Assorted Nonsense

Yes, we turned our lights out.

Did you?

And we all went out and walked around the block. Maybe a third of the houses we passed had their lights out.

Maybe it was my imagination, but the stars seemed to shine a little brighter. The girls loved it… said it was like a campout.

We might do it next week too, just for fun.

The Easter Rabbit is happy enough to bring our girls treats, it seems, but he makes them work hard for those treats.  This morning the girls got up at five o’clock and discovered the following notes outside their door (the first one to K is partially a response to a note K wrote the Easter Rabbit):

Dearest K,

You asked me if your bunny

was my very own cute honey

I do hope you are not frustrated,

but we’re not at all related

You’ll probably notice that I took

your gift, it’s such a nice phone book

To business now: if for a treat

you’d like to eat something that’s sweet

You should hop on your hind feet

to a place that sees the street

***  

K’s Clue Number Two:

Did you think to find treats here?

Then you’ll be disappointed dear

I’m sorry to be teasy

but finding treats is not that easy!

Careful: don’t become a grouch

Instead, go down and look beneath a couch!

*** 

K’s Clue Number Three:

Of course the treats won’t fit down here

There’s far too much of it I fear

Now to read the next sweet clue

You have but to find a shoe

*** 

K’s Clue Number Four:

Are you getting tired now?

Perhaps you’d like to ride a cow

But I don’t have a cow to ride

Instead I have a place to hide

Yet another Easter Clue

Inside the sometimes stinky loo

Where you go to have a poo!

*** 

K’s Clue Number Five:

This is the last clue my friend

after this will be the end

But if I may just kindly posit:

tooth decay: chocolate can cause it

when you eat your treats don’t rush

Afterwards be sure to brush

Now to find some real sweet deals

Go to where you cook your meals!

*** 

Dearest E:

Such a pretty, friendly girl

Like your sister, quite a pearl

Because you’re both so nice and sweet

I have brought for you a treat

But first a clue you understand

Underneath a great big can

*** 

E’s Clue Number Two:

With the treats a furry friend

If you make it to the end

To find the next clue go downstairs

And look beneath a great big bear

*** 

E’s Clue Number Three:

Congratulations!  You are now

One step closer to a cow

I beg your pardon! That’s not true

I meant to say that if you moo…

Wait a sec!  That’s not it either

Just find a cow and look beside ‘er

*** 

E’s Clue Number Four:

Now you’re getting really near

And if you listen you might hear

Something chocolate calling dear

Don’t go shedding any tears,

One more clue awaits, I fear

If you want your special stash

Go and look beside the trash!

*** 

E’s Clue Number Five:

Because you’re like a shining star,

and you’ve found your way this far,

I shall make you wait no more

Look behind a closet door!

Thank you both for playing this game

Next year we shall do the same!

*** 

You’ve got to like a rabbit not afraid of including the odd scatalogical clue.  It took the girls all of fifteen minutes to find every clue and baskets full of chocolate and fuzzy animals at the end of the trail.  Did they go back to bed after that?  Of course not.  Am I ready to go back to bed?  You bet.  And I’ll get to go back to bed, too… in another fourteen hours.

Ah, to have the energy of an eight year old again…

Happy Easter Everyone!

Another post from the original Assorted Nonsense, which I’m reposting because it’s rather pertinent to this time of year… don’t take these times for granted, though, they change all the time… best to phone the rinks involved and confirm.  And if you hear of any changes, lemme know and I’ll change them here:

All info updated Dec 24, 2007

Sorry about the specific geographical nature of this post. But this has been a source of aggravation for some time. We like to go skating as a family, but we’re always hard pressed to find skating times at the various local public arenas. I finally found out a bunch of public and family skating times today; I’m going to post them here for future reference, and also so that anyone else who might be looking for such times online might have access to them:

Public and Family Skating Times

Iroquois, Whitby 500 Victoria W 905-668-7765

Sunday 2:00 - 3:45PM

Tuesday 4:00 - 5:45PM

Friday 8:00 - 9:45PM

Saturday 3:00 - 4:45PM

Sunday 2:00 - 3:45PM

Christmas Skates at Iroquois:

Wed Dec 26: 11:00 - 12:30, Sat Dec 29 3:00 - 4:45, 

 Sun Dec 30 2:00 - 3:45

Special New Year’s Eve Bash Mon Dec 31 7:00 - 10:00 PM

Legends, Oshawa 1661 Harmony 905-436-5455 *

Monday 10:00 - 11:20 AM

Tuesday 4:00 - 5:45 PM

Wednesday 8:00 - 8:50 PM

Thursday 1:00 - 2:20 PM

Friday 7:00 -8:20 PM

Sunday 4:00 - 5:50 PM & 1:00 - 2:50 PM

McKinny Centre, Whitby 905-655-2203

Friday 4:15 - 6PM

Saturday 8:30 - 10:15PM

Christmas Skating at McKinny:

Friday, Dec 28 1:15 - 2:45, 4:15 - 6PM

Sat Dec 29 8:30 - 10:15PM

Sun Dec 30 11:15 - 1:00PM

Vipond, Brooklin

Wednesday 4:00 - 5:45 PM

Saturday 2:00 - 3:45

Sunday 2:00 - 3:45PM

*No skating Dec 24th & 25 at Legends & Special Holiday Schedule in effect from Dec 22 until Dec 30th

If I have any of these wrong or forgot anything, please let me know!

…here’s the story of how we acquired our third cat (an absolute delight to have around the house despite her curious habit of throwing up everywhere on an almost daily basis):

 I want to tell you about my cat. Actually, I have three cats, but the one I want to tell you about is named Blossom. The story begins with my father-in-law, who decided to move out of his house in the country into an apartment in Moncton, New Brunswick. He needed a new home for his eight year old cat… Blossom. So my wife generously decided to add Blossom to our already (in my opinion) full roster of felines.

They decided to fly Blossom from Moncton to Toronto. They drugged her and packed her up and somehow it became my responsibility to pick her up at the airport, after work.

I’m at work on the day and it’s four o’clock in the afternoon and I’m starting to feel ill. Stomach flu kind of thing. I tough it out to the end of my shift, but I can’t go home. No, I have to go pick up this cat at the airport. But before I do that, I’ve also agreed to pick up a Disney doll as a birthday gift for a friend of my girls. I’m feeling increasingly sick, but I hightail it off to the Eaton Centre or whatever they’re calling it these days to pick up the doll. Then it’s back on the subway to where I’ve parked the car, and off to the airport.

Traffic getting out of Toronto sucks bigtime. It’s bad enough going east to Whitby where I live, but west on the QEW to the 427 up to the airport is worse. Fortunately, there’s a plastic bag in the glove compartment that I can barf into if I begin to feel even worse. It’s stop and go until about half the way up the 427. I make it to the airport without woofing my cookies. Thinking all the while, I don’t even really like cats (more of a dog person, really).

I find the proper gate at the airport with the help of a friendly seventy year old fellow whose job it is to give directions. At the gate I ask an attendant if my cat is likely to be unloaded there. She says yes. I wait. Everybody gets off the plane, including several dogs. But no cat.

I approach the attendant and inquire about the cat. She says, you mean the cat was travelling alone? I say yes, it’s a very sophisticated cat. She says, well in that case you must pick the cat up at the special cat delivery terminal located approximately three kilometres west of the airport proper. I ask her how to get there. She has no idea.

I visit my seventy year old friend. He has never heard of the special cat delivery terminal. I revisit the attendant. She unearths a phone number for the special cat delivery terminal. I revisit my seventy year old friend, who lets me use his phone. I phone the special cat delivery terminal. I get an answering machine. I leave a message asking them to phone my seventy year old friend.

I wait. I refrain from barfing. I imagine being home in bed. I really want nothing more than to be home in bed. I refrain from barfing some more.

The phone rings. It is the guy from the special cat delivery terminal. He gives me directions as my seventy year old friend spreads an enormous map across his desk and marks on it with a red felt pen. I repeat the directions aloud. “Turn right at the second Sunoco,” I say. “No no no!” the guy says. “At the second Su NO co!” I’ve pronounced it wrong. Apparently you can’t get there if you pronounce it wrong.

The directions make little sense. I decide to take a cab. I approach a cabbie and he’s all set to take me until I mention the cat. “No cats!” he cries.

Armed with my seventy year old friend’s map, I hop in my van and pick my way across north Toronto in search of the special cat terminal. Lo and behold there’s the second Su NO co. I turn right and wend my way down an enormously long, desolate road, past large, eerie buildings and arrive after much head scratching at what can only be the special cat terminal, where, one can only suppose, they land the planes and disembark all the cats before taking off again to fly the human passengers three kilometres further on to the special people terminal.

Inside the special cat terminal is a long, L shaped desk at which several unsmiling people are busy clicking away at special computer terminals. I’m feeling even sicker if such a thing is possible and not a little annoyed. “I’m here to get my cat,” I announce to one unsmiling face. He gets me to fill out a form and tells me to go around the corner and wait and somebody will get my cat.

I fill out the form and go around the corner and wait for somebody to get my cat. I wait. I wait and I wait and I wait. I am waiting in a huge hanger type space, filled with mysterious boxes and zero human activity. Finally I hear a shuffling. I spy an elderly security guard approaching. “Excuse me,” I say. “I’m looking to get my cat. Can you help me get my cat?”

“Your cat?” he says. “I can’t get you your cat.”

“Look, I just want my cat,” I tell him. “I’m as sick as a dog and I’ve been trying to get my cat for about three hours now and I just want to get it and go home.”

“Come with me,” he says. “I can show you your cat.” And he leads me across this vast space to a special door, which he unlocks, and ushers me inside. And there’s Blossom, whom I recognize from visits with my father-in-law. Filled with relief, I pick up Blossom’s case and prepare to take her home with me.

The elderly security guard, seconds before a paragon of peacefulness, freaks out. “What do you think you are you doing?”

“I’m taking my cat home with me.”

“You can’t take that cat home with you!”

I can’t believe my ears. She’s right there… I’m holding onto her case, perhaps I could make a dash for it… I sigh, a sigh perilously close to a barf. “Why can’t I take my cat home with me?”

He gives me this song and dance about procedure and I’ve had enough. I storm back to the L shaped desk and all the dour faces and I shout, “Look! I just want my cat! Will somebody please give me my cat?” And I storm back to the place I had been told to wait.

I do not recall actually receiving the cat or exiting the building. I can only hope the process was carried out peacefully and with a minumum of vomit. I do recall travelling home on the 401 with Blossom on the passenger seat beside me. I spoke to her soothingly. As tired and as sick as I felt, I suspected she felt even worse. I tried to be friendly, to welcome her to her new home, to make her feel better. I don’t know that I succeeded.

But I did get her to her new home. Where she lives with two new cat enemies, er, friends.

All three of whom I’m allergic to.

On Saturday I was looking after the girls.  In a quiet moment I decided to check out Facebook.  Now, I have to confess that I’m not a big fan of Facebook.  I have a blog and that’s quite enough for me, thank you very much.  However, from time to time people send me messages on Facebook and I feel obliged to read them and perhaps (if I’m feeling generous) provide some manner of curt response.

So I checked it out and lo and behold several people had sent me various forms of test.  It just so happens that I LOVE tests (just ask any of my high school teachers) (this entire sentence, by the way, is a test to see just how well you detect sarcasm).  There was a test on optical illusions, so I took it and scored ridiculously high, 19 out of 20.  It wasn’t a very hard test.  If you think I’m bragging, prithee read on, for humiliation awaits, I assure you.

Buoyed by this success, I ventured onto the next test.  Bear in mind that my girls are playing quietly in the adjacent room at this time.

It was an IQ test.

The directions specify that I should be alone with absolutely no distractions.  Oh what the hell, I think.  How hard can it be?  I click START.

Right away I’m in trouble.  Turns out the damned test is timed.  Not a problem if the girls don’t interrupt me.  And they are fine… until about three minutes in.  E comes to me with a question.  My concentration is shattered.  No matter… I forge on.  K starts a fight with E.  E complains to me.  E starts a fight with K.  K complains to me.  The cats are meowing.  They too are complaining.  I should be paying attention to them all, but I am not.  Instead I am writing a stupid online test that I failed the moment I began, because I ignored the initial instructions: BE ALONE WITH ABSOLUTELY NO DISTRACTIONS.

I was a moron right from the get go.  And the results of this test confirmed it.

I know what my IQ is supposed to be.  Or rather, what it was before I had children.  I’ve had it tested twice for high school and once for university and taken the odd informal test since then.  I know the exact results in each instance.  I was once reasonably intelligent.

On the plus side, I can now quantify exactly how much stupider I am in the presence of my two offspring…

My wife went to a seminar today. It was on how to be a better parent. Before she went, one of our daughters asked her where she was going.

“I’m going to learn how to be a better mother,” my wife replied.

“But you don’t need to learn how to be a better mother,” our daughter responded. “You’re already a perfect mother.”

I thought this was really sweet.

Until she added: “Daddy should go!”