tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482235188808585382024-03-13T03:11:57.841-02:30no plot<br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br>Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own blog, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these electrons must show…no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-46432106494707525742021-09-21T12:46:00.031-02:302021-10-31T23:14:56.487-02:30rosencrantz and guildenstern may not be dead<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTfF7aTey9HfSUmVqWk_uXc6yXOw6hrGycF-TA67z76N5PnWU-dgNYWeqqjBCTQYSR2L8a-BynlxxkrlAzn-GRDW5YcmywiTDNCdlElOj1pb7YZoCPGZ8Y9LMk5qQdxZWl23wnh8ztVH1m/s2048/B0A04671-38FB-4D7B-8F9E-23F78E43DB02.heic" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTfF7aTey9HfSUmVqWk_uXc6yXOw6hrGycF-TA67z76N5PnWU-dgNYWeqqjBCTQYSR2L8a-BynlxxkrlAzn-GRDW5YcmywiTDNCdlElOj1pb7YZoCPGZ8Y9LMk5qQdxZWl23wnh8ztVH1m/s320/B0A04671-38FB-4D7B-8F9E-23F78E43DB02.heic" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amazing artwork ©2021 noplot, badly adapted from one of my <a href="https://goodticklebrain.com/shoppe/complete-works-t-shirt" target="_blank">favourite t-shirts</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br />I went to see <i>Hamlet</i> one Sunday evening in August. Again.<p></p><p>The first time for this <a href="https://www.perchancetheatre.com/hamlet.html" target="_blank">latest production</a> at the <a href="https://www.perchancetheatre.com/" target="_blank">Perchance Theatre</a> in Cupids, but for the umpteenth time in my life.</p><p>Why do I keep going to see this play, other than the fact that my talented niece, Erika Squires, aka Drama Queen (DQ), was playing Horatio extremely well in it?</p><p>It feels like I know all the lines, felt like I knew them the first time I read or heard them; this play is so <a href="https://www.nosweatshakespeare.com/quotes/plays/hamlet/" target="_blank">quotable</a>, its words and phrases live on in common parlance, even for people who wouldn't be caught dead at a Shakespeare performance (and almost everybody gets caught dead in <i>Hamlet</i>, after all).</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p>To be or not to be...</p><p>To sleep perchance to dream...</p><p>The play's the thing...</p><p>Methinks she doth protest too much (misquote, I know, but we all like to rewrite the masters)</p><p>There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy</p></blockquote><p>I expect this sense of recognition may not be as prevalent for people born since the turn of the century, but I think even the girl who served me ice cream the other day and was surprised to hear that Shakespeare also wrote comedies! has heard of that first quote.*</p><p>I read it first in second year university, and afterwards I saw it, can't remember when. Was it onstage? Was <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0099726/?ref_=fn_al_tt_2" target="_blank">Mel's version</a> (1990) really the first time I saw it, the first time I realized what a truly funny play it is, funnier than some of his comedies, in fact? Did I see the Shakespeare by the Sea production? Did I see <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0040416/?ref_=fn_tt_tt_5" target="_blank">Olivier's</a> or just stills and clips? I know I saw <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0116477/?ref_=fn_tt_tt_1" target="_blank">Kenneth Branagh's </a>and liked it, but can't recall much about it.</p><p>I will never forget buying a beautiful-deep-blue-OMG-it-has-pockets dress in a shop at Stratford-Not-on-Avon in the hopes that <a href="https://paulgross.org/hamlet.htm" target="_blank">Paul Gross</a> would notice me, a beacon of loveliness in the melancholy dark of the theatre.** </p><p>But my favourite Hamlet so far has to be <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt1449175/" target="_blank">David Tennant</a>. He brings the emotional depth, the humour and the madness that served him so well as the <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0436992/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1" target="_blank">tenth Doctor</a>, also my favourite Doctor. With <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0092455/?ref_=nv_sr_srsg_0" target="_blank">Jean Luc Picard</a> so amazingly good as his bad uncle Claudius, it is no surprise that a Shakespeare junky with a predilection for sci fi like me was in her glee.</p><p>DQ suggested that the evening performance was the best time to see the Perchance production, which made sense to me because <i>Hamlet</i> is essentially a horror story, the shades of the past haunting all the characters and driving them on to their deaths with DQ playing the only surviving blonde girl.</p><p>Since this is an outdoor theatre and the show started at 7 pm in broad daylight (plus Covid rules necessitated shortening the run time), the dark and spooky opening scene was cut, replaced by the appearance of a silent figure, a woman walking slowly, measuredly, unnaturally into the foreground before the stage. I knew Hamlet was being played by a woman but was this Hamlet Sr.'s ghost?</p><p>It turns out to be Hamlet, using new pronouns, haunting her own play like a poltergeist as she goes on to cause trouble and annoy everyone around her. It was odd to hear her addressed as "my liege" instead of "my lord", but it turns out that, Errol Flynn movies notwithstanding, "<a href="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/liege" target="_blank">liege</a>" does not refer only to a king and is not as definitively a male term, although I had never heard a woman addressed like that. Perhaps because it's so rare to find a woman in a position of authority back in the olden days. Am I the only one who had to google that during the performance?</p><p>My pedantry aside, Allison Moira Kelly does a fine job as Hamlet. I was particularly startled by the intensity of her grief as she speaks her first monologue, wishing her too solid flesh would melt with her tears, which flowed freely in a bout of ugly crying which I feel compelled to call feminine, having so rarely seen that kind of emotional outpouring from a man. I cannot recall any other Hamlet of my acquaintance letting more than a few drops of moisture fall on his manly cheek, no matter the reference to <a href="https://www.greeka.com/greece-myths/niobe/" target="_blank">Niobe's endless tears</a>. </p><p>It was in that moment, I made the realization that Hamlet and I were both fatherless children, and the emotional connection between us rang more clearly than it ever had before. </p><p>Was it the idea that royalty feel differently about these things which kept me at a distance (The king is dead, long live the king! seems to remove human feelings from the equation) or just the masculine experience of grief, which seems to favour expressing overwhelming anger instead of tears, that felt foreign to me?</p><p>I <strike>have</strike> <strike>had</strike> have plenty of anger over losing my father to lung cancer when I was only 20-years old but I don't remember voicing it much. But thinking about it now, if I stumbled upon a tobacco company executive cold-bloodedly calculating the profits of ensnaring young people with their noxious death weed, denying them the chance to meet their future grandchildren, I might find it in me to stab that bastard right in the arras.</p><p>But, you know, women are taught to swallow our anger. </p><p>However, there is no societal restraint on womanly tears, inconvenient and uncomfortable to watch as they may be. Hamlet, the character, although usually a man, is quite womanly (in the traditional sense) in this play. He/she makes everyone else squirm, insisting on displaying natural human emotions when everyone else just wants to pretend those pesky things should have run their course by now, three weeks being <i>plenty</i> of time to mourn a Dead Dad. Claudius, aka the Dad Slayer, has a vested interest in squashing natural emotion of course, as does his former sister-in-law, Gertrude, aka Hamlet's Mom, aka Cleopatra, the Queen of Denial, who should have been grieving a dead husband, not getting on with the business of living happily ever after with a new king.</p><p>Even if it's not very manly (in the traditional sense), Hamlet has good reason to be sad and angry since her father was murdered and her mom doesn't seem to care. If that weren't bad enough, the villain looks exactly like Dad, in this and many other productions. Jody Richardson is so good in both roles, auto-tuned and scary as the ghost, desperate and malevolently plotting as Claudius.</p><p>In fact the whole cast is excellent.</p><p>Marthe Bernard is an affecting Ophelia, her mad scene heartrending. Whether Hamlet is actually in love with her is another question, but that is a question the play fails to answer whatever gender Hamlet may be. Ophelia's father, Polonius, is convinced that Hamlet does love his daughter but he is hardly any judge of emotional truth, ignoring the painful situation he is putting Ophelia in by asking her to spy on someone <i>she</i> truly loves.</p><p>When Hamlet kills Polonius, it is no wonder that Ophelia is driven mad by the conflicting demands of love for both of them, which leads to her death by drowning. Grief and the natural anger arising from her death brings everything to head when her brother Laertes (a passionate Owen Van Houten) agrees to murder Hamlet to get his revenge but then everyone gets accidentally-on-purpose murdered. The End.</p><p>It's kind of a bummer. </p><p>But unlike anyone in <i>Hamlet</i>, I have access to the work of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Five_stages_of_grief" target="_blank">Elisabeth Kübler-Ross</a> and two-and-a-half English degrees so I'll deal.***</p><p>After DQ relieved my fears that the genderbending would ruin Horatio's elegiac farewell to her best friend ("Good night, sweet princess" wouldn't have had quite the same ring to it) and the play was over, perchance to let CSI do its work with all the corpses laying about since Fortinbras was nowhere in evidence, I realized that Gertrude neglected to announce that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead. They are friends of Hamlet's who unwittingly become the weapon Claudius uses to rid himself of his irritating niece; sent off to England with Hamlet, they carry a letter asking the English king to kill Hamlet upon receipt of same. Hamlet has a lucky escape when their ship encounters pirates but sends R & G on without her, a new letter in their hands directing the English king to kill them instead, because apparently, the British take homicidal direction well?</p><p>It cheered me up to no end to think that these perennially interchangeable patsies may in fact have survived the play. Their unquestioning willingness to do whatever they are told suggests they were unlikely to open the letter sealing their doom, thereby actively saving themselves, but one can at least hope they misplaced it.</p><p>So to sum up, it was a really good production of <i>Hamlet</i>, made me think lots of interesting (to me) thoughts, and I would recommend that you jump in your tardises (tardisi?) and go back in time to see it. Or go see any and all productions at <a href="https://www.perchancetheatre.com/" target="_blank">Perchance Theatre</a> next year because they are worth the trip.</p><p><br /></p><p>*call me a cranky old lady telling kids to get off my lawn, which is what SWDNO essentially did at the time, but that particular encounter as we were on our way to see the delightful <a href="https://www.perchancetheatre.com/as-you-like-it.html" target="_blank"><i>As You Like It</i></a> got my granny knickers in a twist at the educational system, deplorable state of!</p><p>**I wore it the other day for a background role in a tv show filming locally and nearly <i>lost</i> it (talk about your Shakespearean tragedies!) to the wardrobe mistress when I carelessly left it lying about and then made a holy show of myself dragging everything out of my bag in the middle of New Gower Street when it suddenly occurred to me to check that I had everything. There was an <strike>overly</strike> dramatic last minute rescue as I spotted the deep blue edge peaking out of a pile of neatly-packed costumes through the open door of the van, dragging my precious out, heedless of those lesser items who had never had the privilege of viewing Paul Gross nor considered tossing themselves on stage in tribute...</p><p>***aka I'll achieve <a href="https://www.britannica.com/art/catharsis-criticism" target="_blank">catharsis</a> and purify and purge my negative emotions and stuff through art.</p><p><br /></p>no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-31057550691242844022020-09-16T15:57:00.001-02:302020-09-16T16:14:11.392-02:30it's not time yet, go lie downOne morning back in June, the day I started writing this post, I was sitting at the kitchen counter, eating peanut butter toast and working on a <a href="https://www.dailykillersudoku.com/" target="_blank">killer sudoku</a>, enjoying the cool summer breeze wafting in through the screened patio door, listening to the birdsong outside, trying not to cry.<div> </div><div>The novelty of having the patio door open in June was not lost on me on this not-exactly-tropical island where summer usually only deigns to occur on the occasional weekday in July. Plus I haven't had a patio screen door in about 15 years. </div><div><br /></div><div>The problem with having rampaging labs is that they are really hard on screens, especially if one of those labs is in fact a 100-pound Newfoundland and Labrador with ginormous paws who is not afraid to use them, and when you are taking too long to find the pause button on the remote so you can go let him inside.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="938" data-original-width="839" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyzTtvYiFRf2Jb7F85SPUBR8fydTcizVt-_Dgr8VQdXBwi-LarQhimVyIgzdttgbInM6vo2ZVckQkf8XGwsrxIuBD12xOLlGcGhMl3zBvMPlj63LdHpLjgmtHDbLfgA0sBmEVraFzuI5R5/w286-h320/345A56C0-E4A5-4519-BECD-17AB571F1304_1_105_c.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="(c) no plot" width="286" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hearts ©2016 no plot</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>If you were able to resist that sweet face (I certainly couldn't), you would not be able to resist the power of that tremendous paw, shredding metal screens like they were tissue paper or simply demanding the pats that you were legally obligated to provide him under the Charter of Rights and Freedoms (Hearts amendment, 2007).*</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGTceubYFyiMa4w4Fy71Sl0YZrHEw9lc3qsJ2iUxMQ846AKKiWQ4dViV6Q0VQiZx47EUJY4hJ9BVXOMqG9vjOimJOHh41dcu1r5K6xw6x3FhQQ0iqPYYijoslWgI0JAf451x91wS7L-C4t/s1024/4D0E1ADE-3FC1-456E-A6CA-785469C42A95_1_105_c.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGTceubYFyiMa4w4Fy71Sl0YZrHEw9lc3qsJ2iUxMQ846AKKiWQ4dViV6Q0VQiZx47EUJY4hJ9BVXOMqG9vjOimJOHh41dcu1r5K6xw6x3FhQQ0iqPYYijoslWgI0JAf451x91wS7L-C4t/s320/4D0E1ADE-3FC1-456E-A6CA-785469C42A95_1_105_c.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pwning this couch since 2007.** ©2020 no plot<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Hearts came into our lives by stealth. We would never have taken on a dog of his size at that point in time*** given that we were in canine recovery, having endured an entire year of crazy in the form of Shadow, the lab-husky mix who made us understand why some people abandon their children on doorsteps. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKAofTbP0GupEUTfOC33XLaK-D-gRZSGRso57_P6R4_ZTrb5SwXHC9j6qEHhqLAZFEaQgQv7q4vZIYdGuPvD36UEVouLHmAxOOH4mcqMSBMo92ZELRBP0yQsGtl4TRA2Q8OTQxGCYNicbO/s1024/19E82B1E-1A5A-47E1-B6E6-B366AC1D32C5_1_105_c.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKAofTbP0GupEUTfOC33XLaK-D-gRZSGRso57_P6R4_ZTrb5SwXHC9j6qEHhqLAZFEaQgQv7q4vZIYdGuPvD36UEVouLHmAxOOH4mcqMSBMo92ZELRBP0yQsGtl4TRA2Q8OTQxGCYNicbO/s320/19E82B1E-1A5A-47E1-B6E6-B366AC1D32C5_1_105_c.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shadow contemplates his prey, an evil gleam in his eye. The shoe was never seen again. <br />©2005 Mike who probably didn't know what he was getting us into.**** <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Shadow was approximately four months old when we got him, having spent most of that time living on the parish up in Natuashish. One day, he decided to run into Mike's house and used his powers of cuteness to enthrall Mike who in turn convinced us that all this adorable pup needed was a good home (to trash) and some unsuspecting people to love (traumatize). He was a sweet dog but he had no off-switch, which was problematic in a family that is constantly misplacing its on-switch. He tore a terrible path of mastication through our lives, shredding dog toys, child's toys, slippers, shoes, boots, window screens, screen doors, coffee tables, etc. He dug under every fence, slipped every backyard tie. He was a very difficult dog to live with until one day, he got very, very sick, very, very fast, and then he up and died. We were devastated (but also relieved).</div><div><br /></div><div>It was a while before we could muster up any enthusiasm for getting another dog. But after 5 months of not knowing when he was well off, Her Father started visiting the SPCA websites again, convinced that if he avoided puppies, he could find an older dog whose personality and behaviour would be more readily apparent, easier to assess; a calm dog who would fit into our lives with less disruption and decidedly less carnage.</div><div><br /></div><div>Which is why we decided to adopt Sylvie, a stray who had been found wandering the streets of Mount Pearl.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2vMus2l1hG8R90_uujEquohZw5jlvs7qq8jUwrsgIgFOY4AJX7wzMM9wG6WP90PZtiv4mtMrCMZ6kxqUY9EHaKQvyXNiJ2hnh5I6BYM5v_w803wS7ECK7h2s2lY4gYW9QckvEk2jBxs9-/s2816/IMG_3317_Sylvie.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2112" data-original-width="2816" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2vMus2l1hG8R90_uujEquohZw5jlvs7qq8jUwrsgIgFOY4AJX7wzMM9wG6WP90PZtiv4mtMrCMZ6kxqUY9EHaKQvyXNiJ2hnh5I6BYM5v_w803wS7ECK7h2s2lY4gYW9QckvEk2jBxs9-/s320/IMG_3317_Sylvie.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sylvie, aka the Trojan Horse. ©2007ish no plot<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>She was quiet, she was calm, she was approximately one year old. She was everything we were looking for.</div><div><br /></div><div>She was also not spayed but they didn't think she was pregnant...</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf8AVmAqyU8x0m5IkNngA_PN7cBoaY_znMpqCYI-GNazcv1h1mrZJ5xVjXn_E_XU_FOVPKe1kmSEcROx_ATmPcQWdghXFVAUx4kP9I8UeqNfUUDuwl5Dr2qqmzh_aKGKSUmQSo506bYjvv/s800/E3FBCD67-BBB8-4B53-9B01-2B36DA939F29.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf8AVmAqyU8x0m5IkNngA_PN7cBoaY_znMpqCYI-GNazcv1h1mrZJ5xVjXn_E_XU_FOVPKe1kmSEcROx_ATmPcQWdghXFVAUx4kP9I8UeqNfUUDuwl5Dr2qqmzh_aKGKSUmQSo506bYjvv/s320/E3FBCD67-BBB8-4B53-9B01-2B36DA939F29.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">.... ©2007 no plot<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>HF came back from the vet's in early May to announce that Sylvie was about to become an unwed mother at any minute - any minute turned out to be 9 p.m. that night. I desperately googled birth plans for dogs and was horrified to see that it involved a lot more than hot water and towels.</div><div><br /></div><div>I looked at Sylvie and wondered how dogs managed to give birth before they could read about it on the internet. I decided to let her get on with it, since she probably knew more about it than I did, but I left the webpage open just in case. She gave birth in this very room not five feet away from the computer. I expect she checked it once or twice when we weren't looking.</div><div><br /></div><div>The first pup to arrive was named Special by SWDNO who, at 5-almost-6 years old, was given leave to stay up past her bedtime to see the puppies being born. She named the second pup Hearts. We have no idea if the first two pups were in fact the ones who ended up with those names because it was at least two weeks before we were able to tell them apart. They were all ninja black, or so it appeared at first.</div><div><br /></div><div>The third puppy arrived after we had convinced SWDNO to go to bed, informing her that Sylvie was done having babies when clearly she wasn't. Four and five arrived sometime in the night after HF used the same ruse on me.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next morning I woke up at 6 a.m. and jumped out of bed like it was Christmas morning and Santa had finally brought me exactly what I wanted. Up to this point, I hadn't really felt that connected to Sylvie, particularly since she made it clear from the start that HF was her one true love, but we finally proceeded to bond over our joint love of adorable puppies; all was finally forgiven regarding the birthday lamb chop stolen off my plate one month before.*****</div><div><br /></div><div>My mother was amazed that I was willing to take on the hassle of caring for puppies, but it wasn't really any more surprising than my willingness to care for SWDNO. It was a bit overwhelming at times but at least Sylvie was more helpful in cleaning up poop than certain other co-parents I could name, even if her method was unexpected and rather disturbing.******</div><div><br /></div><div>Even though we couldn't tell them apart or even determine their sex (we checked - it seriously could have gone either way), we decided on names for the other three pups; I called one <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/I,_Borg" target="_blank">Third of Five</a>. HF named one Jasper and Drama Queen named one Princess.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgABynJ37X96Vrt1tTX5airrqp1DgEHOdh6cUpIo4rZ1nOViAbhC0QfKkaw2HUleACepHwfJiIlObuTm6N2A6qXAfh36oh707cI3ngMjoJ3EGYAJhYGwKDfL0N0zoHnax_1DO27dVw33QIW/s480/30F77964-2EC3-4AB3-92C5-2508A86CE9B1_4_5005_c.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgABynJ37X96Vrt1tTX5airrqp1DgEHOdh6cUpIo4rZ1nOViAbhC0QfKkaw2HUleACepHwfJiIlObuTm6N2A6qXAfh36oh707cI3ngMjoJ3EGYAJhYGwKDfL0N0zoHnax_1DO27dVw33QIW/s320/30F77964-2EC3-4AB3-92C5-2508A86CE9B1_4_5005_c.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Puppy pinwheel, ©2007 no plot<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>As the days passed, it became clear that a) they were all boys but Hearts, Special, and Princess were totally man enough to deal, and b) the pup who we were constantly finding several feet from the puppy pen in the dining room had brown leggings. We decided that this was Third of Five. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then one morning we came down to discover <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Great_Escape_(film)" target="_blank">The Great Escape</a> in progress.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikvwtrOTXnj5yOWQEfIDA_Ln7dp0ZhoJjps-cqgMmuhdjW5cr3c-3V8eV_s1LDSNcK6CIup5N9Q3jRHgLB6sPotMISfoz4ul8ir2WIdyS92P0VrMizjeJvCDZLSzAloVJbLpWIDXlQ5hkv/s480/2A7A2B10-258E-42DE-925D-6AB5F79FAB1F_4_5005_c.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikvwtrOTXnj5yOWQEfIDA_Ln7dp0ZhoJjps-cqgMmuhdjW5cr3c-3V8eV_s1LDSNcK6CIup5N9Q3jRHgLB6sPotMISfoz4ul8ir2WIdyS92P0VrMizjeJvCDZLSzAloVJbLpWIDXlQ5hkv/s320/2A7A2B10-258E-42DE-925D-6AB5F79FAB1F_4_5005_c.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great escaping is exhausting, ©2007 no plot.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>It then became clear that Third of Five was in reality the reincarnation of Steve McQueen, tasked with reconnoitring the mysterious world outside the <strike>prison camp</strike> puppy pen to prepare the way for his brothers' ill-fated escape attempt.</div><div><br /></div><div>Eventually, we noticed that two pups had white toes on their hind feet. They became Hearts and Special. You could only tell them apart by picking them up because Special had two white hearts on his chest and Hearts had only one.*******</div><div><br /></div><div>The SPCA said they would help us find homes for the pups when they were old enough - they would have taken the whole family back if we wanted but I just laughed in their faces, or I would have if I had been speaking to them, because MY PUPPIES!</div><div><br /></div><div>HF said we should find homes for all the pups but he was clearly delusional, because MY PUPPIES! I knew we couldn't keep them all, especially when we noticed the size of their paws and realized they were going to be Big Boys!, but giving all of them up was unthinkable. I ended up having to bribe HF by finally agreeing to buy a gas-guzzling SUV, global warming be damned, so we could transport twice as many dogs as we had originally intended.********</div><div><br /></div><div>I thought choosing which one to keep was going to be hard, but in the end I didn't have to make the choice. Hearts and SWDNO made the choice for me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Every time SWDNO entered the puppy pen, she would sit down on a low stool and there would be a mad puppy rush towards her. She would then pick up the one who got to her first; nine times out of ten, that puppy was Hearts. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then SWDNO told us we were keeping Hearts so we just agreed.</div><div><br /></div><div>It broke my heart to give up the others but I have never regretted our choice.</div><div><br /></div><div>Having two labs seemed to have saved us no end of trouble with inappropriate chewing. Steve McQueen's adoptive mother regaled me with a long list of the things he destroyed, including a cell phone, but Hearts and Sylvie were mostly happy to chew on each other, only occasionally doing the naughty by chewing pencils, pens, tissues, but not much else.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjXKIcFLCn6kjvp-FQDttOMV8g8atNTO-KatqVv8WCKw7eMA9xhL6MnZF5h3VrQW3lsSVFxDUPXwud1iPIzhu5731a9WjlxAyXN8H7WdJNq7AKwnK-QpDekyXnEhGyMEXbKfkDn_zWl5IX/s480/5652A73F-12E2-496B-97B6-B6C7847B9034_4_5005_c.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjXKIcFLCn6kjvp-FQDttOMV8g8atNTO-KatqVv8WCKw7eMA9xhL6MnZF5h3VrQW3lsSVFxDUPXwud1iPIzhu5731a9WjlxAyXN8H7WdJNq7AKwnK-QpDekyXnEhGyMEXbKfkDn_zWl5IX/s320/5652A73F-12E2-496B-97B6-B6C7847B9034_4_5005_c.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little girls make excellent chew toys, ©2007 no plot<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Also we had to keep the kitchen doors closed or Hearts, aka Jean Valjean, would steal some bread from the-not-so-safe-after-all furthest corner of the counter or raid the garbage can. Then he would sneakily hide around the corner by the patio door to snack on his booty out of sight of the casual passerby. He would never steal anything off the table or counter while you were watching but if you were foolish enough to leave him alone, all bets were off.</div><div><br /></div><div>Hearts was also a chocoholic, starting with his first Christmas when he found and demolished an entire bag of Laura Secord chocolate balls that had been buried in a bag of Christmas presents. Then there was the time he found the Easy Bake Oven cake mixes that had been stashed in a bedroom closet and he decided to test them out. And the two children I still owe new hoodies after he gnawed a hole in their pockets to get at the tasty sweets inside. If chocolate had been a controlled substance, Hearts would have had a great career as a sniffer dog at the airport.</div><div><br /></div><div>For the first year or so, the dogs would stalk us in the mornings, waiting for the first sign of life to start pestering us to give them breakfast. Hearts would stick his big, old nose in your face if you merely cracked an eyelid at him. Because we are expert dog trainers, we eventually cured them of that habit with the simple command "It's not time yet, go lie down!" (patent pending). Rolling over became permissable once more until a more reasonable hour, but once your feet hit the floor, it was "no time to pee, give me my Dentastix!"</div><div><br /></div><div>We had to walk them every day or there would be wrassling, wrassling that would rearrange the furniture. Sylvie revealed that she was not exactly as calm as we thought, turning into a psycho-killer every time we ran into another dog when we had her on leash. All other dogs must die! she'd snarl, also, pickups, vans, and SUVs (irony) because she's a committed environmentalist.</div><div><br /></div><div>Hearts, on the other hand, loved every dog he ever met. So much so that several times he pulled me off my feet in his eagerness to get to them. He was always so disappointed whenever the other dog refused to be BFFs. Although why anyone would get nervous about 100 lbs of muscle heading straight for them dragging a middle-aged woman in his wake, I'll never know. </div><div><br /></div><div>Once we switched to a Gentle Leader, a leash which went around his nose instead of his thickly impervious neck, I was able to walk him without incurring further road rash.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was also highly inadvisable to let him know that you had any notion of taking him for a Chinese cooking pot (wok) or an opposite of cow (woc), or make any sudden moves towards the stairs or breathe in his general direction after supper, or it was Hammer Time. Navigating down the multitudinous stairs in a split-level is no easy chore with a wooly mammoth dancing at your heels like he's trying out for Soul Train.</div><div><br /></div><div>When Hearts felt joy, the very ground trembled.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fortunately for us, if it wasn't breakfast or walk time, Hearts was the chillest dog I have ever met. He loved to just hang with the fam; weekend mornings usually found the no plot family gathered in the living room, both dogs sprawled on the floor, Hearts soaking up all the available rays.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8o6oG7TwB2yJKViTPZfc_kpvCTw23pm7SuWCFC0td3uuglE5olH55mwmN27hPHLS0m-On3CxermMBV7yav2SGt_rhZ-K3gekTa39bjcLQUj0PMcnj-pvMR-KnuX0GAgUADtubiH9HEAQ9/s2048/750623C0-8893-462B-AD0B-2F1D08C5E092.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8o6oG7TwB2yJKViTPZfc_kpvCTw23pm7SuWCFC0td3uuglE5olH55mwmN27hPHLS0m-On3CxermMBV7yav2SGt_rhZ-K3gekTa39bjcLQUj0PMcnj-pvMR-KnuX0GAgUADtubiH9HEAQ9/s320/750623C0-8893-462B-AD0B-2F1D08C5E092.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A furry sundial, ©2020 no plot</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>His favourite position was horizontal but this did not mean he would not bestir himself to demand the attention that was his due. Sylvie might lie idly by, waiting for someone to notice her, but Hearts would accost you for love as you lay hove off on the love seat, obediently sitting beside you and smiting you with his mighty paw until you complied. But before too long he would slump to the floor, all the while expecting you to contort yourself to continue with the pats (op cit. Charter of Rights and Freedom).</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not sure when SWDNO got the brilliant idea that Hearts would make a good Therapy Dog with <a href="https://www.sja.ca/English/Community-Services/Pages/Therapy%20Dog%20Services/default.aspx" target="_blank">St. John Ambulance</a> but when she did, I agreed wholeheartedly. A little halfheartedly, when I realized she was too young to do it and I would have to be his handler. I was all for her working on her social anxiety by talking to absolute strangers but not quite as keen on working on my own.</div><div><br /></div><div>I like people a whole lot better when I don't have to rack my brains for words and...sentences and...stuff... Whatever. The point is, Hearts was always up for meeting other dogs and being worshipped by humans. In fact he insisted on it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I decided that since I was always willing to talk to anyone who was willing to admire my dog, I could somehow manage. </div><div><br /></div><div>Hearts passed the Therapy Dog test with flying colours. He had no problem with walking into a roomful of dogs and letting them live (unlike Sylvie). He accepted that he couldn't be their BFF, for now, and allowed me to keep him from sniffing their butts (but secretly plotted to do so at his first opportunity). </div><div><br /></div><div>Tremendous bangs and crashes from dropped metal objects fazed him not a bit. When the examiner put a blanket over his head and made weird noises at him to simulate unexpected behaviour a dog might encounter, Hearts just stuck his head under the blanket and licked him on the nose.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH0y2uv_vmMMaNJm52Yq7lLpjayd7L2kyPkBxUkl750IDgD349BlgwUl5KMhvWPepX_khmDuF6TIyxKLyYpwbGLn2TTK6BuyVLLMoNYQZqyXpH7siXB-deVfUyAg8zuf9ZJBOoMMpNDmXf/s2048/0C51EC2C-8D83-4150-81D4-5D3548F9A3F7.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH0y2uv_vmMMaNJm52Yq7lLpjayd7L2kyPkBxUkl750IDgD349BlgwUl5KMhvWPepX_khmDuF6TIyxKLyYpwbGLn2TTK6BuyVLLMoNYQZqyXpH7siXB-deVfUyAg8zuf9ZJBOoMMpNDmXf/s320/0C51EC2C-8D83-4150-81D4-5D3548F9A3F7.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love a man in uniform, ©2018 no plot</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>We started off visiting a nursing home but I quickly learned that parallel parking an enormous canine next to a hospital bed was not easy to do, especially when the dog in question was more keen to give into the lure of gravity when the pats were light and tentative. We started visiting a dementia ward because the women there were ambulatory and more likely to pat hard enough to keep him happy. Even those who weren't interested in patting him would smile delightedly and ask questions, usually the same ones, over and over.</div><div><br /></div><div>SWDNO's high school and university were a little more to his liking, teenagers and young adults being more likely to worship him on their knees, sometimes 5 and 6 at a time. There was plenty of dog to go around. </div><div><br /></div><div>No matter where we ended up, Hearts always got excited when he saw me wearing the St. John's Ambulance t-shirt that meant we were about to go get some pats.</div><div><br /></div><div>But even when the pats were not up to scratch, I think he still liked to go and just be with people. He had a knack for showing up when I needed him, in any case. Whenever I begrudgingly got around to doing the <a href="https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Melon%20Farmer" target="_blank">melon-farming</a> <a href="http://theresnoplot.blogspot.com/2016/12/i-made-list.html" target="_blank">dishes</a>, he was usually there lying on the kitchen floor behind me, giving me moral support.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaETTuWvklO2TPuhfr24fLwp7ww7GWjDeEajLBsfN_QZJxM3lYLJPm5XDd8gBfiEKPfX9uh6jz4DqWvXiksdyC7SxNCOWnQ3lv9Wo1ZkXaWL17qUEtFtDIrv0W3Dbf6sOb7VT0AAU22zIF/s2048/661C28AE-5D3E-4723-8372-1776850078CC.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaETTuWvklO2TPuhfr24fLwp7ww7GWjDeEajLBsfN_QZJxM3lYLJPm5XDd8gBfiEKPfX9uh6jz4DqWvXiksdyC7SxNCOWnQ3lv9Wo1ZkXaWL17qUEtFtDIrv0W3Dbf6sOb7VT0AAU22zIF/s320/661C28AE-5D3E-4723-8372-1776850078CC.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Helping with dishes and mopping the floor with his tongue which was too big for his mouth anyway, ©2018 no plot</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>When Hearts turned 13 back in May and Sylvie probably turned 14, I worried he wouldn't be with us much longer. Thirteen has been an unlucky age for too many of my dogs, Jason, Mugsy, Becky, probably Snuffy.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXzm8Zu-70wpiObTzO8rn0NBvjVe51etrkUzWgHf8YAPSuPxtHDYVPep7Ss1DiWgksnDBN0jgEHaIqmvM7vEQYkvqv1JRGBmDnYY3vjCzdg5-h3UEQlUf1lNNTmVwrMw4mPHDmDesoPOL_/s320/44CEBDA1-B06C-42E1-BAC3-AC9603801CAB.jpeg" /><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSUTxF0wUCRDYU5lS9Oima73d0CwnUnqkr9WVciWdOH3biOnyVuRYb96-4_sZCFTKgjpB4j6W_XQm9G5ynUbMWpBQexDdeFxIUMqYkgJU9hjEuklN7h5XOcRreYyx6E7588jga8sin9tg-/s320/EC50C8A0-42CD-40C2-AA08-B6D08F90D0AB.jpeg" style="text-align: left;" /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birthday boy and girl in hand crafted hats by SWDNO. ©2020 no plot<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>It still didn't make it easier when HF came home from the vet's with the news. Hearts had started to slow down on our walks again - we thought his arthritis was paining him but it was cancer. There wasn't anything to be done that wouldn't put him through needless pain that wasn't likely to do much good anyway.</div><div><br /></div><div>We hoped for more time but less than a week later, I was standing with him at the end of the driveway, waiting for the mobile vet to come. I had shown him his leash each day since we got the diagnosis; he got excited every time, but each day our walk was a little bit shorter. Today, the driveway was as far as he would go.</div><div><br /></div><div>Two little blonde girls from two doors over were riding their bikes past us, as they had done many times before, but suddenly, one of them stopped in front of us and hopped off her bike.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Can I pat your dog?" she asked for the first time ever.</div><div><br /></div><div>He lay down at my feet and soon there were two blonde heads leaning over him, giving him pats. I don't know why they felt the urge to pat him that day and not any other day they had seen us walking him. It may have been because they had lost their own dog not long before.</div><div><br /></div><div>Whatever it was, it was some kind of therapy for me to stand there in the warm sun, watching him do the job he was born for one last time. It made us all feel a little better.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQVbWOygMX82NkAvYZY7GUK2Jq-tauV1ZZxQmhSW36WDULvSIvRVv_OjeQ34cGt1L7Ky16oly5T1h4QaEnN5IrhAMbUE6iacK25YOV2c-ZUOWDFcg9ZU52YOYGnDnj73pQ_3u4Le2sqddF/s2048/4B112F2B-F4A6-40DB-A23C-EA677165FF59.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQVbWOygMX82NkAvYZY7GUK2Jq-tauV1ZZxQmhSW36WDULvSIvRVv_OjeQ34cGt1L7Ky16oly5T1h4QaEnN5IrhAMbUE6iacK25YOV2c-ZUOWDFcg9ZU52YOYGnDnj73pQ_3u4Le2sqddF/s320/4B112F2B-F4A6-40DB-A23C-EA677165FF59.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBKInbJS4PgmioiOYnp3tRqKLCQiVlj0fWBu45fyw1ea8yL0vM5Mm3bVpltOJVDGJc_yoVkgtHnSyGw09-XkB2VuDV13K9ctUJZjKJverQEfm8Uk3t1TY02QqHn9OIzAQyfR_x9PSjTPb_/s320/4F3E409C-BEBA-439F-B969-9E0E73FEE82B.jpeg" style="text-align: left;" /><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLGEVJ6wXBmUQrJrRLq2gWmAPe5oAo8sJ8XOWHvn1PezoQSbZtjbMlqh5CIcDPgvBQ6HFnhZVLcj1ShvVeqz85Om_9bM3rqx3EQj5RomCZ0647zt7uBh8_tTInamgzQq1j-j8bP43UkLue/s320/5FA75A9D-AD93-426E-812A-31E1981ADFCF.jpeg" /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="911" data-original-width="683" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpFjOIRxFdANLbtPeFvuZKHGuIN03TaB5la5lvXfl_4jTOnff857HfxwbX3dIMJsWDCA96RwFIS_5fuhkkGk9ohyphenhyphen7AkiQZfNA6WVacNgRx7d47NgL3HC8hkBrBIcYzPvJnf-TlZzs3cbpP/s320/9A6FDF38-E990-4B15-AE07-D19D38E621F2.jpeg" style="text-align: left;" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGjcLFRjAGxWUQERZoqAv5f4Nuvg1cFKJvgV4s8MeuM_yMmNGKHVVpkPpnLc0_EpGtHmw_kl8_rYAXSfVKn2HJQl9ucjxn_zo8-52JQNNN4YSrjLueXyeLGYzNVWyAdjUyAtNJFucifnz3/s2048/FC5053CD-C637-4966-A511-F475AC357E4E.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGjcLFRjAGxWUQERZoqAv5f4Nuvg1cFKJvgV4s8MeuM_yMmNGKHVVpkPpnLc0_EpGtHmw_kl8_rYAXSfVKn2HJQl9ucjxn_zo8-52JQNNN4YSrjLueXyeLGYzNVWyAdjUyAtNJFucifnz3/w240-h320/FC5053CD-C637-4966-A511-F475AC357E4E.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">He must have pats. All the pats. © no plot, HF, SWDNO</div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>*To tell the truth, the old screen door was shredded by Shadow, the dog we owned before Hearts came into our lives. But since Hearts's favourite way of summoning his staff was to whack the window or door he saw you through with enough force that you feared the glass would shatter, it didn't seem prudent to install the new screen when we got a new patio door</div><div>**Note the paws which are almost as big as the head</div><div>***absolute lie, see sweet face op cit., photos above, also we are idiots</div><div>****or did he? Hmmmmmmmm</div><div>*****since she never repeated the offence, she was able to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pleading_the_belly" target="_blank">plead her belly</a> and the charges were dropped</div><div>******mama dogs eat puppy poop, gross but also extremely efficient</div><div>*******Princess had a white "V" on his chest and Jasper was completely black. Since Hearts had two hearts (one inside, one out), that makes him a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Time_Lord" target="_blank">Time Lord</a></div><div>********Three-times as much dog as it turned out since Hearts fully grown was almost twice as heavy as Sylvie. The vet thought the pups were part Newf, confirmed by a DNA test later on. Sylvie is mostly Labrador; Hearts was a genuine Newfoundland and Labrador.</div><div><br /></div><br />no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-22537710887477181052020-04-22T15:40:00.002-02:302020-06-25T11:49:04.716-02:30love in the time of covid-19I have a confession to make and it's not that my only personal online comment about the coronavirus so far is about underwear.<br />
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I don't know how judgmental you will get on this; maybe you will judge me for judging you by thinking you are judging me. </div>
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It's not a crime. I'm not about to declare that I shot JFK (or J.R.) or kidnapped the Lindbergh baby.*</div>
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It's a thing that a lot of people do that I have only just gotten around to doing after years of turning my nose up in disdain, declaring I would never stoop so low.</div>
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My name is noplot and I read romance novels.</div>
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It started innocently enough with a recommendation from a blogger named Julia from Here Be Hippogriffs, a writer who I love and admire but who has sadly disappeared from the blogosphere. She brazenly admitted liking kilt-rippers but in particular sang the praises of Georgette Heyer. Having dabbled before and found the genre wanting, I was skeptical but trusted Julia enough to try again.</div>
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My library happened to have one e-book by Heyer; <i>Faro's Daughter</i> turned out to be the literary equivalent of a Cary Grant screwball comedy set in Regency England. Delightful and witty and romantic and fun. And no sex, not even of the train-enters-the-tunnel-<i>metaphorically</i> kind.</div>
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One free book turned into a collection of 23 volumes and counting, not a dud amongst the lot.** I would own more but all her romances are in trade paperback that cost $25 Canadian or more - pretty pricey for an author who's been dead for 46 years. In some ways this is a good thing since I have been forced to purchase them slowly, taking my time, making it last. </div>
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This did not prevent me from racing my friend who didn't know what a meme was to get to the romance section of a huge used book sale last year. When she managed to get one I didn't have yet, I refrained from snatching the precious volume from her hands...but just barely and only because it might harm the book.</div>
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It all gets a bit hazy after my first hit of Heyer. Perhaps there were other hidden gems out there? Perhaps not all romance writers were "<a href="http://theresnoplot.blogspot.com/2009/06/witless-with-wanting.html" target="_blank">witless with wanting.</a>" Perhaps I could hide my shame by sampling some other works in the privacy of my own e-library stacks. Libraries make excellent hiding places.</div>
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Somewhere along the way, I also stumbled upon an excellent website <a href="https://smartbitchestrashybooks.com/" target="_blank">Smart Bitches, Trashy Books</a> that continued to support my habit by providing recommendations and also linking to free books and great sales. </div>
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If you are my friend on Goodreads, you may have noted an uptick on the number of romance novels I will admit to have read. Technically, that is only a tip of the iceberg but the ones you find there are the ones I have actually read from cover to cover. It's a rule I have - read all the words, you have to own it.***</div>
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There are many that I have just read for the good bits which may or may not include: the blurb, enough of the set up to know what the set up is but could you please just get on with it, the meet cute, the meet stupid, the meet wildly improbable, some of the hero's angst but not all because he should just get over himself, some of the heroine's angst ditto, the first kiss, the first time his heartstrings/penis went zing (sometimes on the first page), the first time she realized she should have worn pantyliners, first base, second base, what even is third base, the household chores being done by paid subordinates, the sex, the set up for the sex but then sadly not the sex, the wedding, the epilogue baby. </div>
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My personal preference is usually for historical romance, hence the Heyer. It's easier to make the sexual tension climb slowly when the woman can't just decide to jump the man as soon as she notices how he fills out his cream-coloured breeches. Modern romances have a hard time coming up with reasons why the story isn't over as soon as somebody's maidenhead is no longer in peril.</div>
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One modern series I read consisted of a different-yet-strangely-the-same Alpha Male in each book explaining to His Woman that she is beautiful and awesome and perfect just the way she is even if she thinks she's fat (which she clearly isn't) because he says she is (or isn't) and could she please stop putting herself down because she is really Pissing Him Off. It was this series that made me understand why some people stay with bad boyfriends because the sex is good.</div>
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Then there's the shapeshifter series where the guy turns into a wolf or a tiger or bear and the sex is animalistic and hot but nobody ever has sex when in animal form because that would just be weird. But it's okay to just kidnap women and take them off to your lair to have mind-blowing sex because you can just tell by her scent that she's your mate. No need to find out if your Netflix wishlist has any overlaps.</div>
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Then there's all the wish fulfilment from landing a rich boyfriend: </div>
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<li>The closet full of clothes (including jeans!) that all fits perfectly, all purchased by a personal shopper who has never met the heroine or by the billionaire's chief henchman, who is charmingly gruff and whose psychic power is guessing women's measurements just by looking at her. Jesus, I can't even figure out what fits me by looking at sizes in the store and I live in this body. </li>
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<li>The housekeeper who cooks all the meals, washes all the dishes, does all the shopping, and never walks in to dust when everybody's got their knickers off, thereby turning hot and sexy into a scene more cringey than a full season of <i>The Office</i>.</li>
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<li>The trips on private planes that are really bad for the environment. Plus I would never take off my seatbelt during the flight because of unexpected turbulence, thereby limiting things in terms of sexual positions or contact and really I was just going to read my book.****</li>
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I've tried a little bit of BDSM (which is something I'd never imagined saying out loud on the internet so thank God my mother doesn't remember to read these posts) but after a couple dozen books or so, I found it mostly left me cold. </div>
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First of all, it sounds really exhausting for the guy especially when he spends all night thinking up inventive ways to cause multiple orgasms for her, while only getting the one for himself, and then has to get up before dawn to be an extremely successful capitalist in some vague manner which is totally not environmentally unfriendly or oppressive to third world countries or obscene in any way shape or form because, let's face it, great wealth in the hands of the few is the greatest plague upon humanity, unless, of course, you are using it to cause earth-shattering orgasms.</div>
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Plus afterwards you have to wipe down all the equipment.</div>
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And also, I am a middle child so, as Her Father will attest, the first order that comes out the guy's mouth, I'd be like, "Fuck off, Christian, you're not the boss of me!"</div>
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The thing is that I have loved romance all my life. I love romantic comedy movies, I love romantic scenes is other movies. I shipped Mulder and Scully, I shipped Remington Steele and Laura, I shipped Maddie and David from <i>Moonlighting</i>, Sam and Diane, Ross and Rachel.</div>
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But I also learned early that I shouldn't like "girly" things like romance novels. Girly things are not cool. They are silly and frivolous and not important topics of conversations such as sports and cars and penis size and whatever else it is that men talk about? Boats? Hunting and gathering? Phlegm?</div>
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Everyone agrees that Love is the most important thing but writing about the search for love is seriously uncool.</div>
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I grew up in the '60s and '70s when the war between the sexes was raging. It's not like sexism has vanished since then, but it's hard for anyone born in this century to know how sickening it was. You didn't even realize half of it because you were so used to it, it didn't even occur to you to be annoyed.</div>
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Star Trek was one of my favourite shows and there were plenty of women in it, but Captain Kirk called his female crew "girls". One show centred on a woman who went mad because she could never be a starship captain so she took over Kirk's body. The crew noticed something was up because Girl-Krik was so histrionic - considering Shatner's acting choices, I wonder how they noticed the difference.</div>
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But, why the fuck was it so unbelievable that in 300 years a woman could be a starship captain?</div>
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When I read books, I was always drawn to the tomboy character, a girl who could be just as boy as the next boy, like Jo in <i>Little Women</i>, like Nancy's friend George in <i>Nancy Drew</i>. I actually preferred <i>The Hardy Boys</i> to <i>Nancy Drew</i> because I thought Nancy was too girly. Nancy kept getting saved by her boyfriend. The Hardy Boys got themselves out of scrapes.</div>
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I was not really a tomboy; I sucked at sports; I didn't want to learn karate; I didn't particularly want to climb trees, unless maybe it was a nice treehouse with a ladder and place to sit and read my book about girls who were tomboys.</div>
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I didn't want to be a boy; I love being a girl. But in my mind, girly girls were less than; the girls I admired could do "boy" things and do them well. The thought that "girly" things were not inferior but were just rated that way is a concept that has taken decades to sink in.</div>
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As for books, there was a pecking order that had come down through the ages and modern romance novels were definitely on the bottom, probably lower than instruction manuals since the romance writing style was reputed to be so abysmal.</div>
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The fact is that many great works of literature are out and out romances. All of Shakespeare's comedies and a good deal of his tragedies. All of Jane Austen's work. Jane Eyre. Lots of Dickens, Tolstoy, George Eliot, D.H. Lawrence, Hemingway, Fitzgerald. Many great works include romance even when the main plot is something else. But the minute you call them a "romance" it's like you insulted them.</div>
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Meanwhile, romance novelists are working in their billion dollar girly ghetto because they know what sells - there are plenty of women who want to hear what they have to say. There are good writers and bad writers. There are writers who get a lot of stuff right even when they get a lot of stuff wrong. </div>
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We all need a bit of romance in our lives. Some men will claim they add women to their testosterone-fuelled action flicks because a) it makes the women in the audience happy and b) boobs, but I suspect they also ship Hulk and Black Widow just like the rest of us.</div>
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Romance isn't just hearts and flowers and wish fulfillment; it's about finding real love, a love that will last through your life, a love that will sustain and support you.</div>
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It's possible to have a good life without ever finding that one person who loves you, someone who picked you out of the crowd and said this is the person I need to stay in my life, the one I'd most like to be quarantined with. Someone under no obligation to care about how you like your bacon or your eggs or to tolerate you or the rest of your family at Thanksgiving dinner. Someone who will go to two different supermarkets to buy the bread you like. Someone who will nag you to get your snow tires on because otherwise they'll worry until you get home during the first snowstorm.</div>
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It's possible to live without romance, but I doubt anyone starts out rejecting the idea out of hand.</div>
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Writing about romance is hard. It's the stuff of everyday life. No explosions, no bullets flying, and no car crashes, although my mother told me she nearly killed my father by getting out of the car when he was in the middle of changing the tire on their first date. If falling off a jack counts as a car crash...</div>
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The typical romance is more like Girl has birthday and gets Boy's name from a friend in lieu of present.***** Boy meets Girl for coffee even though Girl doesn't drink coffee (Boy probably should have taken that as a sign that he will have to go to multiple supermarkets looking for bread some day). Boy takes Girl to a Johnny Depp movie that is supposed to be a romance but is just awkward and strange. Boy kisses Girl anyway. Girl likes Boy but realizes she's in the middle of a major depression and puts Boy on hold until the drugs kick in. Girl remembers how to feel again and stalks Boy at the Regatta. Boy takes Girl to the Folk Festival. Girl kisses Boy. Boy goes on three week vacation without Girl and sends her only one freaking email. Girl tries to surprise Boy by picking him up at the airport but Boy has unromantically left his car in longterm parking. Girl awkwardly trails Boy home. Boy ignores Girl at the door because Rat has been using his house as an Air BNB while he was gone. Girl stands there awkwardly watching shovel-wielding Boy chase Rat, wondering why this reunion is so awkward and strange and not like a romance novel at all. Boy drives Rat out from behind the couch causing Girl to leap posthaste aside as Rat leaves posthaste through the back door. Boy is mortified. Girl can't wait to start a blog so she can tell the world about it in three part harmony, with photographs with circles and arrows and paragraphs on the back of each one and asterisks on the bottom explaining her references.****** Boy asks Girl to marry him even though Girl uses way too many words and asterisks to tell a story. Girl marries Boy despite his lack of appreciation for a good run-on sentence.</div>
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Finding the right romance novel(s) for me have been a lot like the process of finding the right man. There's a wide range of them, lots of duds, lots of maybes with weird bits that just don't work, lots with good bits that don't make up for the bad bits. Other people will try to set me up with someone, saying "this one is great" but I figure out pretty quick that they're just not my type. Some are nice but just not right. </div>
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Some will blow my socks off and not just euphemistically. I will read them again and again and never get tired of them because they capture those moments of connection, the times when two people look at each other and just know they are meant to be together through pandemics and every other disaster and every good thing too.</div>
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*For those who were born in this century, the answer key (allegedly): Lee Harvey Oswald, (Kristin), Bruno Richard Hauptmann, i.e. not me </div>
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**Apparently the same can't be said for her contemporary mystery novels so I've avoided them and can therefore neither confirm nor deny</div>
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***Fortunately for me, it is literally impossible to read all the words in Fifty Shades of Grey so no one will ever know that embarrassing fact about me</div>
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****I read this one book where the guy bought them first class tickets instead because it left less of a carbon footprint and I practically swooned</div>
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*****Total fabrication, I got the name and a present!</div>
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******<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alice%27s_Restaurant" target="_blank">Alice's Restaurant Massacree</a></div>
no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-73306602145874772862020-02-24T15:30:00.000-03:302020-02-25T10:52:20.672-03:30once in love with amy (and jo)Warning! Spoilers ahead for anyone who hasn't read <i>Little Women</i> or seen the 2019 movie version which is a delight; you should watch it first before you read this unless you like having things ruined for you.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="giphy-embed" frameborder="0" height="295" src="https://giphy.com/embed/6yr1wjPScf14Y" width="480"></iframe><a href="https://giphy.com/gifs/game-of-thrones-gif-no-spoilers-spoiilers-6yr1wjPScf14Y">via GIPHY</a><br />
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It is a t<a href="https://tomatonation.com/culture-and-criticism/the-amy-march-shirt-of-justice-coming-soon/" target="_blank">ruth universally acknowledged</a> by anyone who has ever read <i>Little Women</i> that Amy is the Absolute Worst and that Jo should have married Laurie.<br />
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And, not only should Jo have married Laurie (who is a boy and extremely hot), she should NOT have married an old man who is not hot in any way, was prone to mansplaining, and was probably some kind of bear shapeshifter.*<br />
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Baby sister Amy spends the first half of the book being the most annoying brat to inflict herself on a long-suffering big sister, which is bad enough when you are a long-suffering big sister yourself and can relate. But then she commits the unforgivable sin of burning Jo's writing in a fit of pique.<br />
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The only copy of the words that Jo wrote. Burnt.<br />
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Words that flowed out of her like a deep river gliding effortlessly down to the sea. Words that wouldn't let her sleep at night, jangling in her head so loud she had to get out of bed, light a candle, and desperately scribble them down just so she could get them to shut up. Words she wrestled out of her brain and pinned to the paper. Words that would embarrass her later in life but for now seem like a work of staggering genius. Words that were good and worth saving. Words that she struggled to find and slaved over and could never reproduce no matter how hard she tried. Words she totally forgot to back up in the Cloud.<br />
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I couldn't have been more horrified if Amy had set fire to the family house and then put Marmee on a spit to roast over the coals.<br />
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Jo may have forgiven her but I have not.<br />
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Then Friggin' Amy who is the Absolute Worst gets to go on a trip to Europe instead of Jo just because Aunt March wants to actually enjoy herself by taking someone she actually gets along with.<br />
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And <i>then</i>, Friggin' Amy, the Destroyer of Words, actually MARRIES LAURIE despite the fact that everyone is still shipping him with Jo and will to the end of time.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Image result for i lime amy" src="https://relevantobscurity.files.wordpress.com/2017/03/amylimesjpeg.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Via <a href="https://relevantobscurity.com/2017/03/13/amys-pickled-limes-little-women/" target="_blank">Relevant Obscurity</a> See also Tomato Nation.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Essentially, LMA has been on my shit-list for the past 40 years or so.<br />
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But other than that teeny, tiny, whopping great grudge which I was intending to take to my grave, I actually love <i>Little Women</i>.<br />
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I am Jo. Or I wanted to be. All she ever wanted to be was a writer. She was a tomboy whose best friend was a boy (I had no idea how to talk to boys) and a maverick who runs off to New York to actually be a writer in the great big world despite the patriarchal system that said there was no way she would make it. That was how I wanted my life to go.<br />
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I could even imagine that my sisters were Meg, Beth, and Amy, mostly because I have three sisters and I'm the second oldest, just like Jo, and mostly because I was best sister-friends with my next younger sister, my "Beth", and my baby sister, my "Amy" used to bug the shit out of me.**<br />
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I read the book several times back in the day and have seen most, if not all of the movie adaptations. The <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0024264/" target="_blank">Katharine Hepburn</a> one, the <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0041594/" target="_blank">June Allyson</a> one, the <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0110367/" target="_blank">Winona Ryder</a> one. The <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0078643/?ref_=nm_flmg_act_119" target="_blank">tv mini-series</a> where Captain Kirk was Professor <strike>Bear</strike> Bhaer.***<br />
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I know the plot forwards and backwards and upside down. I almost didn't go to see the latest version because I know the plot forwards and backwards and upside down. But then I read that the director was Greta Gerwig and that she had done something to make it new.<br />
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Basically, she solves the problem of Amy. For that matter, she solves the problem of Jo.<br />
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Instead of following the timeline of the novel, starting with their childhood adventures/sins and working up to the happily ever after that is marriage and career fulfilment (for some), the movie starts with Jo arriving in New York, carrying her portfolio, pursuing the true romance she has always dreamed of - her love of words.<br />
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Meanwhile, Amy is in Paris, working on a painting, dreaming of being a great artist, when she meets up with Laurie. He is mourning the loss of the love of his life with the traditional European bacchanal of wine, women, and Eurail passes. She calls him on his shit and helps him get past it all while being remarkably sensible about the realities of a poor woman's life in the 19th century, marriage being practically the only career that a woman without sufficient artistic talent can aspire to, marriage to a rich man the only way out of genteel poverty.<br />
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The grown-up, admirable Amy is there in the book too, but it's a lot easier to forgive the unforgiveable when you meet Good Amy first and the Book Burning is shown in flashback. You can't get too attached to LaurJo when the narrative gives you LaurAm first. Timing is everything.<br />
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Jo also meets a handsome young man (who is not old and not a bear) but the romance takes a backstage to her writing. Sure she dances with him at a hot New York dance club and takes his literary criticism to heart, but those scenes take up far less screen time than the scenes of her scratching out words with her pen, arranging her pages on the floor, talking to her sisters about whether a book about the domestic lives of young women is "important" or not (spoiler alert: it is!), and negotiating a copyright contract with her publisher.<br />
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A copyright contract. Someone was negotiating a copyright contract on a big screen right in front of me.<br />
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I got so excited, I almost shouted at the screen, "Don't sell him your copyright outright! Make sure you retain merchandising rights! Negotiate a clause about sharing it in a scholarly repository!"<br />
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I know it is not a normal response to get excited about a copyright negotiation but I did.****<br />
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The publisher actually has to negotiate Jo's romance/marriage into the climax of her book because apparently maintaining control of your work and ensuring that you make a living wage from it isn't sexy enough for some people. Personally, I needed a cigarette after that scene and I don't even smoke.<br />
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In the LMA book, Jo's ursine boyfriend organizes the publication of Jo's work (I mean, he didn't even have the right to authorize publication because that is the exclusive right of the author!!!) and presents the printed book to her as a fait accompli.<br />
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How much more satisfying it is to see Jo in charge, brave enough to bring her book to the publisher herself, inexperienced enough to not know what copyright is but not afraid to ask, smart enough to know it's worth more than she's being offered.<br />
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This was also the Jo I always wanted to be and I didn't even know it.<br />
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*There is actually a sub-species of romance novel about women falling in love with bear shapeshifters and apparently they are quite good in bed (I mean, I've heard rumours about books like that) but I was unaware of said genre at the time I read <i>LW</i>, probably because LMA probably invented shapeshifting bear romance, and also because I hadn't gotten around to wondering how good anyone was in bed yet.<br />
**But not now. Love you, D-Squared! Also I have an older brother who is technically the second oldest but he is temporarily omitted for the purposes of inserting myself into this particular fictional world.<br />
***and <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0001138/?ref_=ttfc_fc_cl_t2" target="_blank">Laurie Partridge</a> was Jo!<br />
****You can retire the girl out of the copyright office but you can't get the copyright officer out of the girlno plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-66657158858846203652020-01-27T13:37:00.000-03:302020-02-10T10:35:47.117-03:30i'd rather eat johnson, sirIf you live in St. John's, you may have noticed there is a bit of snow around. If you live anywhere in the world you may have just discovered there is a place called St. John's, or rather used to be because it's currently buried under enough snow to prompt <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46565/ozymandias" target="_blank">Ozymandias</a> to send us a message from beyond saying "welcome to the club."<br />
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The irony that Snowmageddon occurred only two weeks into my retirement is not lost on me. I could have had six whole days of fully paid leave without using a single vacation day and without once having to set the alarm just in case, my pyjamas on inside out and backwards, an ice cube flushed down the toilet, spoon under my pillow. If the university ever opens up again, I think I'll put in for the time. </div>
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It's the least they could do - I minds a time when they used to make us show up for work even when classes were cancelled, stay open just long enough for the snowstorm to get itself really organized, and then send us out into the blasting wind without benefit of dogsled or a clear view of the other buildings on campus.</div>
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But that was back in the days when blizzards were less motivated; there were plenty of days they'd give up after a few hours, content with giving us a measly hour or two to shovel out before it turned to rain and the snow got too jeezly heavy so forget about that nice little lie in you had banked on the night before, the three worse words to hear the morning after a snowstorm being "update at 11."</div>
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A whole week off without once having to play Snowstorm Roulette. Luxury!</div>
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Of course this type of snowcation comes at a cost.</div>
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It took us three hours, two cases of carbon monoxide poisoning, and one tank of oxygen just to get the snowblower out of the garage...</div>
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It took us two days and one case of carbon monoxide poisoning to determine that we couldn't just clear the front tires and drive my car out of this...</div>
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Then the snowblower and two shovels broke, leaving us with three hobbit-sized shovels and a snow scoop that was only useful for pushing the snow from one side of the driveway to the other.</div>
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Clearly it was time to draw straws to see who we would eat first.</div>
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And then it snowed again because God hates us.</div>
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We snowblew* and shovelled again, i.e. Her Father fixed the snowblower and then snowblew* and SWDNO shovelled while I, a veritable Sisyphus in snowpants, flailed despairingly at the towering peaks about me as half of each teaspoon of snow I managed to get onto Frodo's spade came sliding back down the precipitous slopes.</div>
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The army showed up and dug out an elderly couple who lived across the street. I somehow restrained myself from mentioning I was recently retired and my arms were tired.</div>
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Finally after much labour (them), some labour and needless sooking (me), the driveway was clear to the one cut in the road. Our cars were finally free to not go anywhere at all because the State of Emergency was still on and there was nowhere to go.</div>
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Our world shrank down to our house and our neighbourhood. The day after we shovelled out, we walked the dogs around the block in the late afternoon, all the snowblowers and shovellers having retreated inside for the day. The quiet embraced us, no distant traffic sounds, no sirens, no planes overhead. We were where we were. We needed to be nowhere else.<br />
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The sun shone in through our front windows, gently warming us but not fooling us into venturing outside where the wind would cut you in two. We read books in the living room, glancing up from time to time to watch the dogs basking in the heat, moving as the patches of window-shaped light crept across the floor. We read more books, we binge watched Netflix, we played boardgames and I trounced all comers because I am the Queen of Sorry, bitches!<br />
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This is not really all that different from a normal day in the no plot home, really, except we all got to do it all day, everyday, and not just the retiree. It was like a week of Sundays but before Sundays became like every other day in the week.<br />
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It's kind of strange (and just a bit guilt inducing) to keep hearing about a State of Emergency when the power is on, your income doesn't rely on hours logged, the cable and internet work, there's peanut butter in the cupboard, and stacks of unread books as far as the eye can see. It was more like a State of No Plot Nirvana.<br />
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But all good things must come to an end, including the world, so before the next storm hits, I'll be stocking up on dragonglass, Valyrian steel, and storm chips.<br />
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*that's probably a dirty word but I'm afraid to look it up in the Urban Dictionary. Speaking of dirty words, the title of this post is from Monty Python and I didn't realize it was so dirty until I put it up there all on its own. So thanks to Terry Jones (RIP) et al, here's another post I can't tell my mother about.<br />
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no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-5062018439006361202020-01-14T13:29:00.001-03:302020-01-23T13:30:16.885-03:30500 GBP and a room of my ownSome time during the last century, possibly while I was doing my masters degree in 1988, I read Virginia Woolf's <i>A Room of One's Own</i>. Shortly thereafter, I started rereading <i>Jane Eyre</i> (the good bits) because I was trying to write my final paper for the Bloomsbury Group course I was taking (Virginia Woolf was part of the group) and I had no idea what the hell I was going to write my paper on so why not read <i>Jane Eyre</i> instead is generally my motto when faced with something I don't particularly want to do.<br />
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Anyway, in 1928, Woolf wrote that in order to be a writer a woman needed to have money (she reckoned about £500 per annum) and a room of her own. This struck me so forcefully at the time that I have taken it at gospel ever since.</div>
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Her book was an answer to all those idiots who kept wondering why there was no female Shakespeare and so few women writers in the canon at all. Back in her day and mine, the university bookstore shelves were stuffed full with the novels, plays, and poetry of dead white men, with a few above-the-sod white men thrown in for variety and the occasional bone tossed to Jane Austen or one of the Bronte sisters (but not Anne*). </div>
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When I had started my masters, I had to drop a course on early women writers because none of the books were in print and I was faced with having to compete with 15 other students for the one or two copies to be found in one of the multitude of libraries scattered around the University of Toronto campus. This was back when the library's computerized catalogue could tell you where the book was but not that the book was already checked out until you had trudged all the way over there.</div>
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Of course, I didn't really need Virginia to tell me I needed money to support my writing habit. Having reached the tender age of 26 with no clear career goals other than "be a writer" in my head and having rejected a journalism career after a stressful six months of learning that being a journalist meant you had no time to write anything other than news stories, I was casting about myself to see what else I could do to keep myself in lined paper. This was before personal computers and the internet could provide the opportunity for you to blog your guts out to the world for (mostly) free.</div>
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My year in Toronto made it clear to me that being an English professor was not for me either.</div>
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So I went back home to Newfoundland, working at the university library for a few years until sheer boredom led me on to working as a copyright officer for a lot of years until sheer boredom led me to retire as soon as the countdown on my days-to-retirement clock had reached zero plus a few extra weeks thrown in to get things in order for the winter semester.</div>
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Things weren't actually in quite the order I had hoped for but it's hard to concentrate on the daily grind when "why not read <i>Jane Eyre</i> or the internet or that e-book that I had on hold but is now on my phone" is generally my motto.**</div>
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Did you know that if you put an e-book on hold at the NL provincial library, it automatically downloads to your account the minute it becomes available? Did the productivity of all former English majors in the province dramatically decrease when that became a thing?***</div>
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Getting back to Virginia's book, her thesis was that a writer needs financial security, space, and time to get any writing done but getting the money you need to get the space you need and to maintain the space you need and to feed and clothes the kids you end up having if you marry the money you need or you keep working but have to be a superwoman-who-has-it-all eats away at the time you need to actually do anything except work, eat, raise kid(s), drive kid(s) to all their activities, watch TV, read books (hah!), and sleep. </div>
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And maybe <a href="https://dailyroutines.typepad.com/daily_routines/2008/12/anthony-trollope.html" target="_blank">Anthony Trollope</a> could get up at 5:30 a.m. and write for three hours before going off to work and produce 47 novels in 35 years but I bet bloody Anthony Trollope never changed a diaper or had to deal with a half-day kindergarten schedule that changed every two weeks or lived during the Golden Age of Television. Given the reality of most women's lives especially before there were many ways for them to earn money outside of marriage, it's amazing that any of them got into print at all.</div>
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Despite what I said above, my career in copyright wasn't always boring. It could be a real roller coaster ride sometimes, with periods of intense activity followed by great lulls while you wait for the next semester to ramp up.</div>
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I got to create presentations about copyright and stand up in front of people telling them things they didn't know about stuff I knew backwards and forwards because I'd been doing it for so long, which is quite cool if you are a bit of a show off.</div>
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So many interesting things to read came across my desk all needing copyright clearance. I was supposed to be concerning myself with just the copyright but how can you not read something called "How to Display Data Badly" or a scholarly article on the awesomeness that is <i>Buffy the Vampire Slayer</i>? Did you know that the berries Newfoundlanders call Bake Apples got that name because the French who came here back in the early days called them "baie qu'appelle" meaning "I don't know what to call this berry but my god it's some tart" and the English who came here back in the day misheard.</div>
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On the other hand, books and articles about copyright law are usually a surefire cure for insomnia (except for <a href="https://gazette.mun.ca/campus-and-community/op-ed-nancy-simmons/" target="_blank">my copyright article</a> in the Gazette, of course). It is amazing how thinking about the rules which protect the art works that inspire our imaginations can stamp out all signs of life in the prose concerning those rules.</div>
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Of course, copyright protects boring stuff too or I would never have gotten any work done.**</div>
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It was while I was writing my not-at-all-boring article (that I got loads of compliments on so you should <a href="https://gazette.mun.ca/campus-and-community/op-ed-nancy-simmons/" target="_blank">read it,</a> too, right after this post) that it suddenly hit me that in a few short years I could be doing this full time. I could create copyright stuff just as boring and maybe just as entertaining as other people. I already had the room; I would soon have the £500.</div>
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And so here I am today in front of a computer writing this word. And this one, too. Hoping that someone will read them. Dreaming that someday someone might pay me for them. But mostly just hoping someone will read them.</div>
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Either way, this is my new job and so far I'm loving it. </div>
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I am a woman, I am a writer, and I am in print.</div>
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*Anne Bronte is brilliant by the way and you should finally get around to reading her very soon and not leave her sitting on your shelf in your complete Bronte sisters collection like an idiot (aka me) for years on end</div>
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**Can you get fired retroactively after you retire?</div>
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***Could they dock your pension or something? Asking for a friend...</div>
no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-27024158014084030232017-05-21T13:27:00.002-02:302020-01-23T13:31:33.998-03:30piss and vinegarI woke up this morning with a strong desire to write. Not my own pet project but this blog post, which is a review of a musical I saw last night for the first and hopefully not the last time.<br />
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The musical is called <a href="https://www.facebook.com/BestKindProductions/" style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank">Impresario</a> and I need to own the cast recording that doesn't exist of it yet. It's the true story of a young man from Newfoundland, John Murray Anderson, who dreamed of being a showman when he was running around St. John's without his rubber boots on, even though his mom said not to, and how he made those dreams come true on Broadway, and in Hollywood, back in the first half of the 20th century. You've never heard of him but he knew people like Bette Davis and Lucille Ball. He was kind of a big deal.<br />
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I'm not a very good reviewer so what I should say next is unclear to me. One thing I could say is that I judge most music based on whether I want to sing it or not.<br />
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I want to sing almost everything I heard last night and I'm not sure if I remember enough of the tunes yet, hence the need for a cast album. I had a similar experience last month after I left the Broadway performance of a new musical called <i>Groundhog Day</i> which has been nominated for a Tony for best musical.<br />
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I could add that last night I jumped to my feet and started the standing ovation in my section rather than rising to my feet only after the other people got up and blocked my view.<br />
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I am not the only reviewer of <i>Impresario</i> who thought that way. <i><a href="http://www.thetelegram.com/living/entertainment/2017/5/19/highly-impressed-by-impresario.html" target="_blank">The Telegram</a></i> thought so too and, like Mikey, they don't like anything at least when it comes to musicals. The reviewer practically says that out right.<br />
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This may be all you really need to know but I can't ever leave well enough alone so here's the long version of what I just said.<br />
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Full disclosure, my niece, Erika Squires was in this show. I have been to many shows she has been in through the years and I confess I have often preferred to watch her rather than anyone else on stage. That is why if you want <i>my</i> attention focused on centre stage, it's probably just best to cast her as the lead. Quite a few people already have.<br />
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In this show, she was a supporting player and she provided excellent support. She played several different characters and they were in fact different characters and not just Erika wearing a different funny hat (she wore quite a few funny hats). I particularly liked the hat she wore while she was doing a pretty nifty accent (sorry, Erika, I forget who you were even though I won't forget the performance).<br />
<br />
As tempting as it was to just watch Erika, I must admit that I kept getting distracted by all the other people wearing funny hats and beards and shower caps and plumage, too.<br />
<br />
I kind of know most of the people who were wearing all this outlandish gear because I have had the privilege to work with them. I have been in the chorus of several shows where they have been the leads or filled the character roles so I knew going in they were talented. I recommend being in the chorus of a musical if ever you can manage it because you get to watch the show over and over again without paying a dime. You also get to see how the sausage gets made and it is worth every minute of your "real" life that you give up to be at all those rehearsals where you have to "wait" until it's your turn to sing. I am not a big fan of waiting and I hardly ever feel like I am waiting for anything when I am watching these people perform.<br />
<br />
For this particular show, I could tell you about Jeff Simms who found his inner parrot as well as his hilarious old Newfoundland codger, while also finding time to dance and sing as a dog.<br />
<br />
I could tell you about Emily Follett who became Hermione Gingold as she sang about testicles - I actually remember who Hermione Gingold is so I was pretty sure I was looking at her in that moment.<br />
<br />
I could tell you about Dan Lasby who played Flatulent Frederick, The Felicitous Philatelist, a character and a song that are just as funny as they sound.<br />
<br />
I could tell you about Andrew Preston who was a hopeful young man dreaming of being a showman and also an annoying paperboy, a hilarious thorn in a tetchy Florenz Ziegfeld's side. Philip Goodridge's Ziegfeld and his John Anderson Sr. are also worth mentioning in greater detail than I am giving him.<br />
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I could tell you about Kiersten Noel whose long hobble dragging a chair across stage was never not funny. She also made me cry real tears as Genevieve Lyon, a woman who died too soon, for her husband and the rest of us as well.<br />
<br />
I absolutely should tell you about John Williams who played John Murray Anderson, the Impresario himself, who made me watch him despite all the amazingly talented people beside and behind him, who made me listen to him when there was so much else I could have been listening and looking at.<br />
<br />
I could go on and on about everyone in the show but my husband thinks I should get to the point more often.<br />
<br />
None of this would have been possible without the guys who wrote and staged the play, director/dramaturg Tim Matson and music director/orchestrator Kyle McDavid. Kyle is also given credit for graphic and set design as well as playing the impresario's brother and playing piano in the band, who performed onstage and were often an active part of the set. I guess that made him the conductor too. I am tempted to add chief cook and bottle washer to Kyle's credits.<br />
<br />
It would be pointless to single either of them out so I guess I will just have to mention that the staging was inventive and fun, the story moved along and was moving, the music was hilarious and sad and memorable.<br />
<br />
I particularly want to mention Piss & Vinegar, In Colorado, If I Don't Get a Drink in the Next Five Minutes, and Anderson's Time. I am tempted just to list all the songs.<br />
<br />
I should also give a shout out to the choreography and the costuming and maybe even to my sister, Jane, who loaded the prop crates back into her truck at the end of the evening.<br />
<br />
There are no small roles only small actors and small reviewers who can't take the time to thank all the people who are responsible for the success of a show.<br />
<br />
All of the people I mentioned above, and all of those I didn't, are deserving of my thanks for giving me and everyone else in the audience a really good time on a Saturday night.no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-27825406134924009382017-05-15T12:43:00.000-02:302017-05-15T12:51:03.710-02:30it only happens when i dance with youLast Thursday, I was having a tough day at work for reasons. I was frustrated and needed a day off because as I near retirement, I have finally realized that I have a new job waiting for me as soon as I can get to it. I am so impatient for it, I have already started to do the work, fitting it in whenever I have a spare moment.<br />
<br />
I chose today because it meant I could manage to get through Thursday and Friday without pulling all my hair out.<br />
<br />
I was supposed to be getting a whole day off to myself to do nothing except what I wanted, all by myself.<br />
<br />
But before I could get to this wonderful day off all to myself, I did not realize that I had to jump through a few extra hoops that I had forgotten about:<br />
<ol>
<li>I had to take my car to get the snow tires off, the oil changed, and see about a thing that may need to hammered back into place.</li>
<li>I had to take my husband to work because otherwise I wouldn't have a car while the above was being removed, replaced, changed, and hammered</li>
<li>I had to take my daughter to her job shadowing thing because she has a PD day and she didn't need to go to school and may in fact be back before I am ready for her to be back.</li>
<li>I had to do two loads of laundry for her because I am mindful of the fact that her life gets overwhelming from time to time and when she gets overwhelmed, I get overwhelmed and I need to help her learn to be mindful enough to not let her laundry get out of hand. She helped me put on the first load.</li>
<li>I had to do the laundry today because it is a beautiful day for drying laundry outside and she has a lot of stuff that needs to be hung to dry.</li>
<li>I had to pick up a lot of dog shit in and around the laundry rack in the backyard because it was a minefield out there and I wouldn't have been able to safely hang out the laundry otherwise. Judge me if you must but two dogs make a whole shit ton of crap and it's hard to find the time to get out there and clean it up.</li>
<li>I had to rescue the small plastic patio table from the shed and dump out the water that had gathered in it because it had been stored upside down under a lot of crap but there is no door on the shed.</li>
<li>I had to put the laundry basket on the small plastic table because my back isn't what it used to be and I hate to bend.</li>
<li>I had to figure out how to fit two loads of laundry onto one drying rack that is really only big enough for 1.5 loads.</li>
<li>I had to throw all the socks and underwear and everything else that wouldn't fit on the drying rack into the dryer and then remember to set the dryer going.</li>
<li>I had to scrub something with soap because stains don't come out in the wash if you don't scrub them.</li>
<li>I had to scrub some mystery substance off the deck because I was afraid if I walked past it one more time I was going to a) step in it and then I'd have to clean my shoe, or b) scream if I had to look at it one more time.</li>
<li>Then, I had to write this all down on my blog because writing is my new job, but writing this blog is only the beginning.</li>
</ol>
<div>
Thank God I have Fred Astaire on my iPhone to help me get through it.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have been up for 5 hours and now I am finally ready to begin my day. *<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*Still have to pick up the husband, the car, and the kid.</div>
no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-19551968535250371032017-04-29T17:07:00.001-02:302017-04-30T18:20:13.055-02:30the owl roostWhen I was a kid I always had trouble buying gifts for my dad. Like most adults, if he needed or wanted anything he just bought it whenever he needed or wanted it.<br />
<br />
My mom and he often disagreed on the definition of "need."<br />
<br />
I didn't realize it at the time but everyone has trouble buying gifts for adults for the exact same reason. I think we have all fallen into the trap of latching on to the one or two things we know someone likes and beating that gift idea into the ground. It helps if the adult in question has started a collection or has had one foisted upon them.<br />
<br />
My dad collected owls - how vigorously he would have pursued this interest if there hadn't been so many birthdays and Christmases and Father's Days to be shopped for is unclear.<br />
<br />
My own frog obsession was started when my schoolfriend, Paula Lockyer, purchased an adorable stuffed frog (probably at a drug store) and gave her to me for my birthday sometime during junior high (probably at a sleepover in the Simmons family playroom).<br />
<br />
The frog was most definitely a girl because her red lipstick was (and still is) fierce. Her name is Freddy Frig Frog and she decided to come with me on my first solo plane trip when I was 16. Afterwards she went on all my trips as a good luck charm.<br />
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She has since been retired as a travel companion because her bow was getting frayed and I didn't want her to lose those fantastic lips.<br />
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My father took this singular frog love to mean I needed more of them and he started bringing back frogs to me from every trip my parents took.<br />
<br />
A frog collection was born.<br />
<br />
I gave into the pressure and started buying my own, eventually becoming a bit of a snob, not giving as much love to the frog I received as a present if it was the same frog I already had wearing a different hat.<br />
<br />
Buying a frog or an owl or a cat for a collector is usually a pretty safe bet because if you think it's cute, it probably is. And there are so many owl and frog and cat variations out there that you probably won't give an exact duplicate (except for when you do). The collector will most likely love it right up until she realizes she has run out of places to put it and by then the collection is a pain in the butt to dust. She will probably still secretly love it long after she has blown past that stage and has started to reduce the inventory.<br />
<br />
So a long time ago, every April, June, and December, I dutifully went out looking for a gift for my dad. I tried to be original but too many times all I could find was the cutest owl I could find.<br />
<br />
One time I was dismayed and delighted to find my dad had bought himself the exact same mirror shaped like the exact same white owl.<br />
<br />
Both mirrors made their way down to our cabin, The Owl Roost, famous in ornithological circles for the hundreds of owl species that live there. There was even a popular contest to guess the number in residence. There was no real answer because no one could agree on a final tally or whether you should count the playing cards hidden in the drawer individually.<br />
<br />
Everybody loved the owls so anyone who cared enough about my dad to buy him a gift eventually fell into the owl trap. It was irresistible. It was inevitable.<br />
<br />
I have even gotten owls as presents from friends who got my collecting obsession confused with my dad's. I still have my favourites.<br />
<br />
After my dad died far too young at 53, the owl collection at the Owl Roost ceased to grow at its previous pace. Eventually, it started to contract as the dust and mildew of too many winters took their toll. It was often too much trouble to climb up and clean the high shelf encircling the main room of the cabin, a shelf built especially for owl display.<br />
<br />
But the best and brightest remain, occasionally joined by the odd new owl someone couldn't resist.<br />
<br />
It's still impossible to figure out how many owls live in the Owl Roost - still too many to get an accurate count.<br />
<br />
Whenever someone on Facebook posts a memory of their dad who has passed away, I always feel a little pang for my own dad and little guilty too because I don't do something like that very often. I sometimes would rather forget a lot of dates: April 30th, Father's Day, February 8th.<br />
<br />
And most especially February 3rd. I really hate February 3rd.<br />
<br />
I don't really forget them but sometimes it's just easier to remember that they're coming up or realize they are just past.<br />
<br />
I woke up this morning (not really this morning - last month to tell the truth) and I was idly thinking that if there had been an internet when I was a kid, I would have been able to search the world for the perfect gift for my dad.<br />
<br />
Then I thought, wouldn't it be nice if on my dad's birthday I made a short post in which I revealed that I went shopping online for my dad and found the perfect gift, no expense spared. The gifting possibilities were endless.<br />
<br />
Then I realized I already had the perfect gift. I had actually gotten it a few years ago, back when I was in England. A photograph I got my husband to take for me.<br />
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So here you go, Dad. I got you an owl.<br />
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<br />no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-29832490893458858972017-04-22T12:16:00.001-02:302017-04-23T11:39:08.201-02:30what i did for loveA couple of months ago, we got a call from a friend about a good deal on tickets to New York and did we want to go there with her and her daughter, SWDNO's best friend.<br />
<br />
Of course a seat sale to NYC is just an invitation to blow all the money you save on airfare on that city's wonders and delights. After convincing ourselves this was such a good deal we couldn't pass it up and pretending we had no idea how poor we would be afterwards, we agreed pretty readily.<br />
<br />
The first time I went to New York, I was 18. In order to get there, I stuffed myself into a VW camper van with five other people, the majority of my family; my older sister had to be in Moncton. Our ultimate destination was Florida so we had only one day to spend in the Big Apple.<br />
<br />
My brother was the only one brave (or foolhardy) enough to drive us into the heart of the beast. To a crowd of Newfoundlanders who hadn't even mastered the art of merging, the traffic in and around New York was like something out of Grand Theft Auto (a simile we wouldn't have used because it didn't exist back then).<br />
<br />
It was a beautiful spring day which my brother and two younger sisters decided would be best spent navigating the NY subway system so they could visit a friend who worked at the Waldorf Astoria (!) but who lived in Brooklyn.<br />
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I was a weird teenager who actually liked hanging out with her parents, or at least would tolerate their presence because they wanted to see actual NYC - or more particularly Manhattan, and more specifically everything in walking distance of Times Square.<br />
<br />
I remember walking around feeling like I had been there before, knowing the street names, having seen it all so many times in the movies and on TV. We went to the top of the Empire State Building. I bought a T-shirt declaring my undying love for NY.<br />
<br />
Mostly, we just had time to wander around, jaws dropping, clutching our purses against the muggers.<br />
<br />
I couldn't wait to get back.<br />
<br />
It took me 32 years - I had to make Her Father take me there as a 50th birthday present because he was only interested in sunshine and beaches in the deep, dark winter of a Newfoundland spring. Technically, we went in the fall that time, but fall and spring are equally the best times to go to New York.<br />
<br />
We saw Central Park, we went to the top of 30 Rock. We saw <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tWCp0wofoA0" target="_blank">The Book of Mormon</a></i> at highway robbery prices because of travel delays and poor planning, and because my husband didn't want to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ONuUDW2W624" target="_blank">disappoint</a> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GVJgmp2Tc2s" target="_blank">me</a>.<br />
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Our next trip we took at Easter. We got to stroll on the Avenue, Fifth Avenue, with people in their Easter bonnets.<br />
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It was a blast. We saw Central Park, we went to the top of the Empire State, we saw <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2fR4JotwwWo" target="_blank">Wicked</a></i> and <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j-MJHz7yrOw" target="_blank">Beautiful</a></i>. They were still pricey tickets but we didn't spend quite so much because we booked in advance.<br />
<br />
For our most recent trip we were even smarter. I wanted to see everything so it didn't matter which show I went to, mostly. I was ready to take my chances at the half-price ticket booth in Times Square.<br />
<br />
But after seeing a video of Jake Gyllenhaal sing "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RhTgNbk4IBQ" target="_blank">Finishing the Hat</a>" from <i>Sunday in the Park with George</i>, I convinced Her Father that we absolutely needed to see it (it was a limited run). He gave me the tickets for my birthday.<br />
<br />
We prudently booked it for the second night so there was no danger of Air Canada or United screwing us over (United and AC screwed us over the first time).<br />
<br />
<i>Sunday in the Park with George and Jake Gyllenhaal</i> is about making art, putting it together. I am attempting to do that with this blog so it is really relevant to my life right now. The production was first rate, the snacks were expensive.<br />
<br />
The reason the snacks were so expensive is because they were all about art too.<br />
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I kept the Coke bottle/tin because I spent so much money on it I didn't feel I could buy any of the other cool art/souvenir t-shirts on sale (items in the background were not purchased at the theatre).<br />
<br />
The sign over the bar was a quote from the play, the importance of balance between life and work.<br />
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<br />
George couldn't find room in his life for anyone unless they helped him with his art. He had room for a bare minimum of non-art (the sign says: More red, more blue, more beer). There is apparently always room for beer.<br />
<br />
Art isn't easy but going to this play was because we pre-purchased the tickets.<br />
<br />
I had to struggle to see art the first day we arrived, however. The day was cold and a bit damp; we were all exhausted and everyone wanted to have a nap. Our luggage had not arrived. I needed to figure out how to get discount tickets to whichever show was the best deal.<br />
<br />
I finally decided that the only show I was willing to stay awake for was <i>Groundhog Day</i>. I loved the movie and I loved Tim Minchin, the man who wrote the music and lyrics.<br />
<br />
Because my windbreaker/rain jacket was also <a href="http://theresnoplot.blogspot.ca/2017/04/what-if-i-had-pointed-stick.html" target="_blank">refusing to come to America</a>, I had to wrap myself up in my Tardis hoodie and brave the cold. It wasn't too bad while I was walking to Times Square but it was pretty bitter once I had to wait on line. I got reasonably good seats at a good price, in a back row of the Orchestra section.<br />
<br />
I also bought our friends tickets to see <i>Cats</i>; by some miracle, it was playing in the theatre right across the street from <i>Groundhog Day</i> so we made arrangements to meet on the street right before the shows. Then I dragged my cold bones back for a two hour nap - had to set an alarm so we wouldn't sleep in.<br />
<br />
We somehow managed to drag ourselves back out into the cold despite not having had enough sleep, an hour before showtime. Fortunately, I didn't have space in our checked bag for the thick cozy sweater I had packed in my carry-on so SWDNO had a warmer sweater than what she had worn on the plane. Normally, I would not wear a Tardis to a Broadway show but I had no other options.<br />
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We arrived on 52nd street with 10 minutes to spare, gave our friends their tickets, and rushed to join the line filtering into the August Wilson Theatre across the way. I was just opening my purse to show I had no <a href="http://theresnoplot.blogspot.ca/2017/04/what-if-i-had-pointed-stick.html" target="_blank">concealed fruit</a> on my person when I noticed an impossible thing.<br />
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The tickets I held in my fist, the ones I had checked as per instruction before leaving the TKTS booth earlier that afternoon, were for <i>Groundhog Day</i> but not for April 7. They were for April 8!<br />
<br />
This was impossible - first of all, the TKTS booth can only sell tickets for the day of the performance so they couldn't have sold me tickets for the following night. Secondly, I had tickets to see Jake in the Park on Saturday Night and I couldn't see <i>Groundhog Day</i> at the same time.<br />
<br />
Panicking, I rushed to the ticket booth and gibbered at the guy behind the glass. He couldn't understand how it happened either so he went off to talk to the manager. When he finally came back, I waved my receipt at him to show further proof I wasn't scamming him.<br />
<br />
He assured me that he would never distrust anyone in a Tardis so he took a big red Sharpie and wrote J105 and J106 on our tickets in big friendly letters. When we got to our seats and saw that we were only 10 rows from the stage and right smack dab in the middle with two empty seats in front of us, we were in our glee.<br />
<br />
At first I found it hard to pay attention we were so wound up in our good fortune at getting such good seats to such a good show. But the show was worth all the drama. It was clever, funny, musically interesting, full of creative staging, lightning fast costume changes, and delightful sleight of hand.<br />
<br />
There was even a song all about me, Playing Nancy.<br />
<br />
We laughed, we cried, it became a part of us.<br />
<br />
Afterwards, we bought all the souvenirs we could afford. We will be twins in matching rodent shirts.<br />
<br />
Later I tweeted the greatest compliment I could think of which was that I wanted to steal the ideas I was getting while watching the show. <br />
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Then a Broadway miracle occurred. Tim Minchin liked me. Twice.<br />
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I was verklempt.<br />
<br />
After the reality of all this ticket and souvenir purchasing began to sink in, I started thinking about ways to economise. Plus my options for Sunday and Monday night Broadway shows were not as wide-ranging as I had hoped. None of the other shows I had high on my list were even on offer. <i>Aladdin</i> was too dear and practically sold out to boot.<br />
<br />
So on Sunday, we rested. On Monday, Her Father decided to check out the musical rodent while SWDNO and I checked out a fantastic movie theatre showing <i>Beauty and the Beast</i>. I loved that musical as an animated film and enjoyed the live action almost as much. The theatre was worth the extra we paid for it too, with it's comfy reclining seats complete with foot rests, all adjusted with the touch of buttons; you wouldn't even know there was anyone in the seats in front of you because the tops of the seats in front were on level with the low wall at our feet.<br />
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At the end, I stood up to find my head was projected on the screen. We made hand puppets over the closing credits.<br />
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Afterwards, we went back to 52nd Street to hang out at the Groundhog Day stage door. My Cousin Debbie has a friend in the cast who had added us to the guest list or so we thought. But there was a miscommunication and the door guy didn't know who we were. He said he'd check but everyone else on the list were being let in and it looked like we weren't.<br />
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Someone else appeared who was there for Tari Kelly, our friend of a cousin friend. She came out to meet them and when someone called her by name, I grabbed my chance.<br />
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"I'm Cousin Debbie's cousin!" I cried. "We're not on the list."<br />
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She quickly sorted that out and we were in, standing on a Broadway stage looking out at the primo seats we had sat in only three nights before. Tari graciously took time away from her actual friends to show us around. <br />
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I have been in a few local productions at the Arts and Culture Centre so it was partly what I was expecting, but the compactness of it all was astounding. They have to get a lot of stuff into a very little space, a multitude of props and set pieces, on shelves, stuck in corners, hanging from the ceiling.<br />
<br />
In my last show, I had trouble getting a couple of chairs on stage and a bar piece I had to maneuver was tricky to get locked on its mark. They have to wrangle so many moving pieces in that show and do it with such professionalism and grace I was in awe.<br />
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I couldn't have asked for a more fitting end to our stay in New York.<br />
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Although my bills have yet to come home to roost and I am wondering whether I will pay them with buttons or beach rocks, I don't think I have ever felt so satisfied with a trip in my life.<br />
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Art isn't easy and it sure ain't cheap, but it's worth it.<br />
<br />no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-26940532991726890882017-04-14T11:57:00.000-02:302017-04-14T11:57:22.914-02:30what if i had a pointed stick?The no plot family has just returned from a 5-day jaunt in the wilds of New York City, Big Apple, and boy, did we have some big city adventures.<br />
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Our story began in an unusual way for us in that Her Father was away on business and was going to meet us there. SWDNO and I have only travelled together by plane without Her Father one time before and that involved a journey home from Halifax and a minor panic attack when I couldn't find her ID which it turned out I didn't actually need because it wasn't required of someone under the age of 16.<br />
<br />
I have travelled many times on my own but I had forgotten about the extra steps for checking in to an international flight and I didn't have everything I needed handy. Her Father would normally handle those details; I am usually in a minor/major panic over all the things I have to do the day before a flight so I let him. After struggling with the bureaucracy and the snotty, impatient foot tapping of the Air Canada check-in website, I came to the realization that I needed to give my husband a raise.<br />
<br />
Then we had to get up at the buttcrack of dawn to catch our flight. I managed to handle that much better than usual with nary a panicky twinge, even grabbing some breakfast snacks for later since my stomach refuses to wake up until it sees a decent amount of light in the sky. I even ate said snacks, or most of them, as we flew from St. John's to Halifax to Montreal. SWDNO has a sleepier stomach than mine, being a teenage stomach and all, otherwise I swear I would have shared with her.<br />
<br />
Montreal was the launching point for our migration south to the Land of the Free; we were certainly bringing the weary, if not the poverty - we would become a lot poorer the longer we stayed near the Statue of Liberty, in fact. Still, I was pretty chipper for someone who had had only a few hours sleep.<br />
<br />
When we had to pass from the lackluster Canadian-secured departure area for the hyper-secure-bordering-on-paranoid American-secured departure area, I found it amusing when my carry on bag took a slight detour so that it could be searched. I couldn't think what had raised the alarm because I usually hide my illegal goods quite cleverly.<br />
<br />
It turned out, I had a fully loaded <a href="http://www.bananaguard.com/">banana guard</a> in my bag that the security agent retrieved with a grin and waved in the air to show his comrade on the x-ray machine. They let us pass through even though we were clearly a security risk. Good thing I hadn't come at them with a handful of raspberries.*<br />
<br />
My banana was not destined to escape additional scrutiny, however.<br />
<br />
Instead of proceeding to the never ending, hardly moving line to the next available customs agent, SWDNO and I were then directed to a electronic kiosk where we were given the 3rd degree by a jumped-up ATM which tried to trip us up with questions like were we dangerous criminals carrying any guns, explosives, or surfboards? As an experienced traveller, I know you just say "no" to everything without reading the questions.<br />
<br />
SWDNO had never been asked these questions directly before so she insisted that we had to answer one question "yes". We were in fact trying to import one single, solitary banana into the country and therefore had to pay once again for our sin.<br />
<br />
The ATM printed out a couple of disapproving chits into our waiting hands. It's disapproval was made plain by the large "x" slashed across each one.<br />
<br />
We were then shuttled into another incredibly short line - we were the entire line in fact. I guess it was the troublemakers line and no one else dared to make any trouble in the glare of the American Homeland Security spotlights. We waited for someone to release the hounds.<br />
<br />
We were finally waved over to an actual human customs officer** who seemed to not even notice the badges of shame that our chits were wearing. He repeated most of the same questions as the ATM but in a slightly different way, hoping no doubt to trip us up.<br />
<br />
He nearly got me too. He asked if we had any food and I was in the middle of saying no when it occurred to me that bananas are also a type of food in addition to being military ordnance. I hastily admitted to the banana as casually as I could.<br />
<br />
I pointed an accusing finger at my own daughter and claimed she was to blame for all this unpleasantness having insisted on my answering the question truthfully.<br />
<br />
The customs officer laughed and said at least she was honest. Then he waved us through.<br />
<br />
Imagine our glee as we stood on the other side of the sliding doors, essentially already on American soil with our nutritious snack/WMD still in hand. <br />
<br />
In a few short hours we were loose on the streets of New York, armed for bear.<br />
<br />
Sadly, our sole checked suitcase lost its nerve at the last minute. She organized a small rebellion of 5 or 6 other items of luggage and refused to cross the border. We learned this upon our arrival at La Guardia when the luggage carousel refused to provide any more items for a small group of us to choose from.<br />
<br />
Air Canada managed to round up the recalcitrant baggage and dragged them into Trumpland later that same day, kicking and screaming I imagine. Our bag waited until the dead of night to slip unseen into the city, under cover of darkness.<br />
<br />
The rest of the story you can hear about on Fox News.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*Thanks, Jennifer. :-) <br />
One of our travelling companions suggested that security hadn't really thought it was a weapon but that they were hoping it was something naughty. She is clearly not a Monty Python fan.<br />
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**could have been a terminator</div>
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<br />no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-6105129235771688932017-03-17T09:46:00.001-02:302017-03-17T10:28:41.885-02:30an open letter to irish/newfoundland traditional songwritersSirs,<br />
<br />
This morning as my clock radio clicked on, I was delighted to hear that Mr. Fergus O'Byrne was about to give a live performance over the airwaves in honour of St. Patrick's Day. Imagine my dismay, however, when his first song was one that has been the bane of my existence lo these many years. It got my Irish up, let me tell you. First of all, gentlemen, let me assure you that I am not an alcoholic beverage. Even if I were, it isn't me who has been pouring it down your gob all this time. If you can't pass a whiskey sour without a pang, that's on you. Secondly, I never made you any promises. I did not deceive you, jilt you, or make any marital decisions solely based upon the amount of gold in your pockets. And finally, Jack, I have heard the wife's haunting monologue, a companion piece to Mr. Jim Payne's <i>Wave Over Wave,</i> and if you think I'd marry a sailor for less than 20,000 GBP per annum, free healthcare, and the provision of affordable childcare assistance, you're an idiot.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
Nancy<br />
<br />
P.S. I'm wearing the green today but my sneakers are orange in protestno plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-73842010382377496832017-03-15T13:04:00.000-02:302017-03-17T10:26:10.584-02:30beware the ides of march<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last month, my mother and I were looking at some old photos and we came across a couple of black and white shots that I didn't remember seeing before, or if I had seen them before I hadn't realized what I was looking at. Two English degrees have made me something of an expert on the significance of togas and raised daggers so I am now able to make a definite identification of the subject matter. </div>
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Apparently, my father had been in a student production of <i>Julius Caesar</i> at Prince of Wales Collegiate and I had never known about it.</div>
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I can't get over these photographs. I love them so much I just have to share them with the world.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ray Simmons (3rd from right) in a PWC production of <i>Julius Caesar</i>. <i>Daily News</i> photo, c. 1946</td></tr>
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The first Shakespeare I ever read was <i>Julius Caesar</i> and I believe my love for this long-dead English guy began in Act 1, scene 1, when this Roman guy said, "You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!"<br />
<br />
"That Shakespeare really knew how to throw shade," I thought to myself, or words to that effect. I was 13 or 14 at the time so I'm sure I knew all the current slang.<br />
<br />
The photos had the copyright owner on the back - <i>The Daily News</i> - but since I have also learned a thing or two about copyright, I knew they had to be public domain since the production could be no later than 1946 which is when my dad graduated (I think, still waiting for confirmation of that but my math skills tell me that it's earlier than 1948 so I'm safe).<br />
<br />
But there was no indication of what role my father was playing. Was he a block or a stone? A lowly messenger doomed to read his missives and exit, stage left? I formed a great hope that he was Mark Antony because Antony has a really cool speech; my dad was really cool too but I could find no proof in the picture.<br />
<br />
The crime scene photographs showed he was at the Senate during the assassination but offered no other clues about his part in the plot.<br />
<br />
My first thought was to ask my Aunt Ruth since he was her big brother and she might remember. So I sent a message to my Cousin Debbie to ask her to ask her mother if this rang any bells.<br />
<br />
Cousin Debbie, who is a professional actress, replied that she had no need to ask her mother because my father's theatrical exploits were legendary in her household already. My aunt so loved the production that she still owned the very sandals that my father wore.<br />
<br />
And if that wasn't astounding enough, my aunt, a retired elementary school teacher in Milwaukee, had put on a Grade 6 production of the play every year in my dad's honour.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ray Simmons crouching on the far left, waiting for his chance to strike. <i>Daily News</i> photo, c. 1946.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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And he wasn't a block or a stone or an Antony, he played the lead role of Brutus!<br />
<br />
He played the guy who struck the final blow upon his best friend. His victim's dying words are still quoted to this day even though they're in a dead language and many people don't know who they are quoting.<br />
<br />
My dad was "Et tu, Bruté?".<br />
<br />
Sadly I didn't think to check for the reviews in the local media until this morning. If I find such a thing I will share it here.<br />
<br />
If the Doctor ever shows up and offers me a ride in his Tardis to anywhere in time or space, I now know where I would want to go.<br />
<br />no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-10692644971240362022017-03-11T09:37:00.000-03:302017-03-11T09:46:37.143-03:30ain't nobody got no time for thatOnce upon a time there were three pieces of furniture in the no plot family dining room who were very, very sad. They longed to be the kind of dining room that received visitors on occasion but they had fallen in with a bad crowd (the no plot family) and hadn't had any callers in quite some time.<br />
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Because the no plots were constantly being inundated with the detritus of life, e.g. bills, flyers, miscellaneous tools, report cards, mystery crap that no one could identify, school photos, a multitude of artworks created by a child prodigy whose genius defied her age, and many other implements of tree destruction, the no plot dining room often fell into long periods of disuse other than as a repository for the items listed above.<br />
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I forgot to take a before picture but I found a picture on the interweb which will give you an idea:<br />
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<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/webhamster/2566621184/in/photolist-4UNB4o-5oUd65-gXJDP-4xbTqX-4xbTBx-89aNuD-dZhqpR-fVsEU6-6dQkqf-5U4Ykn-LqY3-bjBnr2-8PZrLR-hSn1Vy-51YEnw-p4KvE6-6v376h-tiKPq-a7khcR-a2c62Q-7ZgQ37-dVomTt-p9GLaD-ak3Fyv-tzb43-5tXiXQ-4wWTGp-6HBwJf-4xg4Y1-dsZwe1-5UWcFG-dxhT4a-99RE4s-56LqXS-cNV6G-dgMU3M-4j5LDm-9WbRx5-GWMLw-akrW8D-4mVof1-nSxpjv-6eHBqF-2ZbSe5-vQSgb-9ErAgb-8RvdU-4xg55G-5hZPzf-acLBJW" nbsp="" title="Last Stop: The Scrapyard"><img alt="Last Stop: The Scrapyard" height="334" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/4/3107/2566621184_4ecbeb6869.jpg" width="500" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
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How this guy got into my house I'll never know.<br />
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One day, the no plots decided to host a family dinner but had just returned from a trip and had little time or energy for the agonizingly slow process of clearing off the dining room table and finding homes for all the displaced refugees residing there. (The sideboard was sometimes cleared for company but the side table was always shit out of luck.)<br />
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Then I had an idea. A wonderful, awful idea.<br />
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What if I just crammed all this crap into a cardboard box, hid the box, and figured out where the crap should go later?!?!<br />
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So that's what I did, with some exceptions (why would anyone leave Liquid Wrench on an eating surface?).<br />
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The boxes (plural) were spirited away and the dining room became a (mostly) guilt free zone; the dining table went back to serving dinner and the top of the sideboard went back to displaying whimsical tchotchkes as God intended. The side table was still shit out of luck but was eventually shown some love at a later date.<br />
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Now view the amazing transformation:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0GdYYSfZYQe5_muK-8OzpPI6MidrNtHk_o5MlM3OxYc0qEtzbEHlywgwjYum2x_awSASbgTZa_LlqxZ_SsrXGlBmodNzN_zBD7O0I85aqEBI-IpMCiJtmuFQZ1lVkyNVodg59r-dWbCwK/s1600/IMG_0586.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0GdYYSfZYQe5_muK-8OzpPI6MidrNtHk_o5MlM3OxYc0qEtzbEHlywgwjYum2x_awSASbgTZa_LlqxZ_SsrXGlBmodNzN_zBD7O0I85aqEBI-IpMCiJtmuFQZ1lVkyNVodg59r-dWbCwK/s320/IMG_0586.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaZSHzD0gKhkTVcjdn5LLUaMccvfNeCNjFHqIJwNGSzMqK7SYmCXwGTFzF1cxU0zV-uq8_mBPabG2NgD2REiwROCAXKMecq8R8J5ajD5r4ihmfOReWy3TtC1pgp3LgQAjmM3wN75u2CNpF/s1600/IMG_0585.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaZSHzD0gKhkTVcjdn5LLUaMccvfNeCNjFHqIJwNGSzMqK7SYmCXwGTFzF1cxU0zV-uq8_mBPabG2NgD2REiwROCAXKMecq8R8J5ajD5r4ihmfOReWy3TtC1pgp3LgQAjmM3wN75u2CNpF/s320/IMG_0585.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoU8xxd1ODMKmt7TVZh_Q97JHJJq0WYQXZ7wy2eNcQf94r3ErLtRdDwAc4zu7pfOY_oMDjKNwHZzhc8qcFCfobzRhdcEiGpMkucJ8sdZasHzQe5Lkuv0vsoPCRffdQGNKd4H_D5yNIl8_c/s1600/IMG_0587.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoU8xxd1ODMKmt7TVZh_Q97JHJJq0WYQXZ7wy2eNcQf94r3ErLtRdDwAc4zu7pfOY_oMDjKNwHZzhc8qcFCfobzRhdcEiGpMkucJ8sdZasHzQe5Lkuv0vsoPCRffdQGNKd4H_D5yNIl8_c/s320/IMG_0587.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Here are the boxes which I can assure you are now almost absolutely sorted:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrUhe_hO8Eq4tqG0Bs7Ry4HGgbGAWs3eCTPX-MfWBFfVn3YY-Lbn_g9I89qURBJJVJ5cwRy4XBVwAaHMbbcrPIVqiCIX72vGGccParkUf15V8K4s6R7x7NwpXR7iRSG8hh_QuHgy3h1pF_/s1600/IMG_0583.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrUhe_hO8Eq4tqG0Bs7Ry4HGgbGAWs3eCTPX-MfWBFfVn3YY-Lbn_g9I89qURBJJVJ5cwRy4XBVwAaHMbbcrPIVqiCIX72vGGccParkUf15V8K4s6R7x7NwpXR7iRSG8hh_QuHgy3h1pF_/s320/IMG_0583.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOJKKrRI4AJaMM8xbAi-NU2upWBEvlJWsvrblSvH0JzUa-zy7zVl2AFdtHc2ORKjvGdvwwnFb-J-JJDGgLsa102ho_47nBYJvXw72RDhoOlSGi2e2pX8MnKl1YhL3Lu3latrmIgu6QDUeb/s1600/IMG_0584.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOJKKrRI4AJaMM8xbAi-NU2upWBEvlJWsvrblSvH0JzUa-zy7zVl2AFdtHc2ORKjvGdvwwnFb-J-JJDGgLsa102ho_47nBYJvXw72RDhoOlSGi2e2pX8MnKl1YhL3Lu3latrmIgu6QDUeb/s320/IMG_0584.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Not pictured is the dining room table which had a bit of a relapse.<br />
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<a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3APictures_Not_Yet_Available.svg" title="By Mkey (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons"><img alt="Pictures Not Yet Available" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/9/9a/Pictures_Not_Yet_Available.svg/256px-Pictures_Not_Yet_Available.svg.png" width="256" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">By Mkey (Own work) <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0">CC BY-SA 3.0</a>, via Wikimedia Commons</span><br />
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Okay, the dining room has reluctantly agreed to have its shame paraded on the web for your amusement:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7E8hJAKDagFIMjRRbWGbp-FpuVhG-BpS7rr7ZI4-M5JzNwvbutOdGNXy2JZd_RSOWx4dw7QcFWLfzqOhUxPs4-zvQA0IDDD-1_fU4nP6NnjxcZ2XTaMozHYxNyhtgm_uMvb5jBTB_Ar6M/s1600/IMG_0618.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7E8hJAKDagFIMjRRbWGbp-FpuVhG-BpS7rr7ZI4-M5JzNwvbutOdGNXy2JZd_RSOWx4dw7QcFWLfzqOhUxPs4-zvQA0IDDD-1_fU4nP6NnjxcZ2XTaMozHYxNyhtgm_uMvb5jBTB_Ar6M/s320/IMG_0618.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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This final picture added to emphasize that beauty can often be found amongst the clutter of life:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5RPxK9n3hJzsKXtWh_dT0qcfpUd1KQh9Wx2C_snHMchNnr3xZtXcj4B9RWXSiAgwkq84Z2cIwfO_8Ai2UdCe32fa7Cw66uO1jNVj9uKm21pVbF1G37moJnENevDZ7v0btwtUYjyHB1jOI/s1600/IMG_0621.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5RPxK9n3hJzsKXtWh_dT0qcfpUd1KQh9Wx2C_snHMchNnr3xZtXcj4B9RWXSiAgwkq84Z2cIwfO_8Ai2UdCe32fa7Cw66uO1jNVj9uKm21pVbF1G37moJnENevDZ7v0btwtUYjyHB1jOI/s320/IMG_0621.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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And the dining room furniture and the no plots lived happily ever after.<br />
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(Also not pictured is the computer room which is the new mail room and is a work in progress).no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-60996028511081385772017-02-15T09:36:00.002-03:302017-02-19T09:35:22.721-03:30expletive deletedA friend of mine expressed some concern yesterday that I have been secretly judging her and the other member of our Stitch and Bitch group for the past 30 years because their language has always been a little more nautically inclined than my own.<br />
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This morning I went back and updated my previous <a href="http://theresnoplot.blogspot.ca/2017/02/there-are-no-bad-words-only-bad-spelling.html">post </a>to ensure that future generations don't make the same mistake. So you don't have to go back and read the whole damn thing again, my definition of constant swearing is basically every other word. If you can find 3 or 4 good ones to fit in between the bad, I will withhold judgment (I'm not a complete dick).</div>
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If any of you are fellow fans of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0348914/trivia?tab=qt&ref_=tt_trv_qu">Deadwood</a>, you would have realized that that is not a hard and fast rule. If you took all the profanity out of that show all you'd have left is some definite and indefinite articles and a few action verbs.</div>
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One of the stories I had considered including in yesterday's piece concerned a lady who had a cabin next to my S&B friend, 30-odd years ago. This lady's husband had been a commander in the army or reserves (something military anyway). I don't recall how the topic came up, but I remember her complaining about how all the contemporary movies about the military were completely inaccurate because of all the blue language flying about. We couldn't convince her that no military man would ever swear in front of the commander's wife upon fear of court martial or flogging or death or something.</div>
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She apparently had never read Norman Mailer's <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Naked_and_the_Dead"><i>The Naked and the Dead</i> </a>which is famous for revealing the sordid truth that combat soldiers swear all the time and infamous for insisting that the only bad word they use is "fug." Publishing codes at the time would not allow the revelation of the naked truth.</div>
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The divine <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tallulah_Bankhead">Tallulah Bankhead</a> is said to have approached Mailer at a party and commented, "So you're the man who can't spell 'fuck'."</div>
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I can't say I blame the commander's wife for not reading that book though. Once you stop being amused by the fuggery, it's a tough read for anyone who thinks human beings have at least some redeeming characteristics.</div>
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A more cheery read is <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/For_Whom_the_Bell_Tolls">For Whom the Bell Tolls</a></i> (and by cheery I mean not everyone is a complete asshole). In that book I learned that Spanish is full of delightful swear words that I will never know because Hemingway decided to replace all the obscene words with the word "obscenity." Until I take Spanish lessons (or Google it) I will be forced to wonder what the hell anyone meant by "I obscenity in the milk."</div>
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If you would care to do further research into what type of swearing I find acceptable, check out the following resources: <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0094812/trivia?tab=qt&ref_=tt_trv_qu">Bull Durham</a></i> (also contains some steamy sex if you are so inclined); <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0076723/trivia?tab=qt&ref_=tt_trv_qu" style="font-style: italic;">Slap Shot</a> (I don't know if it has aged well but I include it here for historical accuracy, full disclosure, and the Paul Newman reference); and the eminently quotable but not in front of your mom <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0110912/trivia?tab=qt&ref_=tt_trv_qu">Pulp Fiction</a></i>.</div>
no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-74122327488709171212017-02-14T10:34:00.003-03:302017-02-19T09:35:06.722-03:30there are no bad words only bad spellingIt will no doubt come as a surprise to people who know me in real life and not just as a cloud of disembodied electrons that I used to be a smoker.<br />
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It is perhaps equally astonishing that I started smoking at the tender age of 11 when I was invited to join my Almost-Twin Sister and Jenny from Up the Street behind the Jones's house one summer's evening when the Jones family must have been away.<br />
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Jenny from Up the Street was a couple of years older than me and I didn't really know her well other than as a tough girl who'd been around the block. Since our block was in quiet suburban West End St. John's in the middle of what used to be a farmer's field, this did not really mean much. At the time, I considered her exotic, cool, and a little bit dangerous which was probably only because she was from a slightly lower socio-economic class* and didn't go to my school because she was Catholic.<br />
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Plus her tendency to lure younger children behind dark houses to introduce them to the demon weed.<br />
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What I saw that night behind the Jones's house was quite shocking, let me tell you. There was my 9-almost-10-year-old Almost-Twin Sister smoking like a tilt and, to add to my abhorrence, cursing like a sailor (this was not her first trip behind the Jones's house apparently). Filthy words were spewing from her mouth joining the noxious cloud of smoke in a whirling dance about our heads. I didn't even know what a lot of those words meant but I instinctively knew they were bad.<br />
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It was then I formed the deeply held conviction that smoking caused swearing.<br />
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Despite (or perhaps because of) my horror at this scene, I decided to continue with my own descent into juvenile delinquency and tried to light a cigarette. I put it in my mouth, Jenny lit the end; I inhaled deeply and promptly began to choke and gag and struggle for air.<br />
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I dropped the cigarette and refused to try it again. But I did stick around while they continued to smoke, me lighting matches for the rest of the evening like a total badass.<br />
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Thus ended my career as a smoker and I became an insufferably self-righteous prig about it forever after like most reformed smokers.<br />
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What didn't end at that moment was my fascination with the demon word.<br />
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While a lot of kids associated smoking with adulthood, I became more interested in profanity as the true sign of maturity (the irony of that only just occurring to me). I was practically bursting with pride and adulthood when my parents took me to see <i>The Sting,</i> my first grown-up movie, when I was about 12. When Paul Newman told Robert Shaw he (RS) played poker with his head up his ass, I thought it was the funniest thing I had ever heard. I fell in love with Paul Newman and his filthy mouth after that movie - I still can't bring myself to throw out his poster which is currently rolled up and stored with the Christmas wrap.<br />
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I also fell in love with seeing movies in the theatre where my beloved swear words could be heard in all their glory and the jokes were never ruined by the poorly dubbed non-sequiturs you heard on TV. Growing up in the '70s during the golden age of Serious Movies that had finally broken the dirty language barrier, I thought it was stupid to censor those words because if the movie was good, they had an artistic purpose, and if the movie was lazy, the bad words made it more entertaining. Connoisseurs of the ridiculous might enjoy the <a href="https://www.google.ca/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=stupid%20dubbing%20of%20swear%20words%20in%20movies&oq=stupid%20dubbing%20of%20swear%20words%20in%20movies&aqs=chrome..69i57.30464j0j8">extreme</a> <a href="https://www.google.ca/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=melon%20farmer&oq=melon%20farmer&aqs=chrome..69i57j0l5.2497j0j7">lengths</a> TV censors had to go through to cover the ears of the easily outraged but I just wanted to hear the gosh-darn, melon-farming cuss words.<br />
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But despite my advanced internal maturity and appreciation of the art form, I was still very self-conscious about actually swearing myself. As my mother has said on at least one occasion, I wouldn't say shit if my mouth was full of it.<br />
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I don't remember hearing my parents swearing very much but when they did it was pretty low level stuff. I never heard either of them say the f-word. The worst thing I ever remember my mother saying was the s-word which I think shows remarkable forbearance for a woman who had five children in seven years and had to change diapers full of the s-word for 10 years straight.<br />
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When I was in grade six, my best friend's two-year-old baby brother was a prodigiously entertaining cusser thanks to his nine-year old boy cousin but other than that, I don't think many of my friends swore either.<br />
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Peer pressure finally broke my own personal <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Motion_Picture_Production_Code">Hays Code</a> in a rather backwards way when my Almost-Twin Sister and I started hanging out with our older brother's friends in the graveyard behind the houses across the street from us.<br />
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The language was pretty R-rated among those teenage boys (feel free to clutch your pearls now) and it was pretty contagious. My Almost-Twin fit in right away. But when I finally dropped my first tentative f-bombs they were met with such amusement that I swore I would outdo all those fuckers. My conversation became so chockablock with bad words, I could hardly contain them when my parents were around.<br />
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This phase was probably so short-lived that I'm not sure anyone other than me remembers it. I eventually realized that constant cursing lost it's appeal since the shock value wore off if you did it too much and often it just revealed a lack of vocabularial imagination. (By constant cursing I mean every other word. If you can find 3 or 4 good ones to stick in between the bad, you're doing fine.)<br />
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I went back to being a G-rated conversationalist while reserving the right to say anything I darn well please as appropriate. I am a big fan of inappropriate words being used appropriately.<br />
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After all, when you stub your toe on the coffee table, there is no more appropriate word choice than FUCK! Or maybe fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck! It feels a hell of lot better too if you keep that word and its derivatives in reserve for just such an occasion.<br />
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Which finally brings me around to my point (and I do have one). My <a href="http://theresnoplot.blogspot.ca/2016/12/i-made-list.html">last blog post</a> probably surprised a lot of people since I am not known for my salty language.** But I've been hanging around on the internet with <a href="http://thebloggess.com/">loose</a> <a href="http://www.amalah.com/">companions</a> and I watched the first season of Deadwood, a filthy masterpiece of profanity used in epic proportions, so my self-censor has gone all to shit.<br />
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That post was about depression as well as dishwashing and those topics deserve to be described in the filthiest terms possible because they both suck dead sheep sideways.<br />
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I have also stuck my name on this formerly anonymous blog because I am really trying to write something worthwhile here and I'm trying to find my way back to being a writer like my dad who used to regale complete strangers with (mostly) true tales of our family's adventures disguised as an outdoors column published for the whole freaking world to see in <i>The Daily News</i>.<br />
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Depression robbed me of my words 20 years ago. Since then, while I still took the time to write entertaining emails and a few blog posts when I started this thing a few years ago, it is only lately that I have been feeling a really strong urge to write again.<br />
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So now that the floodgates of language seem to have been opened in my brain in more ways than one, I hope you won't mind if I continue writing this little blog using whatever words I fucking like.<br />
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*I don't actually know if this was a fact. It was just my impression at the time and I'm pretty sure I was a teeny tiny bit snobbish about it back then without having a clue why. If Jenny from Up the Street ever reads this, I hope she won't mind a bit of tweaking about a stupid thing she did when she was a kid.<br />
**I also have trouble with rude hand gestures. One time I got so mad at a driver who cut me off I really wanted to give him the finger but my inner-Canadian made me feel so guilty about the impulse that it turned into a thumbs up.<br />
<br />no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-4892952509511307292016-12-31T11:23:00.002-03:302020-07-28T15:53:54.883-02:30i made a list<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">A</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">ll my life I have hated washing dishes. With a sink full of dirty dishes staring me down, I feel like Sisyphus at the bottom of the hill staring at that motherfucking boulder every morning and hating his fucked up life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">Because dishes are the never ending torment, the liver that keeps growing back so the carrion crows can feast on my entrails yet again (different myth).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">All this mixed mythological hyperbole* may seem a little excessive but so is my hatred of dishwashing and its dirty little accomplice, cooking. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">Cooking, baking, frying, broiling - all those bastards turning the kitchen into a wasteland of goo and gunk and gore. Every fucking day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">I love a clean kitchen. Particularly one uncontaminated by the byproducts of the reason for its existence. When I finally wash the motherfucking dishes, you can be sure the counters and stove will end up gleaming too, or at least crumb-free and relieved of sticky stains and the threat of salmonella.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">I generally draw the line at sweeping the floor because I have dogs, socks, and bi-weekly cleaners for that.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">I stand there for a moment and admire the godliness of it all (it helps if you neatly stack the empty peanut jars waiting to be cleaned and recycled) and pretend I don't see that the ground beneath the boulder is looking a bit dodgy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">All this beauty and it only took me an hour and a half to get here.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="font-size: 16px;" /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">If that seems like a ridiculous amount of time to spend on dishes when I have a functioning dishwasher sitting right there, it is. But the dishwasher gets pretty full pretty fast and those pots and pans don't fit in very well once the plates are in there and some don't fit at all - I'm looking at you, broiling pan covered in congealed fat and glued on meat crud.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">Every night my husband comes home and cooks us a nice meal and I am supposed to clean up afterwards because that's the deal we made. I actually insist on it because he does not clean to my exacting standards (not really exacting, see above) and I will just end up redoing the bits that bug me the most.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">But every night as we finish our meal I feel the weight of the boulder settling onto my shoulders and I struggle to get started up that hill.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="font-size: 16px;" /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">I think the reason it is such a struggle is because I am plagued with three debilitating conditions: depression, perfectionism, and procrastinitis. Or maybe it's one condition with 3 intertwined parts. Oh, and a tendency to overthink things (see above and below) That's four. There's probably something else too. Amongst the weapons at my disposal for making my life more complicated than it needs to be are...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="font-size: 16px;" /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">Fortunately I have had only one deep depression, relatively short lived (several months) but also the most interminably long and horrifying episode of my life. That was 20 years ago. I lost two babies since that time, endured terrible mourning for their loss, and I still describe my depression like that.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">Even though I found my way back to life, the experience of a full blown depression made me aware of a persistent low level of energy that has always permeated my life. I am not sad all the time, far from it, but I can be thrown into the foulest of moods over my inability to do things I should be doing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">Once I got past the general fuckery of adolescence and started to care about the state of my surroundings, I discovered there were many household chores I wanted done. I just didn't want to do them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">Sadly, I often don't care enough about them until they have turned into mega projects that will take far more time and energy than I am currently blessed with, which of course means the project only increases in size while I'm waiting for that one magical day when I feel up to the challenge.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">And once I start a project I need it to be done right so that cleaning out the spare room becomes tidying the hall closet to make storage space becomes sorting out piles of papers to see what needs throwing out becomes where's the fucking glue so I can fix this goddamned thing once and for all. That shit is exhausting so I usually run out of steam long before the job is done and have to find some half-assed way to finish up so that the hallway is passable again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">So instead of celebrating what I have accomplished, I'm just tired and a little depressed that I'm going to have to do this project again sometime after it has had time to restock.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">Most of the time the memory of slogging through these projects discourages me from starting them at all. If I play enough Candy Crush,** it is likely I won't have time to even begin before it's time to drive my kid somewhere. If I time this all correctly I will avoid all projects and simply have to deal with the guilt of having accomplished absolutely nothing all weekend long.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="font-size: 16px;" /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">Sadly this tactic also has a tendency to eat up the prime book-reading/tv-watching time that I used to use to avoid housework during my misspent youth. At least then I was improving my vocabulary.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">Getting back to the dishes (I can't avoid those mother-effing dishes), I see the same scenario play out on a daily basis. Sometimes I just wash them right after dinner, give myself a gold star, and go merrily on with my life. Other times, I have to rush out somewhere (see driving kid, op. cit.) or dinner was delayed or somebody pooped in the laundry room (just the dogs, not the kid) any of which conspire against the washing up. Sometimes I just can't stop playing Candy Crush.***</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">Once the dishes from tonight start piling up on top of the dishes of the previous night (and the night before that) it gets harder and harder to face them, and easier and easier to play another game.****</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">Before I know it, it's time to walk the dogs or even time to sit down and watch our shows (9:30 pm, aka home free) and I can pretend there aren't dishes taking up every surface in my kitchen just waiting to bitch slap me the next time I walk in.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">This would all be a lot funnier if the spectre of my failure to suck it up like a big girl and just do it already wasn't filling me with a tiny bit of self-disgust (or a lot).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">When I finally start the plate scraping and the sink filling and the food storing and the counter cleaning and the soaking of old pots and the disposition of fat (congealed or unconcealed) and the scrubbing of stove stains and the tossing of packaging that should have been dealt with by the chef, it still kind of sucks but at least I've got some music playing, I'm singing, and my dog is lying there giving me emotional support. The singing and my iPod are essential coping tools. The dog isn't doing much but it makes me smile when I see him there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">I wash and I wash and the drain is getting full and my back and/or knees are starting to ache and the worst pots are still waiting and they'll need a fresh sink full of water. Doing the task becomes just as depressing as avoiding it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">But I press on like a martyr until finally it is done.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">This hateful task seems to me a microcosm of all the frustrating, boring, never-ending day-to-day tasks that seem impossible to attempt let alone complete when you are in a depressed state. When you feel like your world is a mess and it's your fault because you can't even do the most basic things, it's easy to fall into a pattern of self pity and self blame - the kind of thinking you need to avoid if you don't want to go down that path to self-immolation. I'm always afraid that when I start thinking like this I may already be on that path and I never want to go down there again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">I don't like that I am like this. Twenty years ago I hated myself for being like this.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">Lately I have been trying out a new coping tool that I kept meaning to get to but kept putting off. For 20 years.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="font-size: 16px;" /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">I made a list.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="font-size: 16px;" /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">Every time I think of some task I would like to do I put it on a list on my iPad - this has the advantage of helping me remember what I want done and keeps it handier than a paper list since my iPad seems to be permanently attached to my hand. The list will never be empty because I keep adding new things but after a task is done I check it off and it will disappear until I feel the need to admire all my accomplishments by viewing completed tasks.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="font-size: 16px;" /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">Instead of big, overwhelming projects, I put on smaller tasks that will take varying amounts of time. I don't list "clean the spare room" but the components of that job. I reorganized the gift wrapping stuff this Christmas, for example. The under-the-bed storage container that used to store all that crap needs a little more cleaning so I can repurpose it but that's a task for another day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">When I have a little time I do one thing. I do others if I have the time and the energy but I don't kick myself if one is all I can do. Or even part of one.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">As for the fucking dishes, I have tried to let myself give up partway if there is just too much for one session, I'm feeling pain, or there's no more room in the drain. Then I finished the job the next night. It seemed to help.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="font-size: 16px;" /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">So at the tender age of 54, I am finally taking some simple advice I heard many years ago and it really seems to be making a difference. I truly am getting more done bit by tiny bit and my energy for all the mundane tasks of life seems to be increasing as long as I know when it's time to stop.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">And to my frustrated husband who just needs a little room to cook in every night for lord's sake (he would never use that expression), I hope this long meandering tale will explain why I can't always make that space as big as he deserves.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="font-size: 16px;" /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">Because doing dishes really does suck.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">*The Ancient Greeks really understood the existential horror of a sink full of dirty dishes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">**I'm using Candy Crush metaphorically here because that effing app hasn't worked in weeks. I'm actually playing Minion Rush, Best Fiends, and Cookie Jam in an endless loop but you've probably never even heard of them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">***Seriously, that stupid game boots me out before I even get to spin the bonus wheel.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">****I deleted it from my iPad today because the shagging thing was just taking up space. See ** above.</span>no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-53692753843280568012010-05-29T17:39:00.014-02:302016-12-31T11:15:16.174-03:30she who does not obeyA while back, She Who Does Not Obey expressed a wish that her pseudonym be changed, offended by its accurate description no doubt. I started to consider it, despite my fondness for the name, but in the meantime a friend of mine had read about her on my blog and commented "she's my kind of girl."<br />
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I met this particular friend while working on my English degree at university so I immediately knew what she meant.<br />
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The Obedient Female is a literary figure that has annoyed and frustrated me for quite some time. The ideal woman in the White Male dominated world of English lit was an angelic figure who did what she was told, passing meekly and compliantly from father to husband. When blessed with decent parents, or at least one parent of that variety, obedience can work out reasonably well for a heroine. But when she is cursed with a greedy, selfish and capricious family, she becomes a doormat, a vulnerable creature in need of assistance and rescue.<br />
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I certainly don't want to raise She Who Marries the Jerk Her Family Foisted Upon Her or She Who Forsakes Her True Love Because Her Family Does Not Approve.<br />
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And definitely not She Who Sat in the Cinders because she never had the ovaries to demand the respect she deserved and reclaim her rightful place in her own family. If we all waited for some twit to show up with an uncomfortable piece of footwear, where would we be?<br />
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clarissa">Clarissa</a> who has drawn my scorn on this blog <a href="http://theresnoplot.blogspot.com/2009/06/15-er-5-books-i-read-last.html">before</a> was very much the obedient ideal, passively acquiescing to every demand of her despicable brother except in one thing - she refuses to marry the Jerk Her Family Foists Upon Her. She also refuses to marry the guy who rescues her from her family and then rapes her, even though that would restore her good name. If she hadn't been so insufferable about it all, I could actually admire her.<br />
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One day while I was driving SWDNO to school, she saw a woman wearing a burka for the first time in her life. I tried to explain it in as neutral a way as I could, despite my discomfort with the practice, to say it was a cultural thing and that a woman can choose to wear a burka if she wants.<br />
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"That's unfair," she said.<br />
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At that point I was forced to agree. I have read finely worded arguments from highly educated Muslim women arguing for their right to wear a head scarf or a burka if they choose, but I can't help wondering how much choice is involved when a woman is subject to a strongly patriarchal society and accepts that a man should have the final say over what she does and how she dresses. Works great as long as you don't end up with a crappy family or a violent husband. Or if you should happen to disagree with the person who has power over you.<br />
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Meanwhile, my own culture can hardly be highly praised when there are still so many obstacles for the uppity woman to face. She is still <a href="http://thecoupleconnection.net/articles/housework--2">apparently</a> doing most of the housework and the childcare even when she is not a stay-at-home mom. She is still not paid as <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Equal_pay_for_women">much</a> as a man. She is still subject to misogyny and violence both in abusive homes and in society at large.<br />
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She has never been the President of the United States and has only managed to be Prime Minister of Canada for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kim_Campbell">30 seconds or so</a>.<br />
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I want my girl to grow up to be a strong, independent young woman who will make a way for herself in this world whether she finds her handsome prince or not.<br />
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Philosophically, I am as anti-obedience as the rest of my oppressed sisters, but as a mother I can't help wishing from time to time that my little proto-feminist would just once put her damn shoes on the first time I ask.<br />
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But she knows how to say "No!" and mean it. That is progress.no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-15189796373451481252010-04-02T09:12:00.005-02:302010-04-02T17:49:57.624-02:30bimonthly?Can someone tell me where March went?<br /><br />I actually had a post percolating in my head all last month but somehow it never found the way to the great egress.<br /><br />But at least I can say I posted in April.<br /><br />And just so I can say there was actual content in this post, here's a quick story:<br /><br />She Who Does Not Obey was telling me about a nightmare she had the other night. We were at a funeral for three women (?) and suddenly everyone started turning into Evil Lobsters!<br /><br />Even Her Father and me.<br /><br />I started to smile despite myself, because Evil Lobsters! How cool is that?<br /><br />She started to smile too. I didn't want her to think I didn't get that her dream was still scary despite the presence of diabolical crustaceans, pointing out that laughing at a scary dream was the best way to deal with it.<br /><br />"If you have the dream again, you could throw hot water at them," I suggested.<br /><br />She rolled her eyes at me and said, "Mom, they were already cooked."<br /><br />Oh.no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-53248601905086224342010-02-27T08:31:00.011-03:302010-02-27T09:37:51.381-03:30wmdA while back, She Who Does Not Obey got a snow day but I did not. The school board gets very trigger-happy sometimes, closing the schools at the least suggestion of bad weather. My work is less easily panicked, unfortunately.<br /><br />I usually go with taking her to my work's daycare which is open as long as work's open, but this time I decided to see what her two friends down the street were up to. To SWDNO's delight, friends' mom was more than willing to take her on as there was already one other girl from up the street coming by and even numbers are always better in those situation.<br /><br />Normally getting SWDNO out of the house on such a day is like trying to pry a lid off a reluctant pickle jar, but this was the perfect carrot. She is always ready to run down the street whenever the chance arises.<br /><br />After I told her the good news, we were both hurrying to get ready for a change when the phone rang and friend's mom spoke to Her Father, asking if we might have a bit of peanut butter we could spare. It seems they had gotten themselves an unwanted boarder and needed to serve an eviction notice.<br /><br />SWDNO was overjoyed with the notion of a mouse in the house and tickled at the idea of peanut butter being a mouse's favourite food.<br /><br />Until it suddenly occurred to her that the peanut butter was going to be used lure the mouse to his doom. It was ammunition for a weapon of mouse destruction!<br /><br />All of sudden, her moral campass kicked in and she became a conscientious objector - a conscientious objector who decided to hide in her bed and refused to put any more clothes on.<br /><br />I did my best to rationalize the mouse's death sentence with tales of mouse poop and general untidiness, but could make no headway, all while the clock ticked away inexorably toward 9 a.m. Why couldn't they just trap the mouse? she asked and I could think of no other reason than that people usually went for the cheapest and easiest method of mouse disposal, a philosophical position that she would hardly find defensible in her current state of mind.<br /><br />Fortunately for me, she hit upon a scheme which many had tried before her - she would just have to build a better mousetrap. She hunted around (clock still ticking!) until she found a shoe box and after some consideration, she demonstrated some methods by which she would lie in wait for the mouse with peanut butter on the lid, and then quickly slam the box down, trapping him as easy as can be.<br /><br />I quickly agreed that this was an excellent plan -what with mice being so slow and easily fooled -and hustled her out the door.<br /><br />As it happened, all the trouble was for naught - friends' mom was going to use a humane trap after all. Mickey would be caught and released into the wild to continue his unsanitary marauding somewhere else (or make his way back to their hospitable home once again).<br /><br />I should have known friend's mom would have planned to use such a trap. One time, she made a foolhardy comment about actually liking our unruly dogs and being quite willing to adopt them should the need ever arise. Lucky for her, Her Father wasn't there to immediately take her up on such a unwise offer.<br /><br />As for the mouse, he managed to elude capture on that day, despite the ingenious deployment of shoe boxes and other trapping devices. His fate is still a mystery to me.<br /><br />But if he ever makes his way up to this end of the street, I have a feeling we will soon be the proud owners a yet another pesky pet.no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-27023510370955669352010-01-06T19:42:00.006-03:302010-01-06T20:41:36.817-03:30i can haz blog postWhen I started this blog I had visions of posting several times a week, encouraged by my favourite blogs which I checked every day - even when I knew the blogger was more sporadic than that.<br /><br />These plans were quickly downsized to dreams of a weekly post, followed by bi-weekly plans and then monthly.<br /><br />That was clearly an unreachable goal as well (see December posts, lack thereof).<br /><br />I shall blame Her Father and his insistance that we trek into the wilds of New Brunswick last week to visit his family instead of staying home and lying idly around on soft cushions, hove off like oriental potentates and stuffing ourselves with Hershey's Kisses. I still have two unopened bags of the things - by this time in the Christmas season, Her Father and I are usually scrounging under sofa cushions for any strays that might have eluded our cavernous maws.<br /><br />I did start a blog post in a hotel room in Halifax, but sadly there was no time to lollygag around and finish the damn thing. There was breakfast to be bought and the hotel dog to pat. BTW, if you're ever in Halifax and missing your favourite pooch, I would recommend the <a href="http://www.chocolatelakehotel.com/">Best Western Chocolate Lake </a>as a reasonably priced way to assuage your craving for dog-petting. That's Coco the Chocolate Lab in the masthead and she was a real sweetie.<br /><br />She Who Does Not Obey gives it four stars.<br /><br />I do love going to Halifax where I also got to see my sister TR and her husband where we can also revel in wild cat abandon as well. My sister is a Cat Person and has just upgraded once again to a three-cat family with the arrival of two cute little fuzzballs named Sonny and Ben. I would enthrall you with Cute Kitteh Photos at this point if I hadn't misplaced my digital camera the day before our trip and not realized this fact until two minutes before the arrival of our ride to the airport.<br /><br />There were 27 photos on the disposible camera I bought at Shoppers the first day of our arrival. I believe that SWDNO and a few other humans may have managed to get into some of them, but I doubt that they were ever without feline companionship. I'm sure the photos will all turn out something like <a href="http://icanhascheezburger.com/">this</a>, with which you can amuse yourself until I get around to bringing the camera in to be processed.<br /><br />New Brunswick was nice too, but I could have done without the snow covered drive back to almost-Halifax, watching vans doing pirouettes in the lanes ahead. We intended to go all the way back to Halifax that day but bailed at the airport hotels.<br /><br />It was probably the most restful part of the whole trip and involved a lot of sitting around and reading an entire newspaper from end to end - which I haven't done in about 8.5 years - while occasionally looking out the window at a storm that I was extremely glad I was no longer in the midst of.<br /><br />So now I am back home and actually finding the time to post while patting a slightly different shade of lab.<br /><br />I shall endeavor not to turn it an annual event.no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-55935524540122820032009-11-06T13:05:00.004-03:302009-11-06T14:08:26.596-03:30not gone, just probably forgottenSo, hello there. How've you been? Good, good. Having managed to drag yourself from your sick bed to read this, I'm glad to hear you're still alive although possibly not well.<br /><br />I have been gone, lo these many days, not because of illness, unless it was African sleeping sickness. It would appear I slept October completely away.<br /><br />But lest you think I was completely slothful last month, I spent a good deal of my waking hours trying to acquire a costume for She Who Does Not Obey who had decided to be a black cat this year.<br /><br />Last year I helped my mother make SWDNO a Jasmine costume, which took several weeks to do, what with the trip to the fabric store scrounging for just the right shade of aqua silk amongst the fabric ends, the cutting of many oddly-shaped pieces, and the tricky sewing. My mother did all the tricky sewing, however. I did manage to jerry-rig a matching costume for SWDNO's Webkinz chihuahua, Ruffer, though.<br /><br />Unfortunately, the Jasmine pattern came with an Ariel pattern as well, so SWDNO had declared that she was going to be Ariel next. I felt guilty that my mother had done the lion's share of the work, so I was determined to do more of the work on Ariel even though I had no idea when I would find the time. Ruffer was sure to demand her matching outfit as well.<br /><br />So when SWDNO declared at the end of September that Ariel's services were no longer required, I was delighted. Black cat was going to be a slam dunk. Black clothes we've got, all we needed were some pointy ears and a tail.<br /><br />That of course was before the two of us spent three weekends at three different stores trying to find said items. And when we couldn't find what we came for, she still managed to talk me into spending ridiculous amounts of money on spooky Halloween props for a "Tunnel of Doom" she wanted to set up in our foyer - only to have the Tunnel cancelled because several of the things we bought gave her the willies.<br /><br />Our third store was sure to be the charm, I thought, given that it's the most popular one in town for cheap costumes. Still we were forced to wander aimlessly through the store for ages, like zombies in a vegetable patch, unable to uncover a single feline accessory until we devoured, I mean, engaged the help of a staff member who actually worked in the Halloween section.<br /><br />Then, when we got it home, the dog ate the cat costume.<br /><br />Finally we arrived on the all-sainted day, new costume purchased albeit briefly misplaced, only to have a new concern on the horizon. One of her friends down the street had come down with the H1N1 virus.<br /><br />Everyone in town had been in a mad panic to get the vaccination the day before Halloween after those <a href="http://www.winnipegfreepress.com/special/flu/McGuinty-tries-to-reassure-Ontario-residents-after-2-children-die-of-H1N1-66905752.html">two kids died up in Ontario</a>, causing the provincial government to crack down and enforce restrictions on who was to be vaccinated. My kid was too damn healthy and too damn old, at the tender age of eight, so she was out of luck.<br /><br />The news agencies reported that people were considering not going out this year, trying to limit contact with possible sources of contagion, aka candy givers. Most of my acquaintances reported a reduction in the number of kids who came to their doors.<br /><br />We went trick-or-treating despite it all and survived the experience - even while accompanied by the younger sister of her afflicted friend.<br /><br />Now we are waiting for our turn at vaccination to come, attempting to fortify ourselves with the large candy stash SWDNO has hidden away in a Secret Box in her bedroom - the location of which is no secret to anyone, the dog included.<br /><br />Half my <a href="http://theresnoplot.blogspot.com/2009/09/sing-low.html">choir</a> is missing in action this week, which wasn't that disturbing until today when some of the previously absent reappeared, coughing vigourously throughout the session.<br /><br />I had the urge to shout "Stop spraying your filthy germs on me you plague-infested swine!" but somehow managed to restrain myself.<br /><br />Not that I'm getting paranoid or anything.<br /><br />Still if you would kindly coat yourself in Purell before your next visit, it would be greatly appreciated.no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-14936477072326173562009-09-17T22:58:00.006-02:302009-09-21T14:11:12.558-02:30sing lowI did something very unexpected and impulsive last week.<br /><br />I joined a choir.<br /><br />I am just that kind of a wild and crazy girl.<br /><br />I haven't sung in a choir since high school, or was it junior high?<br /><br />I don't remember high school singing, but I do remember being in Glee Club in junior high - sadly not in the least bit like the new <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1327801/">tv show</a>. I really liked being in the Glee Club, but there was one thing I could never come to terms with.<br /><br />Mrs. Dawson made me sing alto.<br /><br />I didn't like singing alto. Altos are the third class citizens of the all-girl choir, let me tell you.<br /><br />Altos sing the same note over and over and over until suddenly they don't and where that next note is supposed to be was usually beyond me. I couldn't seem to anticipate it.<br /><br />I absolutely love to sing but hated the struggle to figure out just what notes I was supposed to be singing. I have a pretty good memory for songs I like, for anything with a good hook, but we were usually given a few cursory runs through the alto line and then left to fend for ourselves while the sopranos and 2nd sopranos got to breeze through the melody lines.<br /><br />The fun parts. The parts that made the songs so memorable. The parts that made you want to sing the songs in the first place.<br /><br />When I was in the 9th grade, our school staged <em>Oliver</em>, one of my favourite musicals. So many of those songs are wonderfully singable - although some of the lyrics (Consider Yourself, Food Glorious Food, I'd Do Anything) are practically impossible to remember if you are a lazy 14-year-old trying to coast by on the memories of other 14-year-olds who were hoping you were going to memorize it.<br /><br />On the other hand, if called upon, I could belt out every verse of Who Will Buy, including the introductory bits sung by the chorus. It is a lovely song with sopranos offering "ripe strawberries ripe" and 2nd sopranos plaintively calling for someone to "buy my sweet red roses". I could totally hit those notes too, but instead I was called upon to offer "knives, knives to grind" hitting mournful notes that still grind on my nerves.<br /><br />I suppose the part is actually for bass voices, but while we had many boys in the production, we were in junior high after all - very few testicles had dropped sufficiently at that point to produce sounds low enough. The altos were probably the only ones man enough to do it.<br /><br />To make matters worse, we had to come in a half beat behind everyone else, on an obscure note that none of us could recognize if it had jumped up and grabbed us by our non-existant balls. Our Nancy, the female lead, was recruited to bring us in somewhere in the approximate vicinity of the correct time.<br /><br />If all these sour grapes lead you to believe that the part I really wanted to sing was that of the female lead, then you would be right. I did want that part and I tried out for it, but I was no match for the girl who rightfully got the lead. She had a strong, beautiful, mature voice with a terrific range that I never could have matched. She did us proud.<br /><br />I think that I am a pretty good singer but my difficulties with singing alto convinced me that I was inappropriately placed. I was convinced that my music teacher had never listened to my voice long enough to know what I should be singing.<br /><br />So when the opportunity to join this choir came along the other day, with the offer of placing you in a section based on a quick check of your range, I jumped at the chance.<br /><br />I went to the class and eagerly stepped up for my turn to sing my scales.<br /><br />So the guy listens to me strain for the highest notes and then comfortably sing the low and he pronounces my sentence: Alto 2.<br /><br />In horror, I begged and was granted the small mercy of Alto 1, but my dreams of singing the goddamn tune already were finally and irrevocably dashed. My voice has betrayed me.<br /><br />So now I am trying to make the best of it, dusting off my sight-reading skills (almost non-existant), and listening really hard to the ladies sitting around me who apparently know what the hell they are doing.<br /><br />The first song we are singing is an excerpt from a larger piece. I don't know what it is called, the only thing identifying it is the handwritten word "Pink". I think this might be the composer, although I'm pretty sure it's not <a href="http://www.amazon.ca/Funhouse-Pink/dp/B001F0VHEM/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1253549323&sr=8-1">this Pink </a>what with it being in Latin and all.<br /><br />After a few classes, I was starting to think I'd never get anywhere, my memory of the chorus consisting of this:<br /><br />Gloria in excelsis deo / something something SOMEthing /<br />some somethingy thing / thingy voluntatis<br /><br />Also that there was something in there about a minibus.<br /><br />But then by the fourth class, I suddenly had that, all two lines of it. I felt proud of myself for about two minutes until we got started on the verses and I quickly got in over my head again. By verse 3, we were singing about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chakotay">Chakotay</a> in something or other. I'm still not sure how the tune goes, losing my place on the sheet music quite easily, so I continue to listen hard and try to fake the tougher bits until I have heard it sung correctly enough by my better trained compadres to follow suit.<br /><br />I will try not to be discouraged. It helps that today the instructor mentioned that composers were not very imaginative when it came to writing alto parts and that they were hard to sing. So I guess it's not just me, then.<br /><br />I am enjoying it at least even if I still feel the need to mutter under my breath from time to time.<br /><br />I will go on singing about Chakotay on a minibus at least until the Christmas concert and then we shall see.no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-57873383705466257052009-08-30T16:28:00.014-02:302009-09-07T18:41:32.687-02:30down on the labradorLooking back at it now, I would say that Her Father married me under false pretenses.<br /><br />When I met him 14 years ago, one of the things that convinced me that he was a nice guy was the fact that he had a dog, a beautiful blonde collie-cross named Becky.<br /><br />Becky was one of the nicest dogs I have ever met. She had the sweetest disposition, gentle and calm, and to top it off was incredibly obedient. You could let her off-leash on any trail and she always came running with her tail wagging when you called her back. She was welcome at all of our friend's houses at any time because she could always be counted on to behave.<br /><br />She absolutely adored Her Father, to the point that she would follow him to the bathroom when we were visiting anywhere and whine outside the door.<br /><br />Since she was such an outstanding canine, I guess I took it for granted that Her Father had great judgment and taste when it came to choosing dogs, not to mention some mad training skillz.<br /><br />I really should have considered the implications of how she came into his life a little more closely, however.<br /><br />Her Father had gone to the SPCA to pick out a dog, still unsure whether he really wanted to take on the responsibility. After looking at all the dogs, he decided on a black dog but still couldn't commit so he went away to have a coffee and think about it some more.<br /><br />When he got back, having decided to go for it, the black dog had already been adopted so he chose Becky instead. It was an incredible stroke of luck that we all appreciated for the next 13 years.<br /><br />When Becky was 14, she died. We spent far too much on an operation that gave her only six extra weeks, but although it gave us some time to prepare She Who Does Not Obey for the inevitable, we were all devastated when it happened.<br /><br />It wasn't long before Her Father started thinking about getting another dog, but instead of looking at blondes, he returned to his original plans of getting a black dog.<br /><br />Two months later, he received an email from a friend in Labrador offering him a black labrador-cross puppy, by name of Shadow. Her Father had been to Labrador for work during that time and had coveted many stray puppies he'd seen down there*, so we decided it was a sign that Shadow was meant for us.<br /><br />Shadow was a sweet dog and a pretty dog too. But he was what they call in the dog training trade "batshit crazy."<br /><br />He was all go all the time, ready to play with whatever came to mouth, chewing every toy he could find including many of those belonging to She Who Does Not Obey, who was only 4-years old at the time. Many tears were shed, hers over favourite playthings, mine in frustration at trying to explain yet another senseless stuffed toy death.<br /><br />We tried to keep him in dog toys, but he destroyed every one, pieces of rubber balls and chewtoys decorating the poop we picked up after him. The only toy he couldn't manage to decimate was a Kong.<br /><br />He also had a great fondness for footwear, especially Her Father's slippers which had to be replaced every other week. He chewed great chunks out of my winter boots and ate the entire leather upper of my walking sandals, leaving behind only the rubber sole. We had to hide our shoes behind a folding door which he was quite capable of opening with a nudge of his nose. We were constantly thinking up new ways to wedge the door shut as he figured out how to get around all our defenses.<br /><br />We were forced to buy him a kennel for him to sleep in at night and stay in while we were gone because he could get bored at any time or the day or night and something had to pay for that.<br /><br /><br /><p>When he wasn't laying waste to our footwear and toys, he was trying to hoist his 70 pounds into Her Father's lap trying to get him to play with him. If he came to me, he would nudge me for attention but if I made the mistake of patting him, he would be all over me demanding I play with him as well. He didn't have an off switch.</p><p></p><p>Walks were more like drags, with him pulling us around the block. One winter's day, he pulled extra hard while I was on a patch of ice on a hill and I fell backwards, smacking my head on the pavement.</p><p></p><p>Unfortunately we were low energy owners with a high energy dog and we were tearing our hair out trying to deal with him. Our dog trainer looked at us with disdain for our lack of enthusiasm for what was required to give our dog the time and attention he needed/demanded if we wished to keep any of the consumer goods we dared to bring into the house.</p><p></p><p>This went on for a year until one November day, suddenly, Shadow got sick. He wouldn't eat, he could hardly stand. We rushed him to the vet and found out he had low hemoglobin. Steroids and a transfusion provided no help, so we were forced to make a terrible decision.</p><p></p><p>We stood by his side, Her Father and I, as he breathed his last. It broke our hearts all over again. As much as we despaired of ever turning him into a well-behaved dog, it turned out we loved the troublemaking mutt.</p><p></p><p>We decided to take a break at that point, no more dogs until after our long-planned spring trip to Disney World. </p><p></p><p>But had Her Father learned his lesson about the dangers of brunettes (BTW guess what colour my hair is)? The answer to that question will have to wait for another post.</p><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*In Newfoundland, you go "down north" to Labrador, hence the expression "down on the labrador" meaning to be there.</span>no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748223518880858538.post-37058917875017440472009-08-25T10:12:00.005-02:302009-08-25T10:27:53.860-02:30undead updateShe Who Does Not Obey announced the other day that she is totally over the zombie thing.<br /><br />She demonstrated her resolve by walking unconcerned into a graveyard in Trinity and looking with some interest at a bunch of really old gravestones.<br /><br />There is a new fear on the horizon, however.<br /><br />The new Number One Threat? Bears.<br /><br />No, she hasn't joined the <a href="http://www.colbertnation.com/home">Colbert Nation</a>, she just spent some time in Terra Nova National Park where the bears make free with the local garbage dumps and occasionally visit the camp sites.<br /><br />Not that we actually saw a single bear while we were there. But her cousin Destructo counted 16 bears at the dump, although he said there were actually 20 there (the new math?)<br /><br />At least I am not responsible for the bears in her head.<br /><br />Also, she's not too keen on the spiders who enjoy hanging out in blueberry patches.no plothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07619429713535340246noreply@blogger.com0