Friday, July 29, 2011

The Boomaster Examines COD

The other day my son and I were walking past his climbing tree and he stumbled across a mourning dove that was clearly dead.

Instead of taking my word for it, he made like mama and went to investigate.

"It has no head!" he yelled, cheerfully, looking back at me. He leaned over it.

"Yup," he nodded, probably more to himself. "It is dead." He came racing back to me to report on his findings. "It must have scraped across the ground because it's whole belly is torn open."

"Maybe it got attacked by a cat?" I suggested, propelling him towards the park.

He pondered this idea. "I don't know, mama..."

The bird was forgotten about as soon as the park was in view.

An hour later, on the way home, we walked past the impromptu grave site again and he, again, needed to examine the creature.

He leaned over it to see down the gaping neck hole.

"I'm alive!" I bellowed, running up behind him.

The poor boy nearly jumped out of his skin. "Mom! It has a head still! Oh Em Gee! You scared me!"

Moral: Never bring your mother with you when trying to examine a body  ;)

Sunday, July 24, 2011

We Had Crabs o.O

This past Christmas - at about 7pm Christmas night - my son decided that he wanted a hermit crab. I went out the next day, armed with my ten year old niece (who has to have a sign on her forehead that says "SUCKER!" that the salespeople see the second we come within a ten meter radius of the pet store), to see if we could find one.

Find one we did. My son arrived on the 27th and spent the day playing his nintendo in front of "Pinch-Pinch".

Within three weeks the blasted thing had died - namely because the sales person failed to tell us that a hermit crab is actually NOT low maintenance. He suggested we put some Hot Wheels in the crabitat. Hot Wheels? Really? Hermit crabs take to metal the way dogs take to chocolate.

Off we went and replaced Pinch Pinch with three new hermit crabs, which were named CocaCola, StayPuff and PeekaBoo.

StayPuff lasted three weeks. (Seeing a pattern here?). Instead of telling my son that his second crab was dead, we pretended that PeekaBoo (the one without an owner) had fallen off the log to his death, and simply renamed him StayPuff.

Last night, right at bedtime, as we went to spritz the crabitat, we noticed that CocaCola had met his untimely demise. My niece - who turns eleven in a matter of weeks - is devastated.

I am mostly just grossed out, because when I picked up the shell to send him off to the crabitat in the sky, his carcass slipped out of the shell and landed on my arm. I swear I felt him wriggle around. My son, of course, thought that this was hilarious and will no doubt say to me, at random intervals, over the next ten years, "Remember that time when the dead crab landed on your arm and started wriggling around? Ahahahahaha!"

Crabs: 1; Good intentioned mama: 0.

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Yay! Vacation!

I am about to embark on the adventure of my lifetime, and will be doing so with someone I have never met.

It has been a decade long dream of mine to go portaging through the interior of Algonquin Provincial Park (portage: In August, this friend and I will be doing just that. For ten days.

Five years ago I broached the topic with the most spontaneous friend I had. I asked if she wanted to portage - she didn't know how. So I asked if she wanted to go backpacking instead. Nothing like a nice, quick 88km hike through the interior to get the blood flowing.

She was excited and began to plan all the painstaking details such as how many cases of water we could carry in and how fast we could run the entire trail. A day, maybe two, she speculated.

I agreed, all the while trying to think of ways to get out of having to go trail running 88km with no less than two cases of bottles water on my back.

Thankfully it was an idea that was short lived...

This time around I put my head together with a nice SANE friend (whom I've never actually met), and together, we hashed out all the finer details. Canoe rentals, where to get freeze dried chow, how many days we would go for and what we would need to rent/purchase. Permits have been obtained, routes have been chosen, tossed, and re-selected.

I need to say: this person doesn't know how to portage either.

Honestly... Neither do I. But I figure it's a great skill to learn. Could also come in handy since Andie is the epitome of everything out-of-doors. At least I know how to swat a mosquito away. (Don't always hit it, but I get closer with practice ;)

Hopefully in a few weeks I will have some pictures to share of the adventure. Anyone have any tips to offer?

Thursday, July 14, 2011

"Tall Women Are Liars"

OK, so not all tall women are liars. And not all men are pigs. But there is one tall woman in particular who seems like a big fat liar.

On Monday I was invited to sit in on a meeting with Child Services by a friend who has been dealing with them steadily for the last few months over a nuisance complaint that someone with clear malicious intent made. Two is better than one, especially since there was going to be two workers in a room where she would be all by herself.

Having limited experience with this branch of government services, I agreed as I thought it could benefit both her and my quest for knowledge. Two birds, one stone. Sounds simple.

That was my first mistake.

The second mistake was thinking that I wouldn't be considered a terrible excuse for a human being simply because I was sitting on the wrong side of the desk.

Apparently, in the eyes of Child Services, you are guilty until proven less guilty - which rarely happens. The jury is made up of the worker you are assigned. Hopefully he or she doesn't have hemorrhoids the day you have your meeting.

The meeting had been arranged because intake needed to pass the case on to an actual worker. The woman who had been in charge of "intake" actually cracked a few smiles. The new worker seemed more interested in the mating habits of carpenter ants than in the conversation that was going on around her. She flipped through her planner, played with her cell phone, and when she wasn't asking for clarification regarding things that had been discussed in great detail for ten minutes, she basically stared off into space.

An hour and fifteen minutes later the file was transferred and the meeting adjourned. Apparently she did not want to be involved for years and years; she wanted to finish her investigation and be on her merry way. Hopefully before the ants gave birth.

We trudged back down the hallway from whence we came, the new worker leading the way, probably hoping we wouldn't get lost in the jungle of bureaucratic red tape and BS. Or the construction. I am not a short woman. I stand five feet, nine inches in the morning. This woman towered over me. I disliked having to look up at her when we spoke and walked, so I kept five feet between us to make sure our eyes could meet with only a slight tilt of my head.

That lasted all of two sentences. I don't make eye contact with people who look down on me - not just literally - and treat me poorly simply because I am not an employee in their office.

When we left, my friend asked me what I thought.

I like to believe that I have some ability to read people and that I have at least mediocre observation skills. It was my firm belief that the new worker was on a witch hunt, and with all her casually spewed out comments about "protection issues" that she refused to elaborate on, anyone with two brain cells to rub together could figure that out.

"Tall women are liars," I said, cheerfully.