Avert your eyes - if you can...

Here in North America, there are two elections occurring within a matter of a few weeks.

In Canada, October 14 is the day Canadians will drag their generally apathetic selves to the polls to participate in an election many see as a waste of time and tax payer dollars.

On November 4, south of the border, our US compatriots will be voting. Some argue that there is the potential for the largest turn out in recent memory. It is an important election. More so these days with the threat of the US economy teetering on the edge of a precipice and potential disaster.

The evening of Thursday, October 2 there will be two televised political debates.

In Canada, there will be an English language debate between Harper, Dion, Layton, Duceppe and May. Please note, Wednesday evening will be the French language debate. These debates are intended to help Canadians determine which party they wish to see running the country for the next four years. Some already predict a Harper majority; others a Harper minority. At least that much is relatively clear.

South of the 49th parallel, two Americans will square off; Biden and Palin. Both are on their respective party’s tickets as prospective vice-presidents or, in the event ill health or other unfortunate circumstances befall the commander-in-chief, will step into the shoes of the leader of, some might argue, the most powerful nation on this planet.

I've been know to place a wager or two in my day; I'll make a statement right now. I'll put money that in Canada, more Canadians will tune into the US VP debate at some point in the evening over the Canadian debate. Also, more viewers, in total, will watch part or all of the US VP debate than watched the two Presidential candidates square off last week.

As much as people will deny it, we all want to see a train wreck on occasion - at least the type where there is no obvious physical damage to the parties involved. No one wants literal blood. But the prospect of abject humiliation over definite boredom will win the day.

Just my $0.02 worth.

The things that we all do...

If you're married or in a long term relationship where a single household is shared, you'll understand.

A few short hours ago, just before Sheryl returned from her Tai-Chi class and lunch, I turned on the furnace. The outside temperature was reading 52 degrees (Fahrenheit) and inside the homestead, the thermostat was hovering around 62.

Now, if it was strictly up to me, additional heat would not be pumped through the house for a few more weeks. A fire could be built and then natural heat would circulate through parts of the house. A little too much work for my liking. Our animals, all long haired, also prefer the cooler temperatures, Ben especially. But TLATO seems to have water in her veins and even in our sweltering summers, has been known to drive around in her car with the air conditioning on - while sitting on a heated seat!

The "Don't you find it cold?" comments started last week. Followed by the occasional snipe,"Val and Nancy turned on their furnaces a week ago, you know."

So, while she was out, I decided that I would do well to enjoy some relative peace and quiet (for an hour or two if I'm lucky) and flicked the switch.

I may, however, have the last laugh! This situation could now be a bigger and grander version of driving the car with the low gas light on. A "typical male" thing, I'm led to believe.

You see, our oil tank (remember, we live in the country) is registering practically empty. Back in April, I had $300 of oil added to an empty tank (yes, it really was empty), but that while definitely another story, was truly not my fault. But David, you say, how could you use oil over the summer? Simple. Our hot water heater is oil fired.

I have no idea when our fuel provider is scheduled to come into this area and fill our 900-litre oil tank. And, given the price of oil, I'm not too keen to get a major $ 1,000 plus hit on a refill. Good news there, though (amazing what we now consider good, isn't it?): the price of a barrel of oil fell by more than $10 today.

So... anyone out there care to place a bet?

No, not on our marriage, but on whether our tank is filled before we run out!

Caribou Barbie... so hard to resist...

Sorry folks, but I'm afraid that I just had to jump on the political bandwagon something I usually care not to do, but like I said, I cannot resist. Resistance really is futile.

While the Federal election here in Canada is pretty dull, the situation south of our border (and north and west) is downright titillating by comparison!

I'm referring specifically to John McCain's choice of running mate, Sarah Palin, the Governor of Alaska. I'm not going to belabour the point but after watching part of the real interview between Katie Couric and then SNL brought back the brilliant Tina Fey to reprise her Palin caricature, I succumbed.

For a few weeks now, the name "Caribou Barbie" has been circulating as a none-too-complimentary description of Palin.

Quite fitting, given the woman apparently can field dress a moose! Heck, I would have difficulty attempting that on a mouse, never mind something the size of a 1960's-era Buick.

I love the image to the right which, by all accounts comes with everything you see here:

- A dead Caribou
- An M-16 rifle
- A snowmobile; and,
- Sexy librarian glasses

She even talks with such fun phrases like:

- "I'm a pit bull with lipstick!"
- "My family is off-limits!"
- "What is it the Vice President actually does?"
- "I can see Russia from my house!"

Imagine the money to be made if McCain succeeds in his run for the White House? And in a unique licensing deal, Palin and Mattel will make a frickin' fortune.

And Palin will be a heartbeat away from that big red button...

Who then, will have the last laugh?

Sad day in our house...

Last week, September 25th to be precise, marked two years since the passing of our beloved Bernese Mountain Dog, Ozzie.

The day that it occurred, I was unable to go with Sheryl to the vet. 10 days previous, I had undergone surgery to replace my left hip. I was under doctor's orders not to move around. 45 staples saw to that.

A hospital bed was set up in our family room. My goodbyes were said as he placed his dinner plate sized front paws on me and rested his huge head on my chest. He seemed to know. Yet he handled things so much better than I did. No words, just a very deep affection - a bond that other animal owners and some parents will comprehend.

Sheryl along with the assistance of two good friends, Nancy and Val, managed to get our 140lb Ozzie into the back of Sheryl's car to take him to the vet - one last time.

I felt utterly helpless.

We knew for months this day would come. Since his diagnosis with Osteosarcoma, Oz had continued to be a part of our family for almost 10 months. We did all we could to make him as comfortable as possible. Pet insurance ran out almost 9 months previous. But, as any parent will tell you, it really does not matter. It’s not about the money. Cancer is an insidious, vicious disease and can be an expensive one, at that.

Our vet, Jeff Simmons, had spoken to us often and told us that when the day arrived, we would know. He was right. Oz never "complained". The obvious tumour was, at the end, very large and looked painful and uncomfortable. Yet our gentle giant would never show that he was in any way, distressed.

Sheryl and I could not really speak with one another for days after that. Neither of us knew what to say. We were all hurting. Our cats missed him. To this day, if I ever play a brief video we have of him, Rocky, our big red and white cat, starts running through the house, crying as he looks for his friend.

A few months after Ozzie's death, we were lucky enough to find Ben, our second Berner. Same breeder, different blood lines. A different dog in so many ways. Not better. Absolutely not worse. Different. Plain and simple.

Within the first days of Ben being introduced into our home, Sheryl sat down quietly with our new tri-coloured barrel of fur. She and Ben made an agreement. He would be with us for at least 11 years. She wanted double digits. Unusual in giant breeds, but not impossible. Sheryl sensed that Ben was special. He had something different within.

Now, when I occasionally play the Ozzie video, Ben will come running into my office and will sit, head cocked to one side. Waiting. He will not bark. Just looks around with those huge dark eyes, waiting for someone he never knew.

Shoot me now...

Uncertain if it was something I ate or drank yesterday.

Could be related to a change in the weather - barometric pressure, don't you know.

At 3.13amEST, I was jarred awake from a restless sleep with a searing and simultaneous pounding headache. A migraine.

If you suffer with this unfortunate affliction, you'll know what I'm talking about. If you don't (and I do have one friend who in his almost six decades on this planet has never experienced a single headache - and he and his wife raised four sons, two of whom were twins), you may not really understand! And that’s OK.

I have experienced this delightful interruption to one's life since I was a baby. As a child I routinely went through batteries of ridiculous tests and the diagnosis was invariably the same, "Mrs. Taylor, the wee bugger has migraines!"

When you're a kid, you really do not understand what's going on. All you really know is that someone, please, needs to stop this pain, and now. I also perfected the art of the projectile vomit and, with experience, could even, on demand it appeared, spew forth at specific angles and arcs with varying degrees of velocity. To my siblings and friends, I was an unheralded wonder of the world.

I really tried not to let them take over my life. I did not want to be relegated to the same "category" as the unfortunate kid with asthma. So, best I could, I endured. Until I started puking violently or came close to collapsing. My eyes would sink into my head. Specific smells would make me nauseas. Light would act like a laser beam to my eyes. Cold, dark rooms would offer limited solace. And yes, I have driven home on occasion with the car’s air conditioning blasting while wearing prescription sunglasses and squint to one side while negotiating my way home.

Medication wise, nothing really seems to touch them. It’s a matter of time. I’ve even been sent home from a hospital’s Emergency Department after being shot up with morphine and Demerol, to the point that any more medication might kill me. And they wanted me to drive!

Fortunately, as I get older, the frequency has reduced drastically. My Mum and Dad also went through these “things” and now, rarely experience that familiar, sweet pain.

So, perhaps there’s hope for me on this front after all. One day, I’ll be headache pain free. For now, however, would someone please make it go away?

Can't we all just get along...?

Watched a movie we had recorded on the PVR last night. American History X.

On an evening when for many, the highlight was likely the Emmys, this was a powerful, harrowing, thought-provoking and quite sad commentary on so many things on so many levels. Primarily about American family life, cause and effect and the relatively rapid descent into hell after a thoughtless random act removes the family patriarch.

Hard to believe this was released 10 years ago. It was one of those movies I had always said that I wanted to see; not necessarily at the local megaplex, but at home, without any distractions.

Not a film that you would recommend for its entertainment value -- because there was absolutely none. But if you peel away the layers of despair, lack of hope and yes, some pretty brutal violence, it is a well-acted story. While the ending was not entirely unexpected, it certainly was not trite.

How many families like the Vinyards exist - and not just in the US, but everywhere? Do you know of any? Chances are, you might. Perhaps not a direct comparative; perhaps not where flagrant racism exists, but where there is a sense of being off a half step or so. Look at this story; what age were Derek and Danny when their father showed his true colours?

Pass the salt... please!

There's an interesting article in today's Globe and Mail about a camp for kids where they learn how to ace a private-school interview, make witty dinner conversation with Mom's boss and eat bacon with a fork.

Reading it earlier took me back to Scotland, many years ago during my formative years. We were not, by any stretch of the imagination, a family of wealth. I was the eldest of six siblings. Four sisters and one brother. There was a 12-year span between eldest and youngest.

While most meals involved a great deal of carbs (bread and potatoes) due to economic circumstances, we were still expected to eat "properly". In fact, there used to be a running "table manners" competition, the winner getting the equivalent of a quarter at the end of a week.

Our parents expected us to speak when spoken to and not interrupt any conversation unless there was an emergency; we had to close our mouths while chewing; never speak with food in our mouths; always ate soup with the spoon away from the body - and never slurped, etc.

Once in a very rare while we were taken to a restaurant. We all did the best we could not to embarrass ourselves or our parents while eating out and would smile as we heard other patrons whisper how well behaved we were.

Did it do us any harm? None. It was a part of our education. Life lessons.

Today, I can, on occasion, eat practically anywhere I choose. I cannot begin to tell you of the appalling table manners I continue to witness from many supposed young ladies and gentlemen; sprawling over the table, waving cutlery, spattering guests and patrons with their Osso Buco while saving the world, talking on their mobile phones. And please, don't get me started on insensitive louts who sit down at a table, at home or any restaurant where their sports cap du jour remains firmly planted on their heads. There are some folks whose religious beliefs make this a matter of principal. Fine. But the vast majority are just being plain rude and boorish.

I think that more should be done to educate our kids on how to behave in public and at a table. There is nothing opulent, snobby or elitist about that.

Our stewards for the future must learn what's right, what's expected... and what is most definitely not.

Uh, oh...!

The other morning, TLATO said she wanted to go to the Peterborough Sport and Wellness Centre to use their therapy pool. She wanted a little exercise and the use of the whirlpool.

I declined; I’m there at least five times per week and felt like a day off. Besides, a double espresso and the morning’s newspaper were demanding my attention.

So Sheryl headed into town and I made my way out to one of our decks with my coffee and the paper.

The tranquility of the morning was interrupted by the pteradactyl-like squawk from a Blue Heron, fishing off our dock. Nothing that my soon to be relaxed state of mind could not deal with.

A while later as I was finishing the last section of the paper, Sheryl returned home. She came out onto the deck, giggling.

“How was your swim? Were there many people this morning?”

The giggling and grinning continued.

“OK, what’s going on?”

“Nothing, nothing.” The giggle turned to laughter.

“Sheryl????”

“I’m going commando!”

Not quite what one might expect to hear from one’s wife on a quiet holiday Monday morning. I asked her to repeat her statement. Perhaps I had not heard her clearly?

“I’m going commando!”

There it was again. No mistake.

Turns out she had headed out from the house without a change of underwear. This realization came to her while driving between home and the pool. Rather than turn around, she thought, no big deal - I’ll deal with it after.

However, the gas light came on in her car.

Now I cannot tell you how many times she has yelled at me for doing this in either of our cars. She says it’s a guy thing. Maybe. So, she had to get gas. However, she was wearing a pretty sun dress. It was a sunny day. In her present state, she had to find a full-serve gas station. She was NOT going to stand pumping gas in her present state with a gentle breeze blowing and the sun shining... Operation “Get Gas” was initiated.

There is so much more that I could insert at this point, but if I wish to continue breathing and maintaining my present lifestyle, serious editing has been done to accommodate TLATO’s sanctioning of this post. This covert, military-type exercise did have its economic benefits. The full-serve she went to was less expensive than the self-serve by the pool. There was not going to be a Monroe-esque grate scene pumping gas after all.