Let me be frank with you, Beans

I've been married for fourteen years and I think I'm happier now than ever in my marriage. I hope that this trend continues because I'm really enjoying our life. Here are a few things that I love about my husband.
1. That he calls our cats "bunkies". Like the four of us are holed up in some barracks somewhere.
2. That he has an amazing memory for all the obscure songs he's learned; most days he pulls one from the mental catalogue and sings it as he's getting ready for work. And then it sticks in my head all day.
3. That he thinks I'm a good dancer. He's probably the only person in the world that has seen me dance in the last ten years. And it's usually in jest....homage to the famous beat poet nightclub scene in Funny Face starring Audrey Hepburn. There's hope for the "ballet de l'inflexible" yet.
4. And speaking of dance, I love that he is one of the only guys I know who will get up on the dance floor and just let loose. I envy that. I have a video of him dancing with seven women at once at a recent wedding. He was literally the man.
5. That he spends hours on the phone with his sisters and his mom...not every day, mind you, just a few times a year.
6. That he never realizes when women are flirting with him.

More later.

Saturday morning in the driveway

Twenty-two degrees. Sunny with a slight breeze.  I'm sitting in a chair made with hockey sticks on the landing of the front steps.  My feet are up, my coffee and iPhone are beside me on a makeshift coffee table which is really a weeding bench. My husband and his friend are taking his Triumph apart in the driveway to replace the brake pads. Motorcycle ownership is a time-consuming hobby. There's a lot of cleaning of small parts and reading of the manual going on today. Wafts of citrus-scented contact cleaner are floating my way, with tiny droplets likely landing in my coffee. I never imagined that motorcycle cleaning products would be scented.  Do bikers choose the brand based on scent?  Do bikers like essence of orange? Does it soothe the savage breast?

I love my Saturday mornings. But, the enjoying of coffee and the reading of the newspaper is followed by the being overwhelmed by all the things I could and should do. So far today I've thought:  I should make focaccia, I should clean the front bay window, I should organize the Galapagos photos, I should try to find those tennis balls I bought.....and the list goes on. So, instead of doing stuff, I just write about it. Good solution.

Oslo in January

I like the cold, I replied, when friends asked why we'd go to Scandinavia in the middle of winter.  And it's true, I like to walk to work in the snow, bundled up and clutching a travel mug of hot coffee, stepping carefully so as not to slip on any ice. I like skating and skiing.  But when we planned our January trip to Norway, I wasn't really tuned into the fact that, while travelling, Bill and I like to explore on foot, which means several hours spent outside every day, not a twenty-minute walk to work followed by eight hours inside a well-heated office building, or an hour of skiing followed by hot chocolate in a chalet.  So, it was a bit of a miscalculation.  Our first full day in Oslo was bone-chilling.  Minus seventeen, more with the wind chill taken into account.  We shivered a lot and made repeated comments on how crisp it was, how invigorating.

But it did feel authentic and there sure weren't many tourists around; at the Viking Ship museum, for example, we were two of maybe a dozen.  But, boy, did we have fun!  We loved Oslo.  Lots to see and do.  Lots of  gorgeous, healthy looking Norwegians carrying skis around town....the main subway line terminates at a popular cross country skiing area, near the Holmenkollen Olympic ski jump.  Wonderful museums and history to take in.  Shops looked so inviting, cozily lit with lanterns outside and hot tea inside.  Some restaurants and bakeries optimistically provided an outdoor seating option, complete with benches covered in furs.  We did see one or two hardy couples outside, but they were smoking, so I assume it wasn't by choice.

We happily explored the city, retreating to the trams or the occasional cafe to warm up.  I say occasional because the prices were less inviting than the interiors.  One cafe latte and one chai latte plus a pastry to share = $27.  We economized by making the most of our hotel, which included a buffet breakfast and supper, the latter served up in the slope-roofed loft complete with dormer windows.  Once the sun had disappeared, we'd head back to the hotel and enjoy a dinner of fresh bread and cheese, seafood, soups,  salads and cooked eggs topped with shrimp, and desserts of custardy puddings or potato pancake "lefse" served with butter, sugar and cinnamon.  We stayed in every night, writing in our travel journals, planning the next day or watching TV, snuggled under our individual eider down comforters (no fighting for blankets in that country).  One thing about Norwegian TV:  I am not joking when I say that  most of the time when you tune in, there is ski jumping on on at least one channel.

In praise of magazines

I love magazines.  From fashion and style magazines to gourmet magazines: From Elle magazine to Surf magazine, from Entertainment Weekly to Allergic Living (okay, maybe not that last one, but I love that there's a magazine called that).  I have loved magazines for a very long time, since tweendom, when Tatum O'Neal and Brooke Shields were first famous.  Ah, the thrill of  buying the latest issue of Teen magazine or Seventeen!  The fun fashions, the advice columns, the teen idols, like Scott Baio and Parker Stevenson.  Weirdly, I recall when and where I glimpsed the first issue of Seventeen with Whitney Houston on the cover.  It was at a figure skating practice.  Some girls who were watching the session had gotten their hands on the brand new issue and we skaters would glide over to the boards occasionally to flip through it.  Instead of practising our flips.  Which is probably why I never got anywhere in skating.  My addiction to mags is a source of bewilderment to some of my friends; they just don't understand the allure, no pun intended (only a magfiend will understand that).  I have two friends who are even vehemently opposed to fashion magazines.  (How DID we get to be friends?!)  The reason, they both state, is simply, "They make me feel bad about myself".  Ironically, they are two of the most stylish and gorgeous women I know.  The husband of one of them confesses that the fashion industry makes him really angry. I don't really get that.  Maybe I'm not thinking deeply enough about it.  Or maybe I just ignore the bad stuff and appreciate the good.  Of course I recognize the absurdity and negative influence of some aspects of the fashion biz, like the promotion of ridiculous ideals , consumerism and label mania.  But I also see the very positive and fascinating side....the creativity, the beauty;  the craftsmanship, the spectacle and even the humour.  Just watch Catwalk, the documentary featuring the preparation and execution of an early John Galliano show.  Or check out the book which accompanied the Alexander McQueen exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art a few years ago.  One can't deny the genius.  I mean, making an exquisite dress using painted medical lab slides as adornment? Brilliant.  Plus, if you're wearing the dress and you suddenly feel the urge to examine a drop of blood under a microscope, you're all set.....unless you don't have a coverslip on you.  Or a microscope.  All joking aside, fashion magazines offer considerably more than just the skinny models and $3000 dresses.  From those magazines,  I have learned a lot about art, photography, books, music, food, health, travel, cinema,  and even politics. So, maybe, just maybe, all that good stuff outweighs the fact that fashion magazines kind of make me feel bad about myself too.

October 6th Rideau River scenes

 

 

 

 

 

Montreal Comic Con 2012 - To boldly go where no shan has gone before

There are a couple of events that I've long wanted to witness: the Burning Man Festival in Nevada and Comic Con.  Not because I'm an artist or a free spirit or a huge sci-fi or comic book fan...but because I want to look at the artists, the free spirits and the sci-fi fans. I have read enough about these gatherings to know that they're a feast for the eyes, full of colour and whimsy and imagination, and I'm a visual person; I'm addicted to magazines, I love art and movies and TV.  That I'm intrigued by these kinds of exhibitions isn't really surprising, I suppose.  Plus, I love the enthusiasm that is the foundation of these sub-cultures, if I can call them that.  Or maybe I should say "super cultures".  I'm fascinated by and envious of their dedication to the form and genre, and of the effort they spend in making their costumes. 

Burning Man will have to wait, but last weekend I went to Comic Con in Montreal.  My husband wasn't able to go, so I was hemming and hawing about going by myself.  It just seemed like it wouldn't be as much fun alone. None of the Doctor Who or Buffy fans I know could go with me, so I almost gave up on it.  But, then, happily, two friends volunteered to drive to Montreal with me, so I could go to the conference, they could poke around town, and then we'd meet up for dinner afterwards.  Since I'd left it so long to get tickets, I was forced to get a VIP ticket for the conference.  $220 dollars.  Gulp.  That did mean I'd get a "free" t shirt and a "free" tote bag.  I'm glad I paid more for all the free stuff. 

So we made our way on the sunny Saturday morning to Montreal, stopping first at the Atwater Market for a carb-rich breakfast of chaussons aux pommes (apple turnovers) and almond croissants (almond croissants) from the Première Moisson bakery. The fall displays of pumpkins, corn and other gourds were already out, mixed in with all the flowers and vegetables and fruit, and there was definitely a nip in the air, too.  I love the arrival of autumn in Ontario and Quebec.  After checking into the hotel,  I cabbed it to the Palais des Congrès, full of anticipation and admittedly a bit nervous.  I wasn't in costume, in case you are wondering.  I left the Xena, Warrior Princess outfit back home and went instead as a mild middle-aged woman.

Once I had passed the "Weapons Check" where real guards check the fake weapons, I entered the exhibitor hall and WOW.  The costumes, the artwork.....the merchandise.  There were stormtroopers, a Darth Vader (definitely wearing lifts...he was about 6'8"), a couple of Princess Leias (in both the gold bikini look and the virginal white robes) and several Obi Wan Kenobis.  There was a pint-sized Ewok and a gang of towering Klingons.  What's the correct collective noun for Klingons?  A kakaphony of Klingons?  A kraze of Klingons? Must look that up.  I saw a Navi-costumed woman, whose husband was Obi-Wan Kenobi, pushing a baby carriage. Didn't get a good look at the child.....with that cross-breeding, who knows what the product would have been!  There were furries (or are they called plushies? Don't really know much about this particular group.) They dress up as furry animals.  The kids love them, but, if I'm not mistaken, there's more than a bit of a sexual undertone to that.

Speaking of sexual undercurrents, "sexy" costumes were everywhere: there were women in low-cut PVC catsuits, dressed as gaming heroines or superheroes; there were all manner of Sailor Moons, Star Trek babes, sexy nuns (see left)  and, perhaps most disturbingly, a sexy Snow White. Since when doe she display ample cleavage and wear a thigh-skimming skirt and black leather boots? And have a nose piercing? 

There were people in skin-tight lycra who really, really shouldn't have been. There was even a painted-on costume.  One trend that I did not understand was the wearing of very realistic horse heads.  Must research that....Godfather connection? A play on My Little Pony?  Even more strange:  there was a storm trooper wearing a horse head!!

I think my favourite sci-fi sub-genre costumes were definitely the steam punk ensembles.  Victorian Era meets industrial.  Goggles, metal, corsets and hats, lots of fancy hats.  Fascinating and elegant.

There were  monsters and demons, the Hulk, the Fantastic Four, Superman, Spiderman, Imperial Guards.  A couple of doctors (as in Who) and a Dalek. Shiny neon hair.  Swords.  Light sabres - that actually looked like "the real thing".  It was like the best parade ever.  But while a lot of it was playful and innocent, there was definitely a sexual undercurrent, so it was jarring to see so many little children there.  And gasp-worthy when they wanted their picture taken with the Comic Con incarnation of Snow White.  But I guess we could argue that there's a lot wrong with the image projected by the pure Disney Princesses, too.  Plus, I watched Laugh-In as a kid and was blissfully unaware of the sexual innuendo, of which there was plenty, so I'm thinking that the kids at Comic Con just enjoyed the fun and pageantry, and didn't wonder about the fetishistic side of it at all.








So well done, all you Comic Con people who worked so hard to create those amazing costumes!  I really admire all the imagination and effort and pride that went into the outfits and, the makeup, and I love the self confidence it takes to be part of the Masquerade. 





Oh Captains, my captains!

So, yes, I paid a lot of money to have my photo taken with William Shatner and Sir Patrick Stewart.  $175 smackeroos.  And, yes, therefore, it is a real picture, not a cardboard cut-out as some have insinuated.  But I ask you this:  would the Comic Con folks have used that particular photo of William Shatner for a promotional cardboard cut out?  It isn't exactly a flattering picture. He looks acutely uncomfortable, like he's having gastrointestinal issues.  But, back to happy memories.  When it was my turn, I said "Hello" to the gents and Patrick Stewart turned to face me and said "Hello, my dear".  What a gentleman.  Shatner just ignored me.

If Walter is gone, then who the heck is this?

 

Walter the Groundhog

And so it is that we say goodbye to Walter the groundhog.  He's in a better place now.  And by that I mean that he waddled into our live trap and Bill relocated him to a lovely forest out of town.  It broke my heart to have to do that, but he was destroying the garden and digging a network of holes in the backyard.  I'll miss him though.  I loved looking out to see if he was sitting by the shed in the golden light of morning.  I loved Bill's faux-enraged yelling of "Waaallllttteer!" whenever he caught him munching on something he shouldn't (like the flowering monarda).  It was reminiscent of Sheldon's "Wheeaatton!" yell on The Big Bang Theory.  So, in honour of my little Walter, I've written a blues song:
 Sung to the tune of a standard blues song.

"Where is my little groundhog,
oh where could he be?
Where is my little groundhog,
he's not sitting by the tree
my little groundhog
g-r-o-u-n-d-h-o-g
Where's my little groundhog
He ain't where he's supposed to be"

Walter, you've definitely left a hole in our hearts.  And under our shed.

My right to bare arms

Since it's summer, I'm much more aware of my less-than-toned and less-than-tanned (read: pasty white) arms and of how uninclined I am to reveal them to the general public.  Which is why, not surprisingly, they are less than tanned.  It's not just me to feel this way.  How many times have I heard women say how much they hate their arms and are loathe to go sleeveless?  Too many. Loads of us cover our pipes up at all costs....and that's not easy to do with summer fashions the way they are.  To wear sleeves or cardigans to conceal the offending body parts on hot and humid days is unbearable.  It's not hard to understand why we're ashamed of our imperfect limbs: we are bombarded by images of ridiculous physical ideals by the media.  Not to mention the "bingo wing" and "welfare arms jokes". But, honestly, how dare I "hate" my arms, when there are people who have lost use of theirs for whatever reason, or who have lost them completely?  Heck, some people are born without arms.  Don't we owe it to them and to ourselves to appreciate and even be proud of our arms?  And, really, shouldn't this appreciation apply to the whole of our bodies, if we're lucky enough to be healthy?  Not a day goes day that I don't see someone out there who is physically challenged in some way. It puts my complaints and body image issues in perspective.  My physique is far from "perfect"....I'm no slip of a girl and I'm no athlete....but my pudgy little body works pretty well and for that I am grateful.  I can play tennis, hug my loved ones, take photos and, very importantly, hold my coffee cup in the morning, all thanks to my reliable arms and hands.  No need to be ashamed of them.  Plus, I can't help but think that I'll be more inclined to treat my body right if I can abolish the shame and silence the negative inner dialogue. I'm starting my own little movement and exercising my right to bare arms.  And, in keeping with the idea of appreciating my arms, I'm going to exercise my bare arms.  I'm going to shut this computer down so I can go and play tennis and start toning those wonderful arms of mine.

Hey Joffrey dudes - you forgot your pants!

March 5th and it's still winter.  Serious winter. March is in like a lion. A freezing lion with big chattering teeth. It was -16 degrees Celsius today, -26 with the wind chill. When it's that cold, your face starts hurting after a couple of minutes outside. And when it's that cold, you die after a few hours outside. Last night it was snowing when I went to bed, but I was relieved to see that the driveway didn't need shoveling this morning. 

Bill and I went to see the Joffrey Ballet on Saturday night.  The performance was lovely. One piece, in particular, "After the Rain", was breathtaking. There was an audible gasp from the audience as it ended, so taken were we with its beauty.  The last piece, "Age of Innocence", was inspired by life as described in the works of Jane Austen.  I just about laughed out loud when the dancers appeared, though. The women wore flowing white dresses, with empire waists.  The men, however, seemed to have forgotten their pants. They were outfitted in sleeveless, panelled white vests and what looked like sheer white Calvin Klein briefs. Shorty shorts, if you will. You're probably thinking that I am very lacking in culture and a proper appreciation for the arts, and that I should just grow up: it's a ballet costume, after all.  So, please remember me saying that the performance was lovely. ...but the costumes did distract me, briefly. No pun intended.  They were hot pants, really, and hot pants did not exist at the time of Jane Austen, as far as I know, though I'm no Austen scholar.  Now, I have no problem with skimpy dance costumes (except on me), but the combination was a bit jarring, esthetically.  The women's costumes were a deft, subtle nod to Austen attire, but the men's made it seem as though a group of 21st century Calvin Klein models had appeared on the set of Pride and Prejudice. Disconcerting. Later in the piece the ballerinas later wore shorter skirts, so my esthetic anguish was eased somewhat.  Everything was short and skimpy. 

Anyway, judge for yourself.  Or, be a better person than I and just drink in the beauty and be astonished by the talent.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uItGO9PHd0c&noredirect=1

After the ballet, I got to thinking how unfair it is that inflexible people are so excluded from the world of ballet, and dance, in general.  We should be allowed to grace the stage and express ourselves through dance, too...for  money and glory!  I shall start my own company of inflexible dancers.  I'll call it "Ballet de l'inflexible"  People will marvel at how immobile our joints are!

Charlie Winston Euphoria

Sometime in December, while driving back from the annual Christmas market/Indian food evening with the girls, I heard a song on the radio that literally enchanted me.  Had me in its spell.  I was instantly hooked.  The voice, the melody, the rhythm, the words.  I LOVED it.  At the end of the song, I learned the artist's name:  Charlie Winston.  I googled him as soon as I got home. That sounds rude, doesn't it?  I don't even know him, I shouldn't be googling him (reference to 30 Rock).  Anyway....checked out some videos, listened to some songs.  Really, really liked him.  Fast forward to my birthday and it's like a Charlie Winston-themed party, sans the life-sized Charlie Winston cardboard cutout and Charlie Winston party trilby hats.  My gifts included two of his cds and two tickets to his show in Montreal. So, last weekend, Bill and I braved the freezing rain and blowing snow to drive to Montreal. The driving conditions were so bad that I had to close my eyes and put my earplugs in to avoid freaking out too much.  Those trucks were too close; the roads were too snowy and slippery.  The lengths we go to for art! The show must go on!  We arrived two hours before the show began. Ill-advisedly, we had thought we'd wing it and try to get a table at Joe Beef for dinner, but we were turned away because we didn't have a reservation.  Then we were turned away from its sister resto as well, and from a pizzeria.  No room at the inn.  I was starting to get a complex: were we not hip enough to eat dinner in Montreal?  Clearly not.  I should have worn something funky...but hey, we went straight from work.  So, we walked gingerly along the dangerously icy sidewalks of Notre Dame Ouest and found a tiny, inviting African restaurant.  Five little tables.  It was a good choice; the food was good and the atmosphere was cozy.  It was nice to just chill and chat before the show.

As you might have expected, since I'm bothering to write this, the concert was amazing.  It was at the Corona Theatre...a great old venue.  While Bill waited in the ridiculously-long line for the coat check, I snapped up a couple of tshirts with "Who the funk is Charlie Winston?" emblazoned on the front.  I had promised my friend I'd get him one.  Then, we found a good viewpoint.  The opening band was Current Swell, a group from my home island (can I say that?), Vancouver Island.  Hence the ocean/surf-themed name, I guess.  They had some really interesting, good material.  Great enthusiasm, too.  Then Charlie Winston.  There are no words.  Oh, yes there are!  What a performer!  A little bit magical, dramatic, mischievous.  A consummate showman and talented musician (and a great dancer).  Such style and such dashing good looks.  Swoon.  I hesitate to say this, as I have pledged my allegiance to the great Neil Finn many a time, but I dare say that Charlie Winston's show gave him a run for his money.  The only downside of the concert was when I leaned over to say something to Bill at the same time as he started to put his arm around me and he clocked me in the nose by mistake.  For a moment I thought it was broken and was going to bleed.  And we weren't even in the nosebleed section!

We stayed overnight in Montreal and spent the bright Saturday morning at the Atwater Market and checking out the antique shops before heading home to meet up with my brother before he flew back to Victoria. 

Anyway, ever since Friday, Bill and I have been humming and singing the songs and enjoying the post-concert euphoria and afterglow!

So, in the interest of spreading the word and maybe seeing Mr. Winston in Canada again, I urge you all (all 8 of my loyal followers, ha ha) to check out his website and music!  Or go see him in Calgary or Vancouver. 

 

http://www.charliewinston.com/

Christmas Eve 2011



Vegreville Pysanka

Shanon holding up the Vegreville Pysanka

Bill, Donna, Harley and Marley



Penguin hors d'oeuvres

New Buzzword Alert and Random Ideas

When you've received a nasty mail, you can say that you've been "e-nailed"!

I am going crazy for coconut scented shampoo, conditioner, and moisturizer these days.  The coconut fragrance transports me to the sandy beaches of Hawaii.  But I noticed something this morning.  The name of my moisturizer is "Desert Essence".  That's kind of a weird name for a moisturizer, don't you think?   Especially a coconut one.

Today I bought toe separators: blue, sparkly, gel forms that look like a blue, sparkly gel version of brass knuckles.  You put your toes in the holes and they stretch them, ostensibly to relax and "refresh" your feet, and relieve aching caused by tight shoes, bunions, etc.  So far, my toes are just cold.  They miss snuggling with their neighbours.  And, no, I'm not going to post of picture of them.

All Blacks Win World Cup and I enjoy the last blueberry cinnamon muffin

It's a good day so far.  Woke up early on this morning (it's 7:37 as I write this) to learn that New Zealand has won the Rugby World Cup.  I'm a fan of the All Blacks, mainly because there are so many gorgeous players. I developed a big crush on Carlos Spencer back in 2003 when I saw him lead the haka at the 2003 Rugby World Cup in Sydney.  No word of a lie, watching that is HOT. Go to YouTube and search on "carlos spencer haka" and you'll see what I mean. Here's a link to a photo at least: http://www.marca.com/2009/01/30/mas_deportes/rugby/1233333242.html .  Sadly, Carlos is no longer an All Black and therefore not featured in the calendar.  To add insult to injury, he has cut his hair and dyed it blonde AND moved to South Africa.  I'll still cheer for the ABs every time.  Coolest sports team, best uniforms. (I initially wrote "I'll root for the ABs every time" but then remembered that "root" means something different for Kiwis....hmmm Freudian slip?)

What else make this such a good day?  There was one homemade blueberry cinnamon muffin left over and I just enjoyed it with my coffee.  I don't have a lot of housework or errands to do.  There is one snoozing cat, Nelly, stretched out on the bay window seat and another doing inappropriate things to a jacket left on the settee. Xander, the latter, seems to have questionable "relationships" with a couple of my sweaters and my housecoat. And the cushions on our couch. I feel kind of embarassed for him, but I don't want to punish him and give him some kind of complex. He's already very high strung. 

Penelope, the former, is sauntering towards me and within seconds she'll be climbing over the computer keyboard and onto my chest.

 So, I'll sign off for now.  Enjoy the week!

It's been ages since I last posted.  It's funny; I feel a strange pressure to write something "worth reading", so I just don't write.  It's not that I don't have ideas for topics - those usually come to me during the work day and I've forgotten them minutes later - I just don't do it.  So, from now on, I'm just going to write whatever, things I think are cool, fun, amusing, interesting, etc.  At the very least I'll have some kind of snapshot of my life (and so will my 6 followers, who are mostly family members and what appears to be a golden retriever....well, it's actually my friend who uses the golden retriever's picture as her profile pic).

My history with cars

Lately I've been fixated on buying a car....a Fiat 500.  One of the cute new ones.    They're all the rage.  I love the old ones, too, from the 60s especially I think, but the new ones are easier to find in Canada.  The picture above is of an old Fiat 500....see how you can tuck them into the tightest spots?I've never owned my own car, as in picked it out myself, paid for it myself, etc.  I drove my parents' cars as a teen and into my twenties.  A 1966 Mustang black top.  Second-hand Mercedes sports car.  A diesel sedan that sounded like it was making ice.  A beat up 1968 Beatle Bug.  Pretty cool cars, overall; I was lucky.  My history with cars, though, is not so lucky.  I crashed the Mustang; I almost took the door of the sports car off pulling out of the garage (helps to close the door before backing up) and the dashboard of the Volkswagen caught fire one day.  It also rolled all the way down the hill into someone's yard another time.  When I met Bill, I attempted to drive his 84 Volvo station wagon.  Even though I'm of Scandinavian background, I'm not built like the Swede they had in mind when they designed that model.  Even with the seat all the way forward, my stubby little legs wouldn't reach far enough for me to press the clutch pedal down far enough.  Not comfortable.  Plus, I was so unused to driving a standard transmission that I would grip the gearshift handle so hard that the top popped off, disconnecting the overdrive.  It was an ordeal. There were tears (Bill's).  That thing was a tank.  Boxy, but safe.  So, for the life of the Volvo, I became one of those women who lets her husband drive all the time.  Eventually, Bill got a company car - a Dodge caravan minivan - and, since we don't have children, we decided we didn't need two family cars, so we shipped the old burgundy Volvo wagon by train out to Vancouver where it lived out its days happily with my brother and his family.  Two company cars later and we're cruising around town in a not so cool pseudo SUV -  cappuccino coloured....or as Bill likes to say, beige.  Our friends call it the Earth Destroyer 2000 - Earthy D. for short - but it isn't really a gas-gulping SUV. Still.  So, my idea is to get a Fiat 500, call it Dante and paint flames on it (inferno, get it?).  But I can't really justify buying a second car at the moment....so I've promised myself that if I finish my novel - still in outline stage - I can buy myself the car.