HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

A happy new year hello to all of you from Moorish Mansion on New Year's Eve! The bunch of us in the video - Ian, me, Hayley, Scott, Justin, Jill and Keith - are the die hard partiers!! Well, as much as us all party these days! Family and friends that mean just as much as family... my dear, dear friends Jill and Keith are in the video with us, and I cannot think of anyone I would have rather had with us tonight!
Loads of love, lots of light and laughter, and here is to another year together my darlings!
love love love,
Stevie
xxx

fun in the snow... toboganing up Forster Creek Road....

explanations and more pics tomorrow... mostly wanted to give Rache a glimpse of H's hair!
xxx

hee hee!

My darling Miss Margery and I are just now having a brief visit before she is off to Winnipeg... and we've gotten a little silly, very happy, and taken a picture of my lovely witchy boots and tights... I had to pull up my black velvet witchy skirt in order for you to see them!
Happy Winter Solstice to all, and to all, a good night!

Tag!

All righty... a Christmas theme tag: Gypsy, Margie and Mary-Beth

1) Best present ever as a child: A Wonder Woman doll with hands that really moved!

2) Best present ever as an adult: there have been lots I've loved, but short of getting #3, my favourite is always new socks!

3) The one gift you've always hoped for and not yet received: A proposal

4) Your favourite part of Christmas dinner: turkey sandwiches on while bread a few hours later...mmm....

5) Favourite Christmas movie: Love Actually. It is a holiday tradition for my darling Margery and myself.

6) Most lusciously shameful holiday indulgence: doing NOTHING for a couple of days!

Holy holly bells batman

My Christmas column for the Christmas issue of The Echo, which because of press schedules, is always done the week prior...

This year is going to be a very special Christmas in my and Ian’s family.
This year, for the first time in 10 years, Ian’s daughter Hayley will be with us.
And this year, we celebrate in our own home.
To say we should always count our blessings seems almost too cliché.
But as I wandered around my house this morning, frowning at the clutter that arrived in the living room yesterday when we had to empty out a room that needed some minor renos, I realized hey, this is our clutter, in OUR house.
So I scrapped the column I had originally written for this issue and started anew.
Our house. Our own piece of land, our own little space in the world to call our own.
And somehow ‘blessing’ seems too small a word to describe just how that makes me feel.
I feel like we had to make a choice a while back: not a conscious one, perhaps, but one that made all the difference in the world.
I have always tried to look for the positive in things, to see the bright side. It takes a concerted effort sometimes, but I’ve tried.
But while I am a positive person, there was still a tiny part of me that sent out a constant stream of negative: I was convinced we would never own a home here. I verbalized that sentiment. I believed it. It was a pathetic, self-serving, self-pitying emotion, a self-fulfilling prophecy. And hence, we did not own a home.
That little thing, that one conviction, can change everything, no matter what the focus of that negativity is.
I can’t tell you the exact date when I became aware of what I was doing. I can’t give you an exact time or place I decided that enough is enough. But I do remember making a conscientious effort stem that negative stream, to eliminate it from my being. And then on the drive home to Wilmer one afternoon, I saw a for sale sign. And here we are. In our home.
It is like we reached the crest of a mountain, and though there is plenty of journey left in front of us, with that negativity out of the picture, I feel stronger, ready to tackle the ups and downs ahead. Not because we bought a house, but because I stopped defeating myself.
Christmas is not something to take for granted. Food, gifts, warmth of home and warmth of heart are not common in the world. For some families it means nothing at all. For some children in care facilities (often there through no fault of their own), some as young as seven, it is “just another day in lock down,” to quote a friend. He, and others like him, do what they can to make Christmas happen for the children at one Calgary facility in particular, with gifts not just of the wrapped variety, but the gift of their time on Christmas day.
“It is such a privilege to be able to be with them while they open those presents, some of them children no one else wants…” His voice wavered at the end of that sentence, any words to follow left unsaid but understood.
Here in the valley, there are families who do without. Not always enough food, not always a gift to give or receive… but we have the Christmas Bureau and Angel Tree help those who reach out.
There are those here who do not for whatever reason access that help and if you know someone like that, please reach out to them. If you know of someone with no one to spend Christmas with, whether their family is far away or simply gone, invite them in.
This Christmas, our tree will shine extra bright.
Each friend that comes by, each family member we have with us, every morsel of food, every gift, every moment we have…none will go unnoticed.
Christmas is truly, in my heart, a time to be glad for all we have, for our family around us, and family far away (and my beloved bloggy family!).
Christmas is about love. And I have more love in my life than I could ever wrap in boxes and put under a tree.
Merry Christmas. Indeed.
S.

oh ebay, my ebay, where for art thou ebay?

Shoozzz!!
Hee hee! I love these, and they're MINE MINE MINE! Or will be as soon as they are shipped to me!
LooK:
http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=130178033542
ps:
I HAD to add this... I looked at a little bookshelf (which was described, I believe mistakenly, as one inch high), but nearly peed when I read the description from the seller... bablefish anyone?

"Exquisite Tibet rosewood bookshelf
Hello my friend: The thanks sees my item. all they are good. Very lifelike! If you win the item, it will bring you is in fortune with your family and wish! Please don't miss the a fair show to take it! Own your bid !The astonishing felling is start because once you bid. Your contented is my happiness.
I wish you will like it and don't lose the chance to get it. Good Lock!"

And now for something completely different... a photo one of my energetic YC kids...

of underwear and skulking....

okay, so I know I am going to hell already...
Here I am in the sketchy hotel, right? It's the Nomad, by the way Dale... and things like the tap coming off in my hand as I got ready to shower this morning, the gnarled up bit of two by four holding the bed frame together, the broken chair... literally so broken one cannot sit in it as two of the legs are no longer attached... these are all things that make me giggle and want to stay here again because the owner is this sweet old Asian woman who keeps smiling even as she brings a better chair to my room saying "is okay now, is okay now!" the whole time.
And my brain is stuffed full after the seminar today, with all the different meds you can take for HIV, and what contraindications each carry, and what all the generic and brand names are, and the scientific methodology of how an HIV cell takes over the TD4 cell... on and on... so by the time I had dinner with my colleagues and stumbled back to my smelly room (which no amount of air freshener seems to help) I am ready to take break before I tackle putting grant stuff together before bed.
So off I go to the anti-christ Walmart (I reiterate: I am ALREADY going to hell) to look for a bra and de-stress a little. MIndless wandering through aisles of styles, whiles, and files....
So I am looking over a bra to see if I like it, and these feet appear in my lowered line of view.
"Hey is that you?" I hear a voice say, and the feet remain firmly in my vision.
I look up and this guy from our group is standing there with a few things in hand, staring at me as I grope this aubergine coloured bra, four or five more over my arm awaiting inspection.
"Uh, hi," I say, incapable of recalling his name. "What's up?"
He proceeds to start to chat about how he was bored in the room, didn't want to watch tv, thought he's come down to Wallyworldmart, and lo and behold, there I was as well!
"Um, yeah... I thought I would take a quick break before getting back to work." I say this as casually as I can, considering I am draped in lingerie. I just want him to go away so I can go about my relaxing wee bit of retail therapy. For this to be relaxing, I need to be alone, or at least not feeling like I am being watched.
A few more "SO I was bored" bits of chat and I finally manage to pull away and end the conversation with a breezy "see you in the morning!" and he gets the hint and leaves... or so I think.
I try on a few of the bras, none really work except the aubergine number, and I head back over to another part of the lingerie section to check out a couple more, am engrossed in the literature crowing about this new George line of tee-shirt bras, when from behind me I hear "Is that you?" and turn to see him, again, grinning and standing right behind me.
Now, I should explain, he is a very nice guy, not creepy really, but either really dense, or REALLY bored, or both.
I say a few mumbled words and flee further into the lingerie section, convinced he will not follow me. And I was right. He did not follow, but did seem to circle the area looking hopefully inward now and then, waiting, I figure, for me to finish shopping so I can visit with him over coffee.
So I start checking out socks, girdles, undershirts, underwear, all and any undergarments, all the while dodging about and ducking like some deranged limbo dancer in an effort to see a clear path to the cash register that would give me sufficient cover to pay and get to my car.
I swear I could hear the Mission Impossible theme song in the back of my mind.
Finally, aubergine bra in my clutches along with three Red Bulls, one polka dotted pair of knee high socks and two pairs stripey underwear, I skulk through handbags, costume jewelry and scarves to the check out, all the time peering around like a
nervous lemur on the lam as the girl rings up my purchases.
"Would you like any cash back?" she asks in a nasal tone.
"No, no, just these things," I stage whisper and punch my pin numbers in frantically.
I sprint out the door and to my car, stopping just long enough to sweep off the snow that has collected on it as I was inside shopping/skulking.
I made it back to the Nomad, stealthily made my way to my room where I now sit to tell you all my story.
I feel a little guilty. He just wanted to chat and I made like a hermit and... hermitted.
Sigh.
But I do really like the polkadotted socks.

a hui hui!

Hey all...
It was been quiet in blog land these days, huh? We all seem to have lots on the go.
Just a quick post as I finally take a few moments to myself. I want to do the rounds and see what everyone as been up to. The kids are downstairs doing weekly chores, and I fear going down just yet as I am sure they are likely going painfully slowly... so up here with Jean-Luc I will stay for awhile!
I am off to a two-day training session on HIV so will not be blogging again for a few days... I am pretty sure the hotel I am staying in will not have internet connection... not exactly the Waldorf!
Catch you on the flip side darlings...
xx
Stevie

Hi guys...
Have to blog off for a bit... my friend Diane's eldest daughter died unexpectedly yesterday morning so I'm trying to do what I can for her, which is precious little really, but I need to try.
I'll be back soon,
xx
Stevie

Lest we forget...

As we observed two minutes of silence, from across the street I heard the gentle tinkling sounds of a child’s toy playing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.
I thought to myself, “how perfectly appropriate.”
What could be more indicative of the poignant sacrifice so many men and women made in defense of our freedom? A perfect remembrance: a child, happy, healthy and free.
I know I was not the only one who smiled when the song drifted softly out to the crowd gathered at the cenotaph in Invermere.
Beside me in the parade line my children stood straight, my sons looking handsome and stoic, and when the silence was done, my lovely daughter (step-daughter really, but it is a minor distinction) straining to see the cenotaph and those laying wreaths, her curiosity overcoming the solemn nature of the morning. It was for all intents and purposes the first time she had ever been to a Remembrance Day ceremony and we were representing the Summit Youth Centre.
My sons, particularly my eldest Justin, are old hats at this. They know the drill, and what I expect of them.
But for Hayley this was new territory.
I announced the night prior that we needed to be up early to get to town in plenty of time to pick up our wreath.
She looked at me with an eyebrow raised.
“Um, okay.”
The next morning, the Remembrance Day diatribe went something like this:
“No ripped or ragged jeans, no dark eye make-up, no hands in your pockets, make sure you all have your hair brushed, don’t slouch, brush your teeth, did you shave? don’t pout, no gum, wear a nice jacket and make sure your poppy is on the left side, don’t talk or look bored, be respectful, try to walk in time and remember to start with your left foot.”
At one point my youngest son walked into the kitchen with faded blue jeans on. I looked at him and said, “You don’t think you’re wearing those do you?”
Sighing, he heads back to his room to change, passing his sister in the hall who has a sort of overwhelmed “Stevie has lost it” look in her eyes. Scott responds with an encouraging “you’ll be fine” look.
And of course, they all did very well. I was proud of all three.
I am big on formality. Dinnertime in our house has a specific set of guidelines as well. We talk about our days over dinner and it is essentially a relaxed family time, as long as table manners are adhered to.
The mealtime diatribe, if I were to put it all together, would run along these lines:
“Hold your knife and fork correctly, napkin on your lap, sit up straight, take that hat off, no elbows on the table, do not slurp, smack or gobble your food, no talking with food in your mouth, eat at least some of everything on your plate (one day you’ll thank me for teaching you to politely eat food you don’t much care for), wait until everyone is seated before you dig in and when you are done you may take your plate away but please come sit back at the table as you are not excused until everyone is done.”
I rarely have to actually say any of these things as our kids are more than accustomed to the rules.
Of course, the rules pretty much go for any friends our kids have over as well, and for the most part, it’s no big deal. I think this is because my kids forewarn their friends of what to expect the way the guard warns Clarice Starling as he takes her down to Hannibal Lector’s cell.
I firmly believe it is our responsibility as not just parents, but adults, to make sure our youth have some concept of manners, tradition, respect, and gratitude. It is up to us to be sure they know how to be polite, how to respect other people, how to behave appropriately in the right situations.
It is up to us to teach them to shake hands properly when they meet someone, and most especially, to look our elders in the eye and know to put them first, hold open the door for them, offer an arm when it seems appropriate, and of all things, take the time to say hello.
It’s just manners. And if we fail them, we have only ourselves to blame.

As promised, Ian's column... it made me cry. And it made me love him even more.

Forever grateful and proud
Every year at this time I think of my mother.
Most people don’t think of their mothers on Remembrance Day.
It’s more common to contemplate the sacrifices made by family or friends in any of the wars or peacekeeping actions that Canada and our Commonwealth brethren have been involved in. Mothers are considered when we think of them losing their sons.
Being the son of English immigrants who arrived in Canada shortly after the end of the Second World War, I have known numerous family members who fought in the two world wars.
I was even lucky enough to meet a great-great uncle who, as a mutton-chop-fashioned Sgt. Major in the English Army, led supply caravans across the Khyber Pass at the start of the 20th Century. He was still a large, imposing man when I met him at the age of 11. He was 94 and was long retired from being Harrogate, Yorkshire’s top cop but his mind and memory were razor sharp.
A large, jewelled scimitar (curved sword) hung over his fireplace and it caught my attention, as did numerous other mementos from his military service, which also included time spent in France during the First World War.
I asked him where the “sword” came from and he sharply responded, in a most typical, booming British Sgt. Major’s voice: “Well, that came from a woggie I killed.”
That’s all it took. I wanted to know more. He explained that his caravans were commonly attacked by raiders on both sides of the Khyber Pass — in Afghanistan and Pakistan. One day he was attacked by several tribesmen and one brandishing that sword ran at him screaming.
“I pulled my service revolver and shot him between the eyes. I took his scimitar to honour him.”
They just aren’t made like that any more.
We were visiting him because he was quite ill and ancient and my mother loved him quite dearly, as he played a role in raising her after she lost her entire family one horrible night, May 10, 1944.
My mom was 16 when an Australian bomber, with five Aussie and two English crewmen aboard, clipped the top 30 feet off the 140-foot spire of St. James Church in Selby, Yorkshire and crashed into the back of her childhood home.
The seven airmen and eight civilians were killed when the Halifax bomber, returning from a bombing run over Germany, crashed. Another seven civilians on Portholme Drive were injured, including my mother.
Because her bedroom was located upstairs and at the front of the house, she was blasted out with the wreckage as the plane slammed into the back of her home. Its wings destroyed the neighbouring homes.
Her mother Doris and father William, aged 36 and 37, her 11-year-old brother Brian and six-year-old sister Patricia had bedrooms in the back of the house. They were likely killed instantly, my mother reckons.
It was miraculous that she survived as she was buried in the rubble — with almost every bone in her body crushed or broken.
She has only spoken about the incident a few times. It was something that happened to thousands of British families, she said once.
Luckily, she had family in nearby villages who raised her, with the brusque but kindly Sgt. Major also there for her — a soft spot in his heart for the scrappy girl who survived.
We cannot comprehend the horrors that people in Europe or in Asia endured during that terrible time when our world came within a few bad military decisions of falling into the hands of evil narrow-mindedness.
Millions of people died — military and civilian. I still have a difficult time trying to realize the fact that my mother was so badly impacted by that war — after having already endured about five years of blackouts, food shortages and continuous terror.
If anyone ever had an excuse to chuck it all in and give up, it was Jean Cobb — who did the opposite.
She became a doctor, specialized in podiatry and married a young Fleet Air Arm Spitfire mechanic named Jack, a lad from nearby Doncaster. Soon after the war they immigrated to Canada with $50 each, suitcases and my 18-month-old brother — who like my sister and I was also adopted.
Jean honoured her family and the other people killed that night by becoming a success story — by becoming a woman who charged into a male dominated world — with her purse tucked up against her solar plexis held by a dock-worker’s grip — and became the first woman to open a foot clinic in Western Canada.
Like the kind Sgt. Major who taught her how to drive and imparted his particular wisdom on her — they just don’t make them like that any more.
My mom would likely be a bit put out from me writing these words — for briefly telling a story that a book could only do justice to because she does not consider herself heroic. Her practical nature and extreme intellect would not allow such egotism.
But she’s my hero.
And this Remembrance Day, like all those before it and all to come, I will remember her sacrifice and suffering, like the countless others of her generation who paved the way to this time of luxury and relative ease.
William, Doris, Brian and Patricia would have been so proud of her — just as the old Sgt. Major so clearly was and I have always been.
~RIC~

Home sweet home...

Ian took this picture of "his" kitty yesterday... Jean-Luc got a clean bill of health from the vet, is four months old and the receptionist gave him his very own birthday: Friday, July 13, 2007.
:)
ps
If you click and enlarge, you get a great look at his sweet furry little face!

And the verdict is....

He's ours! Jean-Luc Tete du Poulet is now officially ours!

ChickenHead come, ChickenHead go....

Here are a couple of initial photos of Jean-Luc ChickenHead... two and a half more days to wait....


So, we took in a wee kitty last night. He was all alone by a gabage dumpster, crying and crying, so we called the local animal rescue and told them we'd take him home and they could pick him up the next day... today...
Sigh.
He was obviously on his own for awhile, malnourished, his poor ears almost solid with dirt and mites. Poor thing had a rather unfortunate gastro-intestinal response to his first decent food in some time (and looked so very sorry about it) but the second go around went much better. And he knows about the litter box, which is a blessing.
So Ian and I took him in, the kids called him ChickenHead, and we fell in love with him overnight.
Ian, pretending to be mister big gruff and tuff, says this mornng, as he was playing with the little orange darling (with a badly scarred up nose, I might add) "Well, if you and the kids want, if they can't find his home, we can adopt him."

See, we agreed, NO PETS, at least not for a long time.
Than along came a straggly little orange kitten named ChickenHead, and we're lost.
We have to wait five days, then we can adopt him, and of course he needs to see a vet.
Keep your fingers crossed that no one claims him...
I miss him already.
:(

my first Executive Director's Report

Though I hardly deserve to ask for feedback as I have been a most negligent blogger, this is my first Exec Dir report... I'm kind of nervous and am hoping it is all right. (I guess it will have to be, as I have already sent it to the graphic artist putting the thing together).
As I have been published more times than I can count, I've no idea why this one should make me nervous.
Here it be:

Franklin D. Roosevelt once said “We cannot always build our future for our youth, but we can build our youth for our future.”
I couldn’t agree more.
Our third annual An Evening With… fundraising gala has a new title as of this year: Paint The Future, which speaks not only to our adult community members helping keep vital programs like The Summit alive, but also to our youth taking an active part in ‘painting’ our future.
The days and years ahead will evolve according to how we prepare our youth for them, and we have many incredible youth in our midst who are adding their own distinctive flair to the canvas that is our community.
The Summit Youth Centre has become a constantly growing, positive force in our valley, and there are more changes to come in the next year. Forays in graphic design, a second annual youth empowerment camp and continued partnering with prevention programs at David Thompson Secondary School and the Family Resource Centre are just a few of the branches that have grown from our once small and fragile seedling.
But those changes, and all those before, cannot and would not have come about if not for the support of the community, both private and corporate.
While this is a thank you initially to the sponsors of our flagship gala fundraiser, it is also to thank the many others who have aided us in the past year:

The Windermere Oilmen’s Golf Tournament participants, most notably Keith MacPhail, Hank Swartout, Rafi Tahmazian, Grant Fagerheim, Paul Wanklyn, Rick Braund, Brett Wilson and Kevin Fleury
Fitz Flooring
John Fitzsimmons
Christine Wandzura
Yolanda Fries
The Par Three Participants
Copper Point Resort, Ron Mason and Dean Forbes
Copper Point Golf Course
FirstEnergy Capital Corporation
The British Columbia Gaming Commission
The Columbia Basin Trust
The Columbia Valley Community Foundation
The District of Invermere
Everyone who has ever purchased a hot dog, raffle ticket, cookie or pop at our barbeques
Every individual who has offered a cheque to us large or small, there just is not room to name you all.
And to every kind and encouraging word, in-kind donation, offer of assistance and volunteer hours, thank you.
If I have not listed you or your organization, please know it was not for lack of gratitude, accept my apologies and contact me at summityc@telus.net to ensure I have you on our detailed sponsors webpage.

To my outgoing board of directors’ executive of 2006/2007 and my incoming executive for 2007/2008, without you none of this would have ever come about. The guidance and support you provide me with is invaluable, and although it far too often goes unheralded, it does not go unnoticed.
To the youth board members, I encourage you to use your voice to help guide our path, and always remember: you are the reason.
One more highly valuable member of The Summit must be recognized. Going about her job with diligence and a smile is Susan Davidson. Our Sue-Anne is the right arm without whom I could not function.

I look forward to our next year with anticipation. Every day that I am fortunate enough to be a part the youth centre has its own lessons, challenges and rewards, and it is with a grateful heart that I come to a close with another quote, my personal favourite, by Nellie McClung:
"I do not want to pull through life like a thread that has no knot. I want to leave something behind when I go; some small legacy of truth, some word that will shine in a dark place."

With warmest regards,

Stephanie Stevens
Executive Director

Gypsy's ghostly tag

1. How old do you think you'll be when you die?
At least 96. Maybe 106. I’ll be very old I think. I will be all wrinkly like an dried apple and peer over old wire rimmed glasses at my great great grandchildren and say things like “Mummy says you can’t go to the concert alone? Not to worry. Grammy will take you to the mosh pit. Just let me get my steel toe orthapedics.”

2. How will you die?
In a mosh pit. Or in my sleep. In my sleep at a mosh pit.

3. What will your last words be?
Good God is that Keith Richards?? Is he STILL ALIVE???

4. What will your epitaph read?
By God she really lived.

5. Any parts of your body you wouldn't donate?
Nope.

6. What song will be played at your funeral?
Bye Bye Baby by the Bay City Rollers

7. Cremated, buried or "other"?
Cremated and tossed into the air from the top of Mount Swansea.

8. If you could take one thing with you to the "next life", what would it be?
Nothing. When the time comes, I’ll be ready to make a clean break of it.

9. If you could take one person with you, whether they like it or not, who would it be?
Gypsy! (don’t tell her)

10. Supposing they existed, do you think you'd end up in heaven or hell?
I think heaven. I’m not really evil. But I don’t believe in heaven and hell. I think both are what we create for ourselves. And I’ve experienced both. I am more inclined to believe in reincarnation.

11. If you could haunt any one place, where would it be?
Some delicious old stone mansion or castle somewhere, nice and romantically creepy. Oh, and near and ocean. Maybe a lighthouse? A lighthouse near a castle, then I could go back and forth…

12. If you could haunt any one person, who would it be?
Johnny Depp.

13. What type of ghost would you be?
Sexy and ethereal baby!

14. You've been given the chance to send one message back to the land of the living. What does it say?
Love more. And don't take yourselves too seriously because I've seen you all naked.

a few more...

Sorry guys, haven't borrowed a vid camera yet... soon, I still promise!


So here is Hayley with me, Dale and Lesley on Thanksgiving! Yea!


It's not home until the piano is home. Scott was a nervous wreck the day we moved it. "Mum, I just can't be there," he told me, and went to work.


okay, so, the story behind the next three is this: Ian is taking photos of us, and my friend Karen, who was on the deck, yells, "Hey Stevens! Quite the cleavage you're showing there!"

At which point I went like this....


and then Ian got a more demure shot of us...

Aren't we sweet?


I love my dining room window. I have little dangly things that I have been given.. red glass is my favourite....


View to the northeast from the side of the house....


The front of the house.

ok, here's one for now...

ok, I know this isn't much, but it is pretty! This is the southeast corner of my yard... I like it a lot!
More later!

a quick break

okay, so I am going to find a video camera so I can do a proper tour for you guys, but until then I just thought I would say we are mostly on-line (at least one computer is until we get some wireless cards and a wireless router) and I am up to my armpits in getting Hayley's room painted so I can get her moved properly into her bedroom. We have to head to Golden this week to get Scott's bed, Ian and I have a dresser still in transit and my dining room table is being refinished (lovely old oak), but lucky Justin, he is actually all in his room, just needs a kick start to get the boxes unpacked! So, we're happy, tired, I'm covered in a mix of "Fuzzy Mitten" white and "Mirrored" purple (a sort of amethyst colour) but we are getting there! Okay, back to work!
xx

update

okay guys and gals, here we go... I have put in the call and at 2 a.m. Set. 19 my internet is gonzo, and I have no idea how long it will take shaw to get me hooked up again, so though I can check email and bloggy stuff while at work, it may be more sporadic for a bit.
As for the move, it is going.... well... it is going. Ian and I, as much as we love each other, have EXCEEDINGLY different packing styles, and it has caused a little tension and to add to that we both work so much that it is all just.... getting tenser.
But, girlfriends to the rescue: my very dear friend Donna, who owns an insulating company, is sending over two of her lads and a five ton truck tomorrow to be at my disposal for three hours! So tonight my mission is to get as much big stuff ready to be moved as possible. Then any remaining small stuff can be done on the weekend.
Poor Ian is stuck to his desk for a long night of pagination and has to be back at it immediately in the morning, so this is a lifesaver for him as well!
So darlings wish us luck!
Back as soon as I can be!
xxxooo
Stevie

For Margie, Gypsy and Val: S'mores 101

Okay class. This is an intensive course with explicit instructions regarding the making of S'mores.
Several marshmallows, graham crackers and chocolate pieces were sacrificed in the name of culinary science, and the following scenes are graphic, so my more senstive viewers should proceed with caution. Note: no S'mores were actually harmed in this process. Just eaten.


First, the ingredients as they look prior to unwrapping.
The next three photos are of my intrepid lab assistants, all trained and ruthless professionals.


Agent Hayley.


Agent Scott.


Agent... erm... Justin.


This is my personal favourite for the chocolate aspect of the S'more: a square of a Caramilk bar: milk chocolate filled with rich, oozy caramel. And Rache, I found dark chocolate Caramilks... just say the word, baby.


This is perhaps a more traditional chocolate filling: a square of Hershey bar.


But whether you go Caramel or Hershey, the basic ingredients, pictured here, remain essentially the same.

Now, there are two ways to go about this. The first is more traditional, but the second is my preferred method.

First, the traditional method:


To begin, you toast the marshamallow, preferably over an open fire, but a candle inside will do in a pinch. Of course, proper camaraderie and support is vital, a pictured here by our intrepid agents.


Here in our inner sanctum, we are exceedingly fortunate to have the talented marshmallow toaster, Scott, at our beck and call. Agent Scott has used this ancient roasting technique to provide perfect marshmallows for all occasions, as well as to defend our country from terrorist threats.


As you can see, his talents in this field are awe-inspiring.


Agent Justin displays the chocolate fill choice for the first lab: ultimately, despite a close vote, the Hershey won out.


The pieces are now painstakingly assembled: the bottom graham cracker, followed by the chocolate piece, the marshmallow, and then the second graham cracker is placed on top, used not only to act as a top level, but also to hold the toasted and gooey marshmallow in place as the roasting tool is removed.


And voila! La S'more! Up close and personal! Note: this S'more was over 18 when the photo was taken.

Now, the second method, and my personal favourite, requires a wire roasting "basket" of some sort, as you will see in the next few photos.

The basket being loaded up...


The S'more is assembled cold, and all three componants are roasted simultaniously, creating not only a gooey middle, but a warm and toasty outer cracker.


This technique also allows for more than one S'more to be cooked at the same time... another bonus! Here, agent Hayley demonstrates the technique.


And here you see it, this time with a Caramilk square inside. As you can surely deduce, not only does the chocolate get gooey, so does the caramel... mmmm... caramel....

All right then. Class dismissed. I will be grading your practical techniques upon receipt of your homework via Bert.

A little impish moment...

Okay, Anne-Marie's love of languages made me remember this story, and yes I was being dreadfully irresponsible, but I spend so much time being responsible, I couldn't resist a little fun.
When I was in Ottawa last month, my friend Mike, a youth centre comrade, and I went to the pub for a few beers. On the way back from said pub, and after we went climbing this really great tree (another story), we passed this GIANT brilliant pink stuffed dog with purple spots, floppy ears and a big bow on the side of the street with the other garbage. Being a little inebriated (no really, only just a little) we thought: wouldn't it be ever so funny to put it on the roof of the University of Ottawa (which we happened to be about a block from)over the door so the students would see it looking down at them when they walked in the next morning. So, giggling like idiots, we carried this dog (and when I say big, I mean BIG. It was at least six feet tall) and Mike, the younger and very agile part of our team, climbed up on the roof while I watched out for security guards. I didn't watch well enough I guess, because about one minute after we got there, Mike was on the roof with this pink dog, and the security truck pulls up. So Mike hops off the roof with the dog. Oops, we say to each other quietly, grinning. This seriously over-the-top security guard gets out and starts yelling at us to get our hands up. So we put up our hands, and he comes over and starts searching Mike, checking all his pockets and demanding to know what we were doing.
"Well, you see, we thought it would be funny to put this big dog on the roof where the students would see it," Mike explained. (Mike is fully bilingual, incidentally).
The security cop finishes searching Mike's pockets, all the time warning him not to move and keeping half an eye on me (as I tried VERY hard to keep straight face) and gets Mike's full name. After he hears his last name is Bergeron, he asks if he speaks French. Of course Mike responds that he does, and the interrogation continues en Francais. He radios in Mike's name and birthdate (Mike is only just 26, so at least has the excuse of youth on his side, unlike the pushing 40 me), and asks when he was a student there (Mike was wearing a U Of O tee-shirt). After he is satisfied that Mike has no prior trespassing convictions (which had he, we were told we would have both been arrested) he turns to me. Now, I understand enough French to get the gist of what was being said, but I speak only just a very little. So the guard tells me, in French, he is not going to search me, so I nod, and then he asks me if I speak French, of course in French, to which I replied, with my best French accent, "non."
Well holy Jesus I thought Mike was going to combust he was trying so hard not to laugh.
The security guard found it somewhat less amusing.
After he ran my name, and I came up innocent as well, he lightened up a bit. We apologized for our immature behaviour, and the guard even went so far as to admit putting the dog up there would have been "kind of funny, but trespassing is illegal and we were now in their system."
After we walked away, with dog in tow, Mike started laughing.
He said, "I was just waiting for him to ask you your birthdate, so you could look him right in the eyes and say, mille neuf cent soixant neuf! (1969)! with a big grin on your face!"
Ah, oui oui.

The tag is on!

1) Post rules before you give your facts (these are they).
2) List 8 random facts about yourself (oh... oh dear...)
3) At the end of your post, choose (tag) 8 people and list their names, linking to them (Like Margie, I am worried several have been tagged already, but I'll do my darndest)
4) Leave a comment on their blog, letting them know they've been tagged. (Okay ... that's do-able).

So, eight random bits aboot me:

1) I really struggle with the concept of extreme wealth. I know many ridiculously wealthy people, and while several are good people (others are just arrogant fucks, pardon my language), I fail to see how one could morally allow themselves to wallow in such obscene luxury why so many many more suffer. In Canada alone, millions go to bed hungry, or live on the street, or in their car if they are lucky enough to have them, and to me the most obscene and heartbreaking of these situations, is the number of senior citizens who are homeless, HOMELESS, in their final years, their country that promised to care for them via pensions and old age security turning a cold and unfeeling back on them, most the bureaucrats turning said cold shoulder going home to a warm table of food after convincing themselves they’ve “done everything they can do.” May I burn in hell before I allow my parents to suffer so. And having said that, I cannot even comprehend the suffering in some third world countries.

2) My most favourite gift to receive is nice new socks and underwear.

3) I still want a cigarette nearly every day.

4) I am a Scorpio. Worse yet, a redheaded one. And as nears as dammit all the things they say about Scorpios ring true for me, most especially the passionate aspect of my personality. I love with true fervor, and should I happen to love you, whether friend, family or lover (okay, Ian’s my only lover), I’ll lay down my life for you. Rather not, mind you, so let’s not put that one to the test, shall we?

5) Like Margie, between the good or the bad in a (wo)man, I choose to believe in the good. But I have a freakishly sensitive bullshit detector, and am a pretty good judge of character.

6) I am something of a squirrel (mum says I was a gypsy in another life) when it comes to baubles. I love jewelry. Not so much diamonds and gold and that lot, but show me funky original stuff, ethnic or exotic looking, and I am all a-twitter. I LOVE LOVE LOVE open air markets, the best place to find funky such wee treasures.

7) Pot makes me violently ill. Can’t touch the stuff. Found out the hard way many years ago.

8) I believe in fairies.

Okay. I haven't checked to see if they have been tagged yet, but I am going to tag:

Gypsy: http://www.gypsynoir.blogspot.com/
Cheryl Ann: http://bloggersbest.blogspot.com/
Chantal: http://chontzies.blogspot.com/
Koos: http://koosfernhout.blogspot.com/
Margery: http://www.dinanbretagne.blogspot.com/
Darling Lovely: http://sleepingcurves.blogspot.com/
Ian of Nottingham: http://iangordoncraig.blogspot.com/
Dale: http://www.dalef.blogspot.com/

and hope I've left enough of us for you guys to tag, if I have not already re-tagged some of you!

zen

Hey Koos,
There isn't much new stuff on my website, but this is Hayley last year at Lake Lillian... I took this just as the sun set and it seems like such a calming image to me. You'll get a better look if you enlarge it.


This one... not so zen, but I did laugh!

Ah, the sadness...

Heartbroken Bush Runs After Departing Rove's Car

Bush sits in disbelief as his longtime buddy disappears forever and ever and ever.

WASHINGTON, DC—A confused President Bush broke free from the restraint of Secret Service agents this morning and ran in pursuit of departing deputy chief of staff Karl Rove's car for several blocks down Pennsylvania Avenue before being outdistanced by the vehicle.

"Why can't I go with him?" Bush tearfully asked advisers as the longtime Republican strategist's sedan disappeared over the horizon. "When is he coming back?"

White House staff were deeply moved by the scene, saying that despite their best efforts, no one was able to explain to the president that he would no longer be able to remain at his chief adviser's side. Onlookers were clearly choked up as a tearful Rove, trying to close the car door behind him, told Bush in a stern, commanding tone to back away.

"Go on…you hear me? Get out of here, I say!" Rove said. "I don't love you anymore, understand? Now get! Get!"

Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice witnessed the emotionally charged moment. "We knew that deep down [Rove] still cared, that he was only pretending to be mad at the president," she said. "But he had no choice. Leaving was the only way to avoid the ongoing Congressional inquiries."

Rove reportedly tried to prepare Bush for this inevitability in late July by taking him on a special fishing trip so they could spend some quality time together and he could also give Bush a brief rundown on how the presidency works. Rove said he "didn't have the heart" to break the news to the president, who fell asleep in their rowboat with the fishing pole still in his hands. On his last day, nearly two weeks later, Rove spent the whole morning with Bush before the tear-jerking exit, ruffling his hair, telling him to "be brave" and "listen to Cheney," and explaining that he was going to have to be "the man of the White House now."

Enlarge Image
Rove was finally able to leave the White House, despite Bush's heartrending stalling tactics.

Though Rove's resignation had been imminent for weeks, Bush appeared oblivious to the situation, which is evident in photos of him smiling as if nothing were wrong until the moment he discovered several suitcases near one of the West Wing's back-door exits. According to high-level administration sources, Bush asked Rove, "Where are we going?"

While sneaking the departing official out to a waiting town car, Secret Service agents were briefly able to deceive Bush by telling him Rove was just running down to the cellar to get him some ice cream. But when Bush heard the car's engine start in the driveway, he burst outside to stop Rove.

"I'll never forget the sight of the president, watching Rove's face in the back window becoming smaller and smaller as the car pulled away forever," Rice said.

The president continued to ask about his former adviser throughout the day, often clutching Rove's day planner, dialing his extension, and blinking uncomprehendingly when told that Rove was never coming back.

White House press secretary Tony Snow was finally called in to attempt to convey the reality of the situation to the president, but he was unable to do so.

"He kept looking up at me with those wide, innocent eyes, and I didn't know what to say," Snow told reporters. "Maybe someday when he's older, he'll understand how the public lost trust in his big buddy after a series of crucial political missteps, and how firing those attorneys and the..."

At this point in the briefing Snow fell silent, overcome with emotion, and moving many in the press room to tears.

White House officials say they would like to give President Bush more time to process the loss before pressuring him to appoint a new deputy chief of staff, since he does not yet appear ready to confront the concept of a "new Rove."

Bush sits in disbelief as his longtime buddy disappears forever and ever and ever.

Rove was finally able to leave the White House, despite Bush's heartrending stalling tactics.

We had a joint birthday party on Saturday for Hayley and Karen, our dear friend and soon to be ex-landlord! Hayley turns 14 tomorrow (Sept. 3) and on Sept. 1 Karen turned 40. We're having a family party for Hayley on her actual birthday tomorrow, but so many of my family members were leaving (the younger ones all heading to university again) we wanted to have a party with them as well. So... we did!
Click on the photos for a better view!


The kids all hung out on the tramp and were... well.. kids! This is their "goofy" pose.


This is Hayley's friend Amanda... they've been pal-ing around the past couple of summers and Hayley went camping with her and her family this weekend right after the joint birthday party.


This is Tanja, Karen, Jill and my sister Sharon (in front). Tanja flew in to surprise Karen, another reason for the weekend party... as if we needed another one!


Karen and Joe... our extended family. We've been through a lot together over the past eight years. Sure glad we're not moving too far away.


"You have one more bite before cake missy..." This is Karen's three-year-old daughter Trinda.


Make a wish!


The birthday girls!