Mr. Mop & Me

       

 

I find it odd that I rarely talk about my dogs in this blog.  I have two:  Mr. Mop and Brooklyn.  Let's introduce you to Mr. Mop.

I just saw that movie 'Marley & Me' which is based on the book about the world's worst dog.  Mr. Mop may not be Marley but he definitely is not far off.

I adopted Mr. Mop from a dog shelter up in Fort Smith, North West Territories.  I was shocked to discover that such a sweet looking, little white dog with one cocked ear could survive such a harsh winter (he lived outside) and not get eaten by a polar bear.

Then I met him.

It took a while for his true nature to show itself, and when it did I realized Mop had probably given those polar bears a run for their money (or seals. whatever).  

He is very sweet and loving.  Very cute and cuddly.  Very bad.  He is part Bichon, part asshole (aka Jack Russell Terrier).  He is incredibly clever, incredibly determined, and incredibly ALPHA ALPHA ALPHA.  So we have enrolled in obedience school (six months after getting him home but better late than never right?)

On our first night,  Mr. Mop cowered at my feet in the unfamiliar and smelly surroundings as the other MUCH BIGGER dogs barked and cried.  I thought that perhaps the environment alone would tame him.  I thought wrong.  The trainer used him on her first example to which he cried, lay on his back (feeble trick) and finally bit his leash and jumped at her face.  Crap.

Needless to say we got extra homework.  I mean for crying out loud, this class has two German Shepards, a crazy Bull Mastiff, two Labs and a Rhodesian what-have-you, but which dog is the asshole?  The 14-pound Mopster.   All the other dogs got to go home and get treats but Mop and I had a lesson in the corner on manners.

We (and I use that term loosely) have to:  not be on the furniture, not sleep in my bed, eat after I have eaten, go through the door last,  and basically change every single habit he has been allowed to form.  Ugh.

Here's the thing:  what's the point of a dog if you aren't going to cuddle with them?  That's my philosophy anyways.  So in the middle of the night, when I miss the presence of puppy breath on my cheek, I possibly wake up, tip toe to the living room and pick Mr Mop off his bed in front of the fire (I think he actually prefers not being in the same room as me when sleeping) and put him under the covers next to me.  So wrong.

Other than that little slip-up, I think we are progressing famously.  My little guy is very clever, and figured out the 'stay' after the second try.  So in class tonight, when we had to show off our maneuvers, Mr. Mop was the only dog who could do the heel, automatic sit, AND stay.  Take that, suckas.

I have soon realized that dog obedience school must be what preschool, or any level of school, is to for people with human babies.  All the owners stare on at the other dogs, smile and pretend we think they are as cute as our own dogs.  We secretly revel in how smart our own dog is over the idiot mastiff who still can't sit properly.  

Tonight, that same said mastiff was the dog who misbehaved and entered Mr. Mop's personal bubble when he was heeling which in turn made Mop growl (I would too if a big lady ten times the size of me got in my face out of no where) which in turn made the big dog jump and attack.  And yet the parent's of stupid dog gave me dirty looks?  I felt like what the parent of the smart geek must feel like when the bullys' parents blame her child for their own childs' stupidity.

I tell you, the power of love is strong and even though Mop has a bit of a personality, I will take on anyone, or any dog, who is mean to him.  Or any owner.

Mr. Mop has his kinks but I love him for all his faults and will work until everyone can see his good side.

Lessons in Flirting

The producer of our would-be travel show told me that I need to flirt more with the camera, and with the person I am interacting with, male or female.  Fine, I can do that.  I used to be an expert flirt.  I was known far and wide as the best flirt in town. Okay, maybe not far and wide but definitely at the Roxy.  And perhaps at the local coffee shop.

In grade three, a friend (and fellow bridesmaid in wedding #8) instructed me on the art of flirting while sitting on my front stairs eating Dickey-D ice cream.  She wisely told me that in order to get boys to like me I must laugh at all their jokes.  Done.  Not that I utilized this information for another 8 years or so (late bloomer and proud of it) at which point I brought out her expertise from the recesses of my brain and went to town.

Obviously it was a skill that needed some honing. I mean, you can't just simply laugh at things boys say.  It's in your body language, your witty repartee, the way you flash your smile and touch their arms.  Needless to say, it took me quite a while to get it just right.  But by the time I perfected the art I was in a relationship with the Engineer.

I wouldn't call flirting cheating, not at all. But for some reason, when I started dating the Engineer I lost all my flirting ambition.  I am very very loyal that way.  I don't think I even flirt with him.

When I told him what the producer had said, he was very supportive.  He even told me that I was a really good flirter back in the day when he would hold my lip gloss and camera at the bar while I cruised the room for my next victim.  Once when we first got together and found ourselves on a booze cruise without any money, I used my flirting skills to get us free drinks all night. In fact, I believe that was the last time I ever flirted.  Wow, that was a really long time ago.

Once again, I must go into the far reaches of my mind and retrain my brain to flirt flirt flirt.

So far, not so good.  I had to go into the editing suite for our trailer and work with two guys.  What better place to start than with them right?  Wrong.  You know how when you laugh at a two-year old they do the same thing over and over again hoping to make you laugh but it only annoys you?  Well that is what I was like.

One of the guys had a black eye from a altercation on the weekend.  By the end of the session, I had teased him so much about it that I could see in his eyes it was time for me to stop.  But I just couldn't!  I kept going!  I left the session by wagging my fingers at him and telling him to stay out of trouble.  YIKES.  Amateur for sure.  

Then I tried flirting with the guy making my non-fat half-sweet tea latte at the coffee shop.  What ended up happening was me tripping over my words so that it sounded like I was the tragic victim of a stroke/lobotomy.  Terrible.  I think he felt pity towards me.  PITY!!!

GAH!  What to do?  I have a show and need to be charming and a flirting fiend.  So far I am a flirting fraud.

All is not lost, I did talk and smile myself out of a speeding ticket the other day.  So I must have the good stuff somewhere right?  I don't know.  I feel that I have reverted to that awkward 16 year old with the bad haircut, trying to flirt with Paul Marion in the library but ending up blushing horribly and putting my jacket on upside down.  Yes.  That actually happened.  I put my jacket on upside down.  He didn't even help me, he just stared at me with a look of bemusement and shock at my lack of 'cuteness'.  Or maybe it was cute?  No.  It was just embarrassing.  

Flirting is hard work and takes lots of energy. It's way easier and less thinking to be in a relationship.

When's an island not an island?

When it's an Ait (or Eyot) of course!


An Ait (or Eyot) is a small island in the middle of a river or lake - such as those that are found along the River Thames in England between London and Oxford. Aits are typically formed by the depositing of sediment in the water, which accumulates over a period of time. An ait is characteristically long and narrow, and may or may not become a permanent island. Aits may be eroded: the resulting sediment being deposited further downstream and resulting in another ait.

But why the difference between Ait and Eyot? There's no obvious logic from the relative locations. Heading upstream from Hammersmith Bridge, the sequence goes like this....

Chiswick Eyot

Brentford Aits

Isleworth Ait

Eel Pie Island (not an Ait?)

Trowlock Island

Stevens Eyot

Raven's Ait

Thames Ditton Island (now I know some Gabriolans who lived there...)

Tagg's Island

Garrick's Ait

Platt's Eyot

..... and so on.

No logic, no pattern (there are Aits and Eyots close to both banks of the river, so it's not a Surrey thing or a Middlesex thing.) No, it seems likely that it's down to the vagueries of Old English - and only those who staked claim to the fragile landfall could determine which it was to be.

So when is an Eyot not an Eyot? When it's pronounced "Ait" of course!!!

Confused? I am. Can anyone shed any light on the difference?

Back to school......

As temperatures here in England drop to the lowest level this winter (minus 5 - pah! you should have been on Gabriola last week.....) idle minds start wondering what's happening on the island.

It's back to work this week - and kids, no doubt, are looking forward to getting back to school. As you know, I'm a great follower of the Weather Network and I note that those Wet Puddles will soon be back again.

But what's this? Your little dears will be off to school tomorrow in their waterproof jacket, mittens, boots, scarf and that fabulous woolly hat you gave them for Christmas. But watch out Mom, they'll be losing their scarf and hat before the day's out - and growing six sizes into a jacket that would have drowned them this morning!

Now I know that school is great for developing the kids, but this is something else!!!

While we were away......

..... someone said it had snowed on Gabriola.

Surely not?

The Bay of Words

It's Christmas Eve in Morecambe Bay. We're miles from home - and further from Gabriola.

As I walk along the bay, I'm reminded of earlier visitors by these words on a memorial......

The Bay of Words
By Lavelle

From dawn to dusk and through the night,
They worked and riddled out of sight.
Far away on distant shores
Men and Women do their chores

Families so very far to see,
Pick cockles for you and me.
A fruitful day as some would say,
We picked cockles on Morecambe Bay.

Such success we trawled for more
On this lovely majestic shore.
Are we illegal? No we’re not!
Travelled Migrants we forgot.

Just how savage life can be?
For each and all including me!
In utter panic we lost our way,
And on the bay we had to stay.

The light went dim, we should have known
Morecambe Bay is now our home
Oh gentle people be so kind
Always keep us in your minds.

We worked so hard to get our pay,
Oh, good lord, what a way!
Cold... Wet... And in the dark, we became the bay.
Remembered as part of the majestic Morecambe Bay.

To end our day and nights too,
On Morecambe Bay so loved by you!
Sunshine come and light the bay,
We won’t see another day.

Look out and you will see
Passing migrants just like me!
Please remember how we fell,
It was just a living hell.

So see the birds up in the sky,
They take our souls and make them fly.
Across the world from when they came,
Sharing in the bay’s great fame.

Remember us with love not fear!
We, like you
Now live here!


17 July 2007

Wish you were here? Yes!!!

with grateful thanks to the "Flying Shingle" for the seasonal pictures

Winter has arrived on Gabriola, just as folk are rushing round preparing for the Christmas festivities.

For some, the arrival of the first snowfall is a welcome treat - and for others it's a pain in the butt (sometimes literally) and they content themselves to watching the white stuff from behind firmly closed doors, waiting for it all to go away!

Granted, the decision to move to Gabriola was taken in the belief that the Gulf Islands climate would be kinder on our ageing bones than the winter excesses of the prairies, but sitting here in England - looking out of the window at the grey, damp weather - it is good to know that we can expect some "proper" snow when we do move to our new home.

I'm also pleased to see that humour is not lost on the island - and that there must be others out there who, like me, think that shops that fill with Christmas "cheer" around the second week of November are maybe milking the festive season a tad too hard and driving the sceptics among us to switch off until we're forced, kicking and screaming, to admit that maybe others do find Christmas a magical time, or a time for song and praise.

Meanwhile, if some of us want to be HummBugs, then it's clear we'll have to choose our shops carefully, to avoid the stares of yet another crowd of campaigning islanders!

It's been a few years now since we had to dress our kids for school, so it's comforting to know that the Weather Network now provides a schoolday forecast to help hapless parents dress their kids appropriately for the trip to the car (sorry, did I mean school?). How did we oldies survive without this essential service?

Today's advice for parents heading with their kids to Gabriola Elementary offers a prescriptive menu of outer clothing to keep the little souls warm and dry. It's great to see that Mum's only got to prepare one set of clothes today; too often we're presented with the dilemma of a whole different set of clothes needed to bring the kids home in as the weather changes before 3pm. Should you keep a spare set of everything at school? Must you carry a whole new set of clothes back to school this afternoon to comply?? Does this mean you have to take the car??? That's really great for the environment!

At least it's good to know that the sidewalks will be dry. Uhhh - what sidewalks? Does this mean the snow's melted and gone already? Or will Gabriolans be taken by surprise this morning with conditions that only the Weather Network could devise - "wet puddles". Call me ignorant, but where I come from there is no other sort!

The Twelve Days of a New York Christmas

On the first day of a New York Christmas, I took a ride on a glimmering carousel next to a skating rink full of people watching a Quebec fir become a dazzling sight in white fairy lights.

On the second day of a New York Christmas, I shivered on a cold winter's with the Engineer, as we  sipped on hot apple cider at the Columbus Circle Christmas market

On the third day of a New York Christmas, I walked past the window's at Macy's.  Full of colour and imagination, for a moment I felt like the child I used to be, staring in wonderment at all the toys in the Eaton's window on a snowy Winnipeg street.

On the fourth day of a New York Christmas, I waited in line with the Engineer to get some ice time.  Skating below the famous glittering Rockefeller tree on a mild evening  and having a 'once in a lifetime experience' was worth the $56 admission price.  Thanks Engineer.

On the fifth day of a New York Christmas, I walked the dogs on a busy Brooklyn street.  Passing under the white lights of a tree stand, smelling of fir and pine; of Christmas.  It felt like an escape into a teeny tiny forest in the middle of a city.

On the sixth day of a New York Christmas, I watched the snowflakes on Saks dance and sing 'The Carol of the Bells'.

On the seventh day of a New York Christmas, I dragged the Engineer to Central Park for a Victorian Candlelight Christmas at Belvedere Castle.  It may have been a bit silly, but worth watching the orange full moon rise over the Upper East Side from the top turret - finding some peace in a overly busy city.

On the eighth day of a New York Christmas, we walked through the Brownstones in Brooklyn to take in all the lights, glitter and kitschy (or tacky) nativity scenes that light up the neighborhood.

On the ninth day of a New York Christmas, we fought the bustling crowds at Macy's in search of a silk scarf for the Engineer's mom.  Even though I may have had a stress-related asthma attack, I still delighted in the wooden escalator.

On the tenth day of a New York Christmas, I meet an old friend at Bryant Park for a hot chocolate with homemade vanilla marshmallows and look up to see the Empire State Building lit up in red and green.

On the eleventh day of a New York Christmas, I take myself to Rolf's for a hot mulled wine amongst the glittering lights of a thousand Christmas decorations.

On the twelfth day of a New York Christmas, I get on a plane to go home to my family.  

Leaving behind the busy, bustling, sometimes (most of the time) smelly but more often enchanting, city sidewalks to the quiet of the Canadian prairie.  This apple has definitely taken a bite out of me (in a good way). 

Let's Move In!

The Engineer and I never formally decided to move in together.  There was never the 'let's take our relationship to the next step' conversation.  In fact, I believe we never discussed it at all nor consider ourselves living together.  Even though for the past two months, that is exactly what we have been doing.

Obviously it is a living situation out of convenience rather than choice.  It's not like I can get an apartment for myself in New York and it would not really make sense.  I am just visiting therefore we are not living together.  We are both oddly traditional actually.  We want to wait until we are married before we live together.  That and we both own our rainy city homes, and both are very picky livers.  Okay, that might just be me.  I really really really like things my way.  And I really really really like living by myself.  I already know that someday we need to get a home big enough for me to have my own room.

That being said, the Engineer chose a place that is fairly big when he could have gotten a studio and I have purchased furniture that is decidedly mine (ie. pretty), so we are sort of living together.

They say that when a couple moves in together they learn so much about the other person.  I personally believe that I have learned more about myself.  Thanks to things the Engineer points out.  For example, I drink lots of milk.  I never really noticed before how much I go through.  It's a lot.  I may be 29, but I still love a big glass of milk and I drink copious amounts of tea.  I also have discovered that I go through lots of garbage in the kitchen.  I don't really like to fold my clothes right away but get mad when there is clutter on the bedroom dresser.  I have learned that only I can make a mess when I have cleaned the house.  That I do laundry more often than the usual person, that I hate doing dishes, and that I really like to do a whole bunch of nothing in the mornings.

I have also learned that I like having someone to say good morning to who is not my dog.  And that it's fun to work next to the Engineer.  And that he likes to do a whole bunch of nothing in the morning too, when he can.

I am glad to know that it won't be too bad when we are married.  I like this whole compromise thing.  As long as we choose my style of furniture and decor.  And that I have my own room.  And that the Engineer has his whole room where he can put paper wherever he would like to.  Why?  WHY does he hate the idea of file folders so much?  How could it possibly be better to lay paper down on every available surface?  Okay, calm Sarah, don't get excited.  Compromise. COMPROMISE.  Stupid word

Reasons to miss my car

Did you know that the subway is a public place?

This is a fact that some people in NYC need to be reminded of.  

Here is why:

1.  The other day when K and I were coming home from our fake bag excursion, we were on a packed F train headed for Brooklyn.  Luckily we got seats, she sat next to a chubby sleeping woman and I sat next to a little Japanese lady, who was next to two Italian grandmas.  Standing around us were many other women, it was as if it were a female-only car.  At my eye line was a big bum so I had to keep my gaze elsewhere.  Unfortunately my eyes are not far from my nose.

Reminiscing over our day's affairs, K's eyes suddenly grew wide and she grabbed her nose.  I took a breath in and quickly realized the problem.  Someone, very near, had let one go.  And it was STINKY.  K asked if it was me.  I would admit to passing wind but this was definitely not my doing.  K agreed that it did not smell like me (a sign that we are too close?).  Both of us sat there with our noses in our scarves. To be polite, this was the extent of our acknowledgment of the offence.

Then the Japanese lady next to me started to make quite the scene.  In Japan it is considered polite to make much noise when in conversation.  To prove you are listening you must 'ooo', 'ahhh', and say 'honto', therefore Japanese conversations always sound much more exciting than they actually are.  This makes the Japanese person very adept at making much noise to express themselves.  The little lady next to me started with some 'mmmphs' and then moved on to 'whews' while she fanned the air in front of her.  

This made me laugh.  Which made me look like the guilty party.

I glanced down further to the two grandma's - they were also snickering and covering their noses.  The women at the further pole from me were shaking their heads in disgust.  

I began to laugh even more.  G-U-I-L-T-Y

K whispered that they thought it was me.  (She also whispered that we were breathing in some strangers feces.  Would it be better to breath in the fecal matter of a friend?)

I shook my head at them all and told them it wasn't me and pointed to the sleeping lady next to K (who we think really did let the stink bombs fly) or the big bum at my nose.  This made them all laugh with me.

If this many people react to something on the subway you just know it is bad.

2.  While riding on the train home one day, I was enjoying the freedom of a nearly empty car.  Reading my book with my groceries sitting on the seat next to me, I delighted in the lack of farts in the air.  The car was practically empty.  So WHY did the girl who got on at the Carroll Street station sit right next to me?  There were dozens of empty seats!  But she looked normal, as if she could be my friend, so I felt that it was okay.  Until my reading of chapter four in Twilight was interrupted by a 'thh thh thh' noise.  I looked over at the space invasion gal who was checking out her teeth in her compact.  The 'thhh thhh' noise was her sucking food out of her teeth.  Honestly, couldn't she do that in a bathroom?  

3.  On the A train heading to Central Park one day I found myself squished against a very large Chinese guy, about my age, who had the audacity to pick his zits and flick the heads onto the floor.  Not before inspecting them for size and colour.  I almost barfed.

4.  One evening a man thought it was perfectly acceptable to cough, snort and spit his mucus into a cup (okay, this actually happened in a cab, but still a public place!)

5.  The stench of humans in a tube underground should remind everyone and anyone to SHOWER and use a fantastic device called deodorant.  And while you are at it:  a toothbrush never hurt anyone!

It may be fast and cheap, but the subway is the pits.  I miss my VW.