red-handed

After a full day with Oona, first at the park, where she padded around our blanket in her diaper like a drunken samurai, taunting me with my own keys, and then in the burbs, and the big box stores, where I had to buy her doggy toys so she'd have something to chew on, and she wouldn't yell at the other customers ... well, a guy gets pretty beat. And it's nights like that where I wish we still had tv (satellite) ... something I could just turn on, and watch mindlessly, while shoveling spoonfuls of corn twists into my mouth. Still, I keep some dvd's around for just the occasion, and The Bourne Ultimatum always works it's slippery magic ... the impossible car chases, the startling aerial city shots (Tangier, in particular, is an eye-popper), the frenetic fights, the sad spoony face of Julia Stiles. Ah. Now if we can just get mom to come home before morning, then everything will be alright.

Viktor Pivovarov, cover of a children's book. This morning I opened the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink to find an electrical cord hanging out of the garbage. Snaking out from under the lid, it looked like a forked tail. It belonged to an alarm clock, sitting there on the very top of yoghurt containers and cereal liners and wet bits of food and seeping coffee filters. I was surprised she (read: C) got it to fit. "Why is there an alarm clock in the garbage?" I asked. "Where else would I put it?" C asked back. Well, let's see: by the back door (to be taken out to the garbage in the garage), in the garbage in the garage, in the plastic recycling, on the curb, in the alley, in the forest, under the bed of a benevolent dictator, in outer space. But no, she chose the (overstuffed) garbage. I swear to God I will open that lid to find a leaking air-conditioner in there some day. Or a car.

solved problems ; pen and ink on paper (page from an old math text book). Took Oona for an earlier-than-usual walk this morning, just to exorcise some sillies and get some missing milk (Daddy needs his cereal). We made a big loop out of it. About two blocks away I noticed that someone had (very helpfully) amended a stop sign; underneath where it says "STOP", it also now says "Hammertime". The milk we found at our local Mac's. When we went in, I noticed that the manager was training a new employee. Then I remembered that this same store was robbed at knife-point last week. I bought 2%. It helps me maintain my girlish figure. There's some kind of 'green' store opening up in our neighbourhood, the kind of everything-green store where everything is good for you and environmentally friendly and crafted by unexploited pygmy cripples with rain-washed bamboo and nails made out of kisses. C was all excited when she heard this and thinks it will do a booming t

switched circuits ; pen and ink on paper (from an old math text book). Went to a wedding yesterday. Out to a country town, held in a big country church. Five groomsmen, four bridesmaids, children in miniaturized roles, the whole big-picture thing. The bride looked lovely. The men in the crowd, however, were a different matter. Most of them looked dressed for something between a parole hearing and casino night. Few slacks, fewer ties, almost no jackets. Worst of all, they looked uncomfortable . I mean, if you're going to be dying inside anyway, why not do so in a suit? As cynical about the world as I am (read: going to hell in a handbasket), I think I'm on fairly solid ground here to demand at least business-casual for any matter requiring entrance to a church. It is a show, after all. And what about the women? As a group, they looked rather fine (in fact, one in the pew in front of us looked so nice that Oona thought she'd sample a handful of her hair). And since the whole

The usual stumble out of the gate: I stuff the (suddenly new) car with the expensive merchandise of your average baby-on-tour and some flimsy plastic bags filled with our own worn clothes. Is this what the garage sale will look like, when I die? The heat and humidity are already killing me. Get away by nine. Despite the countless mixed cd's I've made for my wife, she has declined to bring along any music, and the radio alternates between noise and saccharin death. Somewhere on the 401 is an exit (is it 804?) with no features (gas station, restaurant, etc) whatsoever. It is simply a blank exit. I stare at it longingly. Quebec, of course: rain, darkness, crushed ceilings of fog. It's the same every year. Our room in Riviere du Loup comes with access to an indoor pool and loads of corpulent French kids. Second day driving. My ass has turned into brie. New Brunswick is: up hill, down hill, trees trees trees. Watch out for moose! The moose fences stalk you on either side, up and