Can anyone guess what I’ve been doing, based on my photos below?

There is a certain freedom I find when I know the responsibility is about to be shunted to someone else.  I become… reckless.  Irresponsible.  That giddy feeling of knowing someone else will clean up the mess is probably wrong, but it feels so right.

Until Murphy comes out and roundhouse kicks you in the olfactory gland.

Footloose and fancy free, I took Gwynn to the lake for swimming nearly every day this past week.  So what if he smells a bit too much like Lake Ontario?  It’s not my problem.  It’s hers.  A week from now, anyways.

His white socks are distinctly grey because I take him to the lake and then to the dog park?  Meh.  She’ll fix it.  I can put up with a bit more sand around the house for the next few days.

And then I took him to a different beach than usual… less gravelly, more sandy, therefore dirtier, but who cares?  I’m not going to have to clean up this mess.  That was Tuesday.

Gwynn had a blast.  I had a blast.  It was a beautiful day, Gwynn was working up his courage to get four feet off the ground admirably, and I was on the beach in the sun. It was so nice out that I figured walking down the beach would be a great end to the walk.

"Boo!"

Did you know that an old enough beaver corpse will lose all of its fur, while retaining its skin in a strangely mummy-like way?  It was like the biggest naked mole rat ever, petrified in a kind of a “BOO” position.  There are no pictures.  There are NO words that fully capture how horrific this thing was.  There is no way I can pass on to you the absolute screaming disgust of watching one’s beloved dog use Jabba the Naked Beaver like a Slip’n'Slide as he tries to coat his entire body with face-first slides, in rotten beaver.

Recall?!  What Recall??

There’s no competing with the Crypt Beaver.

With only a few days before a trip to a professional… I rinsed.  Washing a dog with soap twice in one week doesn’t exactly seem like it’ll solve Gwynn’s itchy skin issues.  What smell doesn’t go away with a good soak-and-towel?  Naked-Mole-Beaver.  Yeah.

Wednesday night, and we’re going to our very first Intro to Agility class, sporting Eau-de-Rodent-Corpse.  Baby powder helped, surprisingly, though it gave his coat a strange and greasy feeling.  That’s ok, though – Babies-n-Beaver is an improvement, and he’s getting groomed on Saturday.

Sufficed to say, it was a long week.It was all made up for, though, when I passed Gwynn off to the beauteous and highly talented Madame Groomer.  She accepted the dog whose stink of corpse was mostly overridden by a few days’ time, baby powder, and returned a svelte and sleek and much nicer smelling replacement.  He smelled better than roses.  He had white patches where his white patches are supposed to be!

The Before:

how could they expect to improve on perfection?

The After!

Well... this might be better... just a bit...

Still not sure where the stripping comes into play?  Gwynn has a wire coat – his outer coat is only loosely connected, and our Groomer Extraordinaire strips that away entirely, pain free, leaving his gorgeously fluffy undercoat.  It shortens his coat without changing its natural texture when the wire coat grows back in, which allows me to grow his coat out long during the winter without it getting ridiculously matted by being too soft and fine.  For all who were web searching for any combination of Naked, Beaver, and Stripping… well… you got ‘em!

Our instructors going through the process for making a paperweight

Our teacher, Minna Koistinen is a member of the Geisterblitz Glass Studio, an internationally renowned partnership of glass professionals, artists, and designers.  She has her own line of glass fine art, sold Canada-wide.  She makes glassblowing look effortless, like the most natural thing in the world is to swing a blowpipe just so to make that small lumpy piece of glass into a thin, elegant vase, all without setting anything on fire.

rolling our first blob of glass into coloured glass. Picking my colours was a huge decision! Please don't mix into each other and form some terrible shade of awful! Luckily, Minna and Andrea were there to give suggestions

Her assistant, Andrea, is apprenticing in the art form.   There are very few trades (or so it seems to me) that still use this as a means of instruction, but most art forms seem to need that time observing and helping out to really learn the techniques.  Especially when it comes to things like glass-blowing, where learning to get a feel for the material is a big part of determining just what it is you will make.

sticking that coloured-glass-coated-molten-glass through the glory hole into the hot furnace. Turning the rod more slowly or quickly will change the patterning of your coloured glass. Not turning the rod will ensure that your gob of glass decorates the bottom of the furnace. No-one did that, thankfully.

Minna walked us through the equipment we would be using, and then ran through each exercise, while maintaining a steady stream of comments and instructions for us.  She and Andrea helped each of us through the exercises, which is good because the minute I got the rod in my hands, the only thing going through my mind was a kind of dull roar of “MAKING GLASS!!!”, mixed with paranoia at potential death by fire.  Step by step instructions were enormously helpful!

you then go to the bench with your piece and use tongs to twist the coloured-glass-ball like taffy, focusing on trying to get all the coloured glass off the rod, and getting some interesting twists and patterns.

When you’re dealing with a material whose temperature starts off at a molten yellow glow above 2000 degrees Celsius, safety is a very important feature.  Even after it is cooled to the point of solidifying, the glass is still hot enough to cause severe burns and nerve damage.  Throughout the entire process, all I kept thinking to myself was Don’t Touch the Glass!

Minna dipped the newly gnarled glass back into the molten glass to coat it, and then we balanced our pieces by rolling the rod and letting the glass sink slowly until the roll felt smooth. Right hand under bum to resist the temptation to touch that half of the rod, or, worse, the glass itself.

I was a little bit concerned that I would do something that would cause shattering of glass, set something on fire, or just plain experience some of that terrifying nerve damage.  I am not exactly graceful.

Another distinct possibility was getting that oh-so embarrassing teacher feedback of “well, isn’t that… special.  I had no idea you could make that particular shade of brown out of such pretty starting colours of glass.”

tapping it off the end of the rod. Next step is to cool it very slowly in an oven, and then grind the jagged pieces where it was broken off the end of the pipe

We each made a clear-glass ornament by letting strings of glass slip off the pipe and swishing the stick around to create a pattern.  Next, we made paperweights (all the pictures show this), with coloured glass inside them.  All the movements that appear to come so naturally to Minna are considerably more difficult than they appear.   Focusing on not burning oneself while also keeping the rod turning to catch the molten glass that wants to slide to the floor, and following instructions – it’s all a bit stressful!  It’s also amazing.  As an art-form, I found glasswork to be a terrifying rush that I have never encountered while doing watercolours.  There’s the time-constraint of rapidly solidifying glass, the paranoia about catching things on fire* and the thrill of making something that will be completely individual to me, even if the next person makes the exact same moves as I do, uses the exact same colours.

All the coloured glass burnt red-orange when it was added to the original molten clear glass.  The art of glass blowing doesn’t end at the point of tapping off – the glass has to cool very slowly and evenly, or you risk it shattering, or, at the very least, cracking into pieces.  Yes, my other fear apart from fire was explosion.  The last I saw of our paperweights that day, they were orange-filled, despite the fact that only one of us actually put red and orange tones of glass into her piece.

A few days later when I went to pick them up… well… judge for yourself!

If you’re in the Toronto area, I highly recommend taking an afternoon to try Playing with Fire and make your own completely unique creations.  If you aren’t, but see something like it offered in your area, try it!

*the number of times I’ve mentioned it, you’d think I regularly accidentally set things on fire.  Not true, but the paranoia remains.  Also, word to the wise, do not put a muffin in the microwave for ten minutes.

what a strange circle of rocks... must be some sort of teleportation device...

Off to explore this new dimension... I hope there's bacon

the rocks here are much bigger... and disappointingly not made of cheese

Great view, but not really different from home. Oh well... to the portal!

This week on Write on Edge’s Red Writing Hood prompt, we were challenged to:

write a fiction or creative non-fiction piece about a time one of your main characters finds himself or herself paying back a debt–financial or otherwise.

This is a bit of a spin-off from the Which Witch storyline.  I liked a temporary character found in Shades too much to just get rid of her, so here she is, resurrected.

This image is by Artoftheoldschool on DeviantArt – you can get to their page by clicking on the cottage.  You’ll notice the cottage isn’t made of gingerbread.  Gingerbreading, also known as stick style, is only captured a little in this particular cottage, but I love the dark feel of it.  It looks like it could be located deep in the dark woods.  If you’re looking for more explanation of gingerbreading/stick style, I suggest google images.  Just ignore the ones made of gingerbread.

“You’ll be repaying me for that meal, surely?”

The siblings’ heads snapped up in surprise, the older girl automatically moving to shelter her brother.  Their faces were smeared with their guilt and gluttony, icing and crumbs and sticky sweet honey.

They quaked in fear, trapped against the gingerbread wall, the old woman blocking their escape.

The sunlight trickling through behind her gleaming through the rough chop of hair that escaped from under her head scarf and cast her face in shadow.

“Please, mistress, have mercy!” the girl quavered, tears welling in her blue eyes.

“Mercy for thieves?”  The woman’s voice was worn and cracked, the harsh caw of her derisive laugh echoing in the stillness.

The forest air was heavy with silence, devoid even of the constant background hum of insects.

“We was hungry,” the boy cried, wet lips sulky.  His ruddy cheeks were plump, the button holes on his shirt stretched tight by his rotund torso.

“Oh was you?” the old woman crouched down, her short-cut pants riding up to reveal grubby knees.  Out of the sun, her smile-creased face was revealed to the children, though her expression was grim and fearsome.

The children shrank back, the girls tears running faster, splotches of red marring her pale cheeks.

“We don’t have any money, Mistress.  Please!”

The woman’s weathered hands closed tightly on each child’s wrist and she hauled them to their feet with ease.

She cackled as she dragged them up the worn steps to the door.

“What use have I for money?”

The door slammed behind them with ominous finality, made more ominous by the old woman’s confidence in releasing her grip.

The boy rattled the knob, but to no avail.

“You’ll just make her angry!” his sister hissed, tugging his wrist.  They moved through the shadowy house, and found their captor humming as she stirred the contents of a steaming cauldron.

Without turning, the woman gestured with her spoon towards the corner of the room.  “Broom, mop and bucket, boy.  I want floors so clean I could eat off them.”

“Gregor.”  He tried to sound fierce.

The woman turned and raised one eyebrow.

“M-my name is G-gregor.  And sweeping is servants’ work.”

“Well, Gregor, I am the Witch Gretal Baer.  Broom.  Mop.  Bucket.”  She smiled wickedly at the way his face drained of colour.  He swept feverishly, as though speed of movement could save him.

The witch turned to the little girl.  “And you?”

The girl managed a wobbly curtsey.  “Hansine, Mistress Baer.”

“You will start by scrubbing the dishes and cleaning the counters.”  The witch turned back to the cauldron but was called away by a nervous throat clearing.

“Are you going to eat us?”  She quailed at the expression on the witches face.  “Only, the townspeople say you eat children.”

The swish of the broom stopped.

The witch Greta Baer smiled her most ferocious.  “If I am known for cooking up children, then why on earth would you eat a pie on my sill?”

Green-faced, the children rushed to their chores with vigor.

scan·dal noun \ˈskan-dəl\

1 a: discredit brought upon religion by unseemly conduct in a religious person

b: conduct that causes or encourages a lapse of faith or of religious obedience in another
2: loss of or damage to reputation caused by actual or apparent violation of morality or propriety : disgrace
3 a: a circumstance or action that offends propriety or established moral conceptions or disgraces those associated with it

b : a person whose conduct offends propriety or morality <a scandal to the profession>

I was baffled that the definition that would normally occur to me would be the third definition,  but I try not to look gift horses in the mouth.  Seriously – gift me with a horse, and I promise not to look it in the mouth.  I’ll be too busy squealing in delight and riding my horse.

Despite the fact that I didn’t need to write something related to religion (as in the first definition), it was immensely difficult to come up with an idea.  I wrote three different first paragraphs of boring and uninteresting scenes in the Which Witch plotline, along with one in the Necessary plotline.  Not pretty.

I turned to my sister, Doodle, to give me inspiration.  I would have almost thought she was already working on this particular plot, considering how quickly she came up with the idea (once I cleared up that I wanted a suggestion based on scandal, not just a suggestion.), and thought up some plot points for it.

The painting below is by Jenny Dolfen.  Click on the image to see more of her work.  It’s all got a great fantastical feel to it, and this one in particular is done in watercolour, which just blows my mind.  My attempts at watercolour look like a child’s fingerpainting that got soaked in the sink for a few days.  Some people get all the talent.

“Oh, my beloved Francesco!”

The dulcet shrieks of the elegant Lady Alfreda Moretti preceded the clatter of the lady’s slippers as she dashed across the cobbles.

Francesco gaped at the vision before him.

“S-signorina?” he stammered, cap knocked askew as she flung her arms about him.  He feared his secret being revealed.

She held him firmly in place as she showered him with kisses, far stronger than she appeared.

Francesco vaguely recalled having once bowed to the lady during an afternoon spent painting in her father’s beautiful gardens.

Sagging under the lady’s weight, Francesco looked desperately for help.

A nun walking by signed the cross and began uttering prayers.

His fellow apprentice, dubbed “The Fat Francesco”, when Maestro’s suggestion of “The Ugly Francesco” had been deemed too cruel, stared at them, frozen, by the fountain.  The look of horror on the boy’s face did nothing to improve his features.

“Signorina, please, I fear you are mistaken!”

The girl paused in her affections, moving one hand to clutch at his shirt front, fingers tucked into the linen wrapped under his shirt.

“You are Francesco, Maestro Alfeo’s apprentice?”

“Si, but-“

Lady Alfreda beamed with happiness.  “Then there is no mistake.  We made love by the willows on the night of the masque.” Her smile turned coy.  “You kept your mask on, naughty boy.”

She clasped his hands.  “I am with child.  We must beg my father at once to be married or risk scandal and ruin.”

Something of the confusion in Francesco’s eye must have sunk in to the vapid girl’s understanding because she released him warily, taking a step back.

“You compared me to a summers’ day in your poems!”

“Signorina.  That is the Francesco you seek.”

He caught her as she swooned, and passed her to her ill-favoured swain.

“A mask?”

The Fat Francesco shrugged sheepishly.  “Don’t tease me, Francesca.  I could have left you to be married.”

“Now that would have been an awkward wedding night!”

feel that breeze!

smell those flowers!

and look at that view!

There are some that suggest that people start to take after their dogs.

Appearance-wise, I would like to think I’m missing that particular sharing of attributes.  Habits are hard to break, though, which is why this weekend, the question I asked with most regularity was, “Anyone want to go for a walk?”

This weekend we headed out to Ottawa.  Without the dog.

The first time (apart from when he got fixed) that Gwynn was entirely separated from all persons in our family.  He stayed at the house, along with my good friend who has spent enough time at our house that you’d think Gwynn would stop barking at the door when she comes by.

walks without the dog mean... more pictures of random pretty houses... that happen to be in the exact opposite direction from where you were planning on walking. Clearly Gwynn has the sense of direction

It was… weird.  I woke up at the crack of dawn, jackknifed upright with a twinge in my back from the discomfort of having slept on a pull-out-couch mattress, hazily gathering my thoughts before gathering the clothes to meet public decency requirements, and remember.  Right.  Go back to sleep.  Or at least lie down on that godforsaken monstrosity until a more appropriate hour.

Would it be inappropriate to text home a gentle reminder about poop bags?

I held off texting until noon that first full day, barely.  Is everything ok?  Is the dog alive?  Are you alive?  Was he ok being left when you went to that Passover dinner?  Does he miss me?

Apparently paranoia is contagious, because my pet-sitter extraordinaire spent the second half of her dinner festivities anxiously checking the clock, and fretting.  Had Gwynn gone pee in his last trip outside?  What if he had to do his business?  What if he was dead?  What IF?!

a sign I saw in the ByWard market

We went for an early lunch at the Elgin Street Diner.  It was featured on You Gotta Eat Here, a Canadian food tv equivalent to Diners Drive-ins and Dives, so we were very excited to try their poutine.  It was glorious – so were the home-made baked beans (I split the Blue Plate Breakfast with my mum… and we had food leftover).  One thing I strongly recommend you do differently than us if you do go – don’t order a whole poutine for yourself.  My dad barely made it through half of his, and we didn’t eat again until after 8pm, and then it was just appetizers.  So – share your poutine, or accept the fact that when you’re done, it will likely look like you hadn’t started yet.

the ceiling. Seriously, when you're at this museum, remember to take the time to look up, throughout the exhibits.

After that, we went to the Museum of Civilization in Hull.  I can’t even express how much I highly recommend this museum.  We felt a bit like interlopers in the Childrens’ museum (a whole entertaining section of the museum), a surreal and hands-on series of rooms full of excitedly shrieking kids and their parents.  The rest of the exhibits are amazing, informative without being dull, and presented fantastically.  People with Children – your kids would enjoy the entirety of the museum, from the History of Canada exhibit (complete with giant boat, faux-outhouse, and a ‘guess that fur’ exhibit), to the Native American exhibits, complete with full warrior armour, shaman outfit, and replica of a dig site.  People without Children – you will enjoy this museum!

mop? dog? doesn't matter - it's happy to see you!

We arrived on Friday afternoon.  I dragged Doodle on a long pre-dinner walk.  Saturday, I got my fill of walking through a museum, and Sunday, we walked the By Ward market.  I got my fill of puppy there when I met the most delightfully adorable Puli dog and his owner who was kind enough to not be too alarmed when I just about ran her down on the street.  Pulis on google-images are hilarious and adorable.  On the street, they’re adorable, though given time, I’m sure he’d have been more hilarious than simply “I’m a mop”.  I dragged Doodle out for an early morning walk on Monday before we left, and hardly got home after the long drive before my most enthusiastic walking partner and I were headed out.

It was nice to have a bit more freedom to do indoor type things in Ottawa this time around.  Gwynn survived his four days without family, and so did my pet-sitter.  Overall, though, I think I prefer a vacation with the dog.

How do you deal with the change of schedule in vacations without dogs?  Do you embrace it?  Or is it time for a walk?

Head over to Trifecta to see this week’s prompt responses.  This week, the word is:

brain (noun)

1

a : the portion of the vertebrate central nervous system enclosed in the skull and continuous with the spinal cord through the foramen magnum that is composed of neurons and supporting and nutritive structures (as glia) and that integrates sensory information from inside and outside the body in controlling autonomic function (as heartbeat and respiration), in coordinating and directing correlated motor responses, and in the process of learning — compare

2

a (1) : intellect, mind <has a clever brain> (2) : intellectual endowment : intelligence —often used in plural <plenty ofbrains in that family>b (1) : a very intelligent or intellectual person (2) : the chief planner within a group —usually used in plural <she’s thebrains behind their success>

3

: something that performs the functions of a brain; especially : an automatic device (as a computer) for control or computation

It immediately brought to my mind the sentient ship books by Anne McCaffrey, so I went with that train of thought.  Let me know what you think!

The artwork below is done by Ozan Çivit, an illustrator and concept artist.  I love how this ship looks so organic – like some huge whale drifting through space.  Click on the picture to take you to more of his work.

The surface of the liquid crystal matrix before him shimmered with his every breath, sensitive to the slightest vibration in the air.

“Good morning, Ship.”

It quivered, melting into human features.

“GOOD MORNING ARKAM. I TRUST YOU SLEPT WELL?”

The hollow voice emanated from all corners of the room.

“Fine.” Arkam slouched and asked, “Any news?”

“SADLY, NO.”

Arkam knew that the computer generated voice couldn’t be modulated, but the mechanical brain sounded apologetic.

Too much time alone isn’t good for a man.

He nodded brusquely. “Any business?”

The ship cleared its throat uncomfortably. “WELL…”

Designed by humans to sound human, Arkam reminded himself.

“IT HAS BEEN SEVEN YEARS, TO THE DAY. AS PER ORDERS, I AM PERMITTED TO ASK ONCE A YEAR. PERMISSION REQUESTED TO JETTISON ALL EXTRANEOUS ORGANIC MATTER IN ORDER TO EXTEND LIFE EXPECTANCY OF LIVING ORGANISMS ABOARD.”

“They are living organisms.”

Dropping one by one into dreams, no symptoms, no warning. No desire to awaken.

“NO, SIR.”

Arkam looked up sharply.

He – it – looks … sad.

“ALL HIGHER ACTIVITY HAS CEASED. AS PER GALACTIC UNION DIRECTORATE ORDER ONE POINT ONE ZERO EIGHT, THEY ARE NO LONGER DEFINED AS LIVING.”

He bowed forward, palms scratched by the rough growth of stubble on his cheeks.

“All of them?” His voice cracked, his eyes burned.

“I AM SORRY. WE TRIED.”

“Life systems after jettison?”

“EIGHT POINT SEVEN FIVE YEARS, ADEQUATE TO REACH AN INHABITED SECTOR.”

Thirty thousand lost. Forever adrift in the dreams they sought refuge in.

“Without?”

It was just meant to help while away the time.

“A WEEK.”

Why couldn’t I plug in, too?

“Permission granted.”

He stood and turned away, shoulders hunched in pain.

The ship’s enormous face shrank down into a silvery human figure. It longingly reached out to the bereft man, silver fingers stroking the clear diamond of its prison.

“I WILL ALWAYS BE HERE FOR YOU, ARKAM.”

Softly spoken, the words didn’t reach past the doors that were already closing behind the lone man.