I went to a random park, which looked beautiful because no one had been there yet. So it was covered entirely in the most perfect blanket of snow. I love untouched snow. And Christmas trees.
Then I did something I’m really not proud of.
I gleefully kicked about and bounced around all over that perfect snow. It was so much fun! To put my signature on this “work of art”, I even used my footprints to write my name in the snow. But it completely ruined how beautiful it all was. And any photographers who came later would not be pleased (I stamped out my snow-name so they can’t track me down).
But I paid the price.
I ended up with fur-with-clumpy-snow boots (which completely ruins them) and snow went into my boots. And there is nothing worse than wet socks!
Then I lost my balance and fell backwards, landing right smack on my bum. My jeans were completely soaked and my bum felt frozen. I would put up a photo to show you but I don’t think parading a picture of my butt on the Internet is something you’d want to see. I might scar you for life.
Wet feet, wet jeans. Two very awful things. I’m telling you, the invisible snow police are real.
But I’d do it all over again (with proper snowboots and waterproofs).
We’ve had many days of endless snow and it doesn’t appear to be stopping anytime soon. In fact, the temperature dropped to -16°C last night and icicles formed under the car. No, seriously. Icicles.
For us non-four-wheel-drivers, driving is like a catastrophe waiting to happen. Skidding, sliding, twirling, skating a figure 8, a pirouette – the car has a mind of its own! Then of course, my car got stuck in the road. Idiots like me who have never been stuck in the snow before don’t realize that no matter how long you floor the accelerator, the car is not going to move. Soon I smelled burning rubber. Oh boy.
I got out the car. And stepped into this. Is it no wonder the car got stuck?
Let us take a moment to gaze in admiration at my favourite brown furry boots that I have owned for a million years but still love just as much and would never get rid of.
Ok, moment over.
I decided I could try pushing the car. After all, I’ve seen that work in movies. Apart from the fact that I am not Popeye and this was a really dumb idea to begin with, the car rolled backwards. Luckily, a kind gentleman – who saw me blundering about and walking circles around the car – stopped by to help me. He asked if the car was a front-wheel or rear-wheel drive. *blank look* Could be front, back, left, right for all I know. A stuck car plus pop quiz all in one day, what else is going to happen? In any case, he helped to push the car and I was finally unstuck. I thanked him as I waved goodbye and drove home.
And thanks to Google the Great, I found out my car was a front-wheel drive.
When we were younger, my sister and I (and mom too) desperately wanted a pet dog. My dad doesn’t like pets, so all the begging and pleading in the world was futile. But getting a dog was our solitary ambition, and we eventually wore him down after endless discussions and presentations detailing reasons we should own a dog. We were after all, perfect little “angels”.
We had no room to be picky about the breed of the dog (we would’ve asked for a Great Dane and probably try to ride it), and we brought back a little brown mix-breed puppy from my cousins house. Oh the joys! But we were now tasked with a very important decision: picking a name. Being a cute little brown furrball, I was adamant the puppy should be called Brownie. My little sister insisted on calling him Willy (after the Free Willy movie that she absolutely loved at the time). How ridiculous. Willy was a WHALE! A typical sibling bickery ensued. Thirty-four fights, fifty-two battles and a world war later, we were made to sign a peace treaty by my mom: we’ll use half of both names.
Wilnie, Winie, Browly or Brolly. Our poor first puppy. This was surely animal abuse. Neither of us would back down or give in. Finally, Brolly it was, and Brolly it stayed. And we loved him. He had a long and happy life full of mindless attention from two little girls smothering him with doggy treats and ball play.
Then we moved to the UK, and we wondered why everyone kept telling us to take a ‘brolly’ when it was raining. Turns out, ‘brolly’ was slang for ‘umbrella’. We had called our first ever dog “Umbrella” for the entirety of his lifetime.
Cooking has never been much of a success for me and offering to cook any meal would send my family running for the hills. My mom cooks fabulous mouthwatering food, but I evidently did not inherit that gene. She cooks food to perfection while I use smoke alarms as my timer. I have cooked food till it’s black and crispy, got smoke and soot all over our white cabinets in the kitchen, microwaved food in aluminum foil (which was a very very VERY bad idea), and baked cookies that could break your teeth. One thing to my credit is that my omelettes normally tasted quite good…after you picked out all the egg shells. Eggs ought to be shell-less.
But I have come a long way since then and I’ve learned a lot. For one thing, putting foil in the microwave sets off shooting lightning-like blue sparks before going ka-BOOM (don’t try this at home!). And if by any chance this happens to you, don’t just stand there thinking “Wow blue sparks! What a cool experiment!”.
I’m a much better cook now, though I still have lots to learn. So I decided to start a Recipes Section for the food I manage to successfully (or not so successfully) cook and also enjoy eating. For the most part, I try to cook as healthy as possible yet not compromise on taste and flavour. After all, diets don’t work and this is the only way to have your cake, eat it, and still fit into a bikini. I may have been a terrible cook who assasinated food but all of us have been through that phase, right?
“There is one thing more exasperating than a wife who can cook and won’t and that’s a wife who can’t cook and will.” ~Robert Frost
We used to have a cat in our previous house. He’s called Scottie. Well, technically, he wasn’t ours because he belonged to the neighbour. We just adopted him as our own because he ate and slept in our house everyday. He definitely loved us better by periodically bringing us gifts of dead birds and mice. Apparently that’s how cats tell you they love you. Why they think you would like the carcasses of dead animals I have no idea. Sometimes he plays with his food when he brings in live mice and that’s when we scream in horror.
And no, he doesn’t get his stock of live mice from anywhere in our house if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s an outdoor cat, wild but domesticated. And he eats too much.
He was big, he was fat, he was Scottie the fat cat. My dad doesn’t like pets so my sister and I were delighted to have him. And we loved him. We even called him Scottie Moh. But I’m not really here to talk about him. Onwards to my story.
I was once asked by a lady to give her very lovable 5 year-old son some English tutoring. Having starred as the son, Tam, in Aberdeen’s production of Miss Saigon, I knew that he was an extremely bright and intelligent boy. Almost too smart for me but I was so proud to teach him. I was now imparting wisdom to our younger generation, our next world leaders, our top experts in technology and innovation, the future of society as we know it! I’m getting ahead of myself.
In any case, he saw Scottie one day and was bridled with pressing questions. The conversation went something as follows:
“When is your cat going to lay eggs?”
I could barely contain myself from exploding with laughter at the cuteness that is the inquisitive mind of a 5 year-old.
“Well, cats don’t lay eggs. They have baby cats called kittens.”
“So when is your cat going to have baby cats?”
“Scottie can’t have baby cats sweetie; he’s a daddy cat. Only mommy cats can have baby cats.”
“So then when will Scottie have a mommy cat?”
“I don’t know, I suppose when he finds one. Though I think he’s quite happy on his own just now. But let’s finish up that page you’re on and we can take a short break, alright?”
(After a few minutes)
“Sharon?” *frowns with a quizzical look on his face*
Uh oh. “Yes? Are you stuck on something?”
“How does the mommy cat make baby cats?”
My mind froze. I wanted to defect to Haiti. Or participate in an expedition to catch the world’s biggest spiders. I would rather measure the rectal temperature of a cow. Well, not really. But I was not ready to talk about the “birds and the bees”, even if it is in reference to cats.
“The mommy cat’s tummy gets big, then eventually the kittens come out. Now finish your spelling and you’ll get your favourite jelly beans. Sound good?”
So I managed to wiggle my way out, even if it was with a dumb answer and candy temptation. The question was never repeated and I could breathe again. Whew. Who knew an innocent question about cats laying eggs could lead to a where-do-babies-come-from scenario. I should have told him to ask his mom. I will have my guards up next time, I will be better prepared. What am I saying, there will be no next time.
If my kids ever ventured to ask anything of the sort, their daddy can take their questions. While I sit and watch in glee as he squirms to answer them. With a big tub of popcorn.
And all this would never have happened if it wasn’t for the one and only Scottie. I still love you. And you are still the world’s best cat.