Lions and tigers and bears…ok, maybe just bears.

I’m going camping this weekend! For anyone reading who is regularly in the woods, and has just pfft’d at me in exasperation and hiking boots, go fuck yourselves. This is for anyone, like myself, who doesn’t do camping without toilets, showers, walls and a ceiling, and preferably a fridge to keep my beer cold. I’m actually going camping in the woods with no toilet and no electricity for -

Two.Whole.Nights.

I’ve got my sleeping bag, my mat, my pillow and bug dope. I’ve got my alcohol…I’m sure there was more, but can’t remember at the moment. A roll of toilet paper should probably be packed at some time between now and then. Food is a definite. Maybe some Curious George band aids, too. I decided to do a Google search for camping necessities. After all, why carry around Curious George band aids if I don’t need them?

Mistress Google quickly turned it towards bears, which hadn’t actually crossed my mind. I thought 7 girls out in a bush would most likely meet their deaths at the hands of an axe murderer. But, it seemed prudent to learn about bears, so I followed a few links -

As long as I don’t  run in a zigzag, play dead, fight back, climb a tree, make loud noises, make quiet noises, bury my garbage, don’t bury my garbage, hang my food from a tree, place it in an airtight cooler, sleep with food on my clothes, dick around with some cubs, wear the colour red, or stare a bear in the eyes I should be absolutely fine. Apparently it is NOT recommended to use a cub as a hostage to get a mother bear to back off. My favourite bit of conflicting advice is being told on one link to play dead and protect vital organs http://dsc.discovery.com/survival/plants-animals/how-to-fight-a-bear.html, and on another to never play dead and fight back http://www.canadascapital.gc.ca/data/2/rec_docs/231_blackbear_e.pdf.

Dropping things to distract the bear is also recommended, so I might just keep bacon in my pockets and hope the bear has a thing for bacon. Most living creatures do, so it seems like the best bet. Of course I’ll have to take off my pants and throw them at the bear as well, otherwise he’ll just catch me and maul me, and I’ll die not of bear wounds but of confusion over what I’m supposed to be doing in my final moments – protecting my kidneys, or using them to poke the bear’s eyes out.

Word of the Day: Festoon

Used in a sentence: “Well, you see here” drawled the forest ranger, “this here is where the bear decided to festoon the victim with her own intestines.”

Telefrancais! What am I going on about?

Canadian programming is something to be admired. From Kids In The Hall to You Can't Say That On Television (oh yeah, we're going old school) Canadians have managed to create some of the most hilarious, timeless, catch-phrase inducing (I'm pinching your face!) crap ever to float through a cable. We've also managed to create some cringe-worthy shows which always seemed to be inflicted upon our weakest and most vulnerable. Elementary school children.

I remember a fair amount of television being watched in elementary school. I don't know if it was growing up in a semi-secluded North Western Ontario town with a limited budget, or if it was a provincial school requirement enjoyed by all Canadian children rich or poor. Harriet's Magic Hats was a show that is purported to have given us a "diverse view of the working world". During the show a young girl would steal a hat from a trunk in her Aunt Harriet's attic and be suddenly whisked away to another place where she would follow a stranger (who seemed absolutely fine with a child just showing up out of thin air unaccompanied by an adult) about their workplace and learn of their profession. Harriet had quite the collection of hats, and also quite the collection of seemingly orphaned nieces as there were around 4 of them in the 52 15-minute episodes. This show seemed geared towards idiot workshy children who had no concept what chefs or plumbers do, hell-bent on giving them some sort of work ethic and direction in the world.

These shows were shown on 1980's style televisions and all of the lights needed to be turned off and the blinds closed in order for all of us to be able to see the screen properly without glare. Sometimes the equipment would fail midway through a show, and we'd all sit patiently watching the teacher smack the VCR and twiddle various buttons. Other times the movie would suddenly kick into fast-forward, and we'd sit and watch it speed through until the teacher (who had taken the opportunity to sneak away by herself/himself while we were transfixed to a screen in a darkened room) popped back in and noticed there was a problem.

In a last-ditch effort to get us enthused about learning French, we were subjected to a show called Telefrancais. I must admit, the creators knew children love television so much they'll even watch it in a language they do not understand. I wasn't thrilled about the show, partly because I couldn't understand it (my level of french at the time was nowhere near what the show required) and partly because it scared the holy hell out of me. In the show were several characters - two real-life children named Sophie and Jacques, a pineapple named Ananas that lived in a junkyard, and various other characters that came in depending on what that particular plot required. Alongside this, as if a scary french pineapple who lived in a junkyard (were they going for a lovable Oscar the Grouch rip-off?) wasn't enough, the show was interrupted by musical interludes provided by Les Squelettes which were supposed to be comical -

But were in actuality dancing skeletons.

Ananas:





http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IhKBp-jFdS8&feature=related

I can't tell what the low point of this show is - when the Pilotte throws the children out of the plane, or when the pineapple screams while being chased by a crow.

You decide.


Word of the day: Mephitic
Used in a Sentence: "Holy crap, what is that mephitic and nauseating odour?" gagged Jacques, getting out of bed and putting his underwear back on. "Ananas died last night, so we put him in the compost out back," replied Sophie, finishing the last of her rum mixed with pineapple juice.

The Aging of the Shrew, OR The Ageing of the Shrew (if you're British or Australian)

This week I will be turning 30. Up until now I haven't given it that much thought - no one seems to really *be* where they were supposed to be at the age of 30, so I don't feel like I've failed in anyway. The goalposts seem to be continually changing as we plug along in time. A few centuries ago at this age I could have been celebrating the birth of my third grandchild while sucking on a piece of chicken I couldn't chew with my one tooth. Here in 2010 I can still chew chicken quite well. Perhaps not the most amazing accomplishment, but something a person can be a little proud of.

Yes, that's a straw. And yes, I'm grasping the crap out of it.

There hasn't been a big change between leaving my 20's and teetering on the edge of my 30's. There's a freckle under my eyebrow that I swear is closer to my eye than it used to be, and other subtle hints of gravity's slow but persistent work on my body. I'm not overly concerned about that, at least not yet. Most worrying would be the melodramatic mental state I spent a good couple of days in earlier this week - I had actually managed to convince myself that my life was half over. I laid awake one night pondering my mortality. What happens next? Where do we all go? Is it just lights out? Are there parallel universes? Will there be some transfer of energy? Do I have a soul, and is it shiny enough to get to heaven or did I really fuck myself over?

There were some tears, a bit of anguish, self-pitying sighs, and an evening where I was an inconsolable douche to my poor husband. I won't lie, his effortless and seamless transition from 29 to 30 was lovely when it happened a couple of years ago, but now has left me in a state of hormonal piss-off. Why is it so easy for him? Why is his mind uncluttered and carefree, while mine is a looming clock screaming tick-tock-your-life-is-over in a booming, cackling voice? I decided to stop being irrationally angry, and just ask my husband. Perhaps he had some fantastic advice, an amazing outlook on life he could share. Maybe he IS bothered by age, and my recent warbling and histrionics have left him little room to share these feelings with me? I decided to ask.

Me: Darling, why am I being so ridiculous about a stupid birthday when you passed it without even noticing?

Husband: Because I'm awesome, and you're a girl.


Word of the day: Thespian.
Used in a sentence: "What do you think I am, some kind of thespian?" asked the woman indignantly. "I don't think that matters, ma'am, I'm a married man" said the officer "but right now I need you to stop putting on a show and tell me where you were at 11 o'clock this evening."