Assorted Nonsense

The following gallery of pictures is one of those typical forwards we all receive via email from well-meaning friends, relatives, and people we barely know who’ve somehow, mysteriously managed to get their hands on our email addresses.  I don’t mind them; most are saccharine nonsense, but every now and then you come across a gem.

This one’s a gem. Not because it’s particularly sublime, although it is rather amusing.  Not because it’s true, either, because several of the photos are obviously jokes as opposed to authentic examples of lousy parenting.

No, it’s a gem because one of the pictures features my sister Shawna’s offspring, who was stunned to have this example of her lousy parenting skills forwarded to her out of the blue one day.  Yet another reason why anything off the internet should be taken with a large grain of salt.

See if you can figure out which offspring is her:

Or the water in your basement, as the case may be:

And just in case you were curious, this is how much of our damaged goods the kindly movers managed to cram into their truck:

As some of you know we took my daughter E in for her MRI yesterday, the day after we got back from our trip to PEI and New Brunswick. The girls were extremely well behaved on our trip to and from PEI, and this little trip to Sick Kids Hospital was no exception… at first. But as you will see the girls were not to blame.

We got to Sick Kids in plenty of time for the appointment, which was at two. They wanted us there at one to be on the safe side, and even earlier if we wanted a patch for E to numb the spot where she’d be getting a needle. So we showed up at twelve noon. Unfortunately they were running behind in the MRI department and didn’t see E until about five o’clock. So we had to improvise a whole lot of entertaining for the girls as we waited. But the girls were good sports and we all managed to have a good time in the waiting room, playing silly games, reading books, talking, and playing with other kids who were also enduring long waits. The girls had their puppets Hush Puppy and Lambchop which made it a bit easier.

To prepare for sedation, E was not allowed solids past midnight the night before. In the morning she was allowed Jello, water and Apple Juice until eleven o’clock, and nothing else after that. So by five o’clock she was starting to get a bit hungry and thirsty.

Finally at five a nurse saw her, asked her a few questions (such as “Do you have any metal in your head?” a question E found most amusing), and got her to change into a hospital gown. Once she was changed, we had to wait another forty-five minutes before beginning the sedation process.

Finally at about five forty-five we began the procedure. E was fearful of the needle required for the medication she was about to receive but in the end agreed to get up on the bed and lie down. Wendy the nurse gave her the smallest needle they had, which E later named “Pipsqueak”. It was through this needle that E received the sedative required to calm her, and then the drug to actually put her to sleep. (Um, not in the sense that animals are put to sleep. Although the thought crossed my mind as she was undergoing the procedure that mistakes happen in hospitals; I hoped this wouldn’t be one of them.)

E was not keen on the sight of the needle in her arm nor the fact that it was to be a semi-permanent fixture. She did not like the idea of being forced to sleep. She did not like the feeling of dizziness that the sedative provoked. She did not like the feeling induced by the other medication. She especially did not like being held down by the two nurses and myself that were required to prevent her from falling off the table and ripping the needle out of her arm. With her eyes three quarters shut and no longer able to talk she fought us every second of the thirty minutes it took for her to go to sleep. It required a second full dose of sedative to do the job, close to the maximum medication allowed for children. Several times Wendy the nurse called E a “fighter.”

“She’s a fighter,” she kept telling me, sounding increasingly amazed by just how much of a fighter E was as the minutes ticked by.

Apparently kids can have a “parodoxical” reaction to the medication, and become increasingly agitated instead of sleepy, and I was afraid this was happening to E. I think Wendy was a bit afraid too. I wasn’t allowed to talk for the entire time this was happening for fear of keeping E awake, so I had to endure E’s panicked flailing in silence. Wendy kept reassuring me that everything was okay but it was really hard to put E through this. It must have been horrible for her, because we were removing all control from her, wrapping her tight in blankets so she couldn’t move her arms, her own father forcing her down on the table, strange nurses sticking needles in her arm, and worst of all the medication in her system making her feel weird and helpless.

Finally I couldn’t remain silent any more. I said to Wendy, “She’s going to be awfully mad at me later.”

Wendy said, “She’ll be mad at me, not you.”

(In the end she was pretty much mad at all of us.)

She finally fell asleep after the second dose of sedative. They wheeled her off to the MRI, and told me to go get a coffee and a bite to eat.

“Keep a close eye on her,” I told them.

“We will,” Wendy told me.

I knew that she would be okay and that the procedure was necessary. Still, I had found the whole experience upsetting and couldn’t eat. So I paced the halls instead. Later K helped distract me by taking me on a tour of the main floor of the hospital, where we climbed stairs and rode yellow elevators that made you feel funny as you went up and down in them.

At about six forty-five the receptionist told me E was waking up in a recovery room. I went in to find her cheerful but drunk. At least, that’s how Wendy described her and that’s how she looked and sounded to me. I helped her get dressed while Wendy found her a wheelchair. She suggested we get her a bite to eat before driving home, so Lynda, K and I brought her to the main floor where Lynda gave her some Jello and a drink. She had a hard time putting the Jello in her mouth… she kept missing her mouth with the spoon.

And as the whole experience began to come back to her she began to get upset. It drove her crazy that she couldn’t move her body properly. We tried to keep her in the wheelchair to protect herself but she hated it. I had bought a sub to give me the strength to drive home (I hadn’t eaten all day either) but my timing was extremely unfortunate… I should have eaten earlier when I had the chance. I wound up carrying E to the Parking Garage, but she hated being carried even more than she hated being confined to the wheelchair. After having been bound and drugged against her will shortly before I didn’t blame her even as she pummelled my head and face repeatedly on the way down to our van.

In the van poor Lynda had her hands full trying to calm her down as I foolishly and perhaps selfishly finished my sub before heading out. The entire drive home E cried and railed against the health system that, in her view, had treated her so unkindly. At home we fed a slightly calmer E and watched her carefully as she staggered around the living room. We sat on the couch and had a good talk with her about the whole unfortunate experience, then put her to bed.

This morning she was still slightly uncoordinated but much more charitable toward Sick Kids, Wendy the Nurse, and Pipsqueak the Needle. She realizes that everyone was just trying to help her, and has even decided that she likes needles (!), especially Pipsqueak, which she wishes she had been allowed to keep. She actually professes to be looking forward to her next trip to Sick Kids for the results of the MRI, which we should get in a few weeks. At that appointment she’ll get to take the subway, which she loves taking.

Lynda and I (and K, I expect) found the entire experience rather trying, but of course it was E who got the brunt of it.

Hopefully soon we’ll find out that the experience was not only trying but pointless too… when the results come back negative.

Knock wood.

The hiatus is officially lifted.

Unfortunately, my vacation is almost at an end as well.

Rarely have I needed a vacation so badly.  Fortunately, this one was everything I needed it to be.

Except longer.  But I’m not complaining. 

Perhaps I’ll blog about the vacation soon.  Perhaps I’ll blog about a lot of things.  Not sure exactly what I’ll blog about.  But I can tell you this:

I will blog.

Just…

…not so much today.

Too sunny out.

See ya’ll. 

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!”