The Breville Post

Ring-ring, ring-ring.


“small, privately-owned kitchen-crap store in the worst location in the City; Brittanie speaking”

“Hello, my name is Kathryn Moore. I have an espresso maker that I purchased from your store five months ago and it doesn’t seem to be working”

“oh really? What kind is it”

“Breville”

“oh. Well have you called Breville”?

“no. why would I do that? You’re the vendor”

“yes, but we don’t handle any warranty issues. You have to take that up with Breville directly”.

Short pause.

“Well, what about returns or exchanges then? How do I go about returning what is now nothing more than a large piece of metal that is sitting on my kitchen counter”?

“Well, do you have your receipt”?

“As luck would have it, I just threw it out”.

“oh! Well in that case I don’t think we can help you”

“I paid by credit card; can’t you trace it”?

“sigh…yes. I will need the exact amount you paid, the date you bought it and the card number”

“well, the date is easy as it was a GIFT for my husband’s birthday and the card number is bla bla bla, but I do not have the amount. You should though as it is your bloody store and I would expect you to know the prices of your merchandise”

“sigh…I can probably look it up with that information, but it will take a while. I have a terrible headache”.

At this juncture, there are a few lessons to be learned:

1. If you name your child Brittanie, no one will ever respect her. Brittanie is the name of a Highland Terrier or Barbie’s BFF. A close second to naming someone Brittanie is naming someone anything that ends in “ie”, especially if there was an original spelling of “y”; Beckie, Cathie, Amie, Carlie, Jade.

2. Before you complain about your headache to your customer who is caffeine deprived, take a moment to let that thought pass. Perhaps lie down a moment.

“Brittanie, maybe I should speak with your manager or the store owner. Are they in”?

“I am the store manager ma’am”

Two sentences; two major injustices:

1. Brittanie is a store manager. If Brittanie is the manager, one shudders to the depths of ones’ soul to think of who the pions are?

2. Mrs. Moore is NOT old enough or Southern enough to be called ma’am. This combined with the low caffeine level is not going to improve Mrs. Moore’s relationship with Brittanie.

Pause. The sound of a stack about to blow is audible.

“Maybe I can take your number and call you back once I find the receipt Mrs. Moore. Shouldn’t take more than a few days”

Brilliant. A few days. Without coffee.

Several days of caffeine deprivation pass. The phone rings.

“Mrs. Moore, this is Brittanie from the small kitchen-crap store. I have managed to locate a copy of your receipt.”

“Good for you”

“If you would like to come by the store I can give you a copy and you can send it to Breville in Montreal; They should be able to help you”

“You can‘t be serious”

“Yes ma‘am, I am. We don’t normally deal with Breville directly but I hear they are very easy to deal with“.

WTEFFINGEFFING EFF?

Click.

A series of seriously unsatisfying rounds of telephone tag between Mrs. Moore and the lovely people at Breville ensue.

Mrs. Moore leaves for business. Ten days pass. Mrs. Moore returns on a Tuesday evening, jet-lagged and exhausted. The large piece in idle machinery is still on the counter.

Mrs. Moore orders it into the car, dives through the City and walks into the kitchen crap store. Brittanie is at the cash. Wielding a 26 pound hunk of machinery and a serious scowl, Brittanie recognises Mrs. Moore immediately. What follows is a nasty, but brief altercation resulting in Mrs. Moore tossing a new Breville Espresso machine into her trunk and fondly admiring to this day.

Allow me to explain a few things to all of the Brittanies, the crappy-kitchen store owners and everyone working in any customer-service field.

When Mrs.Moore made her initial phone call to complain about her espresso machine, there was only one correct response;

“I am sorry to hear about this trouble you are having Mrs. Moore” (I actually prefer Ms.Moore, but I am nothing if not flexible). If you would like to bring your machine in we will gladly replace it for you.

This response would have had the following after-effects:

Mrs.Moore would have been very satisfied with this level of customer service; she would have ranted and raved about what a lovely girl Brittanie is* and what a fine store she works for. These reviews may even have resulted in further business for this little store. Certainly Mrs. Moore would have made an effort to shop there at least one more time**.

Mrs.Moore would not have spent several days in a sleepy, cranky haze, thus endangering the lives of all who cross her path.***

Brittanie may not have cried herself to sleep that night, questioning her job, her life, her very existence in this cold, heartless world.****

Mrs.Moore would not have bored you with this terrible dialogue some months later.



* This would not have precluded the name Brittanie to be referenced at future dinner parties and friendly get-togethers as a prime example of a stupid name.

**To be honest, this may not be entirely true. The store is located on a one-way street with limited parking and Mrs. Moore is terribly lazy.

***okay, Mrs. Moore may have still been cranky, but not so sleepy.

****Note the use of the word may. Mrs. Moore cannot be certain that this does not happen for poor Brittanie on a twice-weekly basis. Brittanie strikes Mrs. Moore as a bit of a loser who judging by her age and neck-line foundation is probably a self-loathing sadist, but this is in no way Mrs. Moore‘s problem

The New Year Post

Ahhh, 2010 is upon us at last. After countless primary school years of 'what will it be like in the year 2010' the mystery is revealed. No more clocks with hands, fat kids everywhere, insurmountable debt abound and every single dinner conversation is now halted by a Googlesurf. On your phone. Which now replaces your land-line. January first. The first day of a whole new year; a whole new decade, in fact. I suppose it seems appropriate to compile a list of resolutions for myself; a list of promises to me, or you, or a Higher Power of deep inner reflections of myself and ways that I feel I can shine a little brighter, be a better person, make a finer imprint on the world. Well, I'm not gonna. The fact is, I'm pretty satisfied with me, just the way I am. Sure, I could be thinner, faster, kinder; I could donate more (any) money to charity, adopt a pet, foster a child in Africa; I could stop shoveling my driveway snow out into the street for the plow to deal with, I could even stop 'reply-all'-ing, but if I did any of those things, well then I wouldn't be me. And I like me. And I think that most people should spend a little less time making sure-bet failed promises of ways they can improve themselves and spend a little more time accepting the person that they are. So in light of my commitment NOT to change, here is an odd list of things I have never done, nor do I feel the need to do, whatsoever: 1. Let's get the dirty business out of the way right off the top; I have never been to any sort of strip club, male or female. For one, I have a daughter and the idea of anyone paying to see her naked body is purely and entirely sick and revolting and two, because the thought of seeing a dancing naked male body is enough to make me want to pour Drano in my own eyes. 2. I have never been to Burger King, Wendy's or A&W. I'm not on higher ground here, I just have never been. I love a Big Mac, but in the world of fast food, that's where it ends. Whoppers, square hamburgers and anything "Teen" are not part of my repertoire. 3. Seen ET, any Star Wars (except the original one), the Princess Bride or the Sound of Music. I don't like movies about things that aren't even remotely real. Aliens on bycicles, giant white angora camels, singing midgets, Austrians...it's all too 'hokey-poky' for me. 4. Stayed in a hostel. I always thought I wanted to, and during my last EU trip, I had it all planned out (that is to say, it was on the to-do list). Then I found out that when you check in to a hostel, THEY HAND YOU YOUR BEDSHEETS. To PUT ON YOUR BED. YOURSELF. Suffice it to say, I have scratched hosteling off the list. Ibis is about as close to self-catering as I`m prepared to go at this point I think. 5. Had anything pierced(other than my ears) or tattooed. I just feel like disfiguring my body is something I would only want to do when my body starts to fail and is going to look pretty nasty anyway. My ears are no longer pierced. I think that as long as your list of what you have done and what you will still do consists of more than five things then you`re on the right track. Here's to you, just the way you are! Happy New Year! Happy New Decade!

The Travel Post

I have done some travelling in the past four years. Not travelling like that hot little British guy on the Discovery channel, (no bug-eating or drinking my own urine or anything)but I've gotten around. I think I'm a pretty good traveller, not because I'm ever prepared or on time, but because I bloody love it. I would like to impart a few words of advice, should you be about to drive 2 hours or travel across Europe with nothing but a ziplockbag and a wad of Canadian Tire bills. The whole 'be at the airport 1 hour before domestic flights, 2 hours for international and three hours for intercontinental flights' is a conspiracy. The Airport (who is the pimp to the airlines) want you there waaaaay ahead of time so you can spend money in their kiosks and bars. They want you to drop 12$ on last weeks' issue of Hello Canada and then pound back nine watered down drinks in the airport bar before boarding their avian whoreplane where, now bitten by the booze-bug will be thirsty for more super-inflated drinks. Take it from me, that bird is not leaving on time, so show up when you're good and ready. They'll wait. Why do you think they're always calling people's names in airports anyways? When your luggage doesnt turn up at the terminal where you land, consider it valet service for your bags. In fact, if you can, skip out of the airport and go directly to your hotel/host's house. The airline will DELIVER the bags to you the very next day! It just saves you having to lug all your unneeded crap though the streets. A word of caution on this one though, pack a pair of undies in your carry-on and be prepared to spring for some deodorant when you arrive. No one likes a stinky guest. In a hotel: Don't even look at that top bed-spread. Peel it back, lay it on the floor and pretend that the last eight seconds didn't happen. That revolting piece of fabric has more fluids on it than the backseat of a varsity team bus. Steer clear my friends. Also in this category is the glass-wear in the bathroom (they never get washed) and the remote control. Without getting to graphic, the remote control is what the other hand is holding. That's all I'm going to say about that. So now that you cant sit on your bed, have a glass of water and watch some TV, whatever will you do? Make the hotel know you are there. Leave your bags in the lobby to be carried up. Ask for more anything from the front desk; towels, shampoo, whatever... These people are there to see to your needs and you don't want to disappoint them. If you are flying Air Canada and this is an overseas flight, you have just scored the mother load. Make friends with the flight attendants!! Have a few bevvies!! Have a few more!!! Maybe take a tour of the second floor staff quarters of a 747!! Maybe do NOT have a three way with two of them, no matter how much they insist. But do have a few more bevvies, score a sweet 3$ blanket for free and find Daniel Craig on your private set-back TV. Curl up with him and your soon to be pounding hangover and try not to think about your desolate, workaday life that you will be preparing to descend into in about 20 minutes. When you get home, do the laundry right away. I know, I know, it sucks, you hate laundry, bla, bla, but at least at that very moment you have some sense of euphoria left in you and you will be less inclined to climb into that dryer and close the door behind you. I have more tips to impart, but they mostly involve KLM flight attendants, what not to order on the plane, what movies to avoid and what not to pack, both carry-on and checked luggage. Those tips seem like a later post. Happy travels!!

The Home Post

We have just returned from a weekend my my parents house. At a certain point in your life you have to stop calling it 'home' and start calling it 'my parents' house'. When it was 'home', there were three children living there. We only had one bathroom, which by today's standards would qualify you for sub standard living conditions. Every single friend you wanted to call was 'long distance' and there was no such thing as 'walking 'round to the store' as Beaudry's was five kilometers away. You literally could not see the forest for the trees - a situation which has not improved despite my dad's numerous chainsaws and grandsons now on the scene. When it was home, I was little and young and everything was bigger. The yard was big, the house was big, my parents' friends houses were big. The cows across the road were big and even my parents themselves were big. Now I am big and all of those things are small. In the wintertime we used to shovel off the deck outside the kitchen. The deck was impossibly vast and as such, tons of snow piled up and it took countless hours to shovel this over the edge of the second-floor deck into an Everestial peak miles below us. When we were finished, my dad used to pick us up, hoist us up over the railings and drop us into the snow...a veritable 7 or 8 second drop to the fluffy white pile below. The deck has now been replaced by an addition and in retrospect, I don't think the deck could have been more than 10' x 12' and at most was about 10' off the ground in the summer...likely about four feet once we had piled up the snow. There are now two bathrooms at my parents' house, although one of them makes a funny noise when you flush and neither of them are to be 'used' for fear of backing something up or running out of water or 'breaking' the toilet... The cows are no longer very big either...they too have been replaced by smaller beef cattle; easier to manage I think and likely a better market. I am quite sure my dad couldn't pick me up and hoist me over the railings anymore either, which is just as well since I'm pretty sure that all that 'hoisting' when i was young dislocated my shoulder and now it aches when I sleep funny. I still hear the mice in the walls when I sleep in one of the funny little off-chute bedrooms and I love, love, love the smell of the fireplace and the wood stove. Even in the summer. But now it is not home. Home is where my bathroom has rules of its own and instead of mice you hear sirens. There are no cows for miles around, but if cats could produce milk or meat...on second thought, that's just gross. And now the only place that is 'long distance' is my parents house.

The Food Post

Here is a list of the candy I have eaten since and including Hallowe'en: 46 Rocket candies; my single favourite candy EVER. 13 mini Caramilks; mostly the two-square variety, but some just singles. One entire KitKat bar; Gimme a break, gimme a break, break me off a...peice? Yeah, right. Three triangles of a Toblerone bar. Not the store-counter variety; not the movie-theatre size; the AIRPORT size. Who is thinking these things up, anyway? Those bars are ginormeous! I think they're sold in airports beacuse in a pinch they could be used to jam under the airplane tire to stop it from rolling away from the gate. Seven mini bags of Doritos; thank-you Shannon and Kris. Eleven Starburst. Twelve mini boxes of Smarties; all colors. Some may have melted in my hand. Beyond that, my dinner tonight consisted of a white-bread peanut butter sandwich and this week I have only yoga'ed and gym'ed once. Needless to say, between the dwindling daylight, the fact that there is less than 100days until Opening Ceremonies and my 'special feminine time' this is truly my Perfect Storm. If anyone has non-perishable food items (like Mars bars or popcorn) I am accepting donations.

The Grateful Post

This weekend was the last long weekend of the year. Typically this weekend involves family and either a very long drive back to the Townships or else everyone coming here. This year we took things in a different direction. On Friday night Simon celebrated his eighth birthday with his friends. While it was a bit tricky and somewhat harrowing to hold a birthday party on a Friday night, it worked out really well. Saturday morning, after a long, brisk walk and a visit to Starbucks, we drove up to the cottage to take down the summer effects; Under a clear, sunny sky we raked, brought in the Adirondack chairs and kayaks, dismantled the gazebo etc...At night we rented movies and ate a hearty casserole. On Sunday we drove home and prepared to host our friends for Thanksgiving supper. Besides preparing the meal for 14 people, Elizabeth and I did some fall planting and about six thousand loads of laundry. The evening consisted of, among other things, several bottles of champagne, mountains of food and desserts, excellent conversation and gaggles of children treating my house like a Formula One course. And today is just a bonus day. Groceries are done, the cleaning lady is on her way and the kids had no homework. I will read, grab a yoga class, perhaps go for a hike across the river and eat leftovers for supper. In all, a delightfully perfect weekend but none of it worth anything were I not perfectly aware of how fortunate I am to have any of it. I am surrounded by good friends, wonderful children and a Saint of a husband. I am blessed with not one, but two wonderful places to call home, a challenging and rewarding job and the wisdom to know that it does not define me. I have travelled to some of the most beautiful, humbling places on earth, eaten some excellent meals, drank some wine and laughed until I cried. I have girlfriends that could not be replaced by Deepak Choprah, Oprah Winfrey and Mother Theresa combined and I have a family that, while it is not without it's quirks, I wouldn't trade it for anything. Lastly, of course I am grateful for my own health and that of my loved ones. I know firsthand how quickly it can be taken from you, leaving you feeling powerless and scared.

The problem with being thankful is that I feel that I am testing fate; pushing my limits of what is 'my fair share' of good fortune. As though if someone were to see my list of things that I am thankful for they would say, "hey, wait a minute...that's waaaay over the limit. We're taking some back".

My thoughts this weekend have not been far from those who have had some of their good fortune taken back. Life can be unfair at times and your loss is a testament to that fact.

The Magazine Post

I almost always pick a really long line-up so I can spend a little time perusing the trashy magazines. I love catching up with Jon and Kate and Brad and Angie, guessing who's ass is whose and voting on who wore it best, but my frugal Scottish heritage never allows me to actually buy them, so by just ripping off the best parts of the magazine, I feel like I'm practically earning money. So tonight I make an impromptu stop at the neighbourhood grocer to pick up bread. My line-up is very quick, so there's no time to catch up with my fake friends, but one magazine cover catches my eye and actually makes me laugh out loud. It's a Cosmo or something and it's main headliner in this issue is "50 sex tricks that will drive him wild" 50? Who on earth is a) going to remember 50 anything, much less 'sex tricks' and b) keep them all straight? What if you got them mixed up? I mean, mathematically speaking, if you got your wires crossed you could be looking at like, more than 2000 'tricks'! More to the point, what qualifies as a trick, exactly? Are we talking, like Rod Stewart level tricks or more like, arch your back a bit or brush your teeth first? Now, I am no casonovette; I have not written or read any sexiquette literature, but despite my somewhat limited experience I can say this for sure: The number of men getting out of bed and thinking to themselves, "hmm, I wish that was more amazing" is on par with the number of leprechauns purchasing bridges in Atlantis. The next time you're in the grocery store line-up, take a peek at the covers of these 'women's' magazines. Take note of the headline issues; "make him happier doing this","keep him wanting more of that"...now look at the cover of GQ or Men's Health. Notice a difference? You want a trick for him? Sex on a weeknight. That will blow his mind.

The Dawg Post

We’re saying good-bye to an old friend this week. More than a friend; a member of our family. Morely has been with us for over 14 years. Eight houses, the birth of two children, the loss of two, the move to Ottawa, numerous drunken Christmas parties, vacations at the cottage. Morely has been here for us in our worst moments, has witnessed our biggest fights and arguments. He knows our secrets and our habits; has watched us laugh and cry. I am not one to equate pets with people; I do not feel they are the same. I don’t have framed pictures of my dog at the office; I don’t recount cute little doggie anecdotes. He does not and never has slept in our bed (except after we have left for the day – that’s right Morely, we knew you did that) but Morely was a good, good dog. A face only a mother could love. Simon described Morely as a very ‘fancy dog’. And he was. I don’t know how to say good-bye to a friend like this. I want him to know how much we love him and how much he touched our lives. I want him to know that I could never have asked for a better dog and I feel truly unworthy of his spirit and his kindness. My children adore him and I know what it will have meant to their lives having had a dog this wonderful and fun and gentle see them though their formative years. We love you Morley. As I sit with you today, watching your life slowly slip away my heart breaks at the thought of not seeing you bouncing across the kitchen at the sight of your leash and a plastic bag. I will sit with you until your brown eyes close for the last time because you would do the same for us.

A Few Things I Would Like to Point Out:

1. Ladies: Anything you bought at Lululemon is considered workout wear. Stop wearing those pants with heels. It looks like you left the gym and forgot to change your pants. 2. Men: I know it's not actually 'illegal' to go shirtless in public, but it should be. Your white hairy chest and your pink nipples are more than the general public should have to bear. Furthermore, when you tuck your t-shirt into the back pocket of your jeans and it dangles down like an SOS sign from a burning building, well, I want to run you over with my car. Don't get me started on your armpits either. 3. In your car: We can see you picking your nose. Yep, knuckle deep, digging for gold, tickling brain...your car is not your invisible fortress. 4. In the airport: When the gate attendant announces that 'we will now begin boarding' there is no need to form a 75metre long line that snakes through the airport and holds up other travellers trying to get to their gates. Your ticket is not General Admission. You have an assigned seat and no one is going to take it from you. Why you think lining up is necessary is beyond me. Even more baffling is why you would want to get into that tiny little seat next to your new best friend any second sooner than you have to. 5. At work: Here is a short list of what is unacceptable attire at the office: leggings, flip-flops, clothing with writing on the bum, skirts that stop more that four inches above the knee (yes, even if you have paired them with leggings), low-cut tops, camisoles, spaghetti straps, tube-tops (God, I can't even believe I need to point that one out), Oversized T-shirts, and I don't care what day of the week it is or how comfortable you are at work, it is never acceptable to walk around the office in your bare feet. That's it. A pretty short list actually.

The Christening Post.

Our Nephew is being Christened this weekend. Last night at the dinner table my son (age 7) asked what a Christening was. I started explaining some of the details but before I could get very far, Simon interrupted and said "oh, like in the Lion King when they held Simba up over the cliff" and I said, well, yes...sort of...and then he said "except it won't be a monkey that holds him up". It should be an interesting ceremony for all.

The Smoking Post

The sun is out, the weather is warm and you know what goes really well with those two things? A pitcher of Margaritas and a smoke. It's true. Many years ago that's exactly what I would be embracing every Friday night (well, to be honest, it wasn't just Fridays). It's been 8 years since I had a cigarette and every time I walk past a terrace of people smoking and drinking I am filled with the immortal sin of envy. The truth is, I loved smoking. I loved the smell, I loved the feel of the cigarette in between my fingers, I loved the taste and truly, I loved the way it looked. Say what you want, but smoking is cool. I would like to tell you that I quit smoking for my health or my pregnancies or because my children asked me to do it as their Birthday presents, but the truth is, I was forced to quit by powers beyond my control. Simply put, my body physically rejected nicotine. Violently rejected it. All over the bathroom of a Thai restaurant in the Market. I will spare you the details, but will impart one piece of wisdom from that near-death experience. Don't leave the lid down on public toilets. Especially in Thai restaurants. For those of you hanger-on-ers...enjoy these days. Enjoy the taste of the cigarette paired with the wine after a good meal. Enjoy that perfume on your clothes and that non-existent ten pounds that the non-smokers are carrying around. Of course when winter rolls around and you are still gripped by Cigarette's evil talons, standing in the -35C weather shivering your asses off, I will rejoice in my superiority, but for now, I am jealous. Okay, off for a run!

To Run or Not to Run

I am kicking around the idea of running in the National Capital 1/2 marathon next month. I have run this particular one before so I know what I'm getting into and I can't quite decide if it's all worth it. The fact is, I'm not built for running, really. My bottom is disproportionately large (which is only good for running if you're black. Which I am not). My legs are short and my arches are somewhat low. All of these factors make me more of a Clydesdale than a Thoroughbred, so if I am going to run anything it needs to be for distance rather than speed. Proof in point; my current best 10km time is about 56mins; painfully slow by most standards. Another notch on the 'con' list is that in fact, I hate running. I do it, but I really do not like it. I like the endorphin rush and the time outdoors and ofcourse the joy of rubbing it in people's faces that before they even got out of bed this morning I put about 15kms behind me, but that's about it. Beyond that it's a lot of very sore knees (the last one of these had me so nearly debilitated I practically had to move to the livingroom because getting up the stairs was so painful), sprained ankles (have not recovered from the last type three sprain that left me on crutches for the two best weeks of July) and force feeding myself pasta and bread. (okay, that part is a lie; I love pasta and bread. I could live off of nothing but pasta and bread for the rest of eternity and be perfectly happy). The actual event is not that well put together either, really. For starters it's a loop. I absolutely loathe and despise a loop run. I mean as if running weren't tedious and painful enough without having to relive it. As well, the 1/2 starts at ten o'clock in the morning, meaning that the majority of people finish at noon. Noon. The absolute hottest part of the day. And you can be absolutely certain that up until race day the temperature will never have even broken 20 degrees, but on that Saturday the thermometer will soar to a record setting 31C meaning that during the second time around the loop you're leaping over corpses and vomit. It's very unpleasant.

Ofcourse running the race has it's upsides...there's um...some free bagels at the end (although they're not Montreal bagels, so I'll pass) and I think last year I got a T-shirt or a hat or something. There's that 'feeling of accomplishment' that people are always on about...although to be honest, coming in 2374th is not exactly my idea of a raving success. And since I have almost zero competitive instinct when it comes to these things, I take no pride in coming in ahead of 3627 other people...

Hmm..so to summarize, 1. am not fast. 2. don't actually like running. 3. am prone to injury. 4. don't enjoy the heat. 5. don't like bagels that aren't from Montreal.

Okay, so maybe I'll just go to the waterpark that day.

Star Wars Review

So I have finally seen Star Wars. Yes, the George Lucas film made before I was born. Up until today I had never seen it. This is what I can report. Princess hair-bun is up shit creek. The Nazis are about to blow up the universe. She needs Ben Cannoli to save her because he has the Reckoning or something. She sends the 1975 equivalent of a Facebook update pleading for his return. Luke Skywalker has some free time on his hands and wants to team up with Ben. (don't know why or how these two find each other...I think I was distracted by laundry or something at this part). They track down Harrison Ford who exploits the crap out of them for the use of his jet-thing. There is a golden gay robot and his fat little robot friend. There is a giant furry thing that I think is like a dog, but can walk upright. Together they form a posse and fly around in giant penis-jets until they finally hit the vagina of the giant white ship that the Nazi's have been floating around on. Harrison and Luke get a medal from hair-bun. Can't wait to see the sequel...I am predicting a love interest between Hair-bun and Luke.

The Embarassing Incident

A few of my closer friends have already heard this story...to them I apologize for the re-run.

I have to give directions to the widget store to two older gentlemen that I am working with.

I take out a piece of paper and my handy black Sharpie marker.

I draw two straight lines down the middle of the page to represent the street. I place an arrow at the top to show which direction they should be driving in.

At the bottom of the "street" I draw two circles to represent the cluster of hotels that they are familiar with.

I hand over the piece of paper and send them on their way.

This is what I give them:

By the time I realised what I had given them, it was too late.

I am sure Freud has some theories on this one...

The Eyebrow Post

So I had promised you a post about my eyebrow incident...Your agonizing wait is over. Yesterday I took a close up look at my face in the kids' bathroom. The kids' bathroom, in case this wasn't already made evident by the name, is not the same bathroom that the Zipper and I use. It has entirely different lighting, mirror positioning, wall color etc.... You wouldn't think this would make any difference, would you? Well, I am here to tell you, it does. If you, like I do, do most of your primping, pruning and applying in front of the same mirror all the time, the view in another mirror is alarmingly different. Take your rearview mirror for example. The next time you are in your car (not while driving), crank that mirror over and take a look. You will see hairs, pores, freckles that you didn't even know were there! It's a nightmare!! Anyhoo...I wasn't in the car, just the kids' bathroom. And what I saw was clearly my Scottish eyebrow heritage. (see Susan Boyle). I raced to my bathroom, got my trusted tweezers and went to work. Over the years I have tried many hair removing methods; I have had things waxed, shaved, tweezed, threaded, epilated and even electrocuted. Nothing works. It all grows back. In some cases with a vengeance unlike anything you have ever experienced. Sometimes less so. Either way, as a woman, this is a never ending daily maintenance program that I did NOT sign up for but am stuck with until I am in my eighties and hairy moles are overlooked and my appearance in a bikini will be (hopefully) less frequent. The thing is, I am not sure what all this hair is even for. I mean, I know that ear and nose hair is there to stop things from falling in {them} and I guess that the hair that is located, ahem, under a bathing suit, loosely serves the same purpose, but what is all the other hair for? It's not for cushioning against falls...I mean, have you ever fallen on your armpit? It's not for warmth...No one has ever claimed to have warmer feet because they have let their big-toe hair grow in...so why? Anyways, I did get my tweezers (which, you should know, are the one thing aside from my children that I will take with me when I have to evacuate my home in the middle of the night) and went to work on these stray hairs. For the time being, all is right with the world. But as any woman knows, these suckers grow back. In your sleep, on an overseas flight, underneath hats and bangs and scarves. If your eyesight is poor, you are one of the lucky ones. You can't see them, so it's like they're not there. But if you are like me and you have delectably perfect eyesight, then my only advice is to give in. Resign yourself to a lifetime of squinting, scrunching and tweezing. You'll feel better once you accept it. Oh, and keep a set of tweezers in the car.

No Password Required

There was an incident this morning involving my eyebrows. When it was happening, I was thinking, 'this is what my much starved readership needs to hear about...this is a perfect time to reactivate my blog'! And so I logged on...Logging on prompted the entry that you are about to read instead. I have about 412 opportunities in any given day to enter a password. I have passwords for banking, Facebook, email, wireless, MSN, my computer, my laptop, my cellphone, my Blockbuster account has one for God's sake! I can't even rent Pineapple Express without relaying my "top secret' codeword to the pimple-faced little weasel behind the desk at Blockbuster! On top of the myriad of passwords that either have to be numeric, letters (what is the opposite of numeric?), start or end with a capitol letter or some staggeringly annoying combination of the two, now there are these weird little puzzles that you have to decipher and retype in regular letters!! And quite frankly, they make me very nervous. I can't decipher them. The letters are all squished together...is that an L or an I or a 1?! ARGH!!! Now I have never, ever, boasted myself to be a computer-savvy person. My answer to every and all computer issues is to 'turn it off, wait ten seconds and turn it back on again' (which incidentally works more often than not), but I really, really, do not see the need for all these passwords and squishy-puzzle phrases. If some poor, pathetic sod had nothing better to do with their time but to crack the code to get into my laptop (I'll give you a clue, it's a four letter word embossed into the front and inside of my computer), maneuver the maze of prompts and icons to enable my wireless settings, crack that code (not a tricky one for anyone who knows me or has ten seconds to look around my kitchen which is where my LT lives most of the time) then find the Blogger page, repeat steps one through three again because by now Vista would have crashed and would have to start the whole bloody process over again) and so on and so on...would the task of having to retype that squishy letter/number sequence really stop them? If you are such a person and can be bothered to devote this much time to screwing with my life, please at least make it more interesting. Make me a size 4. Make my bra a size D. Make my postal code 90210 and give me a chalet in the Alps. Rack up my credit cards with cool stuff like Fleuvogs and iTunes downloads of cool music that I woudl never have heard of. After that, go nuts with the blog entries and the Facebooking... I'm pretty sure no on reads those anyways.

No, I haven't fallen off the face of the earth....

Here I am! Here I am! We are knee deep in ear infections, Stanley Cup playoffs, additions, new houses, soccer games and VERY bossy little girls. Allow me to explain: Simon has his second ear infection in six months. He shares his fathers low pain threshold, so there is a LOT of crying and whining (which only makes Simon cry more). He is on antibiotics, so we hope there is light at the end of the ear canal soon. Ottawa has had serious Cup fever (not the cup fever that hockey players get from not washing thier protective gear, the fever that couch-coaches get whenever 'their team' makes it to the finals). Everywhere you look cars are sporting flags, uninspiring paint jobs (go sens...Can we really not come up with something better?), on the rare occasion that is has been warm enough to leave the windows open you can hear the score of the hockey game every third night and its ALL PEOPLE TALK ABOUT AT WORK. Well, judging by the way things are going tonight the finals too will have gone the way of the ear infection. We are putting an 1100 square foot addition on our house; Zip will finally have his garage, I will finally have a mudroom with radiant heat floors, and much to my fathers pleasure, we will have a first floor bathroom. Pics to come as more walls go up. We bought another house to renovate; across the street from us. Again, will post pics soon. Nicholas is knee-sock deep in competitive league soccer this summer. Other than it being a serious pain getting him to and from games during rush hour, its great exercise and he is quite good. Elizabeth has reached a new level of bossy. Conversation the other morning: Elizabeth, "mummy, want a bottle milk HOT" Mummy, "I beg your pardon? How would a nice little girl ask for something?" Elizabeth, "MUMMY! WANT. A. BOTTLE. MILK. HOTTT." The fun never ends.

SOLD!

I have finally gotten around to posting some "afters" of the house we renovated ... Below: Third-floor loft ; two huge rooms separated by a three-piece bathroom. Newly carpeted. One of my favorite areas in the house... Remember that kitchen? We replaced the old cupboards and reconfigured the layout to allow for a more open-concept. Zip built this stunning two storey porch - in the summer you can sit on the second floor and be almost completely secluded by the trees. Heaven... Well, the bathroom is still blue, but now its a 4-piece with soaker tub and pedestal sink.

Christmas came a little bit early this year to Sara and Marc; Maya James Christy Theriault came into the world on December 7th, 2006 weighing in at just over seven pounds. Blue eyes and a respectable amount of hair have been reported. Mum and dad are very proud (Marc and Sara, that is, not my mum and dad), although prouder still, Steve Trew has been spotted around town harassing people with photographs of his darling granddaughter. While I am sorry to have posted this nearly a whole month late, it does allow me to report that S&M are doing very well, the baby is very happy and relaxed and people even seem to be getting some sleep at their house. A victory I would say! Congratulations, Sara and Andrew :)

You've got a little something right there...

This is the highly adorable face that I have to leave behind for weeks on end next month. The last time I left she learned two new words; "hockey" and "no-no-no". Today while I was at work, she started saying "cookie" and "blanket". I don't know if a woman can 'have it all' as my sister would say. I hate leaving her (and the other two what's-their-names) and part of me resents missing out on all these "firsts". Burn all the bras you like, a man would never feel the longing and the angst over leaving his children for business. I guess I can just resign myself to the fact that its only for short periods of time and only during the winter months...But if I get back and she's humming the tune to Hockey Night in Canada, I'm handing in my notice.