A Cait's Life

Free Music!

2012-02-01T14:56:00.000+01:00

Hey all, my sister's friend Jodi just released her first EP "Little Love Songs".

Here's the link:

<p><a href="http://jodidoidge.bandcamp.com/album/little-love-songs">Little love songs by Jodi Doidge</a></p>

You can download the songs for free, during the month of February. And then after February? You should totally buy it.

Winter Grillin'

2012-01-31T19:17:00.000+01:00

Winter grillin', had me a blast,

Winter grillin', got full too fast.

I met a pork chop, delicious as could be,

I met some roast beef, was practically free.

Tell you more, tell you more?

Like how the event was afire.

Tell you more, tell you more?

Like how too much food will make you perspire.

***

Please sing the above to the tune of "Summer Lovin'"

Thanks.

***

So anyhow, Dan and I attended a little winter grill event that happened in the heart of Bern on Saturday and it basically rocked our...stomachs. In a good way.

In a yummy way.

In a WE'RE CARNIVORES, GIVE US MEAT sort of way.

Basically the event was Bern showing off how awesome and tasty its local meats are, showing different ways of preparing said delicacies, and a good chance for people to eat for cra-cra-cheap. Dan and I each chose to have an assorted meat plate which came with slices of roast beef, two different sausages, a boneless pork chop, some chicken, and a potato covered in a delicious sauce.

Now let's just pause a second and talk about that potato, because believe me when I say the sauce they spooned over it just rocked my world. It was essentially an Italian take on a barbecue sauce: it had a tomato base, a mixture of herbs and spices that definitely included oregano and garlic, with a vinegar twang coursing through the whole thing. It did not have a smoky taste, and was delicious all the same.

Now the price for all of this? 8 CHF a plate, boys and girls! What did I tell you?

That's cra-cra-cheap!

Here's some photos.

A couple of shots of the venue area.

As you can see it was a dreary day.

They had real pine trees and hay bales set up here and there, with tents and chalets where you could sit to eat your food and get out of the January drizzle.

Also helping to beat the January drizzle were these wood fire-burner-things.

(Side note: Anyone else beside me used to keep your television tuned to the fireplace channel at Christmas, just to watch the orange flames dance and listen to the pop and crackle of a real fire? Remember how, from time-to-time, an arm would enter the shot to stir the fire? Yeah, the picture on the left reminds me of that.)

There were also free apples all over the place.

Yummy!

All the kiddlywinks were given a free sausage, and they could go over to the campfire to grill it up.

I wanted to do it, too.

Here's my kiddlywink, sitting down to enjoy our food, and then warming his hands over the fire.

This guy was demonstrating some different grills people can have in their yards, while also grilling up a lot of sausages to keep up with demand.

I knew this grilling event was going to be awesome the minute I stepped off the bus and the air smelled like camping, and it was really cool. I loved how this was all set up in the heart of Bern, open fires to keep warm by, hot wine and beer to sip with your food, and most of all, some really good food.

And it really did remind me a lot like camping. I mean, I can't even remember the last time I camped where the rain didn't feel like it was driving at you from a January cold-front. I felt, for an hour, just like I was at campsite. And when we left, we smelled like wood smoke.

God I love that smell!

And what did we get up to for the rest of the weekend? Oh you know, just enjoyed my regular Sunday afternoon three hour nap. Gah! Internet, I think I need a weekend intervention.

I mean seriously, my weekend can be summed up in two words: I ate and I slept. I knew my weekend hibernation was getting bad, but I didn't realize how bad until I phoned my parents on Sunday and my mom was all:

"Oh Cait, I can't really talk. We were at a party last night and I've got a hangover this morning."

Yeah, that's right. My parents had a crazier Saturday night than I did! So that can only mean one thing: operation bust out of my weekend den starts....eventually.

(What? You have no idea how cozy my feather duvet is. It's SO cozy!)

Timelines: On Phone Calls at 4 a.m. and Swimming

2012-01-27T10:36:00.000+01:00

This is in continuation of my last timelines post.

***

I had never considered how supportive the people in my life were until we started this move. I quickly learned who I wanted to cut ropes from, and those who would always be my anchors.

***

Dan had been gone two weeks before people started asking me if he had a job yet.

"Not yet," I'd reply, "and it's only been [two][three][four] weeks. He'll find something."

And depending on who I talked to, their answers varied:

"Of course he'll find something!"

"Well...you never know. This economy is terrible."

"Why's it taking so long?"

"He's absolutely going to get a job!"

"Is he handing out enough resumes?"

***

We Skyped every single day and he told me his leads and I told him my worries. Fingertips to screens, we relied on each other.

***

I came home from work, tired. I'd worked a lot later than usual to have a file ready for the next morning, I hadn't eaten properly all day, the fridge was empty, my apartment was a total disaster, and it was lonely. I dropped everything and hit play on the answering machine.

"Caitie, we were talking and why isn't Dan getting a job at a grocery store? Has been going every day to the work centres? He should have something by now. It's been too long. And what about you? You should be training so you can teach English when you get there. Call us back."

I slid down the wall, put my head on my knees and wept out of discouragement and exhaustion.

It had only been five weeks and I was ashamed for being that weak.

***

No matter how many times I tried to tell them that wasn't our goal, that we had saved enough money for Dan to live for five months and find the job he wanted, they didn't listen.

We had to do things a different way.

A better way.

In anger I constantly wondered why are people...such people? Of all the things I cherish the most in a friendship, in family bonds, in community togetherness it is open-mindedness. I don't care if you think the sky is purple and I think it's blue. Or if I think the grass is pink and you say it's green. We don't have to stand on the same side of the line, and it would be scary if we all did. But from your side of the line, have some respect for mine and I will do you the courtesy of the same.

Of course ask me questions, as I will ask you, but how about we open our ears to the answers at the same time?

***

Our first Christmas as a married couple, and we exchanged gifts over Skype.

Every day I feel grateful for technology.

***

I was sound asleep when the phone started to ring. Through blurry eyes the green digital numbers of my alarm clock glowed 4 a.m. I fumbled for the phone, hopeful.

"Sweets?"

"It's me. I got it! They offered it to me! Contract's coming in the mail for me to look at! I have the other interview tomorrow, and I'm getting another offer there!"

I fell straight back on my pillow and started shrieking in happiness.

January 25th.

Two job offers in his desired field.

He left Canada on November 10th.

***

The other place offered him the job, and then offered some more. Of course I'm going to brag about that. My husband is amazing, smart, and capable. They wanted him, but we decided the first offer was the better fit for our goals.

We had choices and felt vindicated and it felt good. Hell yeah it did.

***

We hung up laughing as he said he was going to browse apartment ads.

I lay in bed for two more hours with a grin plastered to my face, the cats purring beside me, before I called my parents to tell them.

My family and close friends were overjoyed and it was one of my happiest days.

***

Of course, not everyone I told celebrated with me; I finally realized that in navigating your own happiness you are constantly steering your ship around icebergs of naysayers and doubters and if your arms get tired for even a moment, if you loose your grip on the wheel, it will spin and spin and spin until you've brushed against that icy berg and down you go.

Into salty waters.

So I had to learn how to swim, and I'm still learning. What shores I swim towards and what I leave behind. When your happiness is the key to their unhappiness, when your success is their failing, swim.

They are not anchors but rather dead weight and you'll never get anywhere if they don't want you to move.

Slow News...Month

2012-01-23T11:35:00.000+01:00

Dan and I realized that this month we seem to be in official hibernation mode. It's the only explanation for how housebound we are allowing ourselves to be on weekends, and how many excursions we have cancelled.

Example:

Things We Were Going To Do, But Then Opted Against In Favour Of Staying Home To Drink Hot Chocolate.

Go to Adelboden and watch the ski racing.
Go to the Basel zoo.
Go sledding.
Go skiing/winter trail hiking.

It seems terrible when it's listed. All these memories we could be making, and instead we're going to the movies, hiding in corners of coffee shops, ordering in pizza, and taking indulgent Sunday afternoon naps where we're all piled on the bed (cats included, obviously) recharging our batteries for the week ahead.

When I choose to stay home, I feel guilty. There's this voice in my head telling me that I'm Europe, in Switzerland, and that I should be making the most of every free minute; that we have to stand to attention to every general idea that pops into our minds. We have to be on the go, go, go, go, constantly exploring, as otherwise we aren't making the most of this adventure.

But then you look out your window and it's January. A month that seems to be universally quiet no matter which part of the world you reside in. The wind whistles and even though it's not MINUS 57 (like in one unfortunate BC town, as noted by sister in the comments of the last post), it still doesn't seem like I'm supposed to be venturing too far. It feels natural that the rhythm of my weekends are supposed to be quiet and slow right now, which makes the self-induced guilt for staying close to home (instead of criss-crossing the country) that much worse.

Any other expats feel this way?

Anyone else just feel plain guilty for allowing yourself an entirely lazy month of weekends?

That we Must. Be. Doing. SOMETHING.

Jack Frost Nipping At Your Nose

2012-01-18T14:52:00.000+01:00

Just a little more evidence that even though the sun is shining and the grass is green, it is still cold outside and does feel winter...ish.

Pot O' Gold

2012-01-16T16:06:00.000+01:00

So surely I wasn't the only kid who once tried to find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? I was so psyched about my quest that I drew a map and everything: it showed a very simplistic rendering of my house, the pasture in front of our house, and the rainbow that seemed to dip low and end in said pasture.

The only problem is I don't think the map was to scale because I never found that pot of gold and I was incensed that when I reached the back of our pasture, the rainbow DIDN'T END THERE.

It still kept going.

But now it seemed to head back towards the scuzzy lake that I knew was at some distance behind our house. I walked for awhile (so probably five minutes) up a road that led to some neighbours who lived behind us, but then I grew bored of my quest because I was lazy and tired of walking so far. Plus my handy treasure map really only detailed the pasture. I had nothing else to go on! So I turned around and probably went home and picked some tiny raspberries with my sister Meg, which raspberries we then squashed onto the lobes of our ears to look like earrings, when really we just looked like a wild animal had been gnawing on our ears.

Ah, those were the days.

Well the reason I mention that failed quest is because yesterday Dan and I went on a walk that reminded me of those fruitless treasure hunting days. We decided we were going to walk to a satellite radio tower that we can see from our balcony; it seemed like a good destination because it doesn't look that far away and at my core I am still a lazy little five year old who gets bored easily if the scenery sucks.

The only problem is...IT WAS SO FAR AWAY.

Like gasp, shock, horror, and temper tantrum but it took forever to make it there.

Everything started out pleasantly enough as we tripped through the woods and I marvelled at the solar streamers wrapping through the trees.

But then--you'll never believe this fellow Switzerland peeps!--we found ourselves WITHOUT TRAIL MARKERS. We were scrambling up slippery slopes of leaves, following old roads that seemed to go nowhere, and never were there wanderweg signs guiding us.

I felt without purpose.

It was madness!

And I was getting tired because of course, the whole expedition was going up hill.

Dan was keeping a brisk excited pace in front of me, giddy that we had seen no people (well of course, they were all on the marked trails like good little Swiss people), and I was trailing behind wondering if I just stopped, dropped, and rolled would I make it back to the apartment?

Dan: "Ah what a great day! Come on! Let's go! Life is amazing! Hooray!"

Caitie: "Grumblegrumble...pant...grumblegrumble"

Dan: "Everything's marvelous!"

Caitie: "Grumblegrumble...complain...grumblegrumble."

Dan: "What are you thinking about?!"

Caitie: "Death."

Dan: "You're crazy. Let's go! Up and up, we'll make it! Imagine the views from the top!"

Caitie: "How about you keep walking and I'll wait here. Yell at me when you've made it and I'll judge by how far away you sound if it's worth it for me to keep going."

Then Dan grabbed a stick and started shepherding me along like I was a reluctant bovine or sheep! Which, honestly, at that point I really was.

Caitie: "This is pointless. We should just turn around."

Dan (wielding his Shepard stick): Tap Tap Tap "Come on, that's it, steady on, you can do it, keep going."

It was really funny, which made me very confused because I was trying to be in a bad mood and instead I was laughing hysterically.

My fearless leader gets us onto a marked trail.

We did eventually make it to this radio tower, but it was kind of like reaching the end of the rainbow, because even though we got to the tower there wasn't a viewing platform. No pot o' gold. You couldn't see the Alps through the trees. But Dan was so excited to have made it to the tower he raced up the last incline to touch the frosty steel.

I refrained from exerting such unnecessary energy.

Dan: "Are you going to come up! Come on, you're so close."

Caitie (inventing desperate excuse to avoid another steep hill): "No, I'm just taking some interesting pictures! Good for you though, sweets!"

Dan: "What are you taking a picture of?"

Caitie: "Oh, just something awesome!"

(Frosty leaves. As you will observe, I was taking pictures of frosty leaves.)

My spirits considerably picked up as we started our long descent down so I decided to let out a little yodel-a-he-who.

Really loudly.

Who would hear it? We hadn't seen a soul all day.

Yeah, there were people around the bend of the road who heard me and gave us a very amused greeting.

"Oh my god, those people heard you!" Dan whispered in utter mortification.

"Yeah, I know!" I laughed joyfully grabbing his herding stick. "Now we're totally even! What a great day!"

I Am...

2012-01-13T09:15:00.000+01:00

Feeling zip, zilch, nadda, inspiration for writing on the blog. We've been out and about, but it seems too hard to have to record it all down again. I really want to though, because occasionally when we can't remember what we've been up to we like to browse the archives and go 'Remember When!...", as otherwise we have appalling memories.

I suppose the literal January fog that is rolling past my window seems to have settled into my brain. It probably also doesn't help that I was a total glutton over the week of Christmas and New Years, and now my pants are mega-uncomfortable.

I hate getting dressed in the morning.

But I will not buy new pants.

I will not buy new pants.

Say it with me now: I WILL NOT BUY NEW PANTS.

(Today...)

So to try and erase all the merry that I made over the holidays I eat a grapefruit for breakfast every morning, or a cold smoothie. Those are not the most satisfying ways to start the day when it's a damp chill outside. Then for lunch I also eat a cold salad (though it's delicious) consisting of assorted salad leaves, cottage cheese, a grated carrot, sliced cucumber, a sprinkling of sunflower seeds, a few dashes of sushi vinegar, and pepper.

Really, it is quite delicious and you should try it sometime.

But maybe don't eat it every day for two weeks.

Random observation alert (that might be inaccurate): Does Switzerland have baby carrots? I don't think they do. At least in my village Migros they don't sell bags of those stunted orange babies. And I never realized what a shitty product they were until I started buying real carrots again.

You know, buying whole, large, carrots.

They have so much flavour.

And they're fully grown.

What the hell is being done to carrots to make them that small and perfectly round on the ends? And flavourless? Do we really have so little time that we can't peel and cut up a proper carrot?

And now to segue into a completely non-related topic:

I was recently sent a personal email that included the following line: "..remember not to take things for granted, and always remember how quickly things can go bad."

Yeah.

That was a really cheery way to start my morning. So listen up, dark clouds of the world: keep your melodramatic outlook on life to yourself. You seriously can rain on other people's parades.

Well, that's the fascinating peek into my brain today.

Happy weekend, and to erase the blackness of the previous dire warning, I will leave you with this funny, favourite motto: "Don't take life too seriously. You'll never get out alive."

(Or was that still too macabre?)

Juuuiiiccceee.

I'd Like To Look Like A Cheeto, Please

2012-01-10T10:29:00.000+01:00

Did everyone read Naomi Wolf's feminist manifesto The Beauty Myth in their women's studies class in university? About how beauty is a patriarchal, unattainable, construct used to keep women psychologically suppressed as we struggle to conform to standards of beauty--whatever it means that day, week, year--thus diverting our attentions and keeping us from conquering these modern times when we have more freedoms and open doors than any other generation before us.

(*Warning, that was a major simplification. Details sort of escape a person when it's been SEVEN years since they were in university. Sob.*)

Then did you flip to the back cover of the book, see Ms. Wolf's stunning author photograph that was obviously styled for beauty, and wonder: "???"

Well, what I'm wondering is if beauty is a suppressive moving target, when did we move into the territory where Cheeto orange skin, paint bristle eye lashes, and bike tire lips were the desirable thing? Over the Christmas break, I watched a couple of reality television Christmas specials on my U.K. broadcasting channels, and I was horrified by how the women looked. Seriously, their fake tans look like they reached into a bag of Cheetos and rubbed those trans-fatty neon-orange tubes all over themselves; then, when they were Cheetoed up, they went into their dad's garage and found a paint brush he'd use to paint the side of the house with, sawed off the bristles, and glued them to their eyes. Then they took a bike pump and used it to inflate their lips before scalping Barbie and sticking her plastic hair onto their head.

I'm so confused why this Cheeto-orange-scalped-Barbie-Michelin-tire-lips-paintbrush-eyelashes-look, is so widespread? And in case you think it's only on television, I have seen multiple girls in real life who look like this! When we were in London last May, and I was fighting the crowds to get a glimpse of what a TopShop looked like, I realized that an alarming number of girls around me were ORANGE and seemed to have difficulty blinking since they had about seven pairs of false eyelashes glued to their poor eyelids.

In fact, I don't even understand how these girls could walk down the street without getting attacked by a ravenous dog or a hungry hobo who wanted to lick the essence of Cheeto off their face. I'm also wondering how long it's going to take before we start to see girls walking around with such heavy eyelashes that they have to violently flip their head backwards just so their eyelids will retract and they can see in front of them? You know, sort of like your childhood doll My Blinking Baby. Remember how hard you used to have to shake blinking baby just to get her eyelids to stay open?

Listen, I realize the topic of fashion and beauty trends can be a real can-of-worms depending on which side of the line you stand on. But remember when I bought a lipstick that made me look like a cadaver? Basically, I admit that I'm not immune to wanting to add an extra flourish to my features (though it might be nice if I knew what I was doing), and humans have been exaggerating their features since 10,000 BC when the Egyptians (women and men, alike) were lining their eyes and eyebrows with kohl, rouging their lips and cheeks, perfuming their skin, and dying their nails and hair with henna (holla, Grade 12 Lost Civilizations coming at you!). Basically, the human race has always been vain and show-offy.

What I'm confused about is when we decided that Cheeto orange skin and lips that are so big it looks like a nest of grubs is going to explode from them, started to become a new beauty ideal?

Soup's On!

2012-01-06T16:10:00.000+01:00

Remember when you were a kid and you got that AWESOME toy you'd wanted for Christmas? And then every day, from December 25th to March 3rd, you played with that toy, talked about that toy, slept with that toy, and cried when you weren't allowed to carry that toy with you into the restaurant because you were a menace and your parents didn't want you chatting up the waitress about the cool features of your toy? Cool features like how you could press a button and it made a noise?

Basically, you were the only one who had a candy cane care in the world about that toy?

Well, this has sort of happened to me. Again. At the tender age of 30. You see, for Christmas Dan bought me four gorgeous soup bowls that I had been drooling over. Dishware? I can hear you exclaim. What is so great about that? Well, I really can't explain it but I have a dream that one day I will have a huge display cabinet filled with dishware for all occasions.

I know, it's totally twisted and without substantive purpose. I used to think I'd have to defend this wish, but then I realized that if someone out there doesn't have a frilly, beautiful, nonsensical dream, there's no use even trying because they probably lack the imagination to see it.

What I see though is one day in our cozy house (that sits on a lake and has a huge stone fire place) there is a cabinet that holds summer garden party stemware, tasteful Christmas china, rustic serving bowls for fall suppers, and beautiful cutlery for every day use and not just special occasions.

I know, it's weird but it's a dream and dreams don't always make sense.

(Like the one I had the other night about John Wayne. So random, but I guess I have been watching a lot of Westerns lately.)

Well this past December 25th I became four soup bowls closer to the dream! But I have gone a bit crazy over these gifts and have been making soup like it's going out of style, just so I can use the bowls. And this week, well...we ate soup three nights in a row.

JUST SO I COULD USE THE BOWLS.

Last night Dan told me that if I wanted to serve chicken and mashed potatoes in the bowls, he'd be fine with that as long as we don't eat soup for another few weeks. I don't know, I seriously might have to do that because I love these!

Here's glance at the soup we ate just this week. Be prepared to be SO INTERESTED.

So first disclaimer is that my kitchen has no natural light so you're just going to have to deal with ISO 1600 photos taken at 7 p.m. on dark January evenings.

Aren't the bowls gorgeous! I just love them so much. They're very deep so really one bowl is a very healthy and hearty serving, and the little stubby lion head handles are just sweet.

This was a chicken tortilla soup that was delicious, spicey, limey, quick, and light. And the tortilla chips crushed in before serving were really good once they got all soggy. And you can use plain Greek yogurt in lieu of sour cream. I think it's better tasting and has a nicer texture than sour cream and trust, I used to be a sour cream junkie.

This was a butternut squash and sage soup, and I made Parmesan bread crumbs to go with. I also fried a couple of sage leaves for each bowl and added some crispy prosciutto for garnish. This was the heartiest soup we ate this week, and it was also the fastest to make. Especially since Migros sells pre-cooked, cubed, packages of butternut squash. Takes no time and we were eating within a half hour!

And the pièce de résistance of our soup feast was French onion, which is of course the soup that these bowls are really designed for. It was really rich though, so even one full-sized bowl was a bit much but we managed.

So now I have to know, what are your favourite soups? Please let me know so that when my agreed upon two week cease-soup is over, I can whip up some more delights as an excuse to use my NEW. AWESOME. INCREDIBLE. SOUP. BOWLS.

Snow Leopard

2012-01-05T11:19:00.000+01:00

Oh my goodness! I'm five days into the New Year and I haven't done a cat post! You must be terribly anxious, so I am here to rescue you. Stop biting your nails, stop with all emotional eating, and you don't need to join that cult that's located in the Utah desert where all those bombs were tested.

I'm here to save you.

A CAT POST.

***

Once upon a time, in the year 2011, at the beginning of December, a beautiful snowfall wrapped Bern in its downy arms and made everything look soft and beautiful. In Bern there lived two little cats named Cosmo and Poppy, and these little kitties had the most kick-ass life any feline has ever known because they had two servants who tended to their every need. At first these servants thought they were in charge of Cosmo and Poppy, but when the servants found themselves one midnight hour balancing precariously on the edges of their respective sides of their bed while Cosmo and Poppy were stretched down the middle taking up 80% of the space, the servants realized they were in fact not in control.

And never had been.

And so it was that early December of 2011, when the snow began to fall, the cats demanded to be allowed outside to explore this feather whiteness. The female servant happily obliged their piercing mews and let them outside on the balcony so she could take a few photos of her geraniums, which were now surely going to die (she'd secretly been hoping they'd stay alive until spring because she hates gardening and didn't want to deal with replacing them).

Once on the balcony, Poppy decided the snow was a disagreeable coldness on her royal paws and with a whir in her throat she ran back inside, all the way down the hallway, and back onto her servant's bed where she was content to lie on a pillow and look at this view outside the window.

Cosmo was not this easy to please, and after a few desperate mews and a thwarted suicide attempt to jump off the deck, his servant put his collar on him and took him downstairs to the winter wonderland.

He was really not sure what to make of being paw-deep in this white stuff, and didn't seem to enjoy it that much. So his servant had a moment of rebellion, picked up her charge, and then placed him in the middle of a child's snow fort before she ran back to building's entrance to watch his reaction.

He was not pleased.

And ran as quickly as his clumsy legs could carry him, back to the snow-bare entrance of the apartment building. Then his servant forgot about him for awhile because she was busy taking winter pictures.

It annoyed Sir Cosmo that he was being ignored, and so he let out a little screechy howl to let it be known that he was ready to go inside now.

His servant kept ignoring him in favour of winter pictures.

That was a mistake, she unfortunately learned. You see, while Cosmo was not at all interested in the snow he was alertly intrigued by something else.

Namely the dead grass that was hiding under the snow.

So he ate it.

A lot of it.

And then he puked it all up, plus breakfast, right in front of the doors to the apartment complex.

"Hey, hey, hey, that'll teach her to ignore me!"

And then the servant was faced with the uncomfortable task of disposing of cat puke. So as Cosmo stood heaving up his second pile of grassy vomit complete with hairball, she kicked the first pile into the snow. Then the second. Then as she lugged an irritated Cosmo inside (who now didn't want in, he wanted to keep eating dead grass) she hoped the snow would stay around so that the grassy puke would be hidden until spring.

But it rained.

So then the snow was all the gone, but now the two grotesque piles of sodden hairball puke were visible. It proved to be unbearable to look at, so the building maintenance guy cleaned up the lawn.

And they lived happily ever after (or until DNA analysis matches the puke to Cosmo and we get a letter about it).

- The End -

Happy New Year! (The Too Much Information Edition)

2012-01-03T13:54:00.002+01:00

Too much information, or TMI, is when a person you don't know very well (if at all) reveals details about their life that you consider to be too intimate for a first-time meeting. So really, classifying an encounter as a TMI episode falls squarely on you, the listener.

Perhaps this casual acquaintance has revealed that they can hardly wait until baggy overalls or asymmetrical long-sleeved mesh shirts make a comeback: Ahh! TMI! You may think. This person has horrible fashion taste and shouldn't let other people know about it!

Or maybe you're scoping out the blogosphere and are frightened by the sheer volume of parents who dedicate multiple posts to their children's bowel movements (or lack thereof): Ahh! TMI! You may think. This person clearly has no concept that Google is all mighty and powerful and their kid's bowel movements are forever and always recorded on the Internet for future playground bullies to use as ammo against their kid: "Hey I heard you were a constipated baby! GROSS."

And if anybody out there thinks that children would never tease a classmate about such ridiculous things, obviously you were homeschooled and were never forced to be on the receiving end of the pack-mentality of a bunch of playground kids who verbally shoved you around one random Wednesday because the class bully started it, and they don't want her teasing them. Or maybe you were the bully, and as such can never imagine your child being teased because you weren't.

In any case, parents, for the love of future therapy, no one cares if your child craps or not. But your child sure as hell will in twenty years when they realize you've embarrassed the beejeezus out of them.

TMI for a few extra followers?

Weak.

My personal threshold for TMI is when a person I don't know at all decides to share all the failings of their ill-requited love affair. Which, oh wait, Dan and I had the uncomfortable pleasure of being in such a TMI experience a mere twenty minutes into the New Year.

A few minutes before midnight, Dan and I went over to our neighbour's place to ring in the New Year with a glass of champagne with her and a few of her friends. We were standing around, our host tipsly filling our glasses, and making polite conversation with one lady who filled us in on a five month trip she took around the United States, twenty years ago.

After we'd toasted midnight our neighbour served dessert, a few people resumed a Monopoly game they'd been playing, and Dan and I sat on the couch with the intent to basically--TMI--eat and run. As we were eating, the United States traveller came and sat beside us, and I noticed she was stirring her coffee with an air of heavy melancholy. And when she looked up at me, her eyes were glassy with tears and I worried that perhaps telling us about her great American adventure had left her feeling despondent.

No, no.

It was worse than that.

"I have been hit by Cupid," she sighed, as a tear slipped down her cheek.

So Dan and I looked at each other and smiled because doesn't getting hit by Cupid mean you're in love? Which is good? We kept our smiles plastered on while she continued.

"Yes, hit by Cupid. My neighbour, it's such a deep love. But his wife..."

(We still continued smiling.)

"...she found out about us. Crying, so much crying."

(We were still smiling, trying to process what she was telling us.)

"I don't know why she cared. There was much affairs in that marriage. Much."

(We immediately ceased smiling and sat dumbfounded, realizing this woman was telling us about an affair she's having with a married man, while her eleven year old son played Monopoly an arm's length away.)

"I didn't cheat. I'm no cheater. I'm single. But he comes over in the afternoons, when she's not there. We're in love. We go to the travel advisor to plan an Alaska holiday, and today," she sighed, "he tells me...what is it...cold feet. He must stay with his wife. Tonight he lets me go. So I lie here," she said pointing to the couch, "Or go back there," she said, motioning to the bedroom, "and cry while these peoples have a good time."

At this point I squirmed awkwardly because this was clearly a TMI situation and there's no GD way I wanted to spend my first minutes of the New Year listening to a stranger cry about her break-up. And yes, I realize that makes me seem heartless. So I collected up our dessert plates, put them in the kitchen, and thanked our neighbour for inviting us over but told her we had to go so I could phone my family and wish them a Happy New Year. Meanwhile, Dan was still sitting on the couch (with the conversation now in Swiss German) nodding sympathetically as the woman repeatedly told him that she is not done with this love affair. She will not give up on her neighbour, she doesn't care what he or his wife thinks, because it's not over.

"I know it's not over!" she exclaimed. "I don't feel it here," she pointed to her head, "I feel it here!" as she pushed her hand into her stomach. "Ours is true love, and I feel it here!"

"Um, well," Dan paused, "it's good you can trust your gut instinct. Like how you knew about that hurricane that was going to hit Hawaii." This was in reference to her telling us she wouldn't book her holiday to Hawaii when her ex-husband wanted her to because she felt something was wrong. "Just keep believing in that," Dan generously offered as he stood up.

"Yes," she agreed. "It's not over."

But for us, it was. We shot out of there like a cork from a champagne bottle. There was something so uncomfortable about that conversation I just had to get away from it. And it's not the revelation she was having an affair with a married man, as I'm not that naive. I think it was the sheer fact that a sober Swiss woman (who's name neither of us remember) poured this story on to us, perfect strangers, when it's an unwritten rule in this country that you don't even make light conversation with your seatmate on the bus.

It was so weird.

Like everything I'd learned in 2011 about Swiss formalities and structure was being made topsy-turvy in the fresh minutes of 2012. Is this what you have in store for me, 2012? Disproving every rule I thought I had mastered about living here? And 2012, please don't be offended (afterall, I don't know what life lessons you want me to learn this year) but I'd rather read some parent's inappropriate recapping of their constipated three year old, or fight for our right to wear neon green fuzzy Kangol hats, than have a stranger cry on my shoulder about a soured affair with a married man.

Sound good to you?

(But 2012, if you want to deliver a few nut shots to that prick who led this woman on--who's not blameless, I realize--then dumped her on New Years Eve, that'd be fine.)

Okay, Now I'll Talk About Boxing Day

2011-12-30T15:12:00.000+01:00

Back home, December 26th is known as Boxing Day. It's a day when most people rip into the retail stores in a consumer frenzy to buy mass quantities of discounted items. I really, really hate Boxing Day for that reason. I won't deny the argument that where big ticket items are concerned, that special 50% off day can be a very rewarding 24 hours to patiently wait for. It's just not for me.

I especially hated it when Dan had a retail job at an electronics store and he was absolutely not allowed to not only have Boxing Day off, but also anytime in the week leading up to Christmas. This made it very difficult to plan Christmas with his mom and brother who lived four hours away and also had their own work schedules.

Also, I remember my sister Meghan working until 8 p.m. one Christmas Eve because she wasn't allowed to leave her store until everything was set-up for Boxing Day. And then on Boxing Day, she had to be in at work at 6 a.m., non-negotiable.

It really pisses me off, to be frank.

Why should people who work in retail have absolutely no time over the Christmas holidays to be with family or enjoy time off just because everyone else needs to run into the stores and dump the contents of their wallets in the cash registers?

Oh right.

That's the reason.

So back home I did boycott Boxing Day, but here in Switzerland there's no need: everything's closed anyhow on the 26th and when regular business resumes, guess what? All that same crap is still discounted 50% off anyhow and it will be until at least mid-January.

So how did we spend our shopping-free Boxing Day? Well, we went snowshoeing up in the mountains of course! This was the first time we'd been snowshoeing here, and it was a very different experience from what we were used to in Canada.

Back home, we used to regularly steal Mom and Dad's snowshoes and head outside the city limits for an afternoon of breaking our own trail. However, at the resort where we chose to snowshoe on Monday, the trails are already broken for you and you aren't allowed to veer off them. It probably would have been easier to just walk the trails with a pair of poles, but we had an amazing day in the sun and I got a few pictures.

View from the parking lot

Paragliders hitting the slopes

It was a panorama of beauty!

Family sledding area of the resort

Footprints in the snow

Dan, being his usual photogenic badass self

I really like this picture.

I just don't know why.

A very obscure look at where we stopped for lunch.

(Shh...don't tell, but we went off the trail a bit.)

Dan's victory pose after he MacGyvered my pole back together.

Twenty minutes later my other one broke.

A hibernating summer hut.

So dear.

All the blue was hurting my eyes.

So Internet, anyone out there know of any good places to snowshoe in Switzerland where you can break your own trail?

Do tell.

Otherwise...HAPPY NEW YEAR.

Okay, Now I'll Talk About Christmas

2011-12-29T16:01:00.000+01:00

I don't want to leave everyone with the wrong idea that my entire Christmas was a bust because of the whole Postie disappointment. In fact, Dan and I had a really wonderful Christmas and I was properly spoiled. Which is just how I like it. I won't say I was spoiled rotten because I'm not Veruca Salt, but I was very lucky to receive a number of items I was hankering after.

However, there was no Bernese Mountain Dog puppy under the tree.

Again.

For the fifteenth year in a row.

So wait, scratch that.

Christmas sucked!

Okay, it didn't.

On the 23rd we went over to Dan's aunt's where we had a roast beast dinner (all right, it was roast beef) and I was, for the first time, exposed to how painfully slow the Swiss unwrap gifts; a family friend was there and she'd bought a few gifts for the hosts. After supper they each sat down to unwrap their respective gifts, and I have never seen such a meticulous unwrapping of presents in all my years. I was watching, and watching, and watching when all of a sudden 'ZZZZZZZZ' I fell into a boredom induced coma.

And to clarify, it was only three people opening one package each.

When I unwrap a gift, I tear it open. My greedy talons shred the paper so that I can quickly get to the good stuff underneath. If it takes me longer than 10 seconds to open something, it's probably because it's a damn big box. But that is not how Dan's family opens gifts. Oh no. Firstly, one piece of tape is carefully peeled off the paper and then everyone pauses to chat for a minute. Then another piece of tape is carefully peeled off the paper and again, everyone pauses to chat for a minute; this continues until all five pieces of tape have been removed. Now the tape is off and the recipient carefully folds back the paper to reveal the contents before pausing again to chat for a minute (and not about the gift yet, either). The contents of the gift are then removed and set to one side while the wrapping paper is carefully folded up and neatly pressed for future use. Everyone pauses to chat for a minute. FINALLY the gift is examined and then everyone chats around the dinner table for a further five hours.

EXCRUCIATING.

Thank goodness I didn't have to be there for the main event on Christmas Eve. After a couple of minutes of this agony, with twelve people left to go to open gifts, I think I would have had a Prosecco induced fit and I would have stormed their tree, thrown myself at their gifts, and ripped everyone's presents open for them. After the damage was done I would have found myself wild-eyed and crazy-haired crouched amidst a sea of torn paper, whilst everyone looked at me in shock and disbelief, wondering how they were going to properly bundle and recycle all those scraps of paper I'd just created.

In short, I would have ruined Christmas.

So good thing it was just Dan and I the day of, and so it was more than appropriate for me to just rip open all my presents with barely a glance at the card, leaving a messy pile of wrapping paper everywhere for a few hours, and then stuffing it all into a trash bag while simultaneously stuffing my mouth with turkey wellington.

It was a great day.

But now lovelies, FOR THE LOVE OF PUPPY DOGS WOULD SOMEONE PLEASE GET ME A GD BERNESE MOUNTAIN DOG.

Fifteen years I've been asking for one.

FIFTEEN MOFO YEARS.

Affectionately yours,

Veruca Salt

(er, I mean...Caitie)

It Was A Wrap, Until They Tore It Open

2011-12-28T11:31:00.000+01:00

Oh December 28th, you are such a downer.

You're not nearly as mysterious as the evening of December 24th, you really aren't as bountiful and delicious as December 25th, and you aren't full of vigorous out-doorsy fun like December 26th.

I'm really sorry but you are just a tad disappointing.

But this year, December 28th, you can rest easy knowing that you aren't nearly as disappointing as the postal service. Internet, I have officially made the postal service and its disgruntled and sticky-fingered employees my arch nemesis. It's never seemed particularly enjoyable to have an arch nemesis, which is why I've avoided one thus far. Imagine all the negative energy exerted just because in order to have an arch nemesis one must, I assume, spend a considerable amount of time chastising this person.

What a depressing waste of time.

But it's unavoidable now. I have a faceless arch nemesis that takes the form of Posties.

And the reason for this unseasonal hatred? Oh, because one of my parent's presents was unwrapped, and also some of the contents of my sister Ais' gift were stolen from her parcel. Merry Christmas! And also, because Meg's gift just never showed up at all. Which, yes, okay, mail getting lost is not exactly ground-breaking, but when these parcels were travelling together, and one gift was unwraped and one parcel had contents removed, it makes me highly suspicious as to the reasons why the other gift just never arrived.

And please, it's not like I was gifting them with exotic plants or firearms or rain forest centipedes. There was no reason these gifts would have been 'confiscated' if that's the official term for lost mail due to thieving employees. These were very basic, very cool, gifts.

I understand that I probably should have tracked the parcels, but you see while the presents themselves were all thoughtful and neat, the cost to track them outweighed the value of the parcels. Because I've never had a problem with mail getting lost before, I just sent the gifts as I always have: snail mail, weeks and weeks and weeks in advance.

So some faceless little Postie now has my sisters' gifts, and yesterday I went out and re-bought Meg's gifts and the part of Ais' that was missing. And tomorrow I try round two of sending out their Christmas presents, except this time I'll probably track them so that if they go missing again I will know exactly which postal office doorstep I have to leave a flaming bag of dog crap on.

Merry Christmas Postie, I hope you like your pilfered goods. I'm sure they'll be of great comfort when you spend eternity working in consumer Boxing Day hell, listening to Madonna's version of Santa Baby on endless repeat while an aggressive old man demands you give him a twenty percent discount on an already discounted $2.00 pack of razor blades.

Too bad those won't come in handy to end your pain.

Merry Christmas!

2011-12-23T11:24:00.000+01:00

iPhoto by Sam

I never managed to get around to sending out Christmas cards this year. So to all you dear friends and family who we have ever laughed with, adventured with, and shared meals with, we wish you the best of this festive season, which means laughter and memories and good-will towards neighbours.

And for you, who takes the time to read this online journal of trivial stories--a lot of which are about my cats, let's be honest--a very Merry Christmas and thank-you for reading.

Love,

Caitie, Dan, Cosmo, and Poppy

Canadians Do It In The Snow

2011-12-21T14:13:00.000+01:00

Play the drums, that is.

Christmas Gift Idea: Cooking Classes

2011-12-21T11:39:00.000+01:00

Our last long weekend trip of the year was going to be Amsterdam. We ordered our guide book, imagined a day trip to Bruges, and considered booking accommodations at a B&B run by an opera singer. Oh it was all very exciting. The only thing we never actually discussed was when we were going.

I assumed the end of October.

Dan assumed the end of November.

And neither one of us told the other of our assumptions until mid-October when I realized it was time to sit down and book our flight and room since we were leaving in a mere two weeks!

Dan: "Two weeks? Aren't we going in over a month?"

Caitie: "What? Why would we go to Amsterdam at the end of November? It will be dreary and cold. Like Venice, only Amsterdam. Ick, November."

Dan: "But I didn't book holidays for October."

Caitie: "But...I don't want to take time off in November."

Oh yes, we really do win at travelling. I really wish we were more OCD about planning because I've said it once and I'll say it again, we know we're going somewhere, we don't really have a clear idea of when, and then one day we just...show up. But alas, our poor planning has finally caught up with us and I really did not want to go to Amsterdam in November.

So we decided to repurpose some of our travel funds to a staycation and one of things we decided to do was take a Thai cooking class.

Seriously, I can't recommend it enough.

Our class met on two Thursday evenings for four hours each night, and each night we prepared a full three course meal that included sitting down together in the school's dining room. The first night our instructor brought champagne to enjoy with dinner, and the last night one of our classmates brought some Thai beer to wash down on our spicy Gaang Ped Daang with.

It was such a warm temporary community and the food we made was absolutely delicious. It was also a really good chance for Dan and I to behave like grown-ups and prove we are capable of working alongside each other in a kitchen environment, because at home? I assure you we're not.

Dan: Why are you doing it like that? It makes more of a mess. Do it my way.

Caitie: I'm cooking dinner, and this is how I do it.

Dan: It makes no sense.

Caitie: Maybe some of us can't comprehend efficiency.

Dan: It's not efficient if you have a huge mess to deal with.

Caitie: Do you like eating the food I make?

Dan: Is this a trap? It feels like a trap. But you're....it's not....

Caitie: WE'RE ORDERING PIZZA.

Whenever we encounter couples who bond in the kitchen, Dan and I look at each other with sadness because that is not our reality. We bond over the dinner table, but the kitchen is an every-man-for-himself war zone. However, we cooked in harmony those past two Thursdays and it was really nice and we now have some great memories from that time shared in the kitchen.

Like how I wasn't convinced that the chili pepper was that hot so I ate a generous pinch of chopped chili and then spent the next thirty minutes quietly dabbing my weeping eyes whilst trying not to breathe fire all over my classmates.

And also, how good Dan looks in one of those long chef aprons that tie around the waist.

Anyhow, if there's a person in your life who loves to cook I would really recommend tying up a little gift certificate for a cooking class and placing it between baubles of their tree.

And since I can't obviously go on and on about how great the food was without sharing the love, here's a recipe we are both crazy about. Fact: we've made this twice since class ended last week. It's good.

Chicken Satay with Coconut Peanut Dipping Sauce

10 wooden satay skewers - soak in water about ten minutes

600 g chicken breast (lay your chicken on your cutting board. Put your palm flat down over the top of the breast and run a sharp knife horizontally through the breast, splitting it in two. Now take your two pieces of breast meat and cut those into long, thick strips. Clear as mud?)

Marinade:

1 garlic clove

1 medium onion, chopped

1 tbsp (EL) heaping, of honey

2 tbsp (EL) fish sauce

4 tbsp (EL) peanut oil

* put all ingredients in a food processor and blitz. Put your chicken strips in a bowl, pour marinade over top and let everyone hang out and get to know each other for about thirty minutes.

Coconut Peanut Sauce:

1 tbsp (EL) heaped of brown sugar

70 g of peanut butter (just under a 1/3 cup)

200 ml of coconut cream

2 tbsp (EL) sweet-sour chilisauce

1/2 a stick of lemon grass (slice your lemon grass down the middle and using the back of your knife quickly tap the lemon grass a few times to release the flavour)

* put all ingredients in a saucepan over medium-low heat and let simmer away.

Assembly:

* Put your oven's broiler on

* Line a cookie sheet with aluminum foil and remove skewers from water.

* Thread your marinated chicken over the skewers folding up each chicken piece like it's a caterpillar, skewering the folds, then stretching the meat over the skewer (does that make sense?)

* Put your chicken under the broiler for seven minutes, then flip the skewers and give them another four to five minutes under the broiler.

* Put the skewers on a plate and sprinkle with fresh coriander (cilantro) and serve with the peanut dipping sauce.

* Remove the lemon grass from the peanut sauce before serving.

Enjoy!

Showdown at the OK Corral

2011-12-20T15:58:00.000+01:00

Snow Globe Afternoons

2011-12-19T16:08:00.000+01:00

At last...

...the snow fell this weekend.

Christmas Gift Idea: An iPhone

2011-12-18T12:27:00.000+01:00

I am not really one for using my handy cellular mobile telephone device that often (please note that I used every conceivable description possible. Yes!). In fact, the only time I really use it is if I know I am meeting up with someone imminently, and we might have to send a couple of texts back and forth. Most of the time my phone is lost and out of battery power.

I know this seems absolutely insane in this day of technology, but it's how I roll.

Considering I do not tote my phone around like a needed appendage, you have probably guessed this means I do not own a 'smart phone'; this is probably quite smart of me because I have dropped my current phone five times. It has split apart five times. I have put it back together five times. It still works. I don't know if anything with a fragile touch screen would have stood for such abuse, thus far.

So I have merrily been going about my days with my clunky little cell that is usually blinking its last bar of battery life, and I have been blissfully clueless about the fact that I 'need' an iPhone in my life. You read that right: need.

Of course there are people near and dear to me who have iPhones, but I've never paid much attention to the phone because they were just using it to fire off emails or text messages or Facebook updates. Why would I need such a thing? I have my occasionally handy cell for texting, and my computer for all other forms of Internet usage. It seemed unnecessary.

But last night, that all changed.

I was shown the error of my ways.

The consumer fire monster did a tap dance on my heart and soul and I am forever changed. And this morning I am a hollow shell; half the woman that I was last night. And I don't think that I will be complete until that I have that rectangular little phone taking up residence in some crumby corner of my cavernous purse.

And what's the reason for this change, you ask?

It's because of this!

(photo courtesy of our friend, Sam)

The iPhone camera, my friends! Think of how many opportune cat pictures I have been missing out on!

Sam took some wicked cool pictures of Cosmo with his phone, and showed us some other pictures he'd taken on a trip to Munich, and I was all, "But...I...why....how...iPhone...camera...amazing...texture...apps....cute Cosmo....;lakhdgkhada."

That last articulate mashing of keys was my brain trying to figure out why I haven't bought an iPhone yet. And in case you're missing the point on why I need the iPhone it's strictly for its camera and all the cool apps that go with it.

Can you hear me Santa?

iPhone = iNeed.

Christmas Gift Idea: A Tattoo

2011-12-15T13:13:00.000+01:00

I know, I know I can hear all of you.

What is she thinking? That's the worst idea I've ever heard! I never want to play Secret Santa with her! This is a TERRIBLE idea.

TERRIBLE.

And I can see the mothers and fathers out there, their hands tucked tightly under their arms with their lips pursed in a thin line of disapproval.

No one's tattooing my baby! I don't even care if my baby is 45 years old and has male pattern baldness. I will not allow it!

But hear me out. This suggestion is probably more in line with buying yourself something for Christmas or else surprising that certain someone that you know really, really well and know they want a tattoo but for reasons that probably come down to being a chicken, haven't gone and done it yet.

It's a cool idea for the person you know will be receptive of it, and I have a little elf visiting A Cait's Life today to share with you all her own tattoo experience.

Internet, here's my sister's experience with finally getting her tattoo.

***

Aislinn, I recall you've always been interested in tattoos. Is it fair to say that we can attribute this fascination to one AJ McLean of the Backstreet Boys (that tattooed bad boy you inexplicably had a crush on when everyone knows Kevin was way better), or a certain high school rebel who flipped hamburger patties at Wendy's and was the drum player in a band?

Hmmmmm......I guess you can say that I've always been in favour of a little bit of edge! I don't tend to gravitate to the 'clean cut' type if that's what you're asking!

You've been interested in getting a tattoo for years, what made you decide to go for it now?

Yes, I have always liked tattoos, and wanted to get one myself. Besides the fact that I'm extremely indecisive (what kind of tattoo should I get, what should it look like, where should I put it, how big should it be etc...), I'm also a huge procrastinator! I've been thinking about doing it for a few years, and one day I just woke up and though "today is the day!" I went to the tattoo place a few hours later and made the appointment! That's how it is with me. I have to do something the very moment it strikes me, or I will probably go ahead and put it off for another few months!

Your tattoo is the phrase 'beautiful dream' and wraps modestly around your ribcage. Can you please tell us why you decided to have this phrase tattooed on your ribcage, rather than the Chinese symbol for 'wooden spoon' or 'garbage truck' stamped onto your lower back?

Well Caitie, as much as I love a good wooden spoon (they're so useful!) and the sound of a garbage truck first thing in the morning, the phrase 'beautiful dream' is actually the meaning of my name in Gaelic. I decided to have it put on my ribcage because I didn't want it to be visible when wearing a gown to an elaborate ball, or when meeting the Queen for example. I want to know that it's there, but I don't want to splash it all around and get in peoples faces with it! Also, I wanted to give my name a bit of credibility! Growing up, my name was mispronounced once or twice. My name is properly pronounced ACE-LYNN, but for some reason I was called ASS-LYNN (thanks a lot substitute teacher), ALYSA-LYNN, ANSLEY, and my favourite, just AAA.......mumble mumble mumble. AKA: WTF is this person's name????? My name is a real name people! See? It even has a meaning!!!!!

Do you laugh at people who have butterfly or Tweetie Bird tattoos? Or the Bacardi Bat on their ankle? For the record, I do.

I don't laugh.....hard. I mostly just wonder if they wake up every day, and see that damn yellow bird all stretched and faded and think "maybe getting a tattoo when I was 16 wasn't the best idea."

Did you go to the tattoo shop on 4th Avenue that has the intimidating and non-conforming operational hours of: "Open: When we get here. Closed: When we leave."?

No, I actually went to Eye Candy Ink Tattoos up on Notre Dame! I highly recommend it!

Was your tattoo artist a Kat von D type?

Not at all! My tattoo artist was Clay Walker (no, not the 1990's country singer), who was awesome! I would go back to him for sure!

Did it hurt?

That's like asking if eating salt and vinegar chips with a paper cut on your finger stings. Yes! But to be honest, it didn't hurt as much as I thought it would. Getting a tattoo on your ribs, or any area with bone underneath, is going to be more painful. The whole thing took about ten minutes all said and done!

Tattooing is definitely something that is becoming more mainstream amongst Canada's younger generations. When we were floating down the river this summer, I observed dozens and dozens of our peers with tattoos and it's becoming quite the norm to see young men with tattoo sleeves, and girls with large murals on their backs. Why do you think this is? I personally point a finger at David Beckham and Angelina Jolie.

I think that tattoos are just a way for people to express themselves a little bit more permanently than say a new hair style. Tattooing is not taboo like it used to be, and pretty much everyone has one! The more mainstream tattoos becomes, the less people are afraid of them, and the more curious they become. Unfortunately, some people are a bit careless about it (see question 5, regarding Tweetie Bird and the Bacardi Bat tattoos).

Do you agree with the idea that sleeve tattoos are now the Wal-Mart of rebellion?

No, not really. Sleeve tattoos are just a certain look that some people want to go for, or they're the type of person who has lots and lots of tattoo ideas in their head and thinks, why not just make a sleeve out of it? I think a sleeve tattoo is something that you should build on over time though. Not just go in one day and get an entire sleeve done. It usually ends up looking kind of lame and pointless.

Lastly, here's a virtual high five for finally doing what you've wanted to do for years (Though dangit! Why didn't you do it when I was home so I could have watched!?). I think your tatt (am I cool enough to use that word?) is wicked awesome and I love it! Do you have any advice for anyone who is toying with the idea of getting a tattoo, but are unsure if they should go for it?

Do it! When I was toying with whether or not to do it, one thought I had was "do I want to permanently mark my body? Do I want to lose that level of pureness of just being in a totally natural state?" But honestly, I don't regret it at all! If you're unsure, stick to something small, and in a spot where it will be covered. Maybe steer clear of say, a neck tattoo :) But only do it if in the back of your head, you know you really want one.

***

There you go Internet.

Christmas Gift Idea: a tattoo.

Trust me, it's a gift they'll never forget.

(Unless they get it lasered off, then maybe...)

A Festive Glow

2011-12-14T17:43:00.000+01:00

Don't mind the crumbs in the background, my birch baskets are shedding fake snow.

I'm glad for it because after the sideways rainstorm we had today, I'll take snow any way I can get it.

Even if it has to be fake.

Christmas Gift Idea: A Bottle of Brew

2011-12-13T17:57:00.000+01:00

Okay this might not be a good idea for the teetotaler in your life, and it's not the most original of suggestions, but otherwise a really nice bottle of wine or scotch or case of artisan beer is where it's at. And please, this isn't meant to be a gift for the college drunk in your life who doesn't know the difference between a box and a bottle; this is for the individual near and dear to you who likes to kick back with a beverage that has been supremely distilled and/or aged.

And this recommendation isn't in the spirit of trying to be pretentious or make you and yours look like fancy-pants who turn their noses up at cheap imitations. The fact is, the more a person learns, appreciates, participates in and gets to enjoy something, they eventually start to want the quality product. A quality experience. This goes for everything from sport, clothing, food, to beverages. And in our house, it's Dan's taste for scotch that is being refined.

My Bup--my grandfather--is the scotch man in our family, and he likes the stuff that will keep you warm when you're camping, duck hunting, or sitting around the Christmas tree with those you love. The first time that Dan ever met my extended family, Bup got him absolutely pickled on scotch. You may think it's odd for your grandpa to get you drunk, but, well, he also got my sisters and I pretty loaded at a family wedding one year, and none of us can remember the ceremony. He's a bit heavy handed when he mixes drinks. Anyhow, back to Dan's initiation to my family.

It was a late fall day and my dad had just retired; he had a whack of collected papers that needed to be disposed of, so the family made a day of it and we went to my uncle's property where a bonfire was started so the papers could be burned. We girls were inside, and all the boys were outside. Occasionally I'd peek out the window to see how Dan was doing, meeting all the men-folk for the first time, and it seemed to be going well: they were all standing around tossing back drinks and building a huge fire.

How very safe and non-redneck of us.

Later that afternoon they came inside and all 6'5 inches of Dan collapsed and sprawled across my uncle's living room floor. He was done.

"Caitie....Caaaiiiittttiiiieeee....." Dan hissed, lying on his back with an empty glass rolling beside him. "I don' know wha ta doooooooo."

"What do you mean you don't know what to do?" I laughed.

"Ever time I finish ma glass.....Bup fills it up again," he moaned, now trying to climb into a chair. And then, as if he heard himself mentioned, in strolled my jolly Bup to fill up Dan's empty glass for the seventh time that day.

"Seeeeeeeeeeeeeeee" Dan whispered, "I don' know wha ta doooooo."

After that day, and once he recovered from a wicked bad hangover, Dan took a decided interest in scotch. As the years have progressed, he has acquired his own preferences in a bottle of scotch beyond the familial obligation to drink Famous Grouse, and he has an interest in learning more about the different products; so, one day last month we hopped a train and went to Thun so that he could check out a specialty scotch shop.

And this, my invisible Internet friends, is where you can really make sure you're selecting a special Christmas present for that important someone: go to an expert. Go to someone who specializes in the product and who can listen to what your palette has been exposed to thus far and can recommend from there the next option you can graduate to.

I myself do not have a taste for scotch so I was content to browse the store and take pictures while the lady in the shop asked Dan what he'd drank so far, decided what flavours he'd likely benefit from trying next, and then chose a selection of scotch that he could sample from.

One corner of the store.

Dan's samples.

And if you can find an expert who insists on letting you try the product, well that's obviously even better. The afternoon was informative for Dan, and the lady nailed it in terms of selecting a range of flavours that Dan would like. They were all to his taste, and he chose to buy a bottle of the scotch on the left.

It really was quite the experience, and it's one I'd recommend if you know of someone who wants to expand their knowledge and you live anywhere near a specialty shop, or can find a willing expert via the Internet.

Christmas is a special time of year, so if you can help a loved one further their keen interest, or relax with a rare treat, it really does make their season bright.

Christmas Gift Idea: The Mighty Furminator

2011-12-11T11:54:00.000+01:00

I have spoken a few times about the fact that our sweet Poppy girl is a perma-shedder. It honestly would be a lot more annoying if she didn't look like this.

I'm damn cute, bitches.

In addition to being unbelievably sweet, this year she has also turned into a huge cuddler. She's been a part of our little family for six years now, and she's always been rather aloof. But this year she has been born again as a warm, purring, little feline that loves nothing more than to stretch out on your chest with her head tucked under your chin, purring and purring and purring.

However the problem with her being born again as a cuddler is that our clothing has never looked worse. And when we're not around to cuddle? Not a big deal in Poppy's world: she just snuggles into our discarded clothes, which really translates to meaning she sleeps in my clothing because Dan always folds his and puts it away whereas I toss mine in a heap on the floor. Earlier this year I had my black wool winter coat lying on my bed and when I remembered to hang it up a few hours later, the damage had been done. Her long white hairs were burred into the jacket and nothing I did to remove them worked. So I had to take the jacket to the dry-cleaner, and the lady picked up my jacket between pinched thumbs and index fingers and handled it like it was a bag of bio-hazard feces. It was mortifying. Even worse was I had to try and explain in stilted in German that my cat and slept on it, which made her look at me with wrathful judgment that implied: why would your jacket be lying on a bed and not hanging in a closet?

Our only saving grace in maintaining the illusion that we were winning the battle of Poppy's blowing coat is that she loves being brushed: by Dan. She hates it when I brush her. So we'd be able to pick a few hairs off and consider ourselves victorious that those hadn't end up on the floor.

So when I was home this summer, I popped into one of my favourite pet shops after work just to have a browse. As I admired the SPCA kittens, and the little budgies, and the rabbits, I worked my around to the display of cat toys. As I meandered over, I swear that a beam of light shone from the heavens and I heard the angels sing that joyous anthem that Harold and Kumar heard when they finally made it Whitecastle: before me stood a mighty display of FURminator cat brushes.

I was saved.

Why it had never occurred to me to buy this particular tool before, I have no idea. I eagerly rushed over to the display and then nearly choked when I saw the price. What the...$60 for a cat brush? Was this a joke? As I pondered the price, a sales associate clad in her khaki safari duds came over and cheerfully asked me if I needed any help.

"Um, yeah. We have a cat that sheds like crazy, and I was considering buying this brush. But you're charging $60 for it."

Unfazed by my thrifty disbelief, the girl made her sales pitch. "I know it seems like a lot of money, but it is the best. Seriously, you'll be amazed at how much excess hair this thing can pull off. It doesn't shave the cat, it just removes all the excess hair that's already come loose."

"But, it's $60 dollars. I don't even own a hairbrush that expensive."

"You know what, there are knock-offs out there, but really they don't do as good a job as this one. I'm serious, I have the knock-off and I have this one and this one is just better."

Then she went on to explain the double blade to me, and yaddy yaddy yadda.

"Listen, if I buy this I can't return it. I don't live here. So you are 100% guaranteeing me that I will be satisfied with this. That I will not be upset that I spent $60 dollars on a brush."

"I am seriously guaranteeing it."

I chose to believe her, she gave me a discount, and I bought the FURminator.

Internet: if there is someone in your life who goes absolutely bat-shit mental over shedding animals, you need to buy them this and stick it under the tree or in their stocking.

It's amazing.

This first time we used this, we pulled a bag of hair off her. To clarify: that is a bag of hair that was already loose and would have ended up all over our rug, our chairs, our clothes, and likely in my morning yogurt. As Dan gently brushed away, we were giggling in crazy disbelief.

I mean, holy shit...A BAG OF HAIR.

As the weeks went by, the more we brushed her the less hair came off. And we noticed a difference. Seriously, our black area rug was black again; we didn't need to vacuum every day; I could eat breakfast without consuming Poppy hair.

We were free!

This was worth what I paid for it, and it will make a great gift for that OCD person in your life who can't handle shedding pets. And I guarantee it will provide Christmas post-turkey fun for the whole family. Just gather around the family cat or dog, brush gently, and be prepared to be absolutely gobsmacked by how much shedding hair will come off.

Though the best thing to find under the Christmas tree is of course our Poppy.

But she's all ours.

Reason to Celebrate

2011-12-09T10:56:00.000+01:00

It's that time of year again when, if you're lucky, you get to pause and realize how fortunate you are. That despite the little stumblings of the day-in-day-out grind, you have it good.

My pause came yesterday when I realized that for the first time in years I was having a pain free day. So a fun fact about me is that I have arthritis, and have had it for most of my twenties even though it wasn't officially diagnosed until four years ago.

I have been living with daily pain for so long, it's just my normal.

For years and years, no matter how many chiropractic or massage appointments I went to, it hurt to turn my head, it hurt to stretch open my jaws, it hurt to walk in bare feet, and it hurt to lift my shoulders. And it was a mystery why. Maybe it was that horse riding accident? Maybe it was that car accident? Maybe it was because despite always being in pain, I still tried to be as active as possible which meant my body wasn't healing?

But when my knees randomly swole to twice their normal size, and the swelling persisted for over a month and I couldn't walk, I finally got an answer. Though admittedly it wasn't one I wanted: arthritis.

So I've been trying to have it treated for four years and after moving here I had another frustrating flare-up and the doctor put me on some new meds to see how things would go. I definitely felt a lot better being on them, but there was always one joint that was still sore. But one body part being sore as opposed to all of them? That is a huge improvement.

My doctor started to wean me off the drugs because they are really, really harsh but I'm not considered to be in remission. Things are still bubbling and brewing below the surface like a volcano waiting to ruin everyone's flight plans, but I don't have as much pain.

And yesterday?

I had none.

I crouched down without thinking about it, and then instantly shot right back up again. You see, I'm not supposed to be able to crouch down. It always hurts. But yesterday I just did it. After I popped up I cautiously crouched down again, and I could. And then I realized that nothing hurt.

And I was happy and so, so incredibly thankful.

Today my elbow is sore again, but it doesn't matter because yesterday it was fine and tomorrow brings so many possibilities.

I'm Ready for December

2011-12-05T09:15:00.000+01:00

I made my first seasonal batch of gingersnaps on Saturday night so that we would have a festive snack to munch on while we listened to Christmas tunes and decorated the apartment.

Today, only four pillowy soft snaps remain.

At this rate my jeans are still totally going to fit at the end of the month, don't you think?

A Taste Of Home

2011-12-02T14:42:00.000+01:00

I just happened to be browsing the selection of tea at Coop, when what to my wondering eyes should appear but a box of amazing tea (but sadly, no eight tiny reindeer).

Yes, that's right. Lipton's figured out a way to put the essence of my homeland into a triangular shaped tea bag. Not a big deal. I think this just means we're totally tea-stars now. We'll try to stay down earth, but I can't make any promises.

NOW BRING ME SOME POUTINE TO EAT WHILE I SIP THIS TEA.

(Oops, sorry. That didn't last long, though I can't be blamed: Jenny from the Block wasn't very convincing either.)

So Internet, what's your tea done for you lately? Don't feel bad if it hasn't catapulted you into tea-stardom. We can't all be delicious and amazing.

Right Jenny?

Just Because

2011-12-01T16:38:00.000+01:00

Stand By Me

2011-11-30T19:07:00.000+01:00

Santa's Little Helper

2011-11-29T10:50:00.000+01:00

I was cleaning off my memory card, and look at what I found.

Oh hello, I'm just hiding in the wrapping paper.

Since you can't see me, go away.

The tacky blotting of 80's colour is my own little experiment in Picassa, a program which I have recently discovered. Anyone have a photo of themselves holding a rose? Can I interest you in removing the colour from the rest of the picture, but still keeping the red rose, rosie? It makes for such a timeless picture.

Or better yet, I could blur the picture so you look like you're in a hallucinogenic dream.

Also timeless.

Anyhow, I'm getting off track. I took this picture two weeks ago when I was wrapping my family's Christmas gifts. The wrapping festivities were assembly-line style wherein I would wrap the present in Christmas paper, then dance it over to Dan and he'd cover up the package in brown post wrap. The system would have worked perfectly if not for the peanut gallery (Dan) mocking my wrap jobs.

Now here's the thing about me: I really, really put a lot of effort into trying to decide what to buy people for Christmas and birthdays, but then I put no effort at all into wrapping the gift. I can't help it! It seems like such a waste of time trying to make something look pretty that's just going to be ripped open in 3.2 seconds. There was a point in time when my family could look under our Christmas tree and tell just by how a present was wrapped, if it was from me or not.

Does the parcel have a balling up of extra paper at both ends of the box? That one's from Caitie.

Does the parcel have three different colours of wrapping paper covering the box because someone can't figure out how much paper to cut? That one's from Caitie.

Is the parcel void of bows or ribbons? That one's from Caitie.

Does the parcel have clean lines, curling ribbons, and a neatly printed card? That one is not from Caitie.

Here's a question: does the poor wrap job void the gift of special meaning? No seriously, I want to know. Because if so, I guess I need to learn to try harder. Or, you know, give the presents to Dan to wrap.

So to illustrate just how differently we operate, you need to understand how different our gift wrapping stations looked: my station had sheared off razors of paper everywhere, a roll of packing tape dangling off the side of the table, and a blue pen leaking ink everywhere; Dan's tidy station had extra paper carefully placed to the side, squares of tape already cut and hanging off the table for easy use, and no leaking stationary.

He is so Swiss! I swear they teach them this stuff in school. In fact, Dan said they used to have to write in fountain pen for one penmanship exercise, and if they didn't blot the extra ink it would smudge and they would loose marks for being untidy.

OMG! I think while he was a Swiss schoolboy diligently practicing tidy penmanship I was a Canadian schoolgirl sounding a battle cry before wildly rolling down the school's sledding hill, wearing a dress, trying to beat my friends to the bottom. Sometimes I feel like I'm a perfect heathen next to Dan's Swiss roots.

So given all this, I handed Dan the last of my parents' gifts to wrap in post paper and he held the package in his hands and shook his head sadly from side to side. To paint a picture, the gift is wrapped in two jagged pieces of mismatched paper and there's a lot of tape holding it together.

"You know sweets," he sighed in weary resignation while glancing at my wrap station, "at this point in our Swiss adventure I have stopped hoping for your seamless integration. At best I can only hope for peaceful co-existence."

Standing before him still in my pajamas with crazy bedhead sticking out everywhere, I wiped an inky hand across my nose, watched our Canadian barn cat death roll himself into the remaining Christmas wrap and start shredding it to bits, while I replied: Huh? What do you mean by that?

Zibelemaerit

2011-11-28T15:06:00.001+01:00

Today was the Onion Market in Bern, and I have got a few pictures to share with everyone. I missed the market last year because I was in transit returning from my cousin's wedding, but I've heard from a few people that it's quite the event and one should try and catch it. Last night Dan and I were lounging around making plans for today--his last day of holidays--and trying to decide when we were going to hit up the market.

"Well you know Cait, some of the vendors are set-up and selling their goods as early as 4 a.m."

Then I blinked.

A lot.

"I am not going anywhere at 4 a.m. unless it's to be shuttled to my private yacht off the coast of France."

"Okay, how about 6 a.m. Everything is open and in full swing then; everyone who has to work tomorrow will catch it then before they go to work."

"Do you even know me at all?"

We ended up showing up today at around 11, and it was packed. Honestly, maybe it's worth going early just so you can actually have a chance to browse the wares being sold at the vendor booths because really for most of the time I spent there I just felt like I was a cow in a chute, being pushed along the streets. If you stopped moving or tried to veer sideways to a booth, you got trampled. So needless to say I didn't really check out a lot of the vendor stands, most of which were selling (because this is an onion market) braided ropes of onions, though there were a lot of different wares being sold too. Dan and I were more interested in the food carts and it was fun to be part of the crowd, eat some divine garlic bread, and sip hot gluehwein.

The first thing I noticed though, when stepping off the bus, is that the streets were absolutely carpeted in confetti; this brings me to the one thing you need to be prepared for: kids (teens and tykes alike) walk around with bags of confetti and plastic hammers that make a squeaking sound. The point is they reach into their bag and throw handfuls of confetti at your face, rub it into your hair, and then bonk you over the head with the plastic hammer. It seems quite violent and unnecessary to me, the Canadian, but Dan said it's tradition and he used to be one of the little terrors holding a squeaking hammer and bag of confetti.

Of course, today he was rather immune to it because there was no one tall enough to throw confetti at his face, rub it in his hair, or hit him over the head with a squeaking toy hammer. I had to take a few for the team.

It was really fun.

Though next year, I'm going to team up with a kid so I can do some confetti throwing of my own.

But Beyonce Makes It Look Easy

2011-11-25T11:45:00.000+01:00

Given the title to this post, you are probably thinking that I was trying to copy the moves Beyonce herself ripped off in her 'Love on Top' video.

Um, of course I did. What else does one do when wrapping Christmas presents (that need to get sent off ASAP so they will be under Canadian Christmas trees) but make a YouTube playlist and dance around?

And trust me, I don't look like Beyonce when trying to do this video.

I look better.

Okay, I don't. Basically I just flail around and knock the cats' water bowl over. Anyhow, this is all getting rather real and embarrassing. But if you watch the video, at one point there's a costume change (or five) and she's dancing around in heels. This baffles me because I can hardly walk in heels, let alone dance in them. And because I can hardly walk in heels it makes sense that I should purchase a pair when looking to replace an everyday pair of shoes, does it not?

So does everyone remember my London funk shoes? Well, this past October they were officially run into the ground and I needed to get a new pair. This is par for the course; I go through one pair of shoes a year because I hate shoe shopping so I find one pair and then stick with them until there comes a point when the shoes become so worn out that trodden-upon gum becomes stuck to my big toe instead of the sole of my shoe. So I ventured into Bern to find a suitable replacement when I passed a gorgeous shoe store that had lovely feminine shoes angled seductively in the window.

"Maybe I do need to know how to wear high heels. I am a grown ass woman, and I need to accept the fact that sometimes being comfortable when you walk isn't all that matters! Stateliness is key!"

So riding on this euphoric high of subversive feminism, I went in to try and find a pair that would fit my small but wide feet.

I did.

And without further ado, here are the shoes I purchased with the intent to make them my new everyday autumnal footwear.

The first time I wore these, I made it to the bus stop before my feet were so numb I had to hobble home to change shoes. The second time I wore them I made it all the way into Bern wherein I then stuck strictly to a one block radius of the Bahnhoff before stumping home, Tiny Tim style. The third time I wore these Dan and I were going to do a little pub crawl, but I couldn't walk so we stayed at the restaurant at the Bahnhoff.

They are a real delight.

The only reason I keep subjecting myself to their contorting cruelty is because they look damn good (and they cost a lot and Dan said I'd never wear them again and I have to prove him wrong). Needless to say, these have not become my everyday shoes and instead I've been wearing a pair of my boots around all the time.

A pair of flat-soled boots that Beyonce wouldn't be caught dead walking the streets of Paris in (not to imply they're ugly, because they're not; they're just flat-soled). So on Wednesday Dan and I were walking home--me in my boots--when I was ironically asking how anyone could wear high heels all the time. They are a major hazard. This last sentence was uttered at the precise moment when I stepped awkwardly off a curb and felt my right foot bend sideways at a ninety-degree angle so that my body weight was briefly resting on my ankle.

I felt things crunch and pop in my foot.

Then I uttered a string of painful expletives as I hopped around, unable to put any weight on my foot. It's just a sprain, and on Wednesday night I had a pretty sweet golf-ball sized growth attached to my ankle that thankfully has almost gone away, but I'm still stumping around Tiny Tim style.

Sigh.

I'm a mess.

I can't walk in heels, apparently I also can't walk in flats, and I definitely can't do the Love on Top dance moves.

Maybe I just need to evolve backwards and become a sea dwelling mammal. I'm an excellent swimmer after all, and am very graceful in the water.

But people, I need to know: is it just me? Am I the only one who can't wear heels? They hurt for everyone, right? And some people are just better at dealing with it?

Fall Friendships

2011-11-24T11:51:00.000+01:00

We Have Arrived!

2011-11-22T16:52:00.000+01:00

Forget Dan's Swiss passport or my little card-thingy that says I'm a resident. Want to know how we really know that we're in Switzerland?

We received our very first passive aggressive note!

Hooray!

Passive aggressive notes are very widespread where we live, which is why we were joking that Mrs. First Floor Fornicator would probably get one for her loud antics. In fact, the people who live just below us had a passive aggressive note taped to their door about a month or so ago, wherein one person in the building expressed concern as follows:

Good day. Your dogs bark constantly, all day long because you leave them alone for too long. It is unbearable. Do something about this immediately or the authorities will be contacted. Friendly Greetings.

I mean, isn't that just the best? There was no attempt on the author's part to hide their contempt or judgment, though s/he did remember their manners by extending a courtesy at the end. Considering that we have Cosmo--the loudest cat of all time--Dan and I stayed out of the barking dog showdown of 2011 because it was hardly our place to complain when we ourselves do not house an angel. Though, we have it on good authority that Cosmo is only loud when we are home.

(Basically, we're whipped by our cat and when he cries we jump to meet his needs so he'll be quiet. But that's not the point of this story.)

So anyhow, we have managed to avoid a passive aggressive note for over a year and half but now we have one of our very own! And it's hilarious!

Here's how it unfolds:

Saturday morning we are heading into Bern for our typical Saturday morning coffee date. Dan stops at the mailbox to grab his financial paper, and we discover the mailman has been around extra early with a bundle of junk mail and fliers. As we leave the building, Dan stuffs the junk mail into the outside trash can and we go to Bern.

Yesterday evening we are returning home and we open the mailbox to collect our mail. Amongst Monday morning's junk mail we find Saturday's soiled junk mail with a scribbled note on one envelope.

Good day Herr S----,

This is a reminder that paper must always be recycled. It cannot be thrown into the trash. In the future, make sure all your paper is disposed of correctly. Friendly Greetings.

Are you understanding this, Internet?

Do you comprehend?

Let me break it down for you, if you haven't had your coffee. This means that someone dug through the outside trash in order to retrieve our junk mail and then stuffed the soiled mail back in our box.

Let's all pause a moment to picture this irritated citizen taking time out of their day to dig through the trash, to write a note on our discarded junk, then to stuff it back into our box. Now let's laugh at them. But seriously, we have officially been CH-ed*. Now can we please get our Brownie badge to sew onto our sash? Task completed: pissing someone off enough in order to be taught an anonymous lesson.

Next task? Discarding junk mail without our name on it so they will have to use DNA analysis to match it to the correct mail box.

What? I have to keep them on their toes.

Friendly Greetings!

(*That's a thing. I just made it up. CH being the abbreviation for Switzerland. Pass it on.)

The Postage Was Outlandish

2011-11-20T11:14:00.000+01:00

Africa, I know that as a continent yours is one with many trials: famine, health epidemics, poverty, corruption, and visiting celebrities who throw self-serving concerts and parties because it's cool to care, but only if a lot of people are going to see you caring (right Bruce Springsteen?).

Given all this, is it fair for me to burden you with one more problem when you already have to deal with corruption amongst your nations, and ambiguous angling celebrity?

It probably isn't fair, is it? Well, no matter...

...he didn't meet shipping standards anyhow.

Sound Bites (A PG-13 Post)

2011-11-19T16:03:00.000+01:00

So I will preface this post by saying that Dan and I realize we are supposed to be mature 30 year olds who do not start getting all grade 7 "Oh my god! Listen to that! They're having s-x!" when hearing our neighbours. We realize we're supposed to be mature, but we're not.

We totally get all grade 7.

So a few times Dan has come home after work and mentioned that when passing by a neighbouring apartment complex, there are a lot of shrieks and cries and Rated R sounds coming from an open first floor window. Then we giggle about it because we aren't mature.

So this afternoon we were returning from an amazing day in Bern wherein I scored the deal of a lifetime (details to come, though don't get too excited. It's not like I encountered a lady giving away free Bernese Mountain Dog puppies because that would have been the deal of seven lifetimes and I'd be in hospital right now because I would have passed out from sheer joy and probably got run over by a tram), and as we were passing the aforementioned apartment complex I was chattering away about something when Dan stopped dead in his tracks and put his finger to his lips, announcing I was to be quiet.

And that's when I too finally heard her: Mrs. First Floor Fornicator filling the Saturday afternoon with her amorous bellows.

"Holy crap," I whispered, "she could be in yodelling contests!"

Then Dan started laughing and we ran up the stairs to our building, making jokes at her expense because we are juvenile.

"Dan, her windows are wide open! She wants people to know, she does! Oh my god! I mean, she's right across from the apartment playground; kids could swing into her window. Can you even imagine the passive aggressive notes that must get left on her door? Please lower the decibel on the cries of your coupling. We have children who are asking questions and are concerned if you're hurt. Friendly Greetings, your annoyed Swiss neighbour."

Then Dan told the joke of a lifetime. The joke that has proven why we are married.

"I know why she always at it in the afternoon."

"Why?"

"Because she has to comply with Switzerland's apartment noise rules: no vacuuming, no showering, and no howling after 8 p.m."

Then I collapsed against the side of our building and choked on my laughter, while Mrs. First Floor Fornicator's neighbour stood on her balcony with a shop vac and a scowl on her face, vacuuming up leaf debris and trying to drown out the shrieks.

***

You just never now what's going to happen when you wake up in the morning. Happy Saturday, everyone.

Like A Bowl Full of Jelly(Beans)

2011-11-16T15:48:00.000+01:00

I have a confession to make: I love food.

Grocery shopping has always been the highlight of my week. Of course when I first moved out of Mom and Dad's house, my grocery shopping trips were a huge treat because that is literally all I would buy: treats. I went crazy buying every single thing my mom normally didn't have in stock: Cap 'N Crunch, chocolate milk, Asian noodle soups, potato chips, fancy cheeses, and frozen chicken nuggets. Then I would lug my goods home and promptly run out of food three days later because treats do not a meal make. This went on for about a month because I was stubbornly of the opinion that I AM AN ADULT AND ADULTS EAT WHATEVER WE WANT before realizing, I am an adult and I need to eat some mofo vegetables and fruit before I collapse from scurvy and/or mineral deficiencies.

I know how to cook and have known how to cook since I was a young teenager, so once my fridge was stocked with ingredients, I did get my cooking on. And the best part about this new phase in my grown up life? I always had leftovers for lunch, and I didn't have to grocery shop as much as I used to because real food lasts way longer than a bag of Mr. Christie's Rainbow Chip Cookies. Go figure.

But then Dan and I moved in together and for the first time in my life I had to deal with a picky eater. I don't know about anyone else out there, but my sisters and I were literally not allowed to be picky eaters. We had no allergies or special dietary considerations, so if we didn't eat what was cooked for us, we didn't eat. Simple as that. And today my sisters and I are generally not picky eaters; we will try most things people make for us, and decide from there if we like it. So imagine my utter confusion when I started making dinners for Dan and I, and he would examine the plate with squinted eyes and quiz me about the ingredients before taking a bite.

Dan was a picky eater!

The horror.

Fact: picky eaters annoy the piss out of me. JUST TRY A BITE.

Anyhow, to be fair he wasn't nearly as bad as some picky eaters I've come across but I did have my moments where he'd be chewing a mouthful of something--with a furrow in his brow--and I would find myself gripping my dinner knife just a little more tightly than is considered psychologically sound. But as with all relationships we have found our groove, and these days there are rarely moments when there is something that Dan has a trepid distrust of eating.

Until last night.

On my last trip to the grocery store there were some heirloom baby tomatoes on sale, and I got positively giddy over these. Of course heirloom tomatoes are readily available at the Saturday morning farmer's market but people, I can't get up early enough to make it to that. Be serious. So when they showed up on the shelf of my grocery store I bought a glorious assortment with the plan to turn them into a simple tomato salad served alongside chicken and lemon potatoes.

As I was washing them up last night I thought that the colours of these little acidic fruits were so beautiful, and when jostled all together the tomatoes reminded me of jellybeans.

So glorious!

Such pretty little beans.

So I prepared the meal and we sat down to eat. As the meal wore on, I noticed a little collection of the purple tomatoes piling up at the corner of Dan's plate.

They're like gemstones.

"Sweets, why aren't you eating the purple tomatoes?"

Then Dan gave me a sheepish side-look before responding, "Because, they're purple. Tomatoes are supposed to be red."

"Are you for real? Have you even tried a bite?"

"But sweets, they're purple. They look like they're rotting."

"Dan, have you tried a bite?"

"No."

"You have to try a bite. You're thirty years old, this is crazy."

"Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously. It tastes exactly like the red ones."

Then Dan speared one purple tomato, took a deep, holding breath (the sort of breath one might take before changing a baby's diaper), squeezed his eyes tightly closed and quickly shoved that tomato in his mouth before starting to chew in a frenzied panic. I mean, with a production like that you'd think I'd asked him to eat a baby tarantula instead of a tomato.

"Alright," he gulped. "I ate one! I ate one! Do I have to eat the rest?"

It was impossible not to laugh. And now I know what somebody is getting in their stocking this year instead of an orange.

Timelines: It's Been Two Years (And A Few Days)

2011-11-14T12:10:00.000+01:00

It was a late September evening, and Dan was sitting in our living room in a green leather chair that was lopsided and had claw marks raked through the thin material; the laptop was balanced on his knees and I was crouched beside him on the floor with my arms folded on the arm rest and my nose buried under my left elbow. Dan's fingers were clickety-clicking over the keys for awhile, then it was quiet.

"Alright," he sighed, leaning back heavily in the chair. "That's it. It's booked. I leave in just over a month."

A plane ticket to Switzerland. Without me.

No job when he landed.

A potential return date five months from when he departed, should the job hunt not be bountiful.

I burst into tears.

***

The week before Dan left I was in a dizzy haze. He was ploughing through his clothes and belongings, deciding what to throw away, what to save for a potential move, and what to immediately pack with him. During these purges I generally would be lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling and thinking, "Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out."

I was an emotional wreck: we were going after what we wanted, but the ensuing months were going to be hard. Though as I lay on the floor, staring at the popcorn ceiling of our 1970's newly renovated apartment, I had absolutely no idea how hard it would be.

But in order to make it, I knew I had to keep remembering breathe in, breathe out.

***

I constantly felt like I had just stepped a shaky foot off that carnival G-force ride known as the Zipper. For days, bile was the only taste at the back of my throat. My eyes were red rimmed from lack of sleep, too much crying, and an irritating dryness from standing directly in front of a wind tunnel that was tossing me around against my will, even though I had willed that wind tunnel to throw my life into chaos.

***

We threw a going-away, good luck, dinner for Dan and I kept a magnum of sparkling wine next to my plate and got sloppily drunk. All the pictures show me laughing.

I was terrified.

***

November 9, 2009 was the longest night. We stayed awake for hours and hours, trying not to fall asleep, but eventually loosing the battle. At 5 a.m. I heard the shower running, and I felt my stomach twist into a ball of anxiety that would (in hindsight) remain that way for the next seven months.

Dan gave each of the cats a long hug, kissed his coffee table good-bye, and in the stillness of a bitterly cold 5:30 morning we left the apartment to drive to the airport. We went slow, hardly speaking, creeping towards that shale ledge that felt like it was going to crumble under our feet.

At the airport we stared at each other across a cafeteria table, holding hands, letting our coffees grow cold, while telling each other it would be fine. What we were doing was easy compared to the separations others had no choice over. And considering the following day was Remembrance Day, I felt so egocentric to be feeling sadness over the fact my husband going to Europe to find a job. It's not like he was going to war. Like we would never hold hands again. I felt so self-absorbed to bemoan a departure that we had booked the ticket for, that we had planned for and been excited for.

But it still didn't make saying goodbye any easier.

Kamloops has a small airport, and it's a bit unusual to see people crying at the departures gate. Especially at 6:30 in the morning when the rest of the passengers are business people heading to Vancouver for a day of meetings.

People stared, and I wanted to tell them all to f-ck off and mind their own business.

I watched Dan go through security, before I fled the airport and drove home through a screen of tears.

Everyone told me I didn't have to go work that day, but I went anyhow because it was easier than staying at home feeling sorry for myself when I had no reason to feel sorry.

***

He called me from Toronto at lunch time.

He was on his way.

***

That night my sisters came over to keep me company.

It was the first time I actually realized that if I moved, we wouldn't be near each other anymore.

That wasn't a good night.

I slept on his side of the bed.

***

He called me at 3:52 a.m. to tell me he'd landed safely and was at his family's house. I was wide awake, waiting for the call.

November 11, 2009.

Day 1.

***

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

A Post About Post

2011-11-10T16:06:00.000+01:00

At the turn of the 20th Century, members of the Universal Postal Union commissioned this monument.

When snail mail was the only mail.

When a letter was passed from hand to hand to hand, around the world.

Instead of pixel to pixel.

(My, how times have changed.)

When a simple package sent from Switzerland to Canada arrived within a handful of weeks.

Instead of...oh, wait.

It still takes more than a handful of weeks to send a snail package from Switzerland to Canada.

(My, how times have not changed.)

Front Row Seats

2011-11-09T15:57:00.001+01:00

To Autumn's couture show.

What Would Martha Do?

2011-11-08T16:24:00.000+01:00

I love hosting dinner parties, but I don't do it that often. Namely because I go crazy overboard with planning and ideas and lists, and by the time the night of the actual dinner rolls around I am exhausted and want everyone to leave as soon as they've shovelled the last morsel into their mouth.

I am an amazing hostess, as you can tell.

On Sunday I threw a 'Thanksgiving' dinner for Dan's family. Since this is Switzerland, no one was available on 'the fly' when I threw out the invitation two weeks before our real Thanksgiving in October. Dudes, this is serious stuff. I've never done anything on the fly with any born and bred Swiss person; there is at least a four week minimum needed to plan any social event.

So at the beginning of October everyone inked this November dinner into their calendars and my planning commenced. If you were to have come to our home anywhere between mid-October to last Saturday, there is a good chance that I would have sat you down and asked for your opinion on a range of topics from: What do you think of smoked salmon canapes? to: Are cloth napkins making a come back? Or are we all still of the opinion that the resulting laundry isn't worth the hassle?

Of course the one thing I didn't spend a lot of time considering was my main course menu, because I can rock that like nobody's business: succulent roasted chickens, steamed broccoli, potatoes mashed with chives, gravy, and a savoury bacon and rosemary stuffing. However, my preoccupation with what to serve for an appetizer and what to serve for dessert are different stories, and good grief but did I ever spend copious evening hours pouring over Martha Stewart's website. In fact, I think I can say with assurance that nobody knows that website better than I do at the moment. And when I would get overwhelmed with the selection of 'elegant appetizers' and 'seasonal appetizers' and 'casual appetizers' I would take a break and flip to her pets section where I would read up on all of Martha's cats and her Chow Chows, and Francesca and Sharkey (OMG I know her dogs' names. Send help.). Then I would flip over to her blog and curse all her and her friends' perfect New England homes. Then I'd feel sad that I didn't have a New England mansion with ebony Frisians grazing in the back paddock, and so I'd go back to the recipe section to visually eat away my sorrows.

It was a very tumultuous time, as you can tell.

In the end, I went with what I thought would be a very twee and cutesy dessert because I wanted to make something that wouldn't be too different from anything they'd tasted before, but would still have a distinct Canadian je ne sais quoi quality to it.

Behold, my idea:

Owl cupcakes!

The decorating idea didn't come from Martha--that was found by falling through an Internet worm hole that I will never find again--but I got the chocolate cupcake recipe from her.

We're a whoot!

My friend came over on Saturday night and helped me decorate these babies, and we also made some maple walnut cupcakes too, but I don't have a picture of those because they aren't as awesome looking as OWL CUPCAKES. Though, they actually tasted delicious and all the cupcakes were a huge hit.

And about the appetizer, you ask? Well I was going to make a smoked salmon mousse, but when I tested the recipe on Thursday night it failed miserably and I lost my mind.

WHO NEEDS APPETIZERS?

WHY ARE THEY A BIG THING?

WE'RE HAVING AN ENORMOUS DINNER.

I QUIT!

So I went with a simpler spread of meat and cheese.

As everyone was chowing down on the sausage, they kept commenting on how good and unusual it was. What kind had I bought? Since I had just grabbed a cured sausage off the shelf thinking, 'eh, they're all the same' I was perplexed why they were making a big deal out of it.

So I grabbed the package to show them. Everyone passed the package around and murmured that they would never have thought to buy this. How unusual, but good. What a surprise. A tasty surprise. Maybe they wouldn't be averse to buying it next time.

I was getting really confused.

What?

What had I bought? What I had done?

Internet, it turns out the sausage that I carelessly grabbed was...SHEEP SAUSAGE.

Ack!

I was horrified and shocked and terribly confused, and everyone laughed heartily. I feel quite confident Martha would not have made that blunder. Always trust the foreigner to provide a few laughs (and delicious cupcakes).

Beautiful Dreamer

2011-11-07T15:49:00.000+01:00

Are You Afraid Of The Fog?

2011-11-03T10:21:00.000+01:00

A couple of Sundays ago it was a very foggy day; the sort of fog that swamps your view and leaves sailors searching for the flash of a lighthouse. I spent an incredibly lazy morning wherein I turned one of our living room chairs to face the window so I could sit and sip tea while I watched the thick clouds of fog brush past our windows with gossamer finger tips.

Later that afternoon Dan and I decided to go for a walk in our neighbourhood just as the fog was starting to lift, and the bright autumn colours started to flash as beacons of light.

It was a rejuvenating stroll down foggy lanes, and it felt a bit magical: like the world whispered a language that only we could hear through those earth-bound clouds.

Fog by day is enchanting.

But fog at night can feel like a trick.

So last night after we finished dinner we went for our semi-regular after-dinner walk, and when we stepped outside the evening fog rushed around us in a suffocating cloud of humidity, clamping its hand over our mouths and holding those gossamer hands over our eyes so we could hardly see the glow of the street lights. But we set off on our way, and eventually we became accustomed to the heavy clouds that clung to our shoulders and leapfrogged in front of us.

In fact, we got so used to our soupy environment, and not being able to see anything, that I became quite convinced we were the only people who were daring enough to be out on a night like that. So much to Dan's mortification, I decided to serenade him with a song that I thought I knew all the words to: Kelly Clarkson's 'Low', in case you're wondering. What?! It was a 69 cent download on iTunes recently, I had to buy it! (I also bought Salt & Peppa's 'Shoop'. Classic!) So anyhow I was singing away, and as we turned a corner I heard a rustling of leaves and when I looked to the left there was a beast crouched in the shrubbery looking at us with wild eyes over its shoulder!

I jumped about fifty feet off the ground and the next lyrics on my lips turned into a hybrid of yelping/swearing.

A beast! In the shrubbery! On a foggy night! A BEAST.

"Calm down," Dan hissed, yanking on my hand. "It's just a guy bending down to pick up dog crap."

"It's not a beast? It's just a man picking up...dog crap? But the wild eyes?"

"Probably your singing."

So then I started laughing. Really, really hard. The kind of hard where no sound comes out. I think I was just thankful to be alive, and not in danger of being dragged by a beast back to some spooky castle where all the dishes and spoons and candlesticks are alive and are going to sing for me to be their guest.

It was just a guy picking up after his dog! Oh, the humour!

So I was still laughing my fool head off when we got further down the street and standing behind a shrub (shrubs should not be allowed to grow on foggy nights) is a man standing poker straight, holding in his hand some little device that flashes red and blue. He was just standing there! I was convinced that he was using the fog as an invisibility cloak, so that when we walked by the shrubs he would reach through AND GRAB US.

I was so surprised to have encountered not one but TWO beasts within one block, that I exclaimed quite loudly (forgetting that everyone can probably understand English), "What is that guy DOING? He's just standing behind a hedge, IN THE FOG. WHAT A CREEP, LET'S GET OUT OF HERE."

"Would you just relax. You are the definition of an overactive imagination."

"But it's like the X-Files out here! It's frigging creepy!"

"I totally had a crush on Scully."

"What?! Where did that come from?"

"You mentioned the X-Files, such a great show."

"They always wore terrible jackets. Double breasted trench coats that swept down to the ground; Scully was too short to wear those."

"It was the 90's, crazy things happened."

"Yeah, like alien abductions on foggy nights. And I don't want to get captured by a beast or a shrub-perv so let's go home!"

"Man, I love foggy nights."

"Yeah, me too."

Our Album Cover

2011-11-01T11:14:00.000+01:00

Should we ever decide to record an album, this is going to be our cover.

It will probably be an album of lullabies or relaxing sounds.

Fountains for Youth

2011-10-28T13:20:00.000+02:00

It's quiet now.

Hibernating.

It doesn't look like much, but in the summertime this fountain gushes a steady stream of cold water from two gargoyle spigots.

In this forest plaza, tired joggers wearily approach this aqua temple to dunk their heads; fathers hoist their children up so they can lap up the refreshing droplets; once a dog jumped in, much to the chagrin of his flustered minder, but dogs get hot too; in the far basin, a red balloon floated delicately on top of the water's surface for two days, being pushed around by the current of falling water and tiny hands.

It's a meeting point for mothers with strollers and toddlers with trucks.

Leaves now collect in the empty stone reservoirs.

We wait for spring.

World on Fire

2011-10-27T10:18:00.001+02:00

Before the fog rolled in and the rains came.

Pass the Butter!

2011-10-26T13:55:00.000+02:00

October is winding down, and most of the autumn colours are dropping from branches and are ending up in sodden piles on sidewalks and road gutters. I can show you some pictures of those if you like, because for reasons that Dan could not understand I was taking pictures of those composting piles on Sunday.

But you probably aren't interested in that.

Instead, how about I discuss corn. That is so much more interesting, don't you think?

Now a few weeks ago when I was in throws of mentally trying to prove that I was not physically ailing, I went on a really ambitious walk through some glorious countryside. You probably would think that I might have enjoyed the walk more if it hadn't hurt to breathe, but that's not really a correct assessment. You see, because it hurt to inhale through my nose that meant I had to take quite a few breaks for obvious reasons: namely, no one wants a mouth-breather creeping up behind them on a walk through quiet country afternoons.

Talk about Act 1, Scene 1, straight out of a horror movie.

(I was the mouth-breather, in case you're not getting that.)

So as I was stopped on one occasion, waiting for a group of attractive male joggers to get ahead of me, I turned to face the cornfield so I could spare them the horror of looking at me in all my germy splendor. Of course I still looked like a complete nutter. Oh look, that girl is standing meerkat-still in the middle of a long country road, staring at corn.

Freak.

So I grabbed my camera and took some pictures of the corn so I looked semi-normal.

Oh look, that girl is standing meerkat-still in the middle of a long country road, taking pictures of corn.

Freak.

No, there is no way around it. That wasn't a good day. I actually didn't enjoy that walk, I am done pretending. It took too long to get home, I forgot to pack Kleenex, and all I have to show for it are some pictures of corn.

Hiya! I'm corn!

But not the good kind you can eat.

There's something you need to know about corn in Switzerland: they're doing it wrong. That is probably the rudest thing I have EVER said (yeah, it's not), but it's the truth. All of the corn fields that are around where I live grow crops that are harvested for livestock feed.

Past their prime.

That means the plants--cobs and all--are left sitting on the field to dry out before a big farm vehicle-tractor-thresher-thing comes along and plows the whole field down in one fell-swoop, while the resulting silage--greens and grains alike--is pumped into the wagon trailing behind.

I mean sure, it is a good thing that all the barnyard creatures get such nutritious food

Hands off, I am NOT for you.

Plus at this stage of my life I'm as dried out as Joan Rivers' face without the injections.

But what about me? Back home, great big bins start showing up in the grocery stores around September that are loaded with fresh ears of local sweet corn. Then I would fight the crowd of other corn-on-the-cob-enthusiasts to peel back the green husks and check if the kernels hidden beneath were the desired butter yellow; if so, in my basket those ears went and dinner plans were solidified.

Last year I kept waiting, and waiting, and waiting for the big bins of corn to show up in the Migros. They never did. Instead there are only these packages of cellophane wrapped ears of corn available that have all the silk and most of the husk stripped away. In my opinion these are tasteless, and I can't grill with them. How am I supposed to slap flavoured butter all over the cob when I can't cover it all back up with the soaked husk? This means I can't let them hang out on a low grill heat, steaming and marinating and charring until they are a sweet perfection; the husk is mandatory!

Dan's mom told me that when she was growing up here, corn was strictly 'animal food' and it was a laughable notion when other people in the world ate it. Probably like how people in Peru laugh at the idea that everyone else in the world keeps guinea pigs in cages, fattening them up for life, and then never eat the succulent little rodents. Basically, everyone all over the world thinks everyone else has weird diets. Deal with it.

But slowly the concept of corn as human food has crept into the Swiss diet, and here's where they're doing it wrong: they eat it in salad. And not like a corn salad, it's a regular green salad that has corn on it. Weird! And once I ate a vegetable baguette, and corn was mixed into the fresh cheese. Weird! And another time, I ordered a pizza and there was corn on it. Weird! But never, ever, ever has freshly picked ears of corn--still bundled like babies in their silky husks--shown up in my Migros or Coop.

I miss it so.

I taunt you with my perfection.

I mean, how else are we supposed to justify eating an entire pound of melted butter if we don't have our barbequed ear of fresh corn to act as our sponge?

How else, I ask you?

Am I Too Late For the Party?!

2011-10-24T11:36:00.000+02:00

So there's been this little video blog (or vlog, as the cool kids say--which explains why I didn't use that abbreviation) challenge going around some different blogs wherein you record a video of yourself pronouncing some words, answering questions, and getting your voice--your accent--out there!

I've been wondering for about a week if I should participate.

Hearing my voice might shatter the grand illusions of how magnificent sounding you imagine me to be, and then you'll never come back again. All six of you. Though to be fair, four of you are related to me so you have to keep coming back, otherwise I'm not mailing you your Christmas presents.

Shazam!!

I am not above blackmail.

But back to my original point of shattered illusions. I mean, what if hearing my voice makes you, the other two, want to stab your eardrums with the shards of those shattered illusions? I can't be held responsible for that, if you do. Just know there are people out there who have far worse sounding voices than I do. Like Karen, off Will & Grace. (And just shut up about it! I know she was a character and the actress was faking that voice. What-ever.)

But I wrestled with my demons, ate some chocolate, read some Paulo Coelho and felt all spiritually enlightened, and decided to go for it. Also, I was really bored this weekend and had nothing else to do. Oh the agony of honesty!

But now for some other disclaimers:

(1) My skin colouring appears lily white instead of freckletastic. No, I do not know how to airbrush myself and no such tricks have been employed. If you too want to achieve this look, you just need a really shitty webcam.

(2) Could I not have done something about my damn hair? It's all scraggly, and there's that one bang that just flops around trying to get in the shot. And I keep firmly brushing it out of my eye, but that bang is basically that one camera hog friend that everyone knows who just wants all the attention. Irritating.

(3) I say 'um' a lot. Clearly I have never taken any sort of public speaking or self-promotion classes. I really am an appalling public speaker. When I gave the maid of honour toast at my cousin B's wedding last year, I thought I was going to do a face plant into the podium I was so GD nervous. There was a giant ballroom of people listening to me esteem the virtues of my dearest friend, and I'm pretty sure they had no clue what I was actually saying. Was I speaking English? Or Farsi? Or French? Or that Hobbit language that all the nerds know? When I get nervous, my voice shakes, I struggle to remember how to speak, and I tongue-twist my words. This happens.

(4) The length. Oh, the (double) horror. I have no idea what I managed to ramble on about for this long. Just stay tuned, there's a prize at the end.

(6) The fact I have no accent. I am wasting your time! For an extravagantly long period of time!

(7) I have put my own Canadian spin on the exercise by adding two of my own words. If I'm going to be a follower at least I'm going to be a unique one, right?

(8) There's no prize.

So that's it. If you want to participate here's my modified list of words, and the phrases.

Words:

Aunt, route, wash, oil, theatre, iron, salmon, caramel, fire, water, sure, data, ruin, crayon, toilet, New Orleans, pecan, both, again, probably, spitting, image, about, lawyer, house, coupon, mayonnaise, syrup, pajamas, caught.

Questions:

What is the bug that curls into a ball when you touch it?
What is it called when you throw toilet paper on a house?

What is the bubbly carbonated drink called?
What do you call gym shoes?
What do you say to address a group of people?
What do you call the kind of spider that has an oval-shaped body and extremely long legs?
What do you call your grandparents?
What do you call the wheeled contraption in which you carry groceries at the supermarket?
What do you call it when rain falls while the sun is shining?
What is the thing you use to change the TV channel?

And um, if um, you, um, also, um, want, um, to, um, include, um, the word 'um', um, I'd, um, like, um, to hear, um, how, um, other, um, people, um, pronounce, um, that.

Dizzy Dogs

2011-10-19T16:25:00.001+02:00

There is a very old carousel that operates in our village for a couple of weeks, every few months. It was set up again last week, and as I was walking by one evening I could have sworn that I saw a dog spinning around with the wooden ponies, pigs, and stagecoaches. But then my bus pulled up and I had to run to catch it, and I forgot all about what I might have seen.

Then on Saturday as I was going by, I saw a border collie eagerly running up to greet all patrons who were approaching the colourfully striped top of the musical merry-go-round.

"I wonder..."

It's a very handy thing to carry your camera with you 90% of the time, because look at what I say yesterday.

Don't mind me.

When I saw his royal highness waiting for his ride to begin, a huge grin split my face as I took his picture. I don't know why, but there's something about this scene that is so innocently pure it is almost therapeutic.

A dog on a carousel.

What could be more natural?

Of course, I wasn't the only one who was delighted by this.

Look!

How 'bout them apples?

I ran my errand and was back outside about two minutes later. And when I walked by the carousel, those two little girls were sharing his highness's stage coach, giggling like mad as they patted his head, because I bet when they woke up that morning they never expected to share a carousel ride with a border collie.

Life is full of surprises.

Solothurn: Town Life

2011-10-18T11:46:00.000+02:00

Solothurn: Church Life

2011-10-17T13:32:00.000+02:00

Solothurn, like Bern, is both a city and a canton. I was in the city of Solothurn a few weeks ago and snapped some pictures of town and church life.

Today I will show you--per the fairly obvious title--church life.

The old city of Solothurn is really storybook picturesque; it is guarded on all sides by fortress walls and there is a river that, once upon a time, acted as a further defense. The bridge that you must cross over the river to reach the city maybe used to be guarded by fearsome trolls or helmeted soldiers, but now there's just a couple of hippies with flowing skirts and dirty hair asking you to sign petitions. If you make it past them, the town is your oyster.

When you first leave the train station and are making your way towards the old city of Solothurn it would be impossible to get lost because this is the view that raises itself on the horizon, guiding you to the centre.

In case the architecture isn't giving it away, Solothurn is a Catholic canton.

That means that get more statutory holidays every year than the more moderate Protestant Bern.

Unjust!

For some reason though, I did not go into the churches. I'm only realizing this now, and I can't figure out why I didn't go inside? Why did the thought never occur to me? Was it the heat, frying my brain? Was it because I was so hungry, I only cared to sit on the stone steps and chow down on my chicken sandwich? Or was it because, in the sage words of my sister Meg, "You've seen one church you've seen them all. Now, where's an H&M?"

I suppose I'll never know.

(Though I can recommend on good authority that the Solothurn H&M doesn't have nearly as many change room dusty bunnies snacking on your toes as the one in Bern does.)

Silver Linings

2011-10-15T16:39:00.000+02:00

Caitie: "You know what Dan? At first I thought my abs hurt today from all those stairs I ran, but then I realized it's because of all the coughing I did last night. By the time I get over this cold, I'm going to have washboard abs! Who needs the gym when you've got germs, eh?!"

Dan: "I guess that's one way to look at it."

[a few seconds of elapsed silence]

Dan: "Wait. You're sick, and you were running stairs?"

Caitie: "Yes..."

Dan: "Agh, woman! You are so frustrating sometimes."

Caitie: "Maybe. But imagine my abs. Rock on cold. Rock. On."

All You Need is Rest, Rest, and Cows

2011-10-12T11:53:00.000+02:00

Internet, I am sick.

Ugh, I have a sinus headache that's been going on for two days now that drugs haven't even touched. My next resort is chugging back gallons and gallons of (spiked, saywa?) o.j. and hoping that the tropical soothing hands of vitamin C will finally kill all those little bastard germs that have their hammers out, pounding away at that spot right between and behind my eyes.

Oh, let's also not discuss the terrible cough and raspy voice I have. And it's not even the sexy sort of Demi Moore raspy voice that Ashton Kutcher hears calling after him to keep it in his pants on his way home from douche-bag rehab. It's the worst kind of raspy; the kind of voice where someone introduces themselves as Tammy, but all the listener can think is, "Are they sure this is a Tammy? Because it sounds like a tranny to me."

That is currently my voice.

And a good patient I do not make, because I am stubborn. Whenever I am sick I have this asinine urge to prove to myself just how not sick I am, which usually takes the form of gallant spurts of energy directed at some form of physical exercise I rarely tackle when I'm feeling 100%.

When I was diagnosed with mono as a tender teenager, I remember sitting in the chair at my doctor's office feeling flooded with hot embarrassment. The kissing disease? Ack! Then I straightened out my spine and tried to look quite innocent.

"How did that happen?"

"From swapping saliva."

OMFG kill me now.

So I slunk out of the office feeling like I had a scarlet 'M' branded to my adolescent forehead. But then I decided what does that doctor know? I'm fine! I will prove to everyone that I am a respectable girl who does not get stricken with such juvenile and mortifying ailments as the kissing disease. So I went on about fifty power walks in the span of forty-eight hours just to prove, "Look at me! I'm fine!" Then on the fifty-first power walk, it hurt to drink my water what with the two golf balls growing in my throat, and when I opened the front door to the house I barley managed to crawl into the t.v. room before I passed out cold for roughly a month.

(Oh yeah, I also contracted pink eye during that month. And when I went to the pharmacist to get my prescription drops, I was wearing a pink sweater. You know, just to compliment the oozy pinkness of my bleeding eyeballs. I could tell he was appalled to have to deal with such a walking infection. I was ashamed.)

So with my history of being an idiot, that obviously means I don't learn my lessons. Of course when one is ill, one should retire to the couch and sip herbal teas and chant for healing. But yesterday, I did not do this. I laced up my shoes and decided I was going to RUN up the Gurten. To clarify, I have never ever run up the Gurten before. But this sinus pounding has knocked all the sense right out of me, and in my bent brain I decided that running up a (seemingly) ninety degree incline would make me all better.

Yes, thank-you for noticing, I really am the biggest twit of all the twits.

So I had my backpack, my water, my camera, and off I went. I was about fifteen minutes into my run when I literally couldn't breath, what with all that spastic hacking and coughing set to the rhythmic drumming of my sinuses.

I was a symphony of illness!

Except in my head I was thinking: holy F-CK! I am going to die here, for what? FOR WHAT? Because I needed to prove I'm not sick. I am going to be the only person in the history of the obituaries who suffered from acute stupidity as the cause of death.

I chugged back some water, spluttered and coughed it back all down my shirt, and felt like crying because I was such a god damn mess who still had to walk home.

But then I heard them!

Heard who? You ask with breathless anticipation.

The cows!

Oh. You respond, with abject disappointment.

A little bit further up the trail was a tiny herd of cattle doing some end-of-season grazing while the sun still shines. So I stood by the fence (hacking and coughing and being generally infectious) taking some pictures until I felt clear headed. And since my bovine friends haven't been represented that often on the blog this year, here they are!

Aren't they gorgeous? And such timely distractions, because with my mind otherwise occupied it only took about two minutes for me to stop hacking up a lung before I continued on my way.

Up the Gurten.

(walking, though)

Because as proven, I'm a special little twit who doesn't learn my lesson.

Today I'm lying on the couch drinking herbal tea and chanting for healing. Though I am considering going for a brisk walk through the forest.

Do you think that will help?

Giving Thanks

2011-10-10T15:54:00.000+02:00

For him.

Because there's no one better.

Dewy

2011-10-06T15:20:00.000+02:00

Fact: to and including yesterday it was still hot enough to wear only shorts and a tank top. However, since September always gives me the urge to sharpen pencils, stack notebooks, and wear all my new Fall clothes, I have not been wearing weather appropriate attire and have suffered for it.

You don't understand how awesome my new sweater is and I need to wear it!

But this morning our weather took a decisive seasonal turn, and in case you can't read between the lines I am hoping that this means I can now wear all my Fall gear without becoming so...dewy, mid-way through my day.

Pip, pip.

The Great Big Melting Pot

2011-10-04T17:05:00.000+02:00

On the train this morning I scooped somebody's discarded 20 Minuten, which is the morning commuter newspaper that is chocka block full of hard hitting journalistic pieces. Articles that cover a range of topics from: "What the F-ck is Happening to the Economy?" to: "Can you Identify these Two Lusty Individuals Who Had a Quickie in the Parking Lot Beside their Car, Oblivious to the Surveillance Cameras Snapping Pics of Them."

It's a very cultivating experience for the mind, that daily review.

As I was skimming the paper I came to an article that advertised a restaurant in Zurich that is going to go Tex-Mex. Yummy, yummy, Tex-Mex. I do love me some good old fashioned bastardized Mexican cuisine. It really can't be beat, and now I'm craving a burrito bowl, some nachos, and loads of sour cream. Too bad I'm nowhere near the Rio Grande at the moment, so I guess it's lucky that I am only an hour train ride away from Zurich.

Who cares? You're thinking. So what, a restaurant going Tex-Mex style. Are you starting to write for the 20 Minuten? Is that why this blog post is so boring?

Bear with me, bear with me, I have a point (this time).

The name of the restaurant that is going Tex-Mex is called...The Iroquois.

THE IROQUOIS.

Is anyone else besides me having a flash back to Grade 11 history? Anyone besides myself recalling that the Iroquois League was a nation of five North American indigenous tribes located along the North Eastern/Canadian border of the United States? A league of nations that banned together because strength in numbers meant they could control more land and be victorious in wars against their other indigenous rivals, which in the end we all know how that turns out for everyone involved once the dang Europeans arrived with their guns and smallpox diseased trading blankets.

But seriously, my present location is nowhere close to the Rio Grande and I can assure you that the Iroquois' territory definitely wasn't anywhere close to there, either. Which begs the question, what was The Iroquois serving up before they decided to go all Tex-Mex? Was there ever authenticity in the name? Well, they do have cream of corn soup on the menu, so I guess there's that...

But the California Chicken Salad doesn't really inspire confidence that the proprietors know the origins of their restaurant's name; nor does the Teriyaki Chicken Burger. However, the Iroquois bratwurst stand does boast a curry flavoured wiener, and I seem to recall in one of my history lessons learning that members of the Iroquois Nation were one of the first to sprinkle curry on their popcorn.

It's totally true. That's where the pilgrims who dreamed up Kernels got the idea from.

But maybe I'm being entirely unfair to be criticizing the literal application of the name 'Iroquois' to a restaurant that serves Tex-Mex and Teriyaki.

Maybe 'Iroqouis' is really a German word too, and it's a word that translates to meaning: "Menu of Many Conflicting Cuisines".

Apparitions of Importance

2011-10-03T15:36:00.000+02:00

I was out prowling around on Saturday morning, and came across this relic to a night ended.

Left perched on the side of a fountain, its thorny stem was submerged below the chilly waters.

The thin petals were starting to rust; too delicate to have been left out in the evening autumnal chill.

As I snapped these pictures, I wondered if the receiver couldn't bring it home but also couldn't bear to toss it, so she placed the stem in water so she could see it in the morning.

She could walk by it.

Remember.

Or maybe the flower was forgotten.

It was left trailing in the water as two people trailed upstairs...

Or maybe it's just a rose.

And how it ended up in a fountain, down a side alley, means nothing at all.

Because sometimes, these things just happen.

Mind Screwed Shut

2011-10-02T16:41:00.000+02:00

As my parents perceptively noted in the comments section of my last post, my encounter with the Rolex watch masker who wished me a beez-u-tea-fil day was indeed as enlightening an acquaintance as the hot cup of coffee I shared last summer with a few village farmers.

When they reminded me of this, I felt lucky to have had two such note-worthy encounters. But also it bears remarking that I very rarely share such illuminating encounters with strangers; that is why I have only written about two experiences.

Those two might be it.

I have to write them down because it's the only proof I've got that sometimes, some days, against all odds, I can be oddly approachable, and likewise capable of being friendly in return. If I don't record these experiences, how else will I otherwise convince people that I really am not always a thirty-year old curmudgeon who gets expressively irritated with people who don't have their money in-hand when they reach the register?

How else, I ask you?

But for posterity's sake, I will show you the flip side of my enlightening experiences, and will document an experience that happens far, far too often to lil 'ol me here in Switzerland.

Passive aggressive behaviour is not something that's a revolutionary new observation in society, and we have all been on the receiving end of passive aggression.

Example:

Short-lived Highschool Acquaintance Who Had a Stripper Name: "People who can eat whatever they want are so lucky. Because really, most people can't eat whatever they want. Don't you think? After awhile, every donut just shows."

Me (who's mid-chew on a Tim Horton's honey dip donut): "????? Are you trying to tell me something????"

SLHAWHASN: "No! Totally not! Why? Do you think you can eat anything you want?"

Ah yes, passive aggressive behaviour is delightful, but it wasn't until moving to Switzerland that I truly began to appreciate what an art form it can be. For example, if you are in the grocery store and someone is blocking your path, one should never "ahem, ahem" speak up and ask the individual to move. Instead, it is much more practical to simply put on your laser-beam glare and burrow a hole in the back of this person's neck and will them to take notice and move out of your way.

It might take longer, but damn it's so much more satisfying when that person finally feels your creepy stare and they turn around and see your squinted eyes and scrunched-up angry face; they are very aware how much you hate their very aisle-blocking existence, and scurry to move their shopping cart.

You win.

Also, rather than coming right out and telling the new neighbour that she's been incorrectly following laundry-room procedures, it's more effective to sip the coffee that's been offered and innocently mention that the building manager is very disappointed that blah,blah,blah has been happening instead of yay,yay,yay and if it doesn't stop soon he'll have to confront the offending individual.

[INSERT MEANINGFUL LOOK OVER RIM OF COFFEE CUP.]

I'll be damned if passive aggression doesn't at times appear to be a sport, and if it is indeed a passive past time then I met the woman who's got the gold medal absolutely locked up for the 2012 Summer Olympics.

We were sitting on the train, and in order to get a better idea of our seating arrangement you need to understand that four-seater seats on the train are arranged like restaurant booths: two people sitting across from two other people. This means that in these seats, two people are facing backwards, which gets difficult if one person has motion sickness and doesn't like looking at a landscape zipping by in reverse order.

When the train started out I happened to be sitting in the backwards facing direction, and my seatmate was forwards-facing. At one point our train pulled into a station, switched tracks, and then set out in an opposite direction which meant I was now forward facing without ever having had to switch seats.

As I was reading, I heard my seatmate start to huff and sigh in displeasure. Since we had already established when I first sat down that I could understand German better than Swiss-German, she began lamenting aloud in German:

[Please understand I have made modifications to her dialogue in order for you to better understand how pissed off I was with her].

"Oh goodness. Now I'm facing backwards. Sigh. Sigh. Heavy sigh. Holy shit. Crappy. Sigh. Sigh. African babies don't have it as rough as I do. Sigh. Sigh."

I ignored her and kept on reading.

"Now I have to get up and find a new seat so I don't get sick. Oh no. This is awful, I've never had such a terrible thing happen in all my million years on earth. Sigh."

Again, I'm pointedly trying to ignore her because it should be noted she's never directly engaged me in this moaning. She's just started sighing and talking out loud.

"Sigh. A new seat. I have to find a NEW seat."

At this point, it was impossible to ignore her because when people speak in bold and caps lock, it becomes very difficult to continue to live in your own little bubble.

"Well, okay." I said. "Have a nice day."

(I'm a total bitch! Just go ahead and think it because I already know it! Of course I know she wanted to switch positions with me, but I'll be damned if I was going to offer up something that is very easy to ask for!)

"Have a nice day? Oh ha, ha, ha. Silly foreigner. No, no, I'm not leaving now. I just SIGH have to find a new seat," she says craning her neck wildly in a mock attempt to find a new seat, "because sitting facing backwards makes me sick."

I narrowed my gaze and tried to look this woman right in the eye as she cheerfully looked here there and everywhere, quite comfortable that she'd finally gotten my attention.

"Do you want to switch seats with me?" I seethed.

"Oh, really? Reeeaaallllyyyyy? Do you mind? Reeeeallllyyyyy? Oh, how wonderful."

And in defeat I flounced over to her side of the booth while she nestled herself into my seat and watched the landscape zip by.

How hard is it to directly ask someone if they wouldn't mind switching seats with you?

How hard, I ask?

How hard?!

I was still so irritated by this terrible show of passive aggression that when I got to the Bahnhoff Migros, and had to pick up a few supplies, I could do nothing but expressively roll my eyes and huff in annoyance at the woman in front of me who seemed to have absolutely no clue that counting out 95 cents in change was absolutely ridiculous and sloooooow.

Huff. Huff. Sigh. Sigh. Afranccouldsolvethiswholedamnproblem. Huff. Huff. Sigh. Sigh.

What?

Did I fail to mention that I'm in training for the silver medal?

Eyes Wide Open

2011-09-29T16:48:00.001+02:00

The light is always gold this time of year. Have you noticed that? And when you look into those Midas rays, the air is alive with bees darting from sapped flower to sapped flower, hunting the last dregs of pollen; the leaves are being gently shaken from the trees like a lady ruffling her skirts; chestnuts are falling; acorns are dropping; shadows grow longer.

I hold my hand to the sun and shield my eyes, I spread my fingers wide, and let this soft gold warmth seep through my cracks and fill me with light

Yesterday I shouldn't have.

But I did.

I woke up to the sound of every anxiety, every responsibility, every clenching worry lasciviciously whispering in my ears. Demanding I pay attention to them. Forcing me to my knees in the shower because the burden of shouldering that disquietude was too heavy that day.

So I left.

I took a day off for myself when I really couldn't afford to do such a thing.

Such a selfish thing.

But I did.

With my book and a bottle of water I headed to the one place in Bern that feels like it belongs to me. That no matter where I end up in the world, I will always be able to call forth this one location that helps my mind stop its restless wandering. In the gardens of the Muenster I stretched out on a green high-backed bench and submerged myself in that effervescent buoyancy of this autumn gold. I honked with laughter over my book, I listened to conversations around me and tried to pick out familiar words, and I closed my eyes to try and let the light tunnel through those dark places of my mind.

As I sat alone, an older man enquired in jovial French if he may share my bench with me. I can't understand French, but I imagine that's what he was asking me as he made a sweeping gesture of my seat. I nodded and pulled my knees up to my chest to allow him room on the bench, then I resumed reading my book. He removed his suit jacket and brushed the seat before carefully laying his jacket over the bench and sitting down. His laced feet tapped with a nervous rhythm and I felt irritated that he'd infringed on my needed solitude.

He began speaking again, but I shook my head to let him know that I didn't understand him. And of course, he then broke into stilted English, because don't let anyone tell you otherwise: everyone can speak English over here.

"From where are you?" his raspy voice asked. The breeze ruffled his thinning black hair, and his tanned wrinkled hands were clasped together as his foot still tapped.

"I'm from Canada," I replied in a voice more clipped than it should have been.

"Oh! It's cold der. Der it's very cold. Yes?"

"Some places, yes," I agreed, "and some places, no."

"Yes, Canada is very cold. I have two...TWO," he shouted louder than he meant to--holding up two fingers, "coo-ZINS living in Canada. Two coo-ZINS. Yes."

"Oh." Then I averted my gaze back to my book hoping he'd leave me alone.

"Canada is big, no?"

I'm ashamed to admit that I let a sigh escape before I responded. "Yes, it is very big. Very, very big."

"Land is big, bigger than America. People is smaller."

"That's right," I acknowledged. Then he dug around in his satchel and pulled out a notebook and shuffled down the bench to show me. In his book he had recorded countries in descending order of land mass, Russie of course being at the top of his list and Canada in second position, with land area recorded next to each country.

"Here," he said proudly, "Canada." He pointed to my country's dimensions and I was really baffled by this random list in his notebook, and looked into his brown eyes for the first time.

"Why do you have this list?"

"Hmm?" he asked, smiling brightly. "I not understand."

"This list, are you a teacher? Are you studying geography? I'm just curious."

"I sorry, I not understand. My English, I just learning. I not teacher, I watch...watch...masker. Rolex." And then he tapped his watch to point to me that he makes watches.

I sat back against my bench and looked at this curious, curious man who apparently makes Rolex watches and carries around notebooks with random lists including (but not limited to) countries arranged by their descending order of land mass.

"You know Rolex?" he asked, confused that I didn't seem to understand.

"Oh yes," I said. "Very nice watches."

"Yes. Today I in Bern to learn." Then out of his shirt pocket he unfolded a letter on official Rolex letterhead, written entirely in French, and passed me the letter. "I learn more about watch masking today."

"Your letter is all French to me," I joked, handing it back and forgetting to be annoyed. He didn't understand the joke.

"Here, you like this Switzerland?"

"Yes, I like Switzerland very much. It's very beautiful."

"How you say? How you say? Bee..."

"BEE-u-TI-ful," I enunciated.

"Beez-u-tea-fil," he beamed. "I learn English, I learn English." Then from his satchel he pulled out another notebook and showed me pages and pages of handwritten grammar that he was trying to learn. He handed me a pen and the notebook, and without asking I added 'beautiful' to his language lesson.

"Tank you. Tank you." Then he stood up and carefully picked up his gray suit jacket and brushed off a fallen leaf. "Now I must go."

I looked up at him and shielded my eyes to the light. "Have a nice day," I said.

"Oh tank you! And please, you...you..must have a beez-u-tea-fil day. A beez-u-tea-fil day."

And my entire being smiled.

I felt light.

Light, in all its connotations.

A wish for a beautiful day, which really is such simple thing. I thanked him, and he returned my smile. Then he shuffled away, out of the park, and I guess back to his watch making seminar. Or where ever it is that letter was instructing him to go that day.

Beez-u-tea-fil. Beez-u-tea-fil.

I studied my hands, cupped them to receive a pooling of that flaxen glow, and spread my fingers wide. I tipped my head back and opened my eyes to the sky, to the bees, to floating leaves. The light cannot tunnel through the darkness with closed eyes. They must be open.

Because the light is beez-u-tea-fil.

And comes in so many forms.

Let The Great World Spin

2011-09-26T14:57:00.003+02:00

The first night that my sisters and I were in Vancouver we enjoyed a three course meal at a really great restaurant, and it was a steal of a deal. Along with our main course, we also had some wine. Two glasses each.

Two generous glasses each.

But still, two glasses each.

At the end of the meal I was feeling al-riiight. The night was warm, the sky was dark, and we decided to avoid any pubs full of grubs in favour of strolling along the seawall. Meghan kindly switched shoes with me so that I could stumble along in flats instead of my teetering wedges, and we headed down to the seawall where we saw a wedding taking place, where we watched the twinkling lights of the boats bob up and down in black glassy waters, where we spied on a couple huddled together on a bench--who, for the record had more enthusiasm than their surroundings deemed appropriate--and we spent time looking at window displays in overpriced stores picking if we'd rather have this or that.

As we were getting closer to Canada Place I glanced up at the window of a tall rise and noticed that reflected in the glass was an image I had never seen before in person. In fact, unless you are crazy smart, a chimpanzee, or one those unfortunate Russian dogs, I didn't think this image was something anyone could see in the flesh without first having to be, um, out of the flesh.

Now as you'll remember I was a teeny bit pickled at this point, so staring at the reflection of something I thought I'd only ever see if I was on my way up and out really freaked the shit out of me.

This is what I saw:

Guys, it's the EARTH.

After staring at this, the following thoughts went through my head in the space of one to two seconds:

Am I alive?

What the F-----------------------------CK!

Ahhh!!!

I'm so confused.

What does it mean?

Aliens?

It's the earth.

Earth, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at home, in space?

If you're not home, am I home?

Aliens.

I'm not hero material. I hope no one needs saving.

How do I play this cool?

Do I ask Meg and Ais about it.....?

"So, girls. Um, I don't know if you can see this too, but what the heck is the earth doing in that window reflection? Am I right? Like, um...okay."

"Yeah Caitie, it's a reflection from the giant globe hanging in the conference centre across the street."

"The conference centre? Giant globe," just play it cool. "Yeah, of course. Wicked cool. I was like, wha??? before that. You know. But then I was like, nah. You too? Maybe?"

The answer is no, they did not think this. I believe I was the only one who thought for a second that the earth had 'left home' in order to shine in a tall rise window.

No, I did not excel at astronomy if that's what you're wondering.

Conference centre.

THE EARTH.

So yeah, that's what apparently happens to me on two glasses of wine in a city of mind games.

Sorry about accusing you of leaving us, World. You do a great job, spinning around up there.

As you were.

Murphy's Law Is Always Binding

2011-09-21T12:12:00.001+02:00

Remember my stolen ring?

How I was ranting and rolling about it?

I bet you didn't know that after I'd gone back to the coffee shop--and it was confirmed that it wasn't there--I exited the shop and stared into space with a lost expression on my face before I wandered up to the store where I'd bought the ring in the first place; I was hoping an exact replica might exist.

One did not.

Instead I looked at some other rings that were sort of like my lost ring, but not exactly. The proprietor of the store asked when I'd lost ring:

"Oh," I sighed, "about an hour ago. Maybe it's weird that I'm in here trying to replace it so soon. This must be like when a dog dies and the person can't handle the loss so they rush out to buy a puppy."

Then the proprietor looked at me with a wrinkle in his brow before gently saying, "Um, I actually don't think it's like that at all. I'm sorry, but I don't."

"Yeah," I wistfully agreed, "you're probably right." Then I trailed out of the store lost in misery, still completely oblivious to what a dumb f-cking analogy that had been. I mean seriously: a stolen ring compared to the death of a beloved family pet?

Nice one, Caitie. You are such a wordsmith.

Then I got a couple of steps away from the store and anger seized my shoulders and shook me until my teeth rattled. SOMEONE STOLE MY RING. So I raced back to my parents' house, fired up my laptop, and let loose a very cathartic stream of conscious typing in which I liberally pulled the tab on the f-bomb and let it fly with abandon into my blog post.

I bet you didn't know that some members of my family *coughdadcough* were very disappointed with my inarticulate use of that four letter word.

I also bet you didn't know that two days after the ring was lost, I went back to the coffee shop hoping someone might have turned it in and it could be on my finger before I returned to Switzerland on Monday.

Still nothing.

So I considered it lost to the universe.

Then yesterday I opened up an email my friend had sent me titled "YOUR RING!!!" It has been found! In fact, to be accurate, it was at the coffee shop this entire time. Can you believe it? What had happened is someone turned my ring in, and the employee who accepted it stuck it in an envelope, put it in a drawer, and in the rush of the day-to-day never told her co-workers that it had been turned in. So when I immediately went back to the shop, they didn't know it was there. Then when I went back two days later, the staff still didn't know it was there.

And sometime last week, a drawer must have been opened, the ring remembered, and a sign went up in their window advertising it was found (whatever, I never left my contact details. I was traumatized, okay? And clearly, per my dead dog vs. lost ring analogy, also loosing a grip on reality). And thus we stumble across the beauty of small communities: my friend was walking by the window, saw the sign, went in and identified the ring, and Mom picked it up for me yesterday.

Oh Universe.

I still stand by my f-bomb blog post though, as everyone knows the bigger the scene you make decrying one thing, it's guaranteed that Murphy's Law will want to prove you wrong. Thank-you Murphy's Law for always being such a reliable pain in the derriere.

And thanks to you too, Universe and good Samaritan.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for proving me wrong.

Wildlife Photography v. 2.0

2011-09-19T17:49:00.001+02:00

When young whipper snappers are your subject, the key to a successful photo shoot is bribery. Shameless, shameless, bribery. I am quite comfortable recommending this because at one point, light years ago, I too used to be a little whipper snapper and I played the bribery card game like a Vegas poker champ.

Listen Sears photographer, if you want me to crack a grin for your camera and look at that parrot hand puppet, you better deliver on your promise that there will be lollipops at the end of this day. I have places to be and trees to climb, and I don't bust out this baby-tooth smile for just anyone.

So even if my childhood was light years ago, I still distinctly remember that when pictures were concerned, the promise of tooth rotting candy, gem sticker earrings, and/or plastic jewellery was key to making me the sweetest of subjects. And oh, I could be sweet. In fact, I could have given those Toddlers and Tiara babes a run for their money if given a chance to have walked the pageant stage; fortunately, I didn't have a mother who suffered from such low self-esteem that she needed total strangers to tell her that her kid was best in show in order to feel some measure of worth.

So instead I dazzled the Sears photographer and earned lollipops and sticky earrings. Now given that I remember how key the end-of-day treat is, it's unfortunate that when I was doing the picture shoot of Jana's family I failed miserably on my bribing item of choice.

The Sunday afternoon that we picked for photos was hot. In fact, let me repeat that:

HOT, TOTALLY HOT, I SHED TEN POUNDS OF WATER WEIGHT, DID I MENTION IT WAS HOT, BECAUSE OMG IT WAS SO FREAKING HOT.

Yeah, it was warm out. And when we were driving up to the intended shoot location we were all (adults and kids alike) sticking to our seats and feeling quite uncomfortable. I tried to insert a bit of breeze into the day by telling the kids that I had a fun treat for them when we were finished taking pictures. Their excitement was palpable, and with the exception of baby Colt, I felt proud that maybe the combined efforts of Jana's treats and mine would guarantee sunny smiles.

The girls were an absolute dream--so well behaved--and I was excited to give them their treat when we were half way through the afternoon. Well Internet, my treats for the kids were some chocolate eggs and a chocolate bar, and it wasn't even the good kind of bar like a Mars bar or Wunderbar. It was a solid bar of Swiss chocolate.

When I lifted the chocolate bar out of my bag I knew instantly that my treat was a fail. First of all, kids aren't all about the solid chocolate; that's totally an adult thing, and how could I have forgotten that?! So when I lifted out the chocolate bar the girls only looked sort of excited (Who can blame them? Chocolate! Gawd, I can't believe I've become such a lame adult!) but Camille still made a motion to investigate the bar. But then Jana announced, "Don't touch it! Don't touch it! It's way too soft, it has to go home in the freezer!"

Well, have you ever had three sets of eyes look at you in abject disappointment?

It's brutal.

Not only was my chocolate bribery treat super lame-o times a hundred, it was also liquefied by the hot desert heat and they couldn't eat it. Good thing that's why Jana's the mom and she brought a tub of jelly bugs to be eaten.

Day = Saved.

But little baby Colt, well he was another force to be reckoned with that day, and not only was he not impressed with my bribe (well, he's a bit young) it's very fair to say he was not impressed with me. Period. End of story.

You see, Colt and I unfortunately toddled off onto the wrong foot earlier that day when I got to Jana and Trent's place: Jana had to run upstairs to grab one more thing before we left, Trent was around the back getting the dog, and Colt and I were left alone on the landing. All it took was one full look at me, a quick look over his shoulder to double check that yep, he was alone with me, before his 'stranger danger' instincts kicked in and he was a sobbing wreck.

Poor Colt, but I'm used to it. You should see how people treat me when I dare enter the Globus in my hiking boots and crummy jeans.

For the rest of the day I had the most difficult time getting him to look at me; I think he believed that ignoring me meant I didn't exist, and really I had to respect his panache. I mean, how many times have you ever been to a dinner party and you ended up being seated next to someone you can't stand? Wouldn't it be great if we could all just burst into hysterical sobs and let it be known we don't like our seatmate and WE WANT TO GO HOME NOW.

Why do we have to grow out of that?

Luckily for Jana and Trent, their beautiful little family isn't growing too fast as all the kids are still in that adorable 'blunt honesty' stage, and I loved every minute of our day together.

Here's a peek.

I feel really lucky that Jana asked me, for the second year in a row, to capture this moment in her family's story. I'm not a photographer, the light changes so fast I hardly ever remember to keep up with it, and I actully don't know what I'm doing or how to direct people, I just really like taking pictures; I love being able to freeze one second for a thousand. And though the results don't due her family justice, I am grateful that for one day I got to be a part of it all: be a part of the heat, the juice boxes, the lame-o chocolate meltdown, the gummy bugs, the smiles, and the laughs.

Because this family: they laugh.

Pictures Du'Jour

2011-09-16T16:15:00.000+02:00

I am currently living life like a narcoleptic.

It's not as restful as one might imagine it to be, but rather sort of irritating. Since splashing literal cold water on my face has been useless in jolting me out of my stupor, today I decided to do a proverbial splashing by going on a long walk.

Instead I found a really comfortable stump to sit on and rested there for awhile with my head lolling on my knees, trying to gather the energy to make it back home.

Jetlag sucks, but this is ridiculous.

I can't muster up the enthusiasm to say anything at the moment, though I have lots to say, so here's a few very interesting pictures taken during my last days in Kamloops.

Dog in water.

Dog shaking off water.

Bird in tree.

I'm off to get the mail now.

There are three flights of stairs I have to traverse. I think I better tie a rope to my waist leaving one end tied to my door knob, so that when I collapse under the mailboxes some kindly Samaritan will know which door I belong to and will drag me home.

At least, I hope they will.

It would be so embarrassing to fall asleep under the mailboxes with a rope tied to my waist, and no one does anything about it.

The Truth About Travel

2011-09-14T19:15:00.000+02:00

So I'm back in Switzerland, but you didn't think I'd make it here without a story or two to tell, did you? Because that's just not possible with me for I am the human equivalent of an ant trap: irresistible to problem pests.

It's true. How else do you think we ended up with Cosmo?

The travel day I just had was exactly twenty-four hours long as that's how long it took from when I boarded my plane in Kamloops until I finally opened our apartment door in Bern. The travel time is normally supposed to be sixteen to eighteen hours, including layovers, so needless to say when I got home I was essentially a cesspool of gross; in fact, I warned Dan that I was so gross he may not want to give me a hug or kiss. He proceeded with caution, but then basically tossed me under the shower in full agreement that yes, I wasn't at my best.

I should have known that the day wasn't going to go as planned when on my flight from Kamloops to Vancouver one of my fellow passengers said just loudly enough that in 'x' hours he would be lying butt cheek naked on the beaches of southern France. Oh yes he did. And he wanted everyone within the vicinity of 5A to 6D to know about his holiday plans because he mentioned this tidbit about three times before we took off. He was a nudist! Though obviously at that moment he was a fully clothed nudist. Yet it wasn't the idea of his nudey holiday that I found the most cringe worthy: it's how lame he was. Oh great, you're holidaying in the nude so that means you probably don't have to worry about suitcase weight restrictions like the rest of us; how fab that you don't have to spend time planning what outfits you're going to wear. Good for you. But in the meantime, do us all a favour and just be cool about your plans because a plane full of strangers really doesn't care that you're going to be nude in France (isn't Europe just one giant nudist colony anyhow?), the fact is we're just embarrassed by your social awkwardness: we've all seen HBO dude, none of us care you're going to be naked on a beach. Stop trying to shock us. It's weird.

So yes, Neil the Nudey was an interesting way to start the day, but the guy on my Toronto flight who told my seatmate to pee her pants because he wasn't going to get up to let us into the aisle was the real charmer. The girl and I exchanged a glance and whispers of "whaaaat?" before I rested my forehead on the window and felt a wave of exhaustion roll over me. Where have all the normal people gone? I know you travel because I've met you before, but why are you never sitting next to me on planes?

Why?

When I landed in Toronto I had to book it to my connecting gate, but the trouble with trying to book it through a Canadian airport is it's full of Canadians:

"Oh gosh, go ahead. Please, I insist."

"Oh I couldn't, you go ahead please. It's alright, I can wait."

"Are you sure? I don't mind, please go ahead."

"Really?"

SHE'S SURE. SOMEONE JUST MOVE OR LET ME THROUGH.

By the time I reached my Zurich departing gate, I was a sweaty and late mess. Good thing the plane was just being announced as delayed by an hour. Then that hour came and went, and we were allowed on the plane.

Then we sat in the plane for an hour and a half.

Then we had to get off.

At this point it was 11 p.m. in Toronto, and we were delayed three hours while they tried to fix a circuiting issue with the plane. In an effort to keep us passengers from loosing our mother effing minds, the airline told us to present our boarding passes at Tim Hortons to get ten dollars worth of food.

How nice.

An entire jet load of people standing in a line-up waiting to be served at a restaurant chain notorious for its extravagantly slow customer service. I stood in that line for two hours, and I was lucky to have even been served. A lot of my fellow passengers never even got any Timmy's before they were calling us at 2 a.m. to reboard the plane.

By the time we boarded, I was done.

Originally I was supposed to be seated in the middle of the plane next to a family of three, but I spied two unoccupied seats and like a wolf snarling over a kill, I snapped at the ankles of anyone who was eyeing up those seats and claimed them as my own. Then like a total a-hole I stretched out and kicked off my shoes.

My London funk shoes, which are still extremely funky.

But I did not give a damn. I was tired, homesick, and my heart was racing from having consumed a large iced cappuccino in under three minutes. I spent the entire flight reclining my seats, putting them in the upright position, reclining them again, tossing and turning like an alligator in the throes of a death roll, and kicking around my blankets and punching down the provided miniature pillows, hoping to make them comfortable. To put it mildly I was totally annoying and I think the people behind me hated me.

Then when I hit Bern it was to discover I was arriving in the midst of rush hour traffic, but do you think I paused a moment to take a breath and try and behave like a normal human being? I did not. I wheeled my suitcase over people if they got in my way, I wouldn't move for a mother pushing a baby carriage, and when I got off the bus at my stop I straight up pushed my through a pack of teens who were loitering around and were probably up to no good anyhow.

I was one of them.

I was a sweaty, stinky, socially deranged freakshow.

Everyone says travel opens up your mind. That it makes you a better a person. Those are all lies. I think holidaying does the above, but travel does not. The only thing that travel does is make you extremely annoyed with your fellow man, and likewise extremely annoying, and the problem is when you short circuit, you can't take a three hour delay where spa technicians get to massage the problem away.

You have to keep moving.

But people in front of you won't want to keep moving.

And people behind you won't get served any Timmy's.

And your seatmate would rather you pee your pants than have to stand up.

And someone in your vicinity will just want to be nude.

And you just want to be at home.

And you won't be able to take it anymore.

So you short circuit and just think, "Whatever, I DON'T CARE ANYMORE. I won't see these people again. I'm going to be a d-bag who hogs seats and lets her stinky feet hang out, gassing everyone around me. I'm going to be a jerk who has two suitcases so thinks it's okay to not move out of the way of a mother pushing a baby stroller. I. don't. care."

And then your fellow passengers will go home and write in their diaries or on their blogs about the insane woman with the gross feet who was in the seat in front of them, who whipped her chair into the reclined position while they were still eating dinner. Damn it! Where are all the normal travellers? Where? And why are they never seating in front of them on planes?

And the person beside that person will go home and tell her grandkids about how loudly the guy beside her played his music through his headphones and she doesn't understand why people need to listen to music that loudly. Isn't he worried about going deaf? Where are all the normal travellers?

Etcetera, etcetera.

The truth?

There are no normal travellers.

Only pissed off pilgrims just trying to get where we need to go.

We'll be nicer tomorrow when we're lounging by the pool sipping pina coladas or after we've woken up in our own beds.

It's best if you get to know us then.

Temporary Local

2011-09-09T01:43:00.000+02:00

This past Labour Day long weekend, my sisters and I took a break from all that labouring we do (toiling in the fields, milling our own flour, scrubbing floors with bars of lye, beating out carpets with rolling pins) and headed to Vancouver for a couple of days of fun in the ocean sun. As I leave fair Canada on Monday, this weekend was also one last jubilee of good times before we have to part for an unknown period of time.

Let's not even dwell on that subject.

Because I already have, and I may or may not have cried. Then phoned Dan, and he may or may not have been worried and made me enter into a verbal contract wherein I promised that yes I would board all flights that are to carry me to Zurich next Monday.

But back to Vancouver. Have you ever been? Isn't it beautiful? And does anyone but me note that its population is a bunch of healthy hippies? Because Vancouver is probably the only city in the entire world where you will ever go to a hot dog cart, ask for a casing of unidentifiable meat slapped on a mediocre bun with a squirt of mustard, and you automatically receive a whole wheat bun with the option to have seaweed served over your organic dog.

Seaweed on a hot dog is weird.

Also, are 'organic' hot dogs even possible? Does that mean that the hot dog I just ate is comprised of discarded meats that have been tossed into gold buckets instead of scraped up off a factory floor? And then organic fairies sprinkled marketing dust all over those meat scraps, kissed them for luck, and sent them into the world?

Oh Vancouver, you are pretentious in the best way possible. Because let's face it, all cities have something about them that shouts "I'm better than you" and the voice of Vancouver just happens to say, "I drink wheat grass, abhore gluten, and only eat foods produced within a 100 mile radius of my composting toilet." And you will be powerless to that voice and you will love that voice, because Vancouver is a rare diva who is beautiful both inside and out.

And if you can, you should visit.

Vancouver is a city of people who wear athletic gear under their power suits, so if you go try to become a local: take a shot of trendy wheat grass, eat the seafood, try that free yoga class in the park (let me know how it goes), and take more than a minute to meditate and let your lungs fill with ocean air.

But don't, for the love of processed food, eat seaweed on your hot dog.

Ranting and Rolling

2011-09-07T21:48:00.000+02:00

Listen, I am pissed off right now and I'm so mad that I'm not even going to try and clean up my language. My beef isn't with a telephone agent, my blood isn't boiling because I feel I didn't get decent customer service, and I'm not simmering because of some in-a-rush-asshole who cut me off in traffic; what I'm seething over is a question about what is happening to basic fucking human morality.

Why the line between right and wrong has been kicked to shit in the sand and people are dancing all over it with absolutely no regard for their neighbours; their community; the strangers who've they've never met hence aren't important.

Fuck 'em.

Because isn't that what everybody says when they can't see the face of the person who's getting that sand kicked in their face?

This morning I was downtown with my parents at a local coffee shop. I used the washroom while I was there, and when I washed my hands I removed a ring that I was wearing and set it next to the sink. Do you see where I'm going with this?

About an hour and a half later I remembered that I'd forgotten to put the ring back on. I rushed to the coffee shop hoping that my ring was either (a) still in the bathroom, or (b) someone had turned it in. Unfortunately I ended up with option (c) some inconsiderate piece of morally questionable trash pocketed my ring instead of doing the right thing and leaving it where I left it or turning it over the counter.

That ring was something I had saved up to buy before moving to Switzerland; it was a statement ring that I had kept one eye on for months and absolutely loved, and I am heartbroken right now that someone kept it. That they saw my ring sitting on the counter and decided finders keepers losers weepers.

This isn't me moaning that I dropped my ring in the street, and who knows where it is. I know exactly what I did with it, I know exactly where I left it, and deep down when I was going back to the coffee shop I knew that my chances of option (c) being a reality were far greater than (a) or (b). The coffee barista was bothered when I told him that I had not held out a lot of hope for someone turning the ring in.

"It's unfortunate you felt that way."

"Actually, what's unfortunate is I was proven right."

I know everyone reading this is thinking I would have turned that ring in. I would have. So do it. The next time you find something that doesn't belong to you, prove me wrong. Don't pick option (c).

It would be really fucking nice to be proven wrong.

Sister, Too

2011-09-06T22:51:00.001+02:00

Home, Home On The Range

2011-09-03T04:26:00.001+02:00

Since I have been posting, it's obvious that dear Jana did not kick me into next week despite my shameful complaining about not being able to sleep in past 9 a.m. on a Saturday. Let's be honest though, when we met up on Sunday to take pictures of her gorgeous family, it was far too hot to exert any sort of effort beyond reaching for the ice tea (wherein I mistakingly downed Trent's instead of my own, and accidentally said a bad word in front of the kidlets when I realized my mistake), and I maintain that might be the only reason I'm here in the present.

But that could all change, you see last night I got a very desperate email from my fair friend demanding that I get my act together and send her some pictures of our Sunday family photo shoot. Never one to deny a friend, I managed to send her two whole pictures before the little elves that deliver emails went on strike and refused to pass on my other messages.

I was very stressed about this.

So Jana, this one's for you. Here's one more picture from our Sunday photo shoot.

I know, I'm so generous (and terribly mean). Now you really have to let me stay in the present if you want the rest of your pictures.

See you Tuesday.

Communication

2011-09-01T07:45:00.000+02:00

Dan and I have had a lot of experience spending big chunks of time apart. It's not easy, it's not ideal, but we power through because it's the only option. And the key to making time apart work, is honest communication.

Exhibit A:

"Sweets, when do you get back?"

"Aw Dan, you miss me."

"Do I ever, I'm starving. Last night I ate a tin of white beans for dinner."

"So to clarify what you actually miss is...my cooking!"

"Umm...."

We're making it work people, one honest conversation at a time.

Candy Canes in August

2011-08-28T23:27:00.000+02:00

Sometimes I'm A Bad Friend

2011-08-27T03:44:00.001+02:00

Yesterday I was having lunch with Jana, and we were plotting plots for this Sunday when we'll wrangle up her four munchkins and make them smile for the camera (or look at the camera, or hopefully glance at the camera). As we chowed down on Mediterranean chicken wraps, Jana was trying to figure out the time logistics of our intended meet-up.

"I think it will be better if we can get together in the afternoon," Jana told me. "Colt naps in the morning around nine, and then again..."

I can't finish her sentence because I stopped listening once I heard that her baby goes down for a nap at nine o'clock in the morning. So I did what I do best and I interrupted her.

"What?! He naps at nine in the morning?"

[Insert the smell of burning, as my brain tried to comprehend this].

"But that would mean...holy cow...garblegarblegarble.....WHAT TIME DO YOU HAVE TO GET UP IN THE MORNING?"

Then Jana chortled that secret laugh that all parents develop when they are inducted into that exclusive club called the No Sleep Hall of Fame. Parents who have been inducted into this hall of fame have no use for their self-centered friends who sit across the table from them, complaining that the cat wakes them up at 9:00 a.m. on a Saturday. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me one bit if these parents wanted to drop kick this friend into next week. Instead, they give a little chuckle over their idiot friend's incredulity and that chuckle translates to this: Oh you just wait. Just wait. I can hardly wait to remind you about when 9 a.m. was an inconvenient wake-up.

And you see Internet, this is my number one--shallow as a kiddy pool--reason for being leery about having kids: when will I sleep? Not getting eight hours of sleep is more concerning to me than potentially raising a psychopath, and according to this month's Reader's Digest there are a lot of high functioning psychopaths out there and WE SHOULD BE WORRIED.

According to the completely non-sensationalist article, everyone can take internet tests to find out if their spouses are psychopaths; if their bosses are psychopaths; if their hairdressers are psychopaths. I mean, thank goodness I didn't waste two minutes of my life reading this article! It's such a relief to have it in print that if someone tries to swindle you out of money or gets pleasure out of publicly humiliating you, that really means they're just a big pile of shit and you should avoid them at all cost. I would never have guessed that on my own. Whew! Thanks Reader's Digest for not spreading fear and worry!

That just wouldn't do, you see I already have enough stuff to be worried about: Are my highlights growing out too fast? How do they get the caramel in the Caramilk bar? Is the rule about the belt matching the shoes iron clad? On a scale of one to ten, how hard am I supposed to care about the current political climate...anywhere?

You see? I really do carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. And when one has such important worries to fret over, can one really afford to be sleep deprived?

I think I'll go rest my head and ponder this weighty dilemma. If you don't hear from me for awhile, it's possible that my wonderful friend might have perfected the kick that is really going to do the trick and get me into next week. I won't be able to correspond, as I'll have to wait for technology to catch-up to me.

But will it ever catch up? What if it never does? Oh dear. What if I'm alone. Always living a week in the future? Will there be other shallow drones to keep me company? Do I have to learn morse code? Or find a lake house to try and correspond with Keanu Reeves via letters posted in a magic mailbox? There are no lake houses around here. WHAT DO I DO?

This is worrisome.

Jana if you only permit me to stay in the present I promise to be on my best behaviour on Sunday. I'll even get up early.

Like say around 8:45...ish.

Sad Eyes

2011-08-26T06:00:00.000+02:00

Pretty eyes.

Foxtails

2011-08-25T04:10:00.000+02:00

Whisper soft tales...

Sister

2011-08-24T02:09:00.000+02:00

There's No Place Like Home

2011-08-21T21:07:00.001+02:00

I've been back in Kamloops for just over a week, and it feels good to be home. Some particular highlights for me are that my mom has been packing my lunch everyday, which is pretty sweet because my mom always makes awesome lunches (though, I'm not sure my coworkers appreciate the garlicky hummus I've been indulging in. Yo Trident, make a gum that can deal with hummus breath); I've gone out for lunch once with a good friend, and have plans for many more lunch dates; yesterday I was whisked away on a birthday road trip to Kelowna, then afterwards I went swimming in the Okanagan lake with my dad and sisters; I got my hair cut by a girl who not only understood me, but made me look just like the picture; I've eaten kettle cooked potato chips; I've played with our dog; I've watched movies with my sisters, and sat out on the patio with Mom and Dad, chatting away the twilight hours until candle flames are all we see.

It's nice to know that home is always so home-y.

A few things I've noticed though:

(1) I think I have Spiderman hearing now. I am having a really hard time focusing on conversations with friends when we're out in public, because I can understand EVERYONE around me and these conversations seem really amplified and loud (even though they're normal decibels). So far I cannot filter out the noise and focus just on the person I'm talking with. It's weird and probably frustrating for the person I'm talking to because I'm definitely not a 100% present.

(2) Last night I went to the grocery store with my sister--at 10:00 p.m. Guys, I totally skulked in there and felt guilty I was shopping so late. Then I picked up some peaches and felt really confused why I couldn't find the price scale so I could weigh the fruit and get the bar code needed for the cashier. Then I remembered: oh yeah, I wasn't at Migros. This was further proven by the hysterical giggling I erupted into when I entered the potato chip aisle and remembered how big it was. I felt out of proportion with my surroundings as everything was so huge and I felt really small. Aislinn had to practically drag me out of the dairy aisle I was so shocked by the size and the selection, and just stood in one place staring at everything. Let me clarify to you all, we were in a grocery store I used to frequent with regularity when I lived here.

(3) Everything is so cheap! Mom and Dad were mentioning that they'd considered taking me to The Keg for lobster fest when I first landed (a treat that always lands around my birthday), but decided against it because it was too expensive.

"A lobster tail and steak is going to cost about $45," Mom said as she shook her head in disbelief.

I burst out laughing. A steak AND lobster tail AND the side potato all for $45 Canadian? That is freaking cheap! Yesterday in the grocery store I could have purchased an entire log of extra lean local ground beef for $17. I mean seriously, it's amazing! I've been stocking up on personal necessities like new p.j.'s and socks, etc..., and every time I go to the register I feel like I'm stealing when I get my total. It's so great!

(4) People are so chatty. I don't like going into stores and being greeted as soon as I walk in, being asked if I need anything as I'm browsing, and what I'm doing for the rest of the day as I pay. I don't like this at all. I want people to leave me alone to shop in peace. Also, a complete and total stranger leaned over the fence of the restaurant patio last weekend as I was having lunch, and commented on how great lunch looked. Weirdness!

(Can you tell that lunch is a really big deal to me at the moment? Probably because I can eat lunch...FOR UNDER TEN DOLLARS.)

(5) I miss driving more than I thought I did. Mom and Dad have let me drive their car twice (this is a big deal, and anyone who knows our family is feeling quite surprised right now) and I miss the freedom of not being shackled to the schedule of public transit. I like coming and going as I please, singing in the car.

(6) Right now, as I type this, a City employee is working on a Sunday in my parent's house installing a meter(and swearing and cursing over the job). Let me repeat: he's working on a Sunday. I feel bad for him. Our banks are also starting to be open on Sundays here, and that blows my mind. How much longer until all professions are expected to be available seven days a week? That makes me uncomfortable because when do people have time to be with their families if everyone is on different schedules?

(7) The open space. I missed it, and today my sister and I are going for a walk in those fields.

***

My laptop battery pack fried and died, so hopefully I can get up to the store to get it replaced sooner than later. When I do, pictures to follow.

Kandersteg

2011-08-18T03:30:00.000+02:00

The love shack

Town life

Church life

Window stills

Quiet streams

Noisy petals

Neighbourhood stoops

You Know You're Back In Canada When...

2011-08-12T15:45:00.000+02:00

I stand in the Calgary airport book shop while I wait for the seconds to tick by so I can catch my last flight of the day that will bring me to Kamloops. I am standing alone in front of the giant 'New Releases' wall of fiction, just staring up at all the titles in open mouthed awe while my sleep deprived brain starts to smell like burning as I comprehend what I see.

Books? Books. Books! YIPPPPEEEEEE.

I continue to stand a respectful distance away from this throne of stories when a young man (so you know, probably 28--not thirty *sniff*) walks towards me.

"Oh, sorry. Sorry...I just...sorry about this, eh!" he says brightly.

And the reason for his profuse apology? Well, it wasn't because he spilled his Starbucks all over me. It was because he had to walk in front of me.

I know! Not once was there ever a bursting of the personal space bubble; I was not jostled, stepped on, nor did my skirt whisper in the breeze of a passing that was too close. He just...had to walk in front of me. So really what his apology can be translated to is: "Sorry about this, but I have to enter into your line of vision! Sorry about that! I'll try to get out of your sight as soon as possible. I apologize for this huge inconvenience of having to be seen."

With a little smile I proved that I am a good troll, and I let him pass through my line of vision without requesting a toll or a rhyme.

Oh Canada, it's good me be home.

Further Thoughts On Turning Thirty

2011-08-10T16:42:00.000+02:00

Maybe it's not so bad....

***

Does everyone remember last summer when Dan and I were handed the weighty responsibility of caring for Dan's aunt and uncle's menagerie of animals and plant life? Oh, you don't. Well, just go searching through the archives. I did some Pulitzer worthy recaps of all the animals we looked after. Not a big deal. I know you're all a little anxious to read the bio's of the dogs, horses, and The Teenager.

Go ahead.

Go dig.

I'll wait.

Are you back?

Excellent. Did you remember to read up on Jony the co-dependant miniature pony? So the deal with Jony is that he is old, and I was nervous to be looking after him for obvious reasons, ifyaknowwhatImean.

(Death! I mean capital 'D' Death! For the love of hay he was 32 years old!)

Dan's aunt assured me that in all the years Jony had been in their family, he had nary even cracked a hoof. He was a fit little dude, and as long as he continually had a buddy with him he would be fine. At the time, Jony's regular pal was Orania Z, but she was off holidaying at an equestrian centre so Dan's aunt and uncle brought in a pony to keep Jony company until Ms. Z returned. The timing was such that Orania was returning to our place the day that our family left on their holiday; so Ms. Z was returning, the little pony was going home, and Jony remained completely oblivious to how much planning had to go into ensuring his 32 year old self was catered to.

The night before the pony left, there was an ENORMOUS fight between Jony and the pony who was supposed to be his buddy. I mean, if these two had been kids at a sleepover that shit would have been shut down--no more movies, popcorn, or truth or dare--and parents would be arriving at 3 a.m. to pick up their crying kids. The fight was busted up and Jony went into his stall, pony in the other, and I thought all was well.

Well, all was not fine because Jony had actually been kicked in the head during that fight, and two days into our stay he went down and could not get up on his own. I was actually at the stables when he went down, and it was a Sunday so Dan was home. I yelled at Dan to call the vet, got Jony up and against the fence to stabilize him, and clutched his halter with shaking hands as I waited for the vet. Jony had been fine at breakfast and lunch, so luckily whatever was going on had been caught immediately, and the vet was to our side in less than an hour. I had my suspicions that whatever was going on had to do with the fight, so I had Dan relay this and after some tests (wherein Jony couldn't even walk over a broom that was lying on the ground) the vet deduced brain swelling, and Jony was given a shot. If the swelling hadn't gone down in 24 hours well....

Thank goodness the swelling did go down and he was okay the rest of the time we were there, and today he is still a frisky little geriatric. But of course, I watched him like a hawk for those two weeks, and I refrained from writing about this terrible day because it was awful. The stress of this was not lost on Dan's family and in gratitude for looking after the animals and for Jony getting the quickest care possible, they gave Dan and I a luxury night away at a hotel in Kandersteg.

This gift has been sitting unused since last July, and truthfully I'd forgotten about it.

On Monday Dan told me that I had to be finished my work day by noon on Tuesday; I was a little confused because this didn't leave much notice, but hot damn I was excited because Tuesday was the day before today! My birthday! Birthday surprises!

We got to Kandersteg yesterday afternoon, and according to Dan this getaway wasn't my birthday present, he just thought it would be a classy way to say good-bye to a decade I didn't want to let go of, and use up the gift certificate that was fast expiring. The room we stayed in was...not what we expected; the luxury stay was actually a package deal for a night of ROMANCE. If you read my 'about me' tab you will understand that I am a girl who lacks the DNA code for liking typical romantic gestures, and so walking into a room strewn with rose petals caused me to feel itchy. And trapped.

Dan found my shallow, nervous breathing to be highly entertaining.

When the valet had left the room, I found a mix CD the hotel had provided called 'Love Songs'. Dan put it on and guess what started playing? As Long As You Love Me. By the Backstreet Boys! Backstreet was back! We started laughing. And then we couldn't stop. And then every once in awhile in between gasps of laughter one of us would hold up a stray rose petal and fling it at the other. Like it was something terrible and disgusting. Like a bug. Or a suggestive rose petal. So even though it was my last day of being in my twenties, it was still nice to know that at my very core I am still just an emotionally stunted juvenile.

What a relief.

But seriously though, this was free. It was a gorgeous room with a king size bed, a view, there was a whirlpool that wheeled onto the balcony, and our stay came with a gourmet meal and exclusive use of the swimming pool. So what if Dan's aunt and uncle bought us a night at the love shack? And that contraceptives were carefully nestled amongst the rose petals?

That's not funny at all, right?

Anyhow, we got ourselves together, told ourselves to act our age and not our shoe size, and went for a swim then we got ready for a dinner that was absolutely amazing. It was a four course meal with champagne and wine, and it was the sort of delicious you never want to end. Over our trio of desserts, Dan asked me to reflect on what I'd been doing on my twentieth birthday? How far had ten years taken me?

On my twentieth birthday I had been working a late shift at a stinky fast-food restaurant because I was knee deep in operation "Save Money For Tuition." I came home, went to bed, and got up the next day to work the opening shift.

There was no champagne. There was no salmon cream cannolis; no spicy pepper soup; no almond crusted tenderloin served on a bed of wilted spinach, spooned with a deep aus jus, and served with tomatoes poached in garlic oil. There also wasn't white chocolate mousse, raspberry crepes, and vanilla ice cream.

There was also no Dan.

So we toasted a decade that brought me more than I could ever have imagined, and today, the day of my thirtieth year--after a deluxe breakfast in bed--we walked in the sunshine beneath the glacial beauty of the alps, making notes to call his family and thank them for their generosity, and promising each other that we would return to this hotel...for dinner.

What? The love shack room creeped us out.

Thoughts On Turning Thirty

2011-08-08T10:42:00.000+02:00

I don't want to.

Castle In The Sky

2011-08-05T12:01:00.000+02:00

Today I feel like a Red Bull addict going through withdrawal.

Where's ma juice? I need ma juice! Ma heart's racin' all funny!

I can't explain it.

So this picture I took in Adelboden is keeping me calm.

I hate Red Bull, by the way. It's disgusting and tastes like medicine.

Also, I swear I can feel my teeth rotting as that sugary adrenaline passes by them.

Obviously this post was not sponsored by Red Bull.

Maybe I'll make sense on Monday.

Juuuiiiiccceeee!!!

This Is Not A Blog Post About My Cat

2011-08-04T10:57:00.000+02:00

I know that I never talk about my cats. That I'm not one of those bloggers who interrupts travel recaps just to shout MY CAT IS SO CUTE! That I'm definitely just one of those chill pet-owners who treat their animals like animals and who would never dream of dressing up the cat like a Christmas elf.

It's hard being perfect like that. Hard, but rewarding. Therefore, today I will not end my long streak of never ever ever talking about my cats ever and I will not brag about our little Cosmo.

Now here's the deal: everyone who meets Cosmo thinks he's unique. Since I am obviously blinded by his sheer awesomeness, I choose to interpret 'unique' as god-like, whereas most people are using the term in a genial fashion because truthfully they really would rather label our cat as 'weird' and 'unhinged' and/or 'odd'.

Once when Dan's family was over for dinner, Cosmo was reclining in the crook of my arm like a baby, just watching everyone. Finally Dan's aunt couldn't take it anymore: "That is the strangest cat I've ever seen! He thinks he's a person!"

Dan gave a hearty laugh and told her that she should just be glad she didn't meet Cosmo five years ago, because holy catnip Batman but our little grey barn cat was...okay, I still thought he was perfection, but I concede he was crazy.

If he was a person, he probably would have ended up in juvy.

He split the vet's chin once.

He scratched my sister's friend in the eye.

He broke into the neighbour's apartment. Not their house, their apartment.

If people even looked at him, he would hiss at them.

Once my dad was sitting on Cosmo's spot on the couch, so Cosmo jumped from the floor and went sailing over my dad's head just to hiss and spit his displeasure over his spot being taken.

But over the years he has mellowed, and I think now he's quite sweet (though, I've always thought he was sweet). Last Christmas friends came over who had little kids, and we were worried about how Cosmo would behave around them, but he was great as long as he was sitting in his chair. He didn't like being down on the floor with the kids, but he never hissed at them; instead, he would get back up on the chair or jump up onto my lap where he surveyed those little creatures in bewilderment and wondered what their deal was.

(Poppy was in hiding, of course).

So cut to yesterday, and over lunch I took Cosmo outside so he could run around (we live in an apartment building) and since it was sunny of course I took some pictures of the little guy.

(Poppy hates being outside, in case you think this isn't an equal cat household.)

Oh the sweetness.

I love it outside!

As I was lounging in the grass while Cosmo was eating the grass, I heard the frantic pummeling of tiny feet on cement, and as the footsteps got closer, the sound of excited breathing escaping around a pacifier. Turning around, there was the neighbour's little blonde two year old running full speed ahead right at Cosmo.

I tried to get to Cosmo before the kid could, but hot damn are two year olds ever fast. Like, they are crazy quick. The little boy fell onto Cosmo where he ran his hands all over Cosmo's ears and planted pacifier kisses onto Cosmo's head.

The parents were finally catching up to their kid at this point, and I had reached Cosmo who definitely looked alarmed. I picked up Cosmo and crouched down so the little boy could pet him, and Cosmo...didn't do anything! He just swallowed his grass and stared at everyone like, "Dudes, I was right in the middle of eating grass. Come on. You know I only get out here once a day. Everyone be cool. I'll be cool. Just let me get back to my grass."

Since I'm a cat whisperer and could clearly understand him, I put him down where he went back over to the grass and rolled around while the little boy crouched next to him and slapped 'gentle' pats onto Cosmo's belly. It was so cute, and the parents and I had a really fragmented conversation (them Swiss-German, me Germenglish) over what a beautiful cat Cosmo was, and how gentle he was. Now if that is one description I never thought I'd hear about Cosmo, it's that he's gentle.

Not going to lie, I felt immensely proud.

I'm perfection.

Afterall, this is the same cat who tried to climb my legs once and left so many scratches that at my next doctor's appointment my doctor surveyed my legs and gently enquired if I was alright. If everything was okay with me.

"Oh, god! No, I'm fine. I have a cat. A great cat, just...crazy."

But as of yesterday, and according to my neighbours and their two year old son, it's been announced that not only is Cosmo a great cat, he's also a gentle cat.

My little juvy is growing up.

*Sniff*

(Though, I on the other hand might need to work on how to factually title my blog posts.)

In The Words of Another Great Katy: "Baby You're a Firework..."

2011-08-03T16:01:00.001+02:00

Monday was the national holiday in Switzerland, and we had a lovely day swimming at the local outdoor pool, sitting in Bern and soaking up the sun, drinking cold beer, eating a tasty dinner, and blowing shit up.

It was so relaxing.

I already mentioned this last year, but when the national holiday rolls around everyone and their dog (as long as the dog is over twelve years old) stocks up on fireworks and explosive crackers. We didn't buy any fireworks last year, so instead we spent the whole day listening to the machine-gun exploding of little red crackers, the popping of noise-rockets bursting above our heads, and in the evening, the sounds of pyrotechnic lava spilling from backyard volcanoes.

We were disappointed that we hadn't seized our own opportunity to put a match to gunpowder and run like hell, so it was decided that we weren't going to let that chance pass by us this year. If you couldn't find us on Saturday it was because we were spending a very intense afternoon at the store ensuring that the fireworks we were buying were the perfect mix of colour, variation, and noise; that we were getting maximum explosive entertainment for our money.

Monday dawned to the sweet warmth of sunshine and the sound of some kids (who definitely didn't have a twelve year old dog supervising them) tossing lit crackers into sandpits, and waiting for the expected TNT boom to rattle their teeth. Since Dan had made sure to buy his own box of 'Lady Crackers', we went out after dinner--walking through sound walls of noise-rockets--to add our own symphony of noise to that thunderous cacophony.

"Lady Crackers" is actually the polite English translation.

People around Bern refer to these in conversation as "Lady Farts".

Note the lady crackers in Dan's hand.

I think that these are the perfect size of dynamite to go with Trapped In A Hole Barbie.

Along with her pink brush and cute shoes, of course.

Dan is burying the Barbie ammo under twigs and rocks.

So that they will fly in the air when the crackers explode.

Such a boy.

Let's do this thing!

Let's blow shit UP.

The background really helps put in perspective the ghetto fun we were having.

YES!

It is worth mentioning that the first time we lit these I was way too close and ended up covering my ears and running away from the scene, yelping in terror as my camera swung around my neck. The perils of being a photo-journalist, I tell you.

When it got dark, our neighbour came over and we trooped up to a nearby field to set off our fireworks.

This moth has nothing to do with that.

He was just hanging out on a light post, looking wicked bad.

The coolest pyro you've ever met.

And the awesome trail of light.

Now I do not own a tripod, so all my photos are shaky which I think gives you a nice idea of the adrenaline coursing through my Nerdus Nolifeus veins, because as we set off ten different rockets and two volcanoes, I kept thinking with glee: "This should be illegal! It's too much fun to be legal! Someone's going to yell at us! BRING IT ON."

Uh, obviously no one did yell at us because it's not illegal here and also it appeared as though every person in our village was too busy getting their pyro on to pay attention to us.

Little volcano becomes a big volcano...

...then becomes a blue volcano.

After we'd lit all our fireworks we headed up to the village bonfire to watch the professional show.

A shaky view from the top of our village of people's private fireworks going off.

The village bonfire with a couple of volcanoes.

Just wicked.

The beer tent and a little lantern.

What's that, you ask?

Oh yes, beer was being served a mere hot dog stick away from a giant bonfire.

And people who were lighting pyrotechnics were consuming it.

Let's have a moment of silence to let it sink in how great that is.

We had to wait about twenty minutes, but then the City of Bern's firework show off the Gurten started up. At our village bonfire a radio and speakers were hooked up so that the music the fireworks were synced to, could be heard.

Dan had me in a bear hug while we watched the thirty minute show.

I felt sparks.