Wall-E the energetic rodent

The mice are starting to freak me out.

They are in my walls. And they let me know they are there.

I feel like a schizophrenic. While chatting on Skype I jerk my head to the right every 20 seconds to make sure the squeaking and rustling is not coming from somewhere on my floor or behind my window blind.

Either there's a Lilliputian rubbing flint together, or a fucking mouse.

One of the joys of living with roommates is that you find out they have different strategies for dealing with the mice. My strategy has been largely one of non-intervention. I am Switzerland, and they leave me mainly alone, except for taking residency in my walls.

Much like Bush did during the Iraq war, there are rivalling points of view at how aggressive we should be in our defense, based on what the terror threat is. Orange? Yellow? Red?

Earlier today, my roommate opened up the pantry. A mouse trap exploded in his face, fell onto the floor, and he yelled as the rest of us stared and smiled.

The same thing happened to me last week.

Note to roommates: Putting mouse traps in deep baking shelves = not a great idea.

I hate the rodents too. But I also enjoy having my fingers intact.

Apparently the mice have been eating the food off the traps and then leaving the traps behind for unsuspecting bakers.

We're becoming experts in our mouse residents' palettes:

"They like the peanut butter more than the almond butter."
"They didn't touch the cheese - until I put maple syrup on it."
"They didn't like the almond butter? Sure they did."
"No. They prefer peanut butter."

I'm thinking of buying a farm cat. If my landlord comes by and tells us we're not allowed pets, I'll say it's not a pet. It got in through the giant hole in the side of the house we've been asking you to fix. The same hole the mice have probably been getting in.

I think the mice could be having sex. Why squeal rummage around so much? It would suit this house very much to have a whole colony of rodent offspring. It would be very much in character.

All I can say is, in this war, thank God for walls.

Blades of Sorry

The perils of shinny

In many ways playing shinny is a lot like playing hockey circa 1850. Nobody wears pads, 14 people can play at once, penalties, bluelines and face-offs don't exist, and snow is constantly interfering with the puck. There is the constant threat of getting hit in the shins, and as one guy found out, having your skates fall apart.

Quote: "I was just skating along and it exploded underneath me."

I was there. I can't attest to any explosiveness, but I can attest to it being a game-stopping moment. I don't think any of us had seen that happen before.

Odd things happen when you play shinny. It is the rugby of hockey. I have a deep cut on one finger and two gashes on my feet, not to mention myriad bruises on my shins.

I've played numerous times in the past few weeks. As the only girl, I feel as though I'm representing femaledom, but I'm afraid personal tics will reflect on the rest of my sex. For instance:

1) I apologize a lot. I have to stop this. Last week, while reaching to say sorry, I accidentally patted one guy's ass. Was that a sorry he was looking for? Probably not. But maybe it helped ease the sting of me whacking him with my stick.

Sore shins? Here's a slap on the ass.

2) I'm the only one who talks to myself on the ice. Everyone else is eerily quiet. Some are plugged into their ipods. But my talk is more into the ether, than to myself. Most of it could easily be transplanted into a Batman comic.

Kaplouie! Yikes! Splat!

It's an additional service I provide, adding a soundtrack for blind fans.

3) While I know not all women would deal with this, when I take off my toque, I create a stand-off between my hands and the sweaty hockey hair mess that's worse than vines blocking Incan ruins. For the record, I'm not trying to give the game insinuations of a Harlequin romance. Whipping my glistening hair around and running my hands through it is my version of squirting water into my face.

There are some girl skaters, but none I've seen play hockey (other than a classmate). Most of them are on the skating oval two zamboni lengths away from the hockey rinks.

Yesterday, there were actual speedskaters there for a competition.




But I got no pictures. All I got were these men smoking and watching the zamboni as though it were an enemy tank.

Speed skaters are winter clowns. You want to laugh when you see them, but then you feel sorry for their ridiculous outfits and movements.

They can't stop like hockey players so they slow down and then hop as though on coals. I feel embarassed watching them, and I blame this for not having taken any photos.

I'm sorry speed skaters. Your spandex body suits are a little too real, and this flask is not deep enough.

I thought it would be fun to hang out at the oval in a bear suit. You know, distracting the skaters or yelling bits of encouragement. Possibly conducting some interviews. I think I need to help them feel less self-conscious, and it will require going the whole way.

Obviously a Canadian

Ordinary bacon is delicious, but boring. It doesn't help you fill 4 hours of a languid Saturday.

That's how Bacon Man came into existence.

You don't have to eat anything else all day, if you make an entire package of bacon. You will have enough energy to take on the day after drinking too much Canadian whisky the night before. You will have enough energy to take on a 2-hour shinny game with strangers on the rink behind your house.*

(*you will be an invinsible Canadian)

My purse - the Pacific Ocean purse in which I constantly lose things - it's like putting my head into Hurricane Katrina - was the bacon receptacle. I met a girl last week who has the identical purse - same colour and everything. She keeps full-sized cheesecakes in hers.

I could probably fit all the ingredients to a cheesecake and a ham in my purse, but I'm trying to diminish the gasps and pity every time I get a massage. After this morning's appointment I feel exceptionally greasy - almost as though I've been smothered in bacon fat. My masseuse was from Mexico, so I don't think she has malicious plans yet to smother someone else in bacon fat. But maybe that's what lured her to Ottawa. That's a normal Canadian sentiment right? Right after wanting to throw up Canadian whisky in the snow and cover it with more snow?

Every blog post feels like my life. 3/4 of the way through each day and each post, I have to ask myself how the hell I got here.

But reflection is futile when you have a bacon man!

(As an addendum, I'm torn between the soundtrack of Do you hear the people sing? from Les Miz, or whatever song it is that goes along with Mel Gibson's "freedom" in Braveheart. You may think that suggestion is irreverent, but just stare at the bacon man. He has lots and lots of heart.)

Harbinger of pine

I came home yesterday to find a Christmas tree in our living room. The room was transformed into a homey oasis.

Wow! I said to my roommate. Where did you get it?
A place down the street...
(I picture bundled trees on a store lot)
... they had dumped it by their trash.

The Hopewell house is indeed one of resurrection. The tree still looks marvelous, albeit a little dry. My roommate said he was planning to hunt down another tree to replace this one, likely for Ukrainian Christmas, which is already upon us. Sure we're mixing traditions. But that's what we Gen Xers do, and definitely Hopewellers.

My plan for Ukrainian Christmas is to cook up a pot of buttery Varenyky and curse the Russians. And possibly shut off the furnace.

Speaking of cursing the Russians, my cursing worked on Saturday in the World Juniors when Canada barely won aganist Russia. It's the secret Rasputin curse. Deadly. Watch hockey with me and you'll understand.

Now, with Canada against the Swedes, I'm going to have to come up with a Swedish curse. How about Svenson? It's supposed to refer to a goodie-two shoes person who has a perfect life? Your perfection will malign you, Swedes! Svenson!

I considered wearing a Viking hat, with a sauna towel around my lower half, while talking in Sveedish on my cellphone, Ja.

But then I thought that would be impractical for the riots afterwards. Ah, riots.

No such riots will be possible at the championship next year, so we better get it out of our systems now. The World Juniors are in Saskatoon and Regina next year, where it is currently -217^*#

Those symbols are what you add to temperatures that are worthy to curse at. Not even the Swedish or Russian players understand that, at least not the southern ones who were interviewed. Little do they know what it means to breathe in air that chokes you like a crossbar to the neck.

Svenson! Rasputin! If I hang out by their buses next year, maybe I'll learn some real curses.

*Happy to be back in Ottawa's balmy clime*

I want flying sparks!

Tobogganing is the best way to learn you're a geriatric.

Halfway up: Boy this is great exercise! I can feel my lungs really expanding!
The top of the hill, 20 mins later: Why (puff) is there (puff) no fucking rope toe? (stop to bend over and dry heave)

I watch my friend battle his crazy carpet like a blind woman beating a rug, before laying it awkwardly on the ground, sitting down with his legs straight out and doggy paddling.

I am convinced you need a running start (isn't that what the teenagers next to us are doing?) and so I run towards the hill preparing my move, which I've laid out in this how-to:

1 -Run as best you can in 4 layers of pants and coats - may resemble waddling.
2 -Keep one boot on the crazy carpet
3 -Do a belly flop
4 -Scream a muffled scream until you realize you're not actually moving
5 -Doggy paddle away from moguls

The teens next to us have their technique mastered - but I chalk this up to their better sleighs and teenage disregard for life. Watching them is like watching a personified curling game. Regardless of initial aim and curve, they all end up in the same 3 sq foot area at the bottom of the hill, often displacing each other with the same rock-hard thud you'd hear at the Briar.

Their gusto is breathtaking. It makes me lose my breath all over again. Or maybe it's the altitude.

The hill, lovingly dubbed "pest hill" (after the children who climb up the wrong part of the hill I imagine) is right next to the highway bridge. At night, it's very pretty: the semis blare past a safe distance away, lights twinkle, the river is inky dark... and the hill itself is pitch black and backlit, giving the impression I'm surrounded by faceless screaming zombies. Sigh.

For some reason, in my Grandma ways, I get the idea that my crazy carpet is called a slip n' slide. Slip n' slide is a great metaphor for what happens on the hill: when you slip, you don't stop. Your ass keeps sliding down sideways until it love bumps against the mogul and slows to a grinding halt due to the friction emitted by your screams.

I see sparks fly from underneath the teenagers' sleds. My friend is not as impressed by this as I am. I want sparks under my speeding ass cheeks! And pictures too.

Alas, no pictures.

My friend tells me he has just removed the bandage from his back for the first time since undergoing back surgery a month ago. I watch each of his descents as he hits moguls and wipes out halfway down.

Come on! I yell from the bottom of the hill. I'm still moving!

He is not.

I am afraid I'll end up calling an ambulance by the end of the night, but it turns out we know when to call it quits. Approx. 20 mins in.

Sledding is fun, but trying to keep up the youngins will maim you.

My next crazy carpet is one I'll embroider by the fire.