with Alex and 5 minutes chasing him around the room. When finally we got him in there he decides the time consuming version is necessary (if you know what I mean). So we could be here for hours.

don't tell me....

Living next to a public park and car park has its perks. We get to see ALL sorts of things going on out there. Portable dunnies ablaze (don't ask) ; dancing drunks; kids on a massive Easter egg hunt; a strange well dressed woman who stops in to use the public toilet at least twice a day 7 days a week then takes a swig of juice and has a piece of chewy without fail before driving away (weird); shoes and jumpers mysteriously found high up in our tree, school sports day, the pre-school teacher skidding into the car park and scurrying in doing the pile of paper and coffee balancing act not two minutes before the kids arrive each morning; dog fights; grown men racing remote controlled cars; old men falling off bikes and hobbling home (dear me!!) and other things that are too intriging to describe in detail - if only I were an artist I could paint you a picture of the two people I saw crossing paths in the midnight rain while walking their dogs; talking, seemingly oblivious that they were soaking to the skin. The scene lit only by the glow of an orange street light, slower and slwer they moved together until they were in each others embrace, and although they arrived at that spot from different directions they left that scene together. I witnessed this while rocking a cranky baby to sleep one night, looking down from above. It was a strange, almost like a scene from a movie. Mmmm, maybe I have an idea of that book I was going to wirte (scoff scoff!) - I guess you had to be there..... Oh, it is all there to make life interesting.

On a lighter note, which is of course my forte in such a public airing of thoughts as this, we also HEAR the odd interesting tidbit from behind our fence, which makes us wonder about the goings on in the lives of some people. Only a snippet is ever heard. Usually we don't "listen" to what people are saying, even though we hear everything, but sometimes the hearing turns to listening when the snippet stands out for whatever reason. Nothing is heard in context so it adds to the intrigue, humour or mystery when heard.

Examples:

kids:

"you tell her".

No, you tell her

I'm not going to tell her. You tell her"

"TELL HER WHAT FOR PETE'S SAKE!" I felt like yelling out.

Another version is the old "you do it. No you do it (etc etc etc)..."routine.

Couple of blokes:

"Where are we going to get a 7" black guy around here? We would have to drive all the way to L.A or Toronto...." Say what?

Tennis players:

"OOOOOHHHHHH!" This one guy yells that out whenever he loses a point. He plays every single night of the summer and loses many points.

"...they've done alot of work to that house. A couple of English people live there". I think he was referring to us.

Tragic teen:

"I love you Chad, but I heard some people making fun of me in the bathroom and I just feel so humiliated. I just want to go home. I JUST WANT TO GO HOOOOOOME." I was a bit concerned about her. I thought someone was harassing her, but she was talking on the phone. Reading between the lines, I think Chad had been a bit of a bastard.

Nevertheless, it does provide us with entertainment. But I do have to remind myself, if we can hear them, they can hear us, not that anything particualrly enlighteing is spoken on our side of the fence.

.

When chaos reigns

Over the past 6 weeks or so. We have been doing ALOT of work. Yes it is true, and we are not proud when we admit that certain aspects of life have kind of fallen by the wayside.
The washing hasn't been folded, the dishes are teetering in a stack in the sink, the carpet is covered with almost as much outside as ....well...outside. And to top it off, Alex and Olivia have at times run totally amok turning the inside of our place upside down.
One day I walked in to find Olivia sitting on the carpet with a brand new carton of cocoa. She had destroyed the entire box, but had somehow managed to avoid opening the white paper bag inside it - talk about heart failure.
Another time, she had found a red ink stamper and had pressed large red ink stars over the fridge, mirowave and cupboard doors. Clothes are so commonly pulled from drawers that it is expected upon entry to the kids rooms. Purse contents are spilled and strewn everywhere if left in sight, and even the sugar bowl has been overturned and dumped on the ground. Cotton balls were scattered all over the bathroom and pictures sometime hang skew-whiff as they are in this monkey's office.
But what can I say, they are 2 and 4 year olds and all this work is boring for them. What do we expect?
Many of the neighbours and passer-bys have commented on all our hard work and how our place is starting to look "lovely". We have even invited the more interested people to come out back and take a look, but God forbid if they should want to look INSIDE. Tthey would be in for a nasty shock, as might we, for we never quite know what disaster awaits when Alex and Olivia have been quietly playing inside.

It is done....

The lawn has been put in at long last. It arrived at 7:3o am , yesterday and we finally finished it at 1:30 am this morning. We kind of feel like the "Exhausted Morrison" laying strung out on the stage floor. Today is clean-up day for all the paint, dirt, bark chips and sod that has been brought in and used over the past 6 weeks. There are a few bits and pieces still to do, so I will leave the pictures for now.
So for those who were trying (repeatedly!!!!) to contact me last night, I can assure you that I was indeed slaving away, and not intentionally ignoring you, as if may have seemed - sorry.
We are planning a fun long weekend though - with NO WORK - the kids will be very relieved, because they are fed up completely. 

"A man must love his bear"

We went to Grouse Mountain on Sunday. It was a bit of a birthday treat for Alex and it rained most of the day, so we couldn't do any outside work anyway. While there we saw a Grizzly bear. Isn't he just so cute and cuddly? He is actually part of tee Grouse Mountain Grizzly Bear Habitat; not exactly a wild one. He was particularly sleepy that afternoon and lifted his head at various, but brief intervals while the two dozen or so of us watched on. His looking up was so regular that Ashley questioned whether it was in fact a mechanical bear whose head would move occasionally to appease the tourists.
I dared him to climb into the enclosure to find out for sure, but he passed up the opportunity - very wisely I might add.
I am currently reading the book Shantaram, which if any are interested, is a bloody good read. The language is exquisite and the story more than engaging. In one chapter, the main character must hug a great grizzly that is brought to his living quarters; reluctantly he does it. Later the main character is asked to help out the bear's handlers who are jailed along with the bear, although in separate cells. The bear handlers are concerned for their bear friend alone in a distant cell.. The main character has to try to convince the prison wardens to allow the bear handlers to share a cell with the bear. The bear handlers make a desperate and heart wrenching plea to any who would listen, "a man must love his bear". How could anyone refuse that?
There is something about bears. They are fascinating. Although my want to see one in the wild has diminished significantly upon knowing the actual size and power of these rather fearsome creatures. So I guess I am saying that the bear habitat enclosure passes as a bear sighting, as far as I am concerned.

Oh Noooooo!

Ashley has gone and ordered MORE dirt.
I think I am going to cry.

Beware! She's a blogger.

I have been so busy that I haven't even told you about the hair cut I had recently.
First the history lesson... I hadn't had a hair cut since November, yep, that's right. The straggly mop you all saw when I visited in March remained, and worsened up until two weeks ago. I think it stopped growing as well, either that or it became so dried and brittle that it simply snapped off.
Well I took the plunge and booked myself in on a Thursday night so Ashley could watch the kids. I was a bit excited about it, because the hair thing had been a bit of a misery point for some time. Not knowing any of the hair salons in town I just had to try my luck with one and have faith.
I guess I should have seen what was coming when I was told that "Tami" would be cutting my hair (no offense to the number of Tammys I know, but "Tami", who the hell calls themselves that)?
Anyway, the appointment time came and I was the last appointment before closing. "Tami" and her co-worker, a much older and disinterested gal were on shift that night. Tami was styling her sisters hair, and the "old bird" sat whinging and whining about wanting to go home, while pleading to God that no-one else come in requesting a trim before they could "get the hell out" of there.
For the first 15 minutes I waited and was ignored, which was making my "efficient" blood boil. I had arrived early, the old duck could have got me set up while "Tami" finished yakking to her sister, instead of moaning and groaning while sitting on her lazy clacker. Of course I said nothing. Soon enough I would be at the mercy of "Tami" and her scissors, so I paced and bared it.
Finally when it was my turn, Tami asked me where I was from, "Australia" I replied. Oz*#*!^)$rtalia!" snorted the old girl. I simply raised my eyebrows. I thought that was a bit rude. After Tami washed my hair she directs me to sit in the cutting chair with a wave of the finger and "ok Aussie, sit over there". I was a bit shocked, but it was simply to prepare me for perhaps the worse haircut of all time. She whizzed through it in 10 minutes flat, leaving once to take a call from her husband, telling him to come now to pick her up because they would be out by 8pm. It was 5 minutes to....
True to her word, must give her that. She was out of there to meet hubby at 8pm and she certainly gave me no such guarantees of an acceptable hair cut.
But since I am too embarrassed to reveal my nasty do, I thought these lovely ones in the pic were reasonable enough to wrap your laughing gear around. I will give you two phrases that might inspire some visual imagery as to what the hair style might look like: Rough as guts, being one of them, and gnawed by rats, being the other.