C is for Cookie, that’s good enough for me. Cookie, cookie, cookie, starts with C.

Cookie Monster

Death and taxes. At least death doesn’t come with paper work.

Tax form asks “Were you confined to a prison or similar institution for a period of 90 days or more during the year?” to which every parent in Canada replies “Define similar institution.”

Also, to the wife: “…is Ryan dependent upon you because of a mental or physical impairment?” which raises interesting questions about the nature of love, and attraction, and possibly sexual deviancy, but ultimately the answer is no.

Its 4:30 am, do you know where your raccoon is? It’s on my roof eating frozen death from my garden hose, that’s where. Ryan 1, raccoon 0.

After a bit more sleep, I climbed onto the roof to see the damage. That ring tailed bastard ate through the vent pipe flashing!

Being on the roof reminded me just how much I dislike being on the roof. Therefore hiring somebody to fix The Bastard’s handy work on the vent flashing. Probably.

A young couple asked me what it’s like raising children. I told them every day was like living a sci fi fantasy epic. The 2 year old is goose stepping around the kitchen island with a bath towel on her head yelling ZOMBIE! over and over and over. The 4 year old, who has totally conquered the child locks on the junk cupboard and is entertaining a spectacular sugar high, is running circles around her, buck naked, and screaming at the top of her lungs, because omg zombies. Also, she’s a rocket ship. The baby is sitting in her high chair, wide eyed, and thinking faint past life memories that were a lot like this, but not really, and possibly with more Mardi Gras beads, and whatever where is my chewy thing, nom nom nom. That was Tuesday evening, roll credits, fin.

The old cat has a psychological prowess. A way of the mind. An uncanny ability to motivate bloodless ends to misdirected mice who find them selves inside this house. And so it is, that I find myself thinking I should feel badly for the mouse who just now went scurrying across my basement floor. Is a breaking of the mind not a far worse torment than claws and teeth? Can she not just crush it’s skull and be done with it? The horror! Yet it is too late for these thoughts, for the game has already begun. See? A calm blankets the old girl. She looks to be napping, but no – she schemes. THE HUNT IS ON.

True story. While signing Kid A up for school today, a girl walks into the office and asks the admin for the key to the dungeon.

I like this place.

I’m quite proud of the senior cat box I made last night out of a large Rubbermaid storage bin. The door is low to the floor for no effort access, tall sides keep wayward fannies on target, and there’s enough room for a litter free zone for those times she doesn’t feel like digging. Also a night light. If she doesn’t use thing, I will.

First off I’d like to congratulate all of you on yet another fantastic End of the World! The circumflexing of the poles was imaginative, and it really felt like a millennia of burning, hateful torment. Good job, Mayans! On to business. The multiverse rebooted as expected and on time at 12:01 AM, with minimal data loss. Unlike the last End of Days with those nutty fundamentalists. Those guys had no respect for schedules, am I right? Or foliage colour for that matter. And I’m pretty sure one of them stole my coffee cup. One item of note regarding this reboot – if you’ve travelled Route 5 in Argentina during the last few decades you may experience some missing time. That’s considered normal, just forget about it. haha. See you all at the next Apocalypse! Thanks everybody!

Kid A and I transplanted 4 birch saplings on the weekend. During which, I did that thing to my back that makes me mildly grumbly whenever I use it, I broke 1 shovel handle, Kid A got a wet foot, and I’m pretty sure as of this morning that one of those saplings isn’t a birch tree after all. VICTORY!

Sometimes when you are adventuring you get a wet foot. It doesn’t mean you have to stop adventuring, it just means you have a wet foot.

We’re chained to the world and we all gotta pull.

Tom Waits

Regardless, I like it.