That's just creepy...

The sound of an ice cream truck should be a joyous and exciting thing. After all, it's a truck -- with ice cream!

But the one that circles our neighbourhood has been having a few issues with its speakers. The happy "ice cream is here" song is now slowed down, off-key, and filtered through crackly speakers.

Really, it belongs in a horror movie.

Mothers now gather their trembling children to their bosoms while the static-y blare wails through the neighbourhood. "Jackie, sweetie, close the curtains and come away from the window. The ice cream truck isn't good anymore. Turn away from the light, Carol-Ann! Don't go near it! Don't even look at it!"

Now at twilight, the prime icy treat hour, the streets remain deserted (not to be confused with desserted). I ask you, how many happy memories must the ice cream truck ruin before it fixes its sound system? How many?

I must go and shake my fist at the retreating taillights now.

A tempest in the neighbourhood teapot...

Living out in a quiet but friendly little neighbourhood in the east end has its advantages. Close to the beach, but far enough from the yuppies and their SUV-style baby carriages. Close to Little India, but just far enough away that we don't smell all the delicious Tikka goodies day and night. Just out of reach of the white trash -- but just close enough to major streetcar lines.

But when police, ambulance or fire crews arrive... well! The gossip mill starts up. And today, our house was at ground zero.

It seems the old men next door (who I've previously complained about -- mostly that their house is likely a health code violation and their damn trees are taking over the entire sky in the east end) are actually living amongst several health code violations. Apparently, one of the neighbours called and reported them to public health -- likely the last straw with the strong smell of cat urine coming from the property.

Now, we've always tried to establish where the nasty smell was coming from. Were the neighbourhood cats using their untended and decidedly unruly backyard for a kitty potty? Was it the space between the houses? Or did it come from the house itself?

The arrival of what appear to be case workers, several police cars and a number of EMS vehicles heralded a shocking and horrifying discovery about the way these men actually live. Here's what came to light this afternoon:

1) There's actually two old men and an old woman. No one has seen this woman in over three years. The neighbours all thought she had passed away. (Although this gave Chris the opportunity to jump up, point his finger in victorious accusation and shout, "I TOLD you I saw a woman!" in much the same as someone pointing out Santa Claus and the tooth fairy in the sky.)

2) The fellow who drinks too much and sleeps on the porch seems to subsist almost entirely on spam sandwiches.

3) Cats. Lots of cats. So many cats that the Humane Society's Cruelty Investigation people were called (two vans). The number is estimated to be well over 30. One police officer said, "You go into the kitchen and they are falling over each other and falling off the cupboards." One of the Cat Rescuers said there were cats in the cupboards, unders tables... and in the fridge. (Which, I understand, was no longer used as a fridge. Fortunately.)

4) The cats are all sick. Police report no evidence of food, fresh water or kitty litter. Nor were most of the cats likely spayed, as there were several kittens. (I briefly thought of abducting one particularly adorable little creature who trembled in its cage -- but could likely not afford the expense of fixing it, and it was likely quite ill. Poor little fella.) Most of the cats will have to be put down.

5) One of the old men is a hoarder. Newspapers seemed to be his specialty.

6) There was no working toilet. They suspect that these old people were using a makeshift wooden box with a hole in the top... with no apparent exit for subsequent waste. (Frankly, I'm amazed the house didn't have stink waves coming off it.)

7) Two of the old folks were carted off in an ambulance. I'm told they're in extremely "rough shape." The third was missing. We neighbours helpfully suggested that it was quite likely that the third fellow was off at the bar, not to be seen until late this evening. (On my way home from the gym just after 11 p.m. , I saw him tottering and wobbling home. I had terrible visions of violent outbursts, so got in the house as quickly as possible.)

8) No one knows any of these people's names. We don't know if they own the house. And not one of us had any idea that these people were living in such horrifying conditions...


And that, my friends, was the drama of my afternoon. And I just feel sad about all of it -- especially after watching cage after cage after box after box come out of the house and be placed on the lawn. All full of sick little felines, all of whom seemed terrified.

On a slightly plus side, Chris brought home McDonald's for dinner... so I felt a little better. And I expect the smell of cat urine will likely subside in the coming weeks. Thankfully.

But those poor cats.

T Minus three days... ("T" for torture, that is.)

Yes, my friends and anonymous readers, it's true. I'm getting ready for vacation.

No, no... of course I'll keep posting. After all, when one is mired deep in southern Nova Scotia for two weeks, one must find some way of keeping oneself occupied. Which may also have the additional benefit of keeping one away from squabbling and bickering family members.

Yes, it's time for my Trek To Yarmouth, NS -- the summer version.

About five years ago, my parents packed up (or threw out) everything they owned and hightailed it for the great Atlantic Provinces. It's a grand place for visiting... though it's generally a little cool in the summer for my tastes. And sometimes excessively foggy. But instead of hopping a plane (courtesy of my dear mother), I decided to save her some cash and instead drive down with a friend.

Now, the last time this friend and I were in a car, we took a wrong turn. In California. On our way to catch a plane. And since we were running late, she decided that rather than putting the pedal to the metal and hauling ass to San Francisco, she would slow down. Because after all, it's better to be safe.
(Note: This is an excellent metaphor for the great chasm of difference between us.)

This time, however, there is no deadline. There is no rush. She's even been trying to plot a course that would enable us to enjoy the very fine views of Driving Out East. My mother, fearing for my safety and her own subsequent sanity, suggested that sightseeing might not be a great idea -- I should get to NS as soon as possible.

Of course, I now suspect my friend is already feeling huffy about my awful self ruining her nice plans. I feel confident that this will truly be a point of bonding, and distract us from getting irritated.

For at least an hour, anyway.

Sneaky Blogger...

It seems I saved it as a draft. Doh.

Anyway, it's back up. I shall make an attempt to try and reacquaint myself with my sanity, which seems to be sunning itself on the roof...

The mystery of the missing post...

Hmm.

The other day, I posted a rather amusing entry about the fact that the tenants downstairs have a new roomie.

Yes, it's true. They came home to find a squirrel reclining in their living room. They've now purchased some kind of weird animal repellent sprinkle.

But the mystery is this: what happened to the original post? My first instinct, of course, is to blame someone else -- like the Blogger people. Obviously they didn't find the post amusing. Or was it the post's absurd pointlessness that led to its demise? (Obviously someone has too much time and editorial control.)

Perhaps it was my computer, which has finally learned to self-edit -- only to eliminate something I actually wanted.

Or a hacker! Ahh, yes. A hacker. Some bored kid saw my blog, and decided to hack into it as a preliminary go before hitting up CIBC, Royal Bank and the OSAP files. (If this is the case, Anonymous Naughty Hacker, please contact me -- I'm up to my rather excessive ass in student loans. Er, I would also accept financial contributions by unknown philanthropists.)

The last thing I would ever consider is the possibility that, when I logged in earlier today to edit a rather irksome typo (and change some settings), that I inadvertently hit the "delete post" button, ceased to notice, and continued on with my day. My goodness... that... that would mean I'm... (gasp) a-a-absentminded.

Horrifying thought. I'll stick with the hacker theory.

The new tenant downstairs...

Yesterday, I was out sitting in the driveway with a book. A hot, beautiful and sunny day, but I was just feeling too damn lazy to bike down to the beach as I usually do. Besides, I every time I passed the magnolia tree in the front yard, the bees and flies snacking on it would swarm me. Stupid bugs and their posse mentality.

The guy who lives downstairs (avec wife, child and soon-to-be-second child) walked by with a canister displaying sinister graphics. Some sort of all-inclusive rodent repellent -- shaken over the property to deter raccoons, squirrels, mice and other insidious wildlife from the house and yard.

Seems he had a visitor the other day. He and his family came home to find (cue ominous thunder and maniacal laughter in the distance)... a squirrel. Sitting in their living room.

On one hand, I sympathize. On the other, I wish them well with their newest (and most sinister) family member. I wonder how squirrels are with newborns?

My boyfriend is gay?

OK, he's really not.

(Though he is an admitted mysogynist -- he would likely prefer eliminating women from his life completely. Except maybe his mom. And naturally, I am not saying that gay men are mysogynists. I'm just saying Chris might have enjoyed a society where there was no dependence on women for intimate company.)

But we were MSN'ing this afternoon, and I was grumbling (as usual) about being hungry. (I have reverted to a rather bad habit of not eating anything until late-afternoon.)

He typed, "I want a cockie."

Now, of course he obviously meant "I want a cookie"... but perhaps it was a fruedian typo. Perhaps he does want a cockie. How often does your significant other request a cockie? I mean, I am the queen of typos, and I don't think I've ever typed "cockie" by accident.

I wonder what the female equivalent would be.
"Hi, I'd like to order an iced tea, guacamole and chips, and the chicken vaginas..."

Who's this person in my bed?

Every once in a while, I catch a glimpse of my future. It usually includes vast amounts of eccentricity and dementia.

I get usually get these glimpses in my sleep. Occasionally I will wake up, and my bedroom is completely unfamiliar to me.

"Where am I?" I wonder. "What's happening?" Then I will look over at Chris, sleeping soundly. But he's no longer recognizable as Chris. He's just some weird man sleeping in my bed. "Why is there a boy in my bed? And why am I so calm about this?"

I suspect it's likely one of the following: 1) an early onslaught of dementia -- and Alzheimers is on its way; 2) One of my other personalities has broken loose for a moment, and is suitably lost; or 3) My body was briefly inhabited by some kind of alien -- confused, it quickly retreats back to its original place in Mariah Carey's body.

Fortunately, even in a state of complete confusion, my body stays relaxed. So relaxed, in fact, that I sink back onto my pillows, and head back to sleep.

And in the morning, all is as it should be. Chris is back to being a human (well...). My bedroom is back to being a bedroom. And in the hazy sun of summer, everything is back to being familiar and safe... except for a nagging feeling that something in the grand scheme has been altered just a little.

(My goodness! Is that white backwards jacket for me? Oh, you shouldn't have. How thoughtful! Yes, it fits marvelously...)

And with a twirl, she fell over... dead.

Oh, ack.

Exhausting weekend -- boat cruise, too much booze and not enough sleep, but an all-around jolly time. Deadlines out the wazoo, which is always a blessing -- but busy-ifying. Parents visiting. Sleeping on couch.

Arghhhhhzzzzzzzz. Zzzzz. z.

Why I love Craigslist...

Because really, where else would this be considered a job ad?
Beautiful.

$100/HR TO KICK A GUY IN THE NUTS!!! INTERESTED?


In happier news, I've been informed that our hot water will likely be returning this evening. I'm afraid to express joy just in case something else goes wrong. "Here's hot water! The bad news is, you can't flush your toilet ever again! And by the way, you have cancer."

Almost as elusive as the Loch Ness Monster!

But imagine that the Loch Ness Monster came into your house, ate your food, destroyed your screens and stared sinisterly at you through the windows. And the one time you had a camera nearby, the photo looked like this (taken from attic window, just above sneaky resting place of said rodent).

It seems to wanting the caption, "National Enquirer Exclusive: Giant Squirrel Terrorizes Neighbourhood! Minivan* crushed -- Residents Furious"

Stupid squirrel.

(*For the record, the minivan belongs next door. )

To pie... or not to pie?

Having regularly attended the Y for the last eight months (oh fatness, will you ever go away?), I've decided that there is much to be learned -- on a purely sociological basis -- about women's behaviour in the changeroom.

One of the many joys of being female is the struggle when you must strip down or change in a public environment. But the varied modes of response to this public humiliation are indeed interesting.

Some opt for the bathroom option. They will not drop their drawers without a door. They will not drop them without a lock. They will not do it, Sam-I-Am.

Others opt from the lessons of earlier years, implementing the Catholic Schoolgirl Wriggle. (Mode in which women keep the top layer of clothing on as long as possible, while stripping away panties and bra, while simultaneously adding a new layer. Top layer used as shield from pyring, licentious girl-eyes.) Inappropriately named, I think, as most Catholics schoolgirls I've known are generally far more... er, forward in their modesty. Or lack thereof.

Some note that a woman should be able to strip down in a changeroom -- yet they feel all too vulnerable and exposed to just hurl off their clothing without abandon. In an ideal world, women should be able to strut about as naked as they please. But these women also realize that there are always a couple of cats, who look around with judging, accusing eyes. They back themselves into a corner and try to inconspicuously remove the clothes, hoping that no one is thinking to themselves, "God, when is the last she trimmed that bush? That pie... c'est enorme!"

As for the rest -- well, bless their little hearts, they take it all off with nary a thought (and sometimes with more relish than absolutely necessary). These are the women who stride around, confidently, happily -- regardless of the size of their breasts, thighs, tummy, ass or cellulite. From shower to sauna to locker room, they wear nothing but flipflops and a look of serenity.

But one of my chums views this as nothing more than an affront to her soul.
"Her pie!" she hisses. "Her pie was only a few feet from my face! Why do they show that? That's nasty!"
When I calmly point out that in a women's locker room, it is far more natural for women to wander about naked (along with the right to not be embarassed by it), my friend looks disgusted.
"They should cover it up. I don't want to see pie! I don't care what kind of pie it is. Put it away!"

Granted, there are times when I've seen more than I would otherwise perhaps be comfortable with. Such as a woman lying in the hot sauna, naked on the bench. Her legs are propped up. And her goods are full on display. Or the woman who decided that she needed to stretch, and propped up her legs to pose, stretch, and show off a very ample, untrimmed pie. (And there was no "innocent stretching" about it.)

At which case, I feel it my right to keep my face straight until I'm far enough away to let out a snort of amusement.

But for the time being, I'm left to do the schoolgirl wriggle around my friend, who would panic at the sight of an escaped breast or pubic hair.

It's only polite, I suppose. But one day, I would like to have the courage and comfort to saunter into a sauna, naked as a jaybird (what a weird expression). I figure I'll be about 70 years old at that point, and fully senile.

And with my luck, I'll have mistaken the reception desk or the conditioning room for the sauna.

Hooray for the cream cheese brownie

It's funny how something so small (and so delicious) can alter your mood just enough so that the world isn't quite as tilted as it was before.

I feel much less inclined to stick my head in the blender. Thank you, Mr. Cream Cheese Brownie. You are indeed a bringer of small happinesses.

Not quite up to Colonel Double Vodka Martini (Chocolate Cappucino) standards, but a substantial contribution nonetheless.

Hell and damnation

A bad day is a lousy thing.
But a bad day coupled with some extremely negative feedback can be a crushing thing indeed.

Received a "wake-up call" email from an editor today, which said that my work has gone to crap. It was a pretty brutally-worded thing (goodness, don't sugarcoat it on my account) -- the sort of thing you would have bad dreams about, before waking up with a gasp of relief that it was all in your head.

But not for me. Not today.

The result is that I've had to evaluate some things about myself -- never a particularly good thing when you have a pretty hefty penchant for self-loathing and criticism. Decided that maybe I should just call it a day, and bid adieu to this whole writing thing. Which could be a relief -- my friends will no longer have to reassure me that I'm not the worst writer ever and feign interest in my work. My family will be delighted that I can finally pursue a financially viable occupation, and Chris will no longer have to deal with my fits of frustration, writer's blocks and generally moodiness.

Of course, I will keep the blog around. Bad writing never stopped a good blog -- or even a mediocre one.

I hate days like this.

"Here we go, boys! Up and out!"

While my apartment crumbles, sliding into some horrid state of requiring constant maintenance (I think we deserve a rent discount), I'm left to ponder the one, lonely shining spot of my entire day.

Charlie And The Chocolate Factory. Tonight. Advance screening.

One of my favourite authors. One of my favourite directors. And a quirksome actor who could bring it all together.

You see, unlike the original movie (Willy Wonka and The Choclate Factory, starring Gene Wilder) which wasn't approved of by Roald Dahl, Tim Burton offers the potential to keep all the weird, wonderful and outright wicked little details intact.

So I want to see Veruca Salt established as a bad nut. I want to to see Square Candies That Look Round.
And most of all, I want to hear the Oompa Loompa songs as they were originally penned. Such as the following (after Augustus Gloop gets sucked up the pipe):

"When he goes throught the fudge machine:
slowly the wheels go round and round,
the cogs begin to grind and pound;
A hundred knives go slice, slice, slice;
We add some sugar, cream, and spice;
We boil him for a minute more,
Until we're absolutely sure
That all the greed and all the gall,
Is boiled away for once and all.
Then out he comes! And now! By Grace!
A miracle has taken place!
This boy, who only just before
Was loathed by men from shore to shore,
This greedy brute, this louse's ear,
Is loved by people everywhere!

For who could hate or bear a grudge
Against a luscious piece of fudge?"

The defence submits the first evidence...

Secret messages from the gods... I think.

Now, this might strike you as somewhat odd, but I'm something of a paranoid person. No, no -- it's true. But I can see where you might get a different impression.

However, every once in a while, I wonder if whatever malicious gods rule the universe (and oh, what malicious gods they are. I will never forgive them for Mariah Carey and kidney beans) are sending me out secret little messages.

As an example, several years ago, I jaunted across the street to catch a bus on the way to work. A woman sort of materialized next to me and, in a friendly and confidential voice, said, "Sometimes you have to take chances." She got off at the next bus stop, and when I looked out the window, she had disappeared.

In a less obvious way, I suspect the universe is once again sending me cryptic messages.

Last week, I was at the Y (Metro-central, of course), and had finished working out. On my way to the pool, Radiohead's "Karma Police" was going around and around in my head in a most persistent fashion. By the time I got to the pool, I thought I had lost my mind, because I could actually hear the song being played. Turns out, the lifeguard was playing it on a CD player.

And yesterday evening, I had a scene from The Matrix replaying in my head for hours. That scene where Neo is waiting to see the Oracle, and the little kid says, "Instead, only try to realize the truth -- there is no spoon. Then you'll see that it is not the spoon that bends... it is only yourself."

About an hour ago, my chum said -- both mysteriously and around a mouthful of hot pizza, which is quite a trick -- "There is no spoon." Now really, how often does someone quote that at you?

As I said -- paranoid. But I think the universe is gearing up to throw some great, dirty trick my way. Which, after the week I've had, will be quite a feat.

In more rodent-filled news, I have (through the most generous loaning of my pal Tali) a digital camera. So now I will have proof that those naughty little squirrels are indeed ransacking my poor little apartment, and that it's not just some bizarre metaphor.

Squirrel Assault: Day Five

Just when you think you've erected a nice, solid defense, along comes a squirrel. (You thought I was going to say something like "raccoon" or "buffalo," didn't you?)

Yes, when I brought dishes to the kitchen, there it was, sitting on the counter. Caught in the act. Actually, it was technically before the act, as later inspection showed no damage. Thank god it couldn't get into my recently made stash of hand-dipped chocolate-covered ginger...

But this time, there was no fury. No anger. Just gentle confusion. Even the squirrel's panicked getaway seemed lacklustre and somewhat monotonous.

"How exactly are you getting in here?" I asked politely.
"I'll never tell," murmured the rodent, sweetly batting its little lashes while simultaneously scanning for a quick exit.
"You realize, of course, that this is growing tiresome."
"Of course," agreed The Squirrel. "But I'm winning, so I will never give up!"

With that, he (she?) gave a menacing laugh, and slipped through the other side of the window pane, which hadn't been properly sealed on the left side.
"I see..." I said to myself. And with that, I removed the screen from the window entirely, and replaced it with a glass pane.

Meanwhile, Chris is planning to get a loaded gun, open up every single window (with exposed loaves of bread), and sit and wait -- a la Michael Madsen in Kill Bill Vol. 2 -- for the squirrel to arrive.

You complete me...

Well, what with all this squirrel business, dead appliances, missing satellite, etc -- I can think of one thing that would just make everything more... complete.

No hot water.

Yes, I now command the hot water heater to break. And I want it to not only break, but require extensive chimney work that will be expensive and need to be approved by my landlady, currently out of town on vacation.

Yes. That would be just wonderful. Get ready... aaaaannnd break!

What? ...What is that you're saying? ...It's broken? And I'll likely have no hot water until next week sometime?

Beautiful.

Good morning, you little prick -- I mean, sunshine

It's morning.

My alarm has gone off, and for once, there's a breeze with a slight coolness coming through the curtains. I stretch, and kick off the cotton duvet (and my lovely 400-thread-count sheets). Through the curtains, I can tell the morning is pearly and grey.

I sit up, and gather one curtain to tie it back.

And I am greeted by cold, calculating beady eyes.

The Squirrel grasps the window ledge (fortunately, it is outside my bedroom window... but that could change easily enough -- perhaps I will need nightly protection after all). Its tail twitches in annoyance. We glare at each other, before it scrabbles off, its tiny nails scratching at the wooden ledge.

I know that if I had a chance to have some caffeine, I might have been able to think of some incredibly clever insult for it. Something completely debilitating. Scathing. Something that would have shaken The Squirrel's self-confidence, and cemented my position as the superior species... Lost. All lost.

I must now prepare myself for a day of warfare. It's impossible to work under these conditions.

Singing in the pool

During the weekend, Chris and I were enjoying a nice leisurely swim at the pool (whilst my rodent nemesis wreaked havoc upon an innocent, crusty baguette). Two women and a man were playing water polo. I, of course, had just discovered the joy of noseplugs and was enjoying being able to swim underwater with both arms. I was trying not to imagine the joy I would feel when this group would invite me to practice with them. I also tried not to imagine the subsequent ass-kicking they would receive, and and my daydream of how I would go on to become a water-polo olympic athlete, complete with product sponsorships. Something practical... like Converse and Benefit Cosmetics.

One of the women kept chattering. Then she would break into a random song, before continuing with some kind of extended verbal commentary.

"Huh," said Chris, who had just risen from the water with his water mask. "She's like a five-year-old... making noise just for the sake of making noise." Then he looked at me... pointedly.

Naturally, I had been doing some sort of weird combination of humming and clucking like a chicken for my own amusement. "Of course you're right," I said. "Some people just never know when to shut up."

One day, when I am rich and moderately powerful -- enough to inflict crushing debt onto my foes -- he will wish he was much nicer to me.

The Taunting

Not an hour ago, I went into the back room. And sitting on the post just outside the back door was The Squirrel.

It had been plotting, obviously.

I could tell by the feigned look of casual innocence on its face, and in its guilty, scheming little eyes. Our eyes met. My hands and its paws rested at our sides, ready. Waiting. A tumbleweed rolled by, and in the distance, I heard the forlorn wail of a harmonica. My fingers twitched.

I hissed, "Fuck off!" It bolted.

This was obviously a test. The Squirrel needed to seize me up, and gauge my character as a worthy foe. It's obviously a fearful and cowardly creature.

I will need to brush up on my martial arts techniques. I expect my special technique of "Dance Of 1,000 Tortured Squirrels" will strike fear into the core of its being.

But for now, I will wait.

Me vs Squirrels... Round #429

About 15 minutes ago, I went to bring a dirty glass down to the kitchen (I generally work in the attic). Sitting on the kitchen counter beside the bread was a squirrel.

But this was no ordinary squirrel, oh no. This was the fucking Harry Houdini of squirrels. With a magic swish of its tail, it can materialize in any kitchen. Earlier, we had repaired some of our screens, and for the ones we couldn't be bothered and/or afford to fix, we had closed the windows so that only a crack was open.

Obviously, that crack was all Harry Rodentini needed.

I started roaring at it (in a manner I didn't think I was capable of -- even I was intimidated), shouting all kinds of obscenities as I advanced. Well, that fucking thing moved... but it couldn't find its way out.

It went leaping from window to window, scrabbling at every surface, desperate to get away from this advancing giant with the loud voice and aura of heated fury. Eventually it hid under a table, until I opened the back door screen and bellowed, "Get ouuuuuuuuuuut!"

The Amityville house would have wiped away a proud tear.

Perhaps our landlady won't mind...

Land mines.

Yes, I believe that will be the answer to the squirrel problem. You see, the pesky little fellow has indeed decided to build a nest in our eaves. And just now, I looked out the window to see not one, but two little rodent faces, peering up at me with smug, self-satisfied expressions on their pointy little faces.

And I could swear I heard one of them snicker.

I believe a number of strategically places mines should significantly deter any wildlife from staying longer than the time it takes to send their bloody tails sailing through the air...

The trouble with urban wildlife

Still no satellite. The jerkish contractors hired by Bell rang our bell at 9 am yesterday (Saturday) morning -- hours before they were even supposed to show up -- just to inform us that they would not be moving our satellite. Too dangerous, it seems.

Then they left. Pricks.

In sunnier news, our new refrigerator arrived yesterday. It was exciting. It was satifying. It very nearly didn't happen because the guys could barely get our old fridge out. We celebrated by grocery shopping today. It's weird how over $100 doesn't even come close to filling a fridge full of food. However, we had ample opportunity to display the fine selection of our four products in the freezer. Five, if you count the ice cubes I just made -- which aren't actually ice cubes yet. Pre-ice cubes.

This afternoon, we had a nice extended swim at our free community pool. And came home to chaos in our kicthen.

A can of pop was knocked over. The lovely and fresh baguette to go with dinner was half eaten. Buns for Chris' lunches were nibbled. And with our set of crumbs and destroyed food was an extra special treat -- holes in two of our screens.

Seems a squirrel couldn't ignore the temptation provided by the food sitting in our second-cloor kitchen -- the little bugger chewed into the kitchen window screen, had its little feast, and scampered out the screen of the back door (which just leads to a piece of roof we're not permitted to stand on).

A few hours later, I saw a squirrel trying to nest up in one our eaves troughs. I suspect it's the same one. Decided to declare a jihad. Won't it be surprised when, the next time it tries to weasel into our kitchen, I'm waiting for it... with a grenade launcher.