The Dead Raccoon Bridge

What kind of arsehole can purposefully run over another living creature?
They exist. I've seen it once with my own eyes. A few years ago I saw a pick-up truck swerve over on the shoulder to crush a snapping turtle that was laying eggs in the gravel. Then the truck stopped, backed over the writhing turtle, then ran over her again.
A lot of folks around here don't like snapping turtles. I don't particularly like snapping turtles. But not liking something is no reason to take a life. Just talking about this ticks me off.
Well, something similar happened on Saturday night.

We live beside the Muskoka River (thus the title) and, to get here, we have to cross a delightful, one-lane, black iron bridge. I adore the bridge. It's one of the reasons I fell in love with this place. The bridge is just wide enough for one vehicle. Normal-sized snowplows, for example, cannot cross the bridge. Because of the narrow width, car headlights illuminate the entire bridge when you're crossing it at night. What makes it even brighter is the safety rails at the sides – headlights reflect back on the roadway.
What I'm trying to say is, even the worst headlights, the lowest beams, the dirtiest lenses, light up the bridge like it's daytime.
Another point to consider: you have to slow down when you cross the bridge. There's a sharp curve on both ends leading up to it.
So that's the scenario.
Coming home from a movie Saturday night, we saw a dead raccoon in the middle of the bridge.
There was no way this could have been an accident. Anyone coming across the bridge and seeing the raccoon would just have to wait a few moments for the critter to walk away. It's not like a deer, jumping out in front of you when you're going 50 miles an hour down a highway. You can see. You're going slow. What the hell? Just stop and let Rocky go on his merry way.
Dave, being the wonderful person he is, didn't want to see the raccoon squished any worse than he already was. He got a rag out of the back of the Jeep and carried Rocky over into the bushes. The image of entrails dragging behind is something I wish I could forget.
"I wish I knew who did this," Dave said. "I'd drop the dead raccoon at their front door."
Flash forward to Monday night. Dave and I went for our first canoe ride of the season. (It was fabulous. Absolutely fabulous.)
As we approached the bridge we couldn't help but notice a giant turkey vulture sitting on top of a road sign. He had probably just had a nice meal of dead raccoon.
At least somebody benefited from the incident.

Top photo: the turkey vulture. He'd be licking his lips, y'know, if he had lips.
Middle: View of the black bridge from the front of our canoe.
Bottom: Dave, the raccoon remover.
For biggie-size photos, click or double click on the pix.

The Bumblebee Moth

"Look, Sam," I said to my 10-year-old, "there's a big bumblebee on the lilac bush."
But it wasn't a bee at all.
It was a Bumblebee Moth, also known as a Snowberry Clearwing Moth and a Hemaris diffinis.
If you'd like to know more about the Bumblebee Moth, flutter over HERE.
Didn't I sound like Hinterland Who's Who just now?
(Click on the photo for a biggie-size moth.)

I have another wildlife photo to share. Dave took this one on the same day.
A pregnant painted turtle mommy elected to lay her eggs directly below our mailbox! It's actually a pretty safe place, especially with Canada Post threatening to go on strike.
We are all looking forward to baby paints in approximately 72 days.
I'd better start knitting!

Smell This

Gee, my arm smells terrific.
I've been smelling it all day, bringing my arm up to my nose and sniffing deep and going, "Mmmmm I smell GOOD."
Go ahead, have a sniff.
Wait, just my arm. Hey! Now you're just getting fresh. STOP THAT!
OK, somebody keep an eye on Alan Davidson ... he keeps sneaking up and STOP THAT!
Thanks, Harry. The cuffs are over there –  can you please? Yes, thanks. Alan, stop whining, I'm trying to talk here.
The reason, ladies and gentlemen, that I smell so good is because of Soap & Glory Mist You Madly.
Oh. My. Living. Gawd. To die for, I swear.
I found this stuff in Shopper's Drug Mart a month or so ago and was immediately smitten with the smart-alecky, punny, 1950s vintage glamour girl packaging. All pale pink and bubbly, it was, with black and white photos of young women with too much red lipstick. (How do I know it's red in a b&w photo? Are you stupid? It just is. Back in the day, my mom only had one tube of lipstick in her purse and it was the same colour every other woman at the supermarket had: Ravishing Red.
So I bought this stuff, a complete impulse buy based solely on the groovy packaging. (Who says packaging doesn't sell? Look at Lady Gaga.)
Unlike Lady Gag-gag, the shower gel has substance. It lathers up in a creamy dream and it makes me feel all girly and pretty. The gel doesn't have a lingering aroma, which is good because my workplace has a no-scents policy.
Yesterday, though, I went back to the drug store and bought a whole bunch of new Soap & Glory stuff. Hand lotion. A different kind of shower gel, bubble bath and a body spray. I thought the spray would be my least favourite thing but IT'S MY ABSOLUTE FAVOURITE.
It says something like "spray it every time you need a shot of fabulous" or something like that. So I spray it constantly because it's true, I feel fabulous, all day long, fabulous, fabulous, fabulous.
The link to this fountain of fabulosity is HERE. It's available at most Shopper's Drug Marts (the bigger stores anyway, not at the little tiny one in Haliburton) in Canada and at Boot's in the U.K. I checked the American site and it's not available in the U.S. until this September. (It's worth the wait; trust me.)
The reason I am spouting off about the glories of Soap & Glory is because I love it and every time I fall in love with some new product, it gets yanked off the shelves by stoopid businessmen who wouldn't know a great product from a hole in their arse.
They took away Bojac salad dressing. They changed the taste of Goodies. They stopped making my favourite L'oreal Vive shampoo.
So please. Do me and yourself a favour. Smell my arm then go buy yourself or your lady friend a couple bottles of Mist You Madly body spray.
OK Harry, you can uncuff Alan now.
Whaddya mean he likes it?

Old Clothes - #fridayflash

“Get over here, Josie, you’re missing out!”

It was the fourth time Anita had swung by my desk.

“The clothes will not fit me, Anita.” I pronounced her name with tight-lipped diction, my exasperation showing. “They’re way, way too small.”

I think she heard me but it was hard to tell. She blew by in an almost visible rush of Oscar de la Renta-scented air.

Feeling overwhelmingly size 16 in a size 8 world, I got up from my desk and poked my head around the cubicle divider. Down at the other end of the hall was Anita’s desk, although at the moment I couldn’t actually see it. The desk was covered, mounded, piled high with bags and bags of new and lightly used designer clothing. A gaggle of giggling middle-aged women were pawing through it like ants at a honey sale. Smart little jackets, pencil skirts and leather stilettos from Italy were held up, tried on, snatched and coveted by my excited co-workers.

In an alternate universe where fat wasn’t my curse, I would be there with them, snapping up all that juicy free stuff.

Madeline, a secretary from the front office, came and stood beside me.

“How come you’re not over there?” I asked. 

“I couldn’t wear them,” she whispered. 

“Yah, you could. They’d definitely fit you. Maybe too big, if anything.”

“No, no,” she said. “They’d fit. I could just never wear them. I’d be too weirded out.”

I looked at Madeline like she had three heads.

“Don’t you know whose clothes they are?” she asked. 

“They’re Anita’s friend. She was cleaning out her closet or something.”

Madeline lowered her voice even more. “They’re not Anita’s friend. They’re Anita’s. She’s got cancer and it’s terminal. She’s dying.”

“Oh,” I said.

“I don’t think many people know,” she added. “You might want to keep it to yourself.”

Madeline and I watched the women digging through the pile of clothes. Inexplicably I thought of grave diggers. Soon the top of the desk was visible and only a few items remained. The happy, chattering women went back to their cubicles, arms loaded with treasure. 

Madeline went back to her desk. I went back to mine but no sooner had I opened up a new file than Anita showed up.  

“This,” she said, “will fit you.” 

 She put a stunningly beautiful scarf in my hands.

“It’s pashmina. The real deal. Very expensive,” she said.

Jewel-toned and soft, heavy and luxurious, the scarf was unlike anything I had at home in my closet.

“Wow,” was I all I could say. Then, “thank you, Anita. It’s gorgeous.”

“No problem. I wanted you to have something,” she said, as she bustled off.

Her exuberance in the office never ended. Right up until her last day.

As I dressed for her funeral I remembered her positive spirit lighting up even the dreariest days. She brought doughnuts every Monday. She decorated her cubicle for holidays. She always had a smile on her face. Always.

I pulled the pashmina from my lingerie drawer and unfolded the tissue paper I had wrapped it in. The paper rustled, like a whisper, and the heavy garment slipped unfolded like a sigh.

I draped it over my rounded shoulders, over my sensible black dress, and I didn’t feel weirded out at all. In fact, I smiled. Through the tears, I smiled.

What Goes Up

What have I been doing lately? Well, not much writing, that's for sure.
Monday night I came home and there was Dave, starting to set up the gazebo. You can't do without a screened-in-something when you live in a Mosquito Motel. It's necessary as death, taxes and American Idol.
So I get home and there's Dave, and so I sigh and dig in to help because it's a two-person job. After that I planted the three trays of impatiens I bought on the weekend and set the Travelocity garden gnome in a place of pride. We had dinner at 8:30 p.m. and then hit the hay.
Oh, check out the lighting fixture I bought last year for the gazebo. A chandelier! Buahahahaha! It makes me laugh, every time I look at it – this fancy crystal (plastic) grandiose light in a screened tent from Walmart. I seriously went to Canadian Tire to buy the cheapest light they had but they were blowing this one out the door for less than a cheap light – so now we have a chandelier in our gazebo.
It's fancy. Like me.
Last night I got home and there was Dave with a shit-ass grin on his face piling up stuff in the backyard for our cheapo above ground pool.
"Get in the car," I ordered him, without stepping out. "I am SO NOT going to help you with that pool until I have something to eat." All I'd had all day was raw vegetables and hummus and there was no way I was waiting until bedtime to eat real food.
Lacking that, I drove his ass to A&W and we used a coupon for papaburgers. Nectar of the gods, I swear.
Then we got home and fought off mosquitoes, blackflies and deerflies while putting up the pool.
See? This is what it really means to live in Canada with all four distinct seasons: winter, winter, precious short summer and bug season. Every time a new season begins we take stuff down and we put stuff up. Away goes the snowblower, the snowmobiles, the snow tires and the snow boots. Out comes the mosquito magnet, the lawn mower, the gazebo, the boat, the swimming pool and the sandals. Our lives are all about finding room for the old crap and putting up the new crap. It doesn't make me happy to think that, a few months from now, I'll be taking down the gazebo and the swimming pool and helping Dave carry the boat.
It's a wonder I don't have muscles in my shit.

Oh. And our cat has a cold. He's been really sick lately. I'm waiting for the vet's office to open so I can call and get him in. He was snoring under the couch and now it's painfully quiet in here. I hope he's not dead under the chesterfield.
I'm afraid to look.