Black and White Project: Week 13

Wordless Wednesday: Random Montreal, Part 2

Black and White Project: Week 12

and Edwin, the cat.

We named him after a pig's pet in a children's story, but we usually called him, simply, "Ed."

As a young kitten, he tore around our house with more energy than our two young daughters, combined. When he started sinking his claws into our fabric-covered furniture, I swore that we needed to get rid of him.

I threatened, half-heartedly, that if one single nail touched my favourite leather sofa, I would kill him myself. Over time, though, he settled down and became the gentlest, most loving cat I have ever known.

After Edwin passed away, on Tuesday, after a short-lived but aggressive illness, DW and I talked about the memories we shared, and about how we would never forget him. As soon as she, the kids, and I returned from the veterinary hospital (I hate that hospital: I've now taken two cats there but have left without either), DW sat down at our computer and wrote the following tribute on her Facebook page. With her permission, I'm sharing it—mostly, because she put her thoughts on that page so well; but also, because there was very little that I could add, myself...

Today, it is with deep sadness that we say farewell to our family cat, Edwin. We are grateful that his illness was not prolonged, and that he enjoyed a great quality of life.

We picked Edwin out at the Ottawa Humane Society almost 13 years ago—a four-month-old kitten that had just been separated from his brother and was completely hoarse from his cries of protest. I fell in love with his velvety black fur, his sorrowful voice, and the light and energy in his green eyes.

It took a while to come up with a name. The kids were 2 and 4 years old at the time, and we were reading picture books every night. It wasn’t too long before we decided on the name Edwin, directly out of one of our picture books, Ian Falconer’s book, Olivia.

Edwin was a rambunctious kitten, but we planned to keep him indoors, like our previous cat, Leo. Edwin had other plans. He’d clearly been outside before, and every time we opened a door, he was out like a shot. He garnered the nickname “Fast Eddy” from our neighbours, Marc and Vicki, who would cat-sit from time to time.

Edwin was a neighbourhood cat. Most of our neighbours knew him well, as he made his way along the top of the back fences, visiting his cat friends, catching mice, and sadly, despite the bell on his collar, the occasional bird. The starlings near our house would heckle him and I’ve witnessed a full-on dive-bomb. He didn’t seem very territorial so he got along with most of the local cats (more of a lover than a fighter). Our neighbours have told us tales of his adventures, intervening on behalf of a fellow cat in need. He once fended off a large cat who was closing in on our neighbours’ leashed cat. Another neighbour told us that he defended his small female cat from another large cat that would come and pick fights with her.

Can a cat be a “gentleman”?

Edwin loved to be near people—the neighbourhood kids, visitors, and our family. He was never a lap cat but stayed close, and liked to cuddle beside me in bed in the morning, purring (better than any alarm). He knew when you weren’t feeling well and would stick by your side until he knew things were looking up.

His purr was unbelievable—you’d think there was a large truck outside. He was a cat of few words, meowing only when he had something specific to say, “I need out now. NOW!”, “Hey, I could use some more food,” “Let me in...pleeeease.” And if the cat equivalent of a firm handshake is a knockout head-butt, Edwin had that down, too.

He was beyond special to us. He was one classy fella, and we will miss him dearly.

Edwin was surrounded by his loving family, to the very end. DD14 held a paw, would not let go. He licked one of her fingers, seemingly trying to calm her, to try and alleviate her tears. He purred until his very last breath. 

Wordless Wednesday: Random Montreal

Dining In The Dark

I wasn't sure if this was going to work. Not with one over-energetic and one anxious teenager.

My kids like predictable situations, ones that come without surprises. When DW and I try to introduce new foods, new travel destinations, or new activities, the initial reaction from our daughters is a resounding "No."

On the first evening that we arrived in Montreal, last week, we took the kids to a familiar dinner spot. It's pretty hard for anyone in our family to say no to pizza, and when you're staying a short walk from the best pizza place in this city, Il Focolaio, it was a unanimous "Yes." Luckily, this time, there was no waiting—there's often a line out the door and around the corner—and we were seated right away.

Everyone was happy. This is a restaurant we visit almost every time we're in Montreal.

On the next day, we spent a lot of time walking around the downtown core. We were exploring options for universities for the girls, even though we really don't need to start for DD17 until this summer and DD14 won't be going anywhere for another four years.

But we arranged a tour for the following day, at Concordia, for DD17, and had already set up a tour of the Schulich School of Music, at McGill University, for DD14. In between, we wandered the Eaton Centre, for shopping, and the downtown streets, for me, to take random snapshots (which I will share this Wednesday). Nearly 15,000 steps later, I was tired and had no idea of where to take our kids for a bite.

DW searched MTL Blog for fun places to eat, and after seeing the first recommendation, she passed her smartphone to me. I read it and was also fascinated by the first option, but didn't know if it was the right place to take the kids. Maybe, I thought, DW and I would make a trip on our own, in the spring, and check it out.

I read the other top recommendations, stopped on a restaurant that was featuring cabaret shows with the meal, but wasn't sure if any of us had the energy to listen to loud music: on that night, the show was full-on Flamingo dancing.

We talked some more about the first option, and finally decided to give it a try.

As expected, DD14 put up a resistance to the menu. "There's nothing that I like," she said, dismissively.

We were sitting in the bar area of the restaurant, which was also the staging area, so to speak. Old filament-styled bulbs, that are trendy at so many restaurants, hung from the ceiling over the bar and some tables. Candles burned at tables, which could seat about 16 to 20 people.

I pointed out an option on the menu, something that I had already decided upon. "They have a shrimp dish with pineapple and rice." I knew she loved shrimp and pineapple, and she agreed to order that. DD17 and DW ordered an appealing salmon filet. Each dish would also include a mystery vegetable.

The menu was set for either two or three courses, and we opted for the former, with a main and dessert. DD17 and I went for the chocolate mousse: DD14 ordered the sorbet, and DW went for the mystery dessert to complete her meal.

When we ordered, we were also asked about any food allergies, and I laid mine out, as they are extensive. Throughout my meal, our server, Rodrigo, teased me about apples. DD14 voiced her allergy of hazelnuts, and our orders were complete.

From this staging area, we were led to our table. And here's the part of our dining experience that I've left off: we were going to be eating in total darkness.

Onoir Restaurant & Bar
124 Rue Prince Arthur East
Montreal QC

When our table was ready, Rodrigo told DW to place her hand on his shoulder. I placed my hand on hers, and the girls followed suit. We entered a dark room and then went through a second, in utter blackness. We were led to our chairs, asked to sit, and to pull our chairs and ourselves as close to the table as possible. Rodrigo told us that it was important to stay seated and to keep our chairs in place, so that he and the other servers did not bump into us with food or drinks. He had us feel the table surface, to acquaint ourselves with where our cutlery was.

Ahead of us was a small dish, holding individual servings of butter. We were asked to keep that plate in place. When we were brought our drinks, we were told to place the glasses immediately to the right of the butter plate and to never leave anything on the placemats.

If we needed Rodrigo for anything, we were to simply call his name: if he did not acknowledge us right away, it meant that he was out of earshot. At most, he would be away for a minute or two. Only once did we have to wait more than a few seconds for him to appear.

At one point, we were talking about the decor, which we couldn't see. I guessed that the table cloth was black, to maintain the darkness. Others at my table guessed red or even white.

"The next time Rodrigo comes to our table," I suggested, "we'll ask him."

Immediately, Rodrigo spoke up. "Ask me what?"

Service was impeccable.

DW and the kids said that even though there was no visual difference between eating with their eyes opened or closed, they seemed to feel more disoriented when they closed their eyes. I ate with my eyes closed for about half of the meal, and noticed no difference. But one thing was certain: all of use were enjoying this unique dining experience.

The shrimp were enormous, tender, and while not fresh, delicious. The rice was perfectly cooked, and the pineapple was sweet and juicy. DW and DD17 said the salmon was excellent but difficult to eat without sight, as the flakes often fell off their forks.

The mystery vegetable seemed a bit of a challenge. At first, I thought it was carrot, but there was something more to it. At one moment, I suggested rutabaga, but DW said "definitely not." It wasn't bitter enough to be that rutabaga. I said that if it wasn't rutabaga, it had to be carrot.

It was rutabaga.

Have you ever eaten chocolate mousse in total darkness? It isn't easy. I would be confident that I had some on my spoon, only to find the spoon empty when it reached my mouth. DW touched a lot of her food, but the kids and I were determined to avoid that.

We weren't animals: we were doing some fine dining.

We talked, we laughed. Not once did we look around to see what others were doing. Not once did we check our smartphones or watches (we were asked to turn off all light-emitting devices before we were led into the dining area).

The best part was that everyone had a great time, including our picky kids.

"Would you do this again?" I asked them, as we were finishing the meal.

DD17 said that she would love to come back with some friends.

DD14 said that she'd never do it as a blind date. "It would be great for a blind date if you were brought in separately," I said. "You are forced to talk, to learn about each other's interests. If you get along and enjoy yourselves, what does it matter how you look?"

The meals weren't cheap: for the two-course dinner, it was $35. Add drinks, taxes, and tip, and you are over $200 for four people. But for dinner with the family, where there were no distractions, with delicious food and great service, it was totally worth it.

We'll be back.

When we returned to our hotel, DW checked Facebook and learned that some of our friends from Ottawa had been dining at Onoir at the same time as us.

"Funny, we didn't see you there," is the comment she posted.

Black and White Project: Week 11

Pushing My Luck

It took a long time for the drugs to kick in.

With the first round of steroid injections for my feet, the reaction was quick. I received the shots in an operating room, with a surgeon, an assistant, and two technicians in a sheltered room. A live x-ray showed everyone the best place to inject the pain killer.

The level of osteoarthritis in both feet is quite severe, so precision is paramount.

Two days after those first injections, I arose from bed and, for the first time in decades, I felt absolutely no pain. Nothing. Not even those initial effects of stiffness. It was as though I was in my late teens again, able to do anything.

I was so happy that I nearly cried.

But the relief was short-lived. While I was told, before entering the operating room, that the steroid shots could last as little as six weeks or as long as six months, or could not work at all. By the seventh week, I could feel a bit of stiffness return and, by the eighth week, the drugs had completely worn off.

It was depressing to return to a state of constant pain. And because the pain was at 100 percent at the eighth week, I discovered just how much pain I had been enduring over the decades. It was significant.

I had to wait a minimum of three months between injections because that was the margin of safety for such a drug. As it turned out, I had to wait 12 weeks—after the drugs wore off—to receive my next appointment.

The pain was bad: I managed it with heating pads, creams, acetaminophen, ibuprofen, codeine, and alcohol. And any combination thereof. When my appointment was postponed by a week, because of a fire at the hospital, I almost cried, almost wanted to jump into a fire.

Lying on the operating table, I told the surgeon that the first round of injections had only lasted for eight weeks. She told me that she could double the dosage, which would be the maximum dosage that could be safely injected. But even though she could increase the amount of steroid, there was no guarantee that it would be any more effective.

We rolled the dice and crammed as much of the drug as would fit in the narrow crevasses of my feet.

Two days later, I arose from bed, hopeful that these new injections would take the pain away, much like the first round. But it wasn't to be. My feet were as stiff and sore as any other morning, and by lunchtime, my feet were in more pain than before I walked into the operating room. I spent the rest of the day, sitting in a chair with my feet elevated, watching programs on Netflix.

The pain persisted for two weeks. In that time, I went through a dark time, not being active, thinking dark thoughts, looking for that bridge that could end all of my troubles.

But then, gradually, the pain subsided. When I found a comfortable pair of shoes, the pain all but vanished. It wasn't a complete suppression of aches, but on a scale of 1 to 10, in terms of severity, I went from 11 to 2 or 3. On a good day, the pain measured a measly 1.

I gained confidence, walking more, taking up a spin class, and, last weekend, braving the slopes at Mont Tremblant, spending a day of skiing.

That's when I pushed my luck.

When you ski, your feet are clamped into tight boots that have absolutely no give, and that's a good thing if you want to maintain control while your body hurls down a steep slope. When I put on my ski boots, I feel a bit of pain when I wiggle my feet into place. But once I'm clamped in, I don't feel much.

Before, I could ski until my arthritis reached its limit. With the injections, I hoped that the drugs would keep that pain at bay. And, in truth, they did.

But what I forgot, while on the slopes, was that I also suffer from a degenerative foot disease, called Kohler's. And although I had reconstructive surgery in my 20s to correct my right foot, my left foot remains untreated. I still have a pressure point in my left foot, where the Kohler's disease can cause me the most discomfort: it's on the upper side of my instep, right where my foot meets a pressure point in the ski boot.

When I cut a right turn on my skis, I lean in on my edges and my foot presses hard against the boot. While ski conditions at Mont Tremblant were near perfect, there were a few spots where there was bare ice and deep snow. On the ice, I had to cut especially hard, but I also turned hard in deep snow. All of these turns pushed my foot, at it's most tender spot, against an unyielding boot.

For the first couple of runs, I felt nothing. I was in high spirits, thinking that I was going to have a good day of skiing. But by my third run, I could start to feel a bit of pain where the Kohler's resided. Nevertheless, I continued to ski.

By the time I had a half-dozen runs, the pain was significant. Also, my quad muscles were starting to tire, as I haven't been exercising as much as I had. Not having been on a bike in a long time had its price. And, skiing down one run at Mont Tremblant was the equivalent of skiing anywhere from three to six runs at the ski hills in the Ottawa-Gatineau area.

By noon, I felt that my legs could hold up for another run, and the pain in my left foot was substantial. Even sitting still, I could feel the throbbing in that spot. We decided to stop for lunch, and give me a rest.

The pain in my foot eased, a bit, but I knew that as soon as I was back on my skis, the pain would return to full strength. "I'm done," I told DW and DD14. The trouble was, we were having lunch at the peak of the mountain, and we had a long ski ahead of us to get to the bottom of the village.

I seriously considered riding in the gondola to get down the slopes, but that's not how I really wanted to end my day. I decided to do just one more run.

We got about two-thirds down the hill, when we came to a small cable car that had reached its terminus: it had started at the top of the Tremblant village. I stopped and told DW that I would ride this car down, and maybe ski the short distance to the base of the village.

By the time we got down, I decided that I was spent, and we walked to the Cabriolet, and were carried to the base.

I spent as much time, for the rest of the weekend, off my feet. Even today, I can feel where my foot pressed against my boot. If I press lightly on the tender spot, I still experience pain. But it's slowly subsiding and my arthritis doesn't seem to be affected.

I pushed my luck, but I think it was worth it. I don't want my feet to hamper my quality of life. I still want to be able to be active. And, when I finally have my surgery, in conjunction with working steroid shots, I thing that I can return to a somewhat normal life.

Still, I have more day passes for Mont Tremblant. I may suck it up and do it again.

Wordless Wednesday: Final Throws of Winter

Election Woes

Great, Ontario PCs, just great.

You had to go and fuck things up. Has what is happening in the United States not taught you anything?

The Americans have a person in the White House who is unqualified, uneducated, and self-serving. He is a polarizing populist who is tearing his country apart. Given the opportunity, he would start World War III.

Very few Ontarians like Kathleen Wynne and her Liberals, and many who, in the past, have supported her party, are having a tough time wanting to support her again.

I'm one of those people.

I voted Liberal in the last Ontario election because (and this is no surprise) I usually vote for the Liberals, but most importantly, I voted Liberal because the then-leader of the Ontario PCs was Tim Houdak seemed to be a bumbling moron who got his facts wrong, was too socially conservative for my liking, and seemed to run a campaign on fear and misinformation.

I wasn't happy with the corruption that seemed to be underlying the Liberals, but by voting for Wynne, I was hedging my bets for my riding, was trying to ensure that the PCs wouldn't get in.

I haven't always voted for the Liberals. In 1990, I was one of the many who became disappointed with David Peterson, especially when he called for an early election, at just three years into his mandate. At the time, there was a new, unknown leader of the PCs, some Mike Harris, and a veteran politician, Bob Rae, of the NDP.

I voted for Rae. Let's face it: it would take a radical change of my values to vote for a conservative party. And anyway, my values lean more toward New Democrats than even the Liberals.

I even voted for Rae in 1995, though by then it was pretty clear that his party wasn't going to win another term. It's too bad, really. I liked Bob. I still respect him to this day, even though he's now left the political scene.

Shortly after the last elections, I had my misgivings about voting Liberal, and as the years have passed, I've been thinking that this left-of-centre party has become too settled, that Ontarians have been paying too much for electricity and for insurance, and it's time for a change.

But it's not time for Doug Ford. It's never time for Doug Ford.

For the last couple of months, I've actually taken a bit of twisted delight in watching the Ontario PCs slowly implode. The sexual misconduct allegations against Patrick Brown, followed by the in-party finger-pointing, and then his expulsion from caucus.

When the leadership race was announced, there was no surprise that Christine Elliot had thrown her hat into the ring. This was her third attempt to become the leader of her party. There was an unknown candidate, Tanya Granic Allen, a candidate that was known for her (in)famous father, Caroline Mulroney, and then there was Doug.

Bumbling, classless, loud-mouthed Doug.

Doug likened himself to Ontario's Trump, and he was proud of that claim. Even though Trump's base has shrunk, his popularity was diminishing, Ford wanted to be our Trump.

I truly hope that Ontarians are smarter than those who voted for Trump, and put the good of our province over their loyalty to a party. If we want to make Ontario great, we must shy away from anyone who says that he alone can make life better.

Because Ford has become the Ontario PCs' new leader, he's fucked up my plans. I wasn't going to vote Liberal, this election. I was going to follow my heart, let the Liberals know that I'm loyal to my values, not to a party, and vote for Andrea Horwath. I've liked her for years, but felt that in my riding, her party was a long shot. But with the Liberals losing support and the PCs in disarray, I thought that this could be the chance for the NDP to make inroads in my riding.

And now, with Ford leading the PCs, I can't trust that he'll lose. I thought Trump wouldn't win.

I have to vote with my head.

Everyone: please vote with your head.

The Future of Blues is Secure

It is beyond words, how wonderful it is when a successful musician and his band take time and effort to help out young and upcoming musicians in their pursuits to reach the same pinnacle of success.

That is just the sort of people that JW Jones and his band are.

For a couple of years, the Juno-nominated Blues artist (his bassist, Laura Greenberg, won the 2017 Maple Blues Bassist of the Year award) has gathered musicians, aged 13 to 18, to show their stuff and perform along side him in his event, #613FutureBlues. Yesterday was the second year that my young drummer, DD14, auditioned and was invited to play.

Irene's Pub was full of proud parents and supporters. We heard a young vocalist, three outstanding guitarists, and a total of seven drummers. JW told me that it's usually a challenge to find more than a couple of drummers (I think that last year, there was only one other drummer than my kid), and this time he was flush with them.

All of the kids come with different levels of experience, and the pressure can be intense. I doubt that at their age, I would have been willing to play my trumpet in front of a crowd, alongside such a powerhouse as JW Jones. You have to hand it to them for gathering the courage, controlling their nerves, and prevailing.

It was also great to see how well DD14 has progressed. Last year, when she performed for #613FutureBlues, JW had provided her with links to three YouTube videos. She had only a couple of days to listen to the music and copy the beats. She was nervous, had never met JW Jones before and had no rehearsal time. She didn't know what to expect, but she pulled it off wonderfully.

This year, JW sent her one song, and she was a little more relieved. Memorizing one song was easier than memorizing three. After JW and his band warmed up the crowd, they called DD14 as their first young guest. She played the song, "I Get Evil," brilliantly.

As she was about to get up and leave the stage, JW told the audience that she would play another number with the band. He walked up to her and told her to play a shuffle. That was it.

I can't imagine how nervous she was.

The band invited another young musician to the stage. His name is Lee, and my daughter played a number with him last year. He's amazingly talented: I can only imagine how good he'll be in a few more years.

Here's the last couple of minutes of that number. Remember: DD14 had no idea of what the song was, had never played it before.

Thanks to JW Jones and his great band for this opportunity.

Black and White Project: Week 10

Throwback Thursday: Snorkeling in Thailand

When I pulled off my mask, I didn't expect anyone to scream out in horror.

"I'm not a monster... this is how I was born," I was tempted to say.

I felt the warm liquid running down my face, and I wiped it away, dismissively. It was only when DW pointed to the puddle of blood, on the deck of the boat, under me, that I paused. I had no idea how the mess got there.

"When you took your mask off," DW explained, "a fountain of blood shot out of your nose."

I had felt nothing.

We had been snorkeling off Krabi, near Chicken Island, named after the shape of the skyrocketing limestone, like a neck, and a bulb on top, like a head with a beak. At one point, I had been following a group of rainbow fish, my flippers propelling me lower, to maybe three or four metres, and I remember feeling my ears pop from the pressure, but it was no worse than what I've experienced high above the clouds, in an airplane.

The suction of my mask was strong, but to me, that was good. No seawater seeped inside, stinging my eyes. But when I pulled it off my face, the pressure was released and the blood shot out in one violent burst.

One tablespoon: maybe two.

Enough to make a stranger shriek.

This photo was from that day, after I washed away the blood, after we moved away from Chicken Island and on to where we pulled onto another island, for lunch.

No further blood was shed on that trip.
 

Red Shoes Diary

Trust me: this post is safe for work.

If I had been paying attention, I would have never bought them, would have never even tried them on. It was through sheer negligence that they left the store with me.

When I shop for shoes, I have to be careful about what I put on my feet. With my Kohler's Disease and acute osteoarthritis, I need firm support. The sole cannot bend, must keep my flat feet flat.

My choice of shoes has been largely Rockports and Merrells, with the occasional New Balance or Brooks. As long as, of course, the sole is firm, the bed doesn't bend.

When I lived in South Korea, I discovered a pair of brown-leather, casual walking shoes, by Skechers. The solid, gummed soles guaranteed good support, and the cushioned bed made for a soft feel on the foot. When I wore these Skechers, my feet felt supported and I could go a little longer in the shoes before my feet called it a day.

These shoes were so comfortable, I bought three pairs. Because they were made in Korea, the price was about one-third of what I would pay in Canada, so it was a no-brainer. The shoes lasted me more than 10 years.

When these shoes finally wore out and I had to find replacements, I found that the Sketchers that were in the Ottawa shoe stores weren't as supportive as their Korean counterparts. For one thing, I could bend the shoes substantially—a sign, according to my doctor, that indicated a lack of support where I need it the most.

And so, I stopped looking at this brand and focused on the Rockports and Merrells.

A few weeks ago, I was shopping for boots for DD16, when I saw some nice-looking walking shoes in the men's footwear section of a Bell's Corners store. We had shopped here for years and I had bought most of my shoes and boots at this establishment since we discovered the store. My last few pairs of indoor walking shoes, in particular, had been very comfortable.

The walking shoes caught my eye, and I noticed that they had been made by Skechers. Without thinking, I picked up a pair and tried to bend them.

They didn't budge. I saw another pair, in a different colour, and performed the same check. Again, the shoes held firm.

And then I saw them.

The colour jumped out: a bright red upper and white sole.

I found a box, in size 9, and tried them on. They felt extremely light on my feet: the soles were cushioned and the bed felt like I was walking on pillows. I laced up both shoes and walked around the store as DW helped DD16 try on a pair of waterproof winter boots.

Before I had tried on the shoes, my Merrill hiking boots had been starting to hurt my feet. The recent round of steroid injections, to mitigate the pain of my arthritis, were not 100 percent effective. With the red Skechers, the pain was all but gone.

"I'm leaving with these shoes," I told DW. "I don't care how much they cost."

At home, I wore the red shoes around the house, all weekend. I was reluctant to run other errands because I didn't want to take the shoes off and I didn't want to wear them outdoors.

On Monday, I carried the shoes to work and wore them in the office. People's eyes were drawn to my feet and a few of them even commented. "Wow, those are bright!" "Nice shoes!"

By the end of the second day in the office, I noticed that my feet were feeling great. I was reminded of when I received my first injections, when they settled in and I had experienced zero pain for the first time in about 30 years.

At the end of the second day, as I was removing the shoes to go home, I marvelled at how light the shoes were, balanced one on my hand, and, before putting them in my bottom desk drawer, I did something that I discovered that I hadn't done when I first picked up the shoe that was on display, in the store.

I bent the shoe.

The tip of the toe curled around, nearly touching the heel. There was absolutely zero resistance, much like what you can do with beach flip-flops.

Had I tried that little trick in the store, I would have put those beautiful, red shoes back on the shelf without giving them a second thought. I would have also missed out on wearing the most-comfortable shoes since those older Skechers from a store in Seoul, South Korea.

It's the red that kills the pain. I'm sure of it.

Running Water

She comes at a gallop, scurrying past your feet. One hop onto the covered toilet; another, onto the marble counter. She stops, her two striped forepaws into the sink as her head bends downward, to drink.

Whether the faucet is still running, or not, makes no difference. She's not afraid of getting wet.

Sometimes, when the sink isn't running, when there's no water to be found, she still can be found in the sink. One time, I entered the ensuite bathroom, my bathroom, to find her curled up, asleep in the empty basin.

It was adorable, something that both DW and I failed to discourage. Why would we? She was doing no harm.

Some days, the mere sound of the toilet flushing would bring her bounding to the room. Those humans would be turning on the faucet to wash their hands. She would try to poke her head between our hands, to get at that running water. Either to play or to drink. That source of liquid was hers.

And then it happened. She beat me into the sink, before I could turn the taps and cause the water to flow. Before there was any water running from the faucet, she had her entire body in the sink. She looked me in the eyes, as if to say, "Get a load of this."

And then she pissed in the sink.

The sound of liquid, running down the drain. "I've made my own running water," she seemed to say.

My first reaction was one of horror and shock. "How dare you?" I exclaimed.

There are worse things that can happen. Her litter box was another two floors below us. She could have peed in my bedroom, in a planter. On the kids' beds.

She hopped out. I turned on the taps, and her business was done.

She does it all the time now, when I'm at the sink. I've put toothpaste on my toothbrush, was about to add a little water to the mix, and she's there, like a flash, interrupting me. It's worse when I'm about to spit into the sink, and as though coming out of high warp, she suddenly appears.

And pisses.

The sound of water, running down the drain, with no faucet flowing.

Commotions Under a Searchlight

The first time that I heard of the Ottawa soul band, The Commotions, was through DD14. Her drum teacher, Jeff Asselin, told her that his band was performing at a tailgating party for last year's Grey Cup, at Lansdowne. She, DW, and I thought that we'd go down to support his band, and so we decided to brave the upcoming snow storm and see what the commotion was all about.

I didn't realize that I would be blown away.

The 12-piece band filled the tiny stage beside the Aberdeen Pavilion. Despite the snow that slowly covered the stage, the band played on. The Commotions has a solid horn section, including Jeff's twin brother and founding member, Brian, on tenor saxophone, a driving rhythm section, and the powerhouse vocals of Jeff Rogers and Rebecca Noelle.

Their sound comes straight out of the golden age of Motown.

During that short show at Lansdowne, we learned that The Commotions were going to be playing at Babylon, on Bank Street, for their CD release party, and DW and I vowed to be there. The energy in that room went beyond measurement, and since that night, the band's music has been on steady rotation on my smartphone.

A couple of weeks ago, when I learned that The Commotions had entered CBC Radio's Searchlight contest, which recognizes new artists in Canada's music scene, I started voting. I was no longer just supporting DD14's music teacher: I was a big fan of the whole band.

I haven't been put up to soliciting help in voting for the band. My appeal is out of true appreciation for great music, and to see a new, local band make it big.

You can help, too, by going to the CBC Searchlight site at this link. Listen to their submission, "Too Little Too Late," and if you like the song, vote.

Want more?

Here is one of their new videos for their song, "Bad Girl."

If that didn't make your Monday, I don't know what will.

The Commotions will be playing this Saturday, March 10, at Irene's Pub. You can bet that I'll be there, cheering them on.

Come on out.