Friday, December 30, 2005
Turner, International Greaseball
Now, I love my husband dearly, but if I was a border official I would think twice about letting this man into my country:
Turner's been to a lot of places. India, Pakistan, Nepal. All through Europe and Southeast Asia and the whole Australia-New Zealand leg of the book tour last year. So lots of border officials get to looking at these photos, and I do wonder what initially goes through their minds. But when they ask him his occupation, and he answers, "Journalist", they always nod, and hand back the passport.
I'll let Turner tell you about the Vietnamese border guy who told him how handsome he looked in his passport photo (while using the one on the left)...
Categories: Turner
Welcome Back!
Well, we aren't 100% sure about what happened there, but it seems someone at Shaw Cable in Calgary deserves the boot. Apparently they accidentally assigned our server IP address to someone else, effectively evicting everyone without warning for a few days: yours truly here at ashleybristowe.com, but also John's site bristowe.com, Turner's site planetsimpson.com, Ainsley and Jonathon's site teamsullivan.com, and whoever else being hosted by Brother John on the basement server in Douglasdale.
Of course, being the self-obsessed internet addicts we are, the error was noticed within, oh, 15 seconds of the sites going down. But we were completely unable to divert all power to the rear deflector shields, being not-so-computerish-minded when it comes to actually fixing glitches and such. So we sat on our hands and waited for Brother John to tell us what the heck was going on.
After a thorough diagnostic at our end revealing nothing amiss, John cracked his knuckles, got on the horn, and told Shaw Cable what kind of special hell would be reserved for their infrastructure if they forced him to hack into their system to fix the problem, himself. Even with that kind of ice water pouring down their necks it still took nearly a week. I think John was starting to warm up the neutron guns when finally everything zinged back to life earlier today with nary a "sorry about that" in the offing.
In any case, we're back. Merry Christmas & belated happy holidays, everyone!
Categories: Internet
Monday, December 26, 2005
Christmas At Chez Bristowe Turner
The stockings were hung by the [bricked-in] chimney with care...
The ridiculous loot pile
Yeah, this picture doesn't really do it proper justice: a truly overwhelming pile of presents stacked nearly two feet high, all around the tree. I think the giddy being-all-togetherness of Christmas this year, plus the presence of Liam and Sloane (kids make xmas much more funner-er) combined to produce a powerful group psychosis wherein we all just kept buying more and more and more presents. I wrapped presents until my fingers were dyed green from the ribbon. We went through four rolls of scotch tape and metres upon metres of wrapping paper. And in the end we had to open the presents in shifts over the course of the whole of Christmas Day. It was a mountain of consumer frenzy driven by love, if you will.
Opening Sloane's stocking, first thing on Christmas morning. And what's this? Oh, another lovely surprise... everyone loves the Christmas Cold Sore!
My biiiiiiig gift: Turner couldn't help but be moved by my irrational LOVE of the rented fisheye lens while we were on assignment in Edmonton a few weeks ago. So after some secret consultations, Turner, Margo and John, and Brucio all went in on a fisheye for my camera. Merry Christmas indeed!
Sloaner got a huge box of baby Lego from Cousin Liam (an early favourite amongst the loot), but politely accepts other gifts proffered by her Dad in the wake of its arrival
Jonathon and Sister Ains of Ottawa, in town for the holidays
Playing Santa seems to have broken the Brucio
Val and Fifi submit to the fisheye's charms
Your hosts of The 2005 Bristowe-Turner Kick-Ass Calgary Christmas
Getting all dolled up for Christmas dinner, Sloane admires Lt. Col. (Ret.) Grampa John's watch
Granny Val makes stirring gravy look like a piece of cake
Turner carves (the goose), Tanya vogues, Brother John yanks, Brucio also carves (the turrrrrkey), Other Brother John observes
Ainsley, seven months pregnant, with Papa Mike and Granny Val (you love the fisheye lens now, no? - you must!)
Jenna submits to the annual indignity of those-paper-hats-from-inside-the-Christmas-crackers, a mandatory Bristowe tradition (Auntie Jacqueline Jane looks on, hatless.)
Sloaner didn't fit the cracker hats, so we cracked out her princess crown toque for the occasion
Turner and Margo, looking a lot alike in an after-dinner moment
Ash and Turner, well into the evening at John and Fi's place. The day's been a huge success: nobody got yelled at, the food was delicious, and there's more than enough wine. Hey - more wine over here!
Categories: Calgary | Family | House
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Friday, December 23, 2005
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Yes, Nanny
Sez Nanny, on my last day in Nakusp, a few weeks ago:
"Ashley, I've noticed that Sloane is starting to be left handed. You'll want to correct that. Whenever she picks up something with her left hand, take it away and put it in her right hand. Then, you hoooold her left hand down [demonstrating], against her body. You don't want her to end up left-handed - life is so hard for those people. The world is designed for right-handed people, so do it for her."
What do you say to that? To your blind, 85-year-old grandmother?
"Good idea, Nanny.", that's what you say.
So far, Sloane's ambidexterous.
Categories: Family | Sloane
The Shoe Carnage
Before I got pregnant, I had what I considered to be an appropriate number of pairs of shoes. Although I basically live in sheepskin slippers indoors and black ankle boots when I leave the house, over the years I purchased other shoes frugally and carefully. Slowly over time, and without getting too crazy, I ended up with a solid collection of shoes to match most occasions and pretty much everything I had in my clothing wardrobe, plus a few pairs that I almost-never wore but still liked to look at.
Then came motherhood. My feet grew a whole size. And suddenly none of my shoes fit, not at all. For the longest time I was in semi-denial. Despite the weird ingrown toenails and the eventual surgery on one toe, and despite the sudden need for orthopaedic insoles, and despite the emergency shoe-shopping trip I had to do with Brucio two months ago because I was developing a limp when I wore my old shoes... despite all that, I hung on to my collection. I was sorta hoping my feet would contract back to their old size. Or that the shoes would magically expand. Or something.
Although I was never a wild-eyed shoe person, I did like the shoes I had. And damn, shoes are expensive! Over the years we're talking about hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of dollars spent. And I take care of my shoes - I spray them and polish them and wipe them down and store them properly, to protect the investment. But all to no avail, because the shoes didn't get bigger and the feet are clearly not getting any smaller. I finally faced the truth today. So I hauled out all the shoes from the various closets and lined them up, and considered what to do about them.
Now. Some of these shoes are super nice. Veddy expensive. Others, not so much with the nice, not so much with the expensive. But still, they were all shoes that served either a specific or general purpose in my collection.
You girls, out there, I have an early xmas present to offer. I want these shoes to go to good homes. I have taken many many items of clothing and some shoes to Goodwill over the years, so it's not that I'm adverse to giving my stuff away. But I've worn these shoes to your weddings and your parties; they've seen stomping up Spadina to Swatow late at night and kicking down Delhi sidestreets in the broiling sun. I am offering these shoes to you: all youse girlses who read this site. Even if we haven't met, feel free to step forward if you like the look of anything on offer. Please note: they're all size 7, 7.5, or 8 (My feet are now 9 - 9.5...)
We'll start simple and humble. The indoor soccer shoes. More for wearing around as a sporto fashion statement than for actually getting out on the indoor field to kick the ball around. (Although they could totally serve this purpose - I played a few games in these once I moved to Calgary.) Good condition. (Taken! Claimed by Viki)
These shoes are absolutely wonderful. Smart seams and nice leather - very professional-like. I enjoyed them very much at conferences and retreats with the government when everyone else was wearing loafers and slouching off. The heel is two and a half inches, so you'll love them if you want some height. In excellent condition. (Taken! Claimed by Val)
These lovely slip-ons were purchased in Toronto on the Danforth. They go PERFECTLY with my magic blue dress that makes everyone look like a million bucks. (Magic dress is not on offer, I'm afraid.) I am sad to see these go. (Taken! Claimed by Margo)
Two pair of completely flimsy but sooper-stylin' heels from Honest Ed's. I got to wear these exactly once, because I bought them at the beginning of the pregnancy. My feet ballooned one day later, I think. Made by "NYC" (a truly suspect 'brand' if you ask me), they're in mint condition.
One of the gems of the collection. These patent leather shoes are burgandy, and absolutely lovely. I wore them as maid of honour at Alex's wedding, I wore them as matron of honour at Ainsley's wedding, and I tried to wear them as a guest at Don McConnell's wedding reception a few days ago but I was doubled over in pain after five minutes. They just don't fit the new huge hoofs I now sport below my ankles, and so they have to go, a huge shame. If you look good in burgandy, take these ones, they'll serve you well. (Taken! Claimed by Carla)
These are empirically the most valuable shoes in the house. Purchased for Amy's wedding in Texas, these shoes were $400+ (the dress I wore was from Fairweather and cost $65). I have no idea what I was thinking. Like, they're lovely shoes, but besides the ridiculous price tag, they've got a three-inch heel and it took me two days of practicing to be able to walk properly in them. They're Franco Visconti if that matters to you, and the colour subtley changes from dark brown to lighter brown as you go from the front to the back of the shoe. Truly classy, and meant for someone who isn't the same height as their spouse (i.e. me). Worn four times to various weddings and seriously upscale events, they're in great shape. (Taken! Claimed by Val)
These boots. I loved them. They have a classy seam up the middle, which I burst on the black pair, Incredible Hulk-style, at one of Turner's Planet Simpson events in Vancouver last year (it was month six of the pregnancy, when everything was seriously swelling like mad). They've been repaired, but you can see the new stitching. The leather is really, really nice, very soft. The brown pair are in great condition but could use some polish, and the black pair are great other than the repaired stitching. In Canada, these are super almost-all-season shoes.
This amazing pair of shoes was bought on Yonge Street at some shady leather store just south of Gerrard. They are SO COMFORTABLE. You don't notice the heel at all, and they can really fancy-up a pair of jeans. I am heartbroken at having to let these go. (Taken! Claimed by Carla)
To those of you who've known me a long time - you'll know full well that if I'm giving away all my shoes that there should be some 8-hole Docs hanging around that I can't wear anymore. ...Sorry, those aren't up for grabs. I've put them away for Sloane, when she's 15 and wearing all black, mad at the world.
Categories: Ash | Mom-ness
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Motherhood Telegram From The Amygdala
Now that I'm a mom, I don't take any risks. I was always a safe driver; I'm safer, now. We always locked the doors before going to bed; now I have to check them myself. I'm nervous that we're presently uninsured as the London Life people take their sweet time (elapsed wait: seven months and counting) processing our application for life insurance. I resent the greebly crack addicts hanging around the local Ramsay corner stores. I get frustrated that the police are hell-bent on handing out speeding tickets 3 days a week in front of the elementary school, while two blocks away the johns cruising 21st Ave for hookers just glide under their radar, so to speak. And all you assholes out there with snarling, scary dogs that jump at the fence when I roll past with Sloane in the stroller? Yeah, I hate you all. A lot.
But there's something else that came with becoming a mother, something more than the collection of these things, something more than just a heightened sensitivity to risk. Actually, it's a new state of affairs altogether. Something more pervasive, and calmly applicable to everything about me. Like a snowfall suddenly blanketing everything I am, somehow I'm afraid, now. Not in a worried, difficult, upset way. Just afeared, plain and simple.
...Or how's this: I'm cautious, very cautious. I'm zen about it (as much as you can be zen about fear): I understand that I am now supposed to protect myself because I must be there for my child. And I'm not sad about it, although being able to walk through our neighbourhood at night would probably help with my general fitness level, so I wish I could still do that, but still.
I'm glad that I did all the galavanting in my twenties. That I never wasted any time being scared of what might be out there to 'git me' in the dark corners and alleys. I was never held back by deserted subway platforms or needing to leave parties without a chaperone, or any of the other "what if"s that paralysed so many people. I was immune to it, somehow, and I am now so grateful for that long amnesty. Because it's clearly over.
Turner and I were talking about this the other night. In complete truth, I was never afraid, as a younger woman. I lived a pretty sheltered high school life: private school, with some tequila-drinking in the Eaton's Centre bathrooms downtown and donuts in borrowed cars on snowy nights at the local mall parking lot - your basic teenage bullshit. But overall, I had it really good. Bonavista was safe, and my parents enforced a solid curfew that got me home early on weekends. When I arrived at university I was suddenly surrounded by a safety paranoia I'd never encountered before. It didn't help that in 1991 all my female peers had spent the previous year living in the shadow of the serial murders of two girls our age by Paul Bernardo in southern Ontario. Furthermore, Kingston is the epicentre of the national detention system; there are 13 prisons within 30 km of Kingston, and as such plenty of weirdos were roaming the streets on day pass at any given time. So people were a bit edgy, especially the women.
But I walked by myself at night, for years and years. I didn't carry a whistle or a cel phone. I didn't call the walk-home service at university, and I didn't spend extra money on cabs if the streetcar was still running. I remember getting back to residence around 9pm one night in my first year, and being accosted by a girl on my floor: "Where have you BEEN?" she screamed at me. "You DIDN'T walk by yourself - tell me you DIDN'T WALK BY YOURSELF!" and then, looking me up and down: "Where's your fucking whistle?!" She was obviously a bit more sensitive than most, but she wasn't the only indignant lady student on campus; I was certainly in the minority in thinking I had every right to walk by myself without some weapon or noisemaker at the ready.
Don't get me wrong. I knew women who were attacked. I knew it was out there. It's not that I was brazen, or courting disaster. Simply put, I was certain I was safe. Completely, totally certain. You might think, "But Ashley, you're NEVER completely safe, you never know!" ...But, quietly, yes - I did know. Somewhere in me I knew I was not in any danger, period. I knew I wouldn't be robbed, I wouldn't be raped, I wouldn't be hurt. I didn't have to be afraid. Sure, maybe I was lucky. But I also had a thrumming certainty in my chest that I couldn't deny: Don't worry, you'll be safe, it said. In retrospect, that voice was right. Nothing truly bad ever happened to me.
There were certainly moments over the years where I protected myself. It's not like I was invincible - no. I walked hard down dark streets in boots and kicked at puddles to make myself look bigger and maybe a bit tweaky, I ducked into doorways during scuffles between drunks, and I raised my voice to call public attention to myself when necessary. I stepped out into traffic, I pretended to know police officers, I wasn't hesitant to create a distraction when I needed to get away. I grabbed strange women's arms and even when I didn't speak their language they always understood those help me eyes I gave them, glancing uneasily at whoever was making me feel watched, and pulling me into their circle of security: that necessary solidarity of women the world over.
The one time I truly felt scared on my own was in 1994, in Poland - Sean Nazerali and I had crossed the Ukraine border by bus earlier that evening and were on a stop to have dinner before continuing on to Krakov. After the meal I went down what seemed like 100 stairs to the basement, to the toilets. While I was in the women's loo alone, suddenly the lights went out with a click. I was two stories below street level, and I knew no one in the restaurant above would hear me. I was scared, really scared, for the first time. I pulled up my pants and in the pitch black, dropped to the floor, listening. ...Nothing. I waited. Crawled slowly, silently, under the cubicle wall and hunched under the sinks. Waited. Listened. ...Nothing. Felt along the wall, to the doorway, and turned the corner. I could see the silhouette of the stair bannister, faintly at the end of the hall, lit from the rooms above. Nothing between my door and there that I could see, so I ran for it. Took the stairs two at a time, all the way to the top. Just as I was getting to the landing, someone came around the corner, a waitress. She flipped the light switch at the top of the stairs and then headed down to the now-lit bathrooms. ...And it suddenly became clear what had happened: someone had come up the stairs after I'd descended, and simply turned off the light. No one had been coming to get me. No one had even known I was there. But now I knew what it was like to feel afraid, even though it had been only for a moment. It was awful, so ugly. I was so glad I was safe, instead.
Sure, over the years I had my boobs grabbed in crowds, I was pickpocketed at the Singapore airport (twice!), I've been in car accidents, and once I was even briefly taken hostage by an old, crazy Ethiopian man at the John Innes Community Centre on Dundas in Toronto (though the giant Sikh main desk volunteers made short work of that situation). So it's not like I've never been touched, pawed, played, or coerced.
But I was safe, overall, in a real sense. I knew it in my bones. So I got on airplanes by myself and went to the outer reaches of my universe - to Europe, to the Philippines, to India, by myself, and not afraid. I got an email from an old Korean friend in 1999, just before I left for South Asia: "You go, travel alone. I am surprised always of you. You braver than man!" It was a high compliment, from him. I went because I knew I could. But I also knew that I wouldn't always be golden, I wouldn't have this power forever. I grabbed the brass ring while it was there, dangling within my reach. And I am so glad I did.
Because now, I'm 32 and a mother, and suddenly I'm not safe like I was. I just don't feel that bubble of security around me anymore. I remember the tricks - joking with the mean drunks to turn them onside, crashing glasses down onto the closest available horizontal surface to punctuate the moment and make people think twice. I stick to the light and make the car doors honk with my remote when I'm coming back to my car in the dark. But the true immunity I had when I was younger - it's gone now.
Part of it, of course, is just growing up. Knowing my vulnerabilities, feeling my mortality. It's natural, I think.
But in part it's also because I'm not strong, anymore. At least, not on a discretionary basis. When I was younger I had a harness-able rage in me, an indignation that I was always able to tap into, whenever I needed it. Like, when I had to run those last two blocks to make a meeting on time, or when I had to pull a bookshelf up the stairs by myself because no one else was around. It would have made me strong and fierce and wild if I'd ever been attacked while walking alone. I always had a strength in me, something I never really needed to fully unpack, as it turned out. But I knew it was there: a physical surity of my own power that gave me a backup plan. If one time I was wrong, and it turned out I wasn't safe, I knew I could unleash an unholy shitstorm on whatever unlucky fuck tried to mess with me. In the Philippines I'd often walk by myself at night, sitting in the Sikatuna community bus shelters, writing by the light of the streetlamps and listening to the balut sellers call for customers out there in the gloom. My host families would always say Don't dooooo that! It's not safe! and I'd reply, Oh c'mon, lookit me. I'm twice the size of most men here. I feel sorry for anyone stupid enough to try to take me down. I would bash them good! And I woulda.
But now, I'm just not... strong. Not on a regular basis, anyway. I was always the girl who could move furniture by myself. I could bring in all the groceries on my own, I could lift the dog over fences, I was one of the first people chosen for murderball teams in gym class. But that's not me, anymore. Sometimes I forget, and I try to lift the coffee table by myself when I'm vaccuuming. And I'm always surprised: Oh, I can't lift this? What the hell...? But then I remember: Ah yes. The pregnancy. The baby. I'm a mom. It's just not there, anymore, not unless something happens to Sloane. I know I could tear someone apart if they touched my child, no question. But until that moment, I'm living my physical life humbled.
I said to Turner, I think that I used that strength in the labour. I think that's what it was for, all along: to get me through childbirth, and to protect Sloane now that she's in the world. Now that I've actually used it, fully pulled it forward and put it out there all guns blazing, I know the real purpose of that strength. And it's not for slinging soil in the garden or for re-arranging the bedroom. It's not there when I want it to be, anymore, just for random use, even when I want it to be. Feels like it has a single purpose, now, a single and sole point. And I wonder about that.
Sometimes I see terrible, unthinkable situations in my mind's eye, losing Sloane in accidents, awful incidents, horrible things, people forcibly coming to take her from me. If anything ever happens to her, to us, I need to have every ounce of my reserve strength so I can protect us, break their teeth and run away, fast. So I think that's why my power and strength aren't available to me on an everyday basis anymore, why I'm not safe, anymore. I can't go out walking by myself at night, because right now I have to keep myself safe for Sloane, and save that gunpowder strength for those terrible hypotheticals my brain dreams up. Because you never know, of course.
There's a hard-wiredness to this sense of danger, of caution. It's something that comes from the base of my skull. It's old knowledge, older than me, and wise. Like I say, sometimes I wish I was still immune to the fear. But my body knows different, so I wait, ready. But in so doing, I'm feeling more like a woman than ever before.
It's been... interesting.
Categories: Ash | Mom-ness
N! Nest!
Ash and Turner are padding around the kitchen, getting morning beverages ready: water, coffee. Doo-dee-doo-doo baby toy music in the background, accompanying Sloane's fist-mashing efforts on the singalong alphabet toy we got at the liquidation centre
T: [suddenly, in perfectly-matching singsong voice like the toy] N! Nest! ...We've been on that one for weeks.
A: Ha ha ha.
They head back to the livingroom, get computers up and humming. Turner starts back into the kitchen.
T: You want coffee this morning?
A: [really up an' at 'em today, possibly due to the barometric pressure drop of the incoming chinook] Oh YES PLEASE.
T: Oh... good. Just what we need this morning, everyone fulla beans. [in kitchen now] ...Aw SHIT.
A: What?
T: ... [sound of water running, various grunty Turner sounds as he grabs the washcloth from the sink]
A: Whaaaat? [craning neck around computer, looking futilely into dining area] Whaaaaat? What happened? What?
T: The... [wiping sounds] fucking... [sound of appliances moving across the countertop] coffee pot wasn't ...on the burner properly and there's coffee [more wiping sounds] ...everywhere.
A: [getting up, coming to kitchen, grabbing some paper towels, wiping up giant spilled puddle on floor while Turner works on the counter] ... ha ha ha.
T: What. What?
A: Ha ha ha. ...M! Mess!
T: You're a lotta help.
Categories: Married Life | Turner
Monday, December 05, 2005
Dreamy dreams
Ash and Turner are headed south down Blackfoot, en route to Douglasdale for Sunday family dinner.
A: Sooooooo. How are you?
T: Heh?
A: How are you, what's going on?
T: Nothing. Driving, here.
A: [looking around, bored] Sooooo...
T: This is trouble, I can feel it. Stop while you still can.
A: I don't know what you're talking about. I say, "How are you?" and you say, "I'm fine", and we have a lovely ride. See, but you have to parTICipate. Like, for example, I say "what's going on?" and then you proceed to tell me all sorts of interesting things. ...Ok, go.
T: [sighs. It's been a long and frustrating work day at Chez Bristowe Turner, even though it's Sunday. Turner's nerves are shot.]
A: [Looks out the window for a bit.]
Driving, still driving. Negotiating the Blackfoot south-Glenmore east-Deerfoot south ramps. And then:
A: Sooooooo. Um, so. ...SO! Uhhhh.... what was your bad dream about last night? I didn't get to hear about it. You were starting to tell me this morning but we got interrupted.
T: Ah... nothing. No - it, it was complicated.
A: Cinematic, you said.
T: ...Yeah. And... complicated. One of those complex ones.
A: Scary? Was it scary?
T: Well, not so much scary. Just...
A: Scary, right? Bad dreams are the worst, I know. [nodding vigorously]
T: ...
A: Was it snakes?
T: No.
A: Spiders?
T: No.
A: Sharks?
T: [sighs]
A: Hmmmmmm. It was sharks, wasn't it. Yep yep yep, I know those dreams. Scary! Hm hm hm.
T: [sighs]
A: ...Was it ...the one? where it's night? and you fall into a pool and the shark is way down at the bottom of the pool [makes fish swimming motions with her hands] sort of swimming back and forth all menacingly...
T: No.
A: Or? was it the one where there's the shark? and it's all, [makes claws with hands, opens mouth all wide, baring teeth] RAAAR! ...That one?
T: No. Lookit...
A: ...Or, or or or, or was it the one, where, the shark? It's in the water? And you...
T: Lookit, these are your scary dreams, you idiot! You're just bibbling nonsense at yourself, here. You're not even talking to me.
A: [miffed] Hm. You're a bad person. I'm just sitting here making conversation.
T: Uh huh.
They are passing the new "Deerfoot Meadows" big-box development where they filled in a perfectly nice wetland where deer used to graze and ducks swams and so on, so that Ikea and Linen's n' Things could have yet another colony in Calgary.
A: [pointing, poking the window] ...You see that? That "Deerfoot Meadows" bullshit there? I spent half my life there last night. That's where I went when I left to go shopping. I had a list, and I went to just about every bullshit place there. [Poking the window accusingly, now] And they didn't have any of the shit on my list. ...They didn't have the clear circle marbles I was going to make the fridge magnets with, and they didn't have the black puffy hangers. You know the sweater hangers? [Turner is ignoring her] They didn't have them. They just had white and beige, those fuckers. And while I was standing there looking at the hanger display, the basket I was carrying - you know those "please take a basket for your convenience" baskets? One of those - like, it BIT my jacket and took a chunk out of the exterior, under the arm, here: see? [lifting arm, pointing at the rip, trying to show Turner while he's driving. Turner doesn't look. Ashley keeps going] And I was like For The Love Of God, no black puffy hangers and now the fuckin' basket EATS my new coat. ...So you know what I did? I just put that basket down right there. None of that helping-out, taking-it-back-to-the-front bullshit for me. No no no. I just put the basket right down, right there near the hangers. Because, like, they didn't have the hangers I wanted anyway, so I wasn't going to buy anything. Especially after the basket BIT my jacket. Like, right!
T: Uh huh.
A: ...See, you could tell me interesting stories like that. You see?
T: [sighs] Truly rivetting, that one.
A: Ok. Your turn. Go.
Categories: City Planning | Married Life
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Sloane (and Rooney)'s Pictoral Week In Review: 37.0
Sloaner and Rooney are pals, especially around mealtime. It didn't take him long to figure out that she's a good source of fumbled dinner morsels, so he sticks pretty close whenever she's in the high chair.
While I was taking this photo we had the squirt gun at the ready - Rooney isn't allowed up on the high chair for obvious reasons. Just after this shot he made a break for the tray, and despite being gunned down with water from all directions, still managed to gobble up two big chunks of chicken before making a break for the back hallway.
Sloane's new pet is, in short, a terrible little beggar-thief, and he'll eat anything. The other morning I saw him dragging off a piece of pineapple that our girl had thrown on the floor, and he got his head stuck in a coffee mug the other day while licking at the dregs.
Our unrepentant Rooster.
Categories: Rooney | Sloane