So the family's away for the weekend and I'm left to my own devices. First time with the TV to myself in many moons and what do I watch? Drake & Josh on Nickelodeon. And I don't mind admitting that I laughed. A lot.

I'm not a big sitcom person. The only one I've watched somewhat regularly in the last ten years is Arrested Development (and yes, that includes when Seinfeld was on). It's more out of lack of patience than any critique on the shows, because when I do watch them, they're usually pretty good. But I've seen a lot of Drake & Josh because I have an eight-year-old daughter. I would catch snippets of it here and there while she watched it and laugh at the antics. Tonight, it had just started as I was about to switch over to play some Wii and I got hooked in.

Not sure what it is about the show. It's not particularly original or well-written. I think it's the slapstick nature of it. Not since Three's Company have I laughed so much at people's overblown reactions. Characters fall down, jump over sofas, run into walls, do double- and triple-takes, etc, etc and so on and so forth. I swear I saw one character slip on a banana peel at some point. Tonight's episode had both title characters giving CPR to a supposedly dead hamster. It's very old school and it's very funny. Even the missus will sit and watch when it's on.

Kudos to pretty much the whole cast but I have to single out Josh Nichols. He's like the 21st century love child of Charlie Chaplin and Lucille Ball. Well, that might be a little hyperbolic but there's definitely some John Ritter in there somewhere. The kid can take a pratfall like few others on TV. His double-takes last about thirty seconds. When he trips on something, you can practically see the walls shake. His stint on Drake & Josh can't last much longer without it looking creepy that they still live at home with their parents but I have little doubt that Josh Nichols' acting career will continue on in some form.

I've noticed that I compared Drake & Josh to some pretty heavyweight comedy shows. And upon reflection, I stand by it. It may not survive the annals of TV history given the genre it's in and the cynicism people generally aim at it. But damned if I don't laugh loud and hard when I watch it.

As for the rest of the weekend, I'm off to Club Penguin.

One fairly important thing I forgot to mention about my glorious return to the Bahamas is the recent purchase of our new piano! From an ex-neighbour who has graciously moved back to Vienna. And judging from the interest she got in it, I'm lucky I got it while I could. Word is she had to fend off other budding musicians with a pointed stick.

It's an electric one, a Clavinova, that I've come to adore in a short period. About a dozen or so instruments (Scarborough Fair on a classic guitar! Take Five on jazz organ! Pink Floyd's The Wall on harpsichord!) plus about fifty classical pieces pre-programmed that you can play along with (either left or right hand or both). There's a demo mode that has been providing hours (and I do mean *hours*) of entertainment for Sydney. And a record mode that has led to some, shall we say, nouveau concertos from Syd.

And the best features: a headphone jack and a volume knob! Great for banging out In the Hall of the Mountain King at 7:00 in the morning and Axel F, well, anytime. (I do have neighbours and a reputation, y'know.)

But sadly, at the moment, it sits idle in the living room. Mocking me. Courtesy of the Weekly Wednesday Bahamian Power Outage.

The Bahamian Hillbilly has been neglectful, and for that, I...well, I feel nothing really. Not regret, not joy, not anger or remorse. More of a melancholic apathy really. A supernatural sense of indifference, if you will. You, beloved reader whom I cherish for allowing me to entertain you, rank ever so slightly above flossing my teeth in the grand scheme of things.

And yet, here I am. As are you.

Have been back home in the Bahamas for the last month and enjoying myself immensely. Liza surprised me with some freshly painted walls in our room and the living room as well as a nice little office set up on the third floor. I promptly claimed the territory as my own by downing a bowl of All Bran and a can of beans and leaving my scent at the entrance. (Which reminds me: my cholesterol is still down!)

We've continued with some minor renovations in Syd's room. She picked out some new paint colours using the scientific design technique of picking colours that sounded funny: citrus green, tangelo, and little piggy (she was pretty adamant about that last one). We're in the process of negotiating what to do with the leftover paint. Syd has some fairly radical ideas including a novel way of painting the ceiling fan (hint: it will be on) but for now, we're just trying to find matching curtains.

Went to the local food festival on the weekend. Canada won first place in the North American Booth competition which sounds impressive until you check the map (plus U.S.A. didn't enter this year). Syd and her friend, Hailey, were inspired by the festivities though and did some food experimenting of their own that night. The first attempt, involving orange juice, cinnamon, chocolate sauce, and Ranch dressing (among others), didn't go over too well but they had more success with a concoction that included milk, chocolate sauce, and crumbled up chocolate chip cookies.

The rest of our time has been pretty domestic. Hangin' at the pool, honing our Wii skillz, and trying our best to weather the fall weather.

Wha? What was that whooshing noise? Was that summer?

But before I bemoan the fact that summer deserves a speeding ticket, there is one thing I forgot to mention about the spa hotel in Italy. The missus and I did partake of the spa facilities but being a European spa, a lot of them are to be enjoyed naked. So we donned our best nude outfit and hopped into the sauna. We sat there for about five minutes feeling very European until another guest joined us and then we felt very North American. With that out of the way, on with the show...

Despite the rather fleeting nature of the season, we did jam-pack it with kid-friendly, parent-stressing activities. After our sojourn to London and Italy, Syd and I made our way to Calgary for some PG-rated debauchery. The following weeks saw us in Calaway Park, Drumheller Dinosaur Museum, and Heritage Park along with the usual haunts (namely Build-A-Bear in Chinook Centre where Syd constantly reminds me that "they're hiring, daddy").

Speaking of inheriting from her mother: We were preparing for bed...or rather, she was in the washroom while I sat in bed reading, waiting for my turn. Eventually she called me in to show me what she had been doing: namely cleaning the bathroom. She had organized the shampoo, soap, lotions, etc, and had scrubbed out the sink. I congratulated her resourcefulness with as much enthusiasm as I felt it deserved and proceeded to inaugurate the clean sink by brushing my teeth. As I left the bathroom, I heard a stern "DADDY!" and turned to face Li'l Liza with her fists firmly on her hips and frighteningly familiar look on her face. "Ye-es?" says I, meekly. She points to the sink: "I. Just. Cleaned. That."

It also included Syd's first camping trip. And if I had any doubts as to who her mother was (not that I would, of course, I was there after all), they were squashed with the first thing she said when I told her about the trip: How will I wash my hair?

We also managed a two-week tour of Winnipeg, Virden, Brandon, and Kenora. Kenora saw us camping in a manner more befitting the girls. I.E. We hunkered down at my parents' cabin which, to give you an idea how rugged we are, has high-speed internet access and a hot tub.

While on the lake, we had campfires, swam (briefly), and went boating. There was a failed attempt at tubing. Syd was very brave right up until the point where I said, "OK, here we are. Get in." Alas, the only way to show her how "easy" it was was for me to get in and do some tubing myself. Which meant Liza was driving and Syd was "spotting". Except she forgot what the hand signals were and thought daddy was playing a nice little game whenever he tapped his head. She usually responded with a big grin and by patting her own head to show me that she got the joke. Come to think of it, maybe she *did* know the signals...

Now summer is over and I am half-anticipating, half-regretting the next two weeks in Calgary on my own where, on one side, I'll miss the opening strains of "Back to School" and on the other, finally be able to go to some movies of my own choosing. Seriously, I had the shakes. First weekend flying solo consisted of Harry Potter, Superbad, and The Bourne Ultimatum within a 24-hour period so all is good for the time being.

When we last left our heroes, they had spent a short and uncharacteristically disastrous time in Venice. We now pick up the story a week later after the hillbillies have visited northern Italy, confirmed that V is for both vendetta and Venice, and returned to the London fog. Let's watch!

After leaving Venice, our vacation started taking a turn more in line with our expectations. It was a three hour drive, mostly through mountains, to our ultimate destination but it was worth it. Among the hotel's better amenities: a separate room for Syd (with a bunk bed no less), a spa, and a zip line, which is a playground device designed for maximum speed/fun (i.e. minimum safety).

Our companions for the week were the Donaldsons who were amazingly gracious hosts, especially since they don't live in Italy either. And there is still a good eighty to eight-five percent chance I would still say that even if I didn't know they read this blog. At the very least, they are more diligent at putting up pictures than I am.

Activities ranged from a family bike ride to a nearby town followed by a parents-only bike ride back to the hotel. Sam and Ana, the younger Donaldsons, made the trip while hardly breaking a sweat. Syd did too mostly because she spent it in a child side on my bike. (The Bahamas is hardly what you would call "bike-friendly".)

Also went hiking in the Alps (not the Swiss Alps, mind you, but impressive nonetheless) and visited a local castle, of which there are many. Seems building a castle was the medieval version of "pissing for distance" given how many of them spot the landscape.

The missus and I also celebrated nine years together during our trip. And as you all know, the ninth is the "atomic diarrhea" anniversary and I celebrated in grand style! (And judging from the port-o-potty I almost used in a nearby town, someone else also observed nine years.) I swear it was from a stomach bug but some have argued that it was psychosomatic.

We returned to Venice for a night, which was just long enough for Syd to get food poisoning, leading her to conclude that our family was allergic to Venice. Luckily, it subsided before we had to board the plane to London although she did get airsick just for good measure. When we politely asked the flight attendant if we could get a fast pass for British customs, not only did she refuse, we were admonished for bringing a sick child on the plane. My response: Can you repeat that? I can't hear you over the hacking from the other flight attendant.

So we landed in what I thought was a dense fog but I later discovered it was the whole of London taking one last puff before the country went smoke-free the next day. As luck would have it, we landed on the same day Picadilly Circus was being defused. But despite my wish to barricade myself in the hotel, the girls wanted one last night out in London.

And thank God for women's intuition. We left the hotel and followed the sound of music to Trafalgar Square. Syd was the first to figure out what was going on: DADDY! THEY'RE CELEBRATING CANADA DAY!

And there was much merriment going on. We wandered through the booths, acquiring much red and white memorabilia. Syd got a "Canadian Girls Rock" tattoo which lasted several days. There was live music by several bands I didn't recognize plus Sam Roberts, who I still don't recognize but I was in the minority. Compared to the bands before him, he was a little generic for my tastes. Syd was very patriotic, though, and showed it by screaming a lot.

Alas, all good things. Syd and I made our way to Calgary for the summer and Liza back home to Nassau. We are left with fond memories supported by pictures (because we all know what my memory is like). And many, many thanks to Scott, Alex, Sam, and Ana for what Syd has described as our best vacation ever.

Except for Venice.

 Ah, Venice. Our stay with you was short but such a sweet and noble disaster it was! And such entertainment you will provide my loyal reader!

Before I go into details, I should mention that this was my first ever trip to a country where English was not the primary language (excluding a couple of border towns in Mexico where, let's face it, no language is necessary). And I have to say it's freakin' EMBARRASSING speaking only one language there when even the rats squeak in at least three.

The first problem we ran into was the rather draconian rules imposed by hotels in the area. It seems they all expect you to have what they call a "reservation" when you go there. And they act all surprised when you tell them you swore you made one but upon looking through your e-mails, you realize that you didn't quite confirm it.

But no matter. I was able to effectively use my mastery of languages to express our wishes at the Quattro Fontane ("Garcon! L'accommodatione, por favor! Chop chop!"). Luckily, they were able to house us. Even more luckily, it is a very nice hotel and close to a couple of pretty cool beaches, even if it doesn't get many points for being all that convenient.

Second issue: Venice contains at least one thief with a penchant for cell phones. Which is a fairly big deal but easy to remedy. When you speak the local language. Alas, the pay phones (and corresponding instructions) in Italy are, in fact, in Italian. After several unsuccessful attempts to insert a credit card and make a call home to someone who can help us, we eventually found a phone with a toll-free number next to an American and Canadian flag and we were able to make calls on our credit card to North America.

Which, apparently, the Bahamas is not part of. Even though it uses the same country code. We did manage to get hold of a family member in Calgary. Alas, Rogers will not allow just anyone to cancel your service. You have to phone and do it yourself. So, of course, said family member called pretending to be the missus, cleverly subverting their security system ("What's my birthdate? Oh gosh, I'm not actually the real customer so I guess I don't really know now, do I?").

Unfortunately, Rogers uses a secondary security system which is more effective. Namely, incompetence. Said family member got cut off before she could successfully complete her operation. But she was able to ascertain that Rogers had a 1.800 number that works "anywhere in the world". Except from Italian payphones calling a toll-free number to connect to North America. I spoke with a very pleasant gentleman who informed me that he was unable to connect me to toll-free numbers from his system, only numbers with a valid Canadian area code.

By that time, we had figured out how to successfully use the credit card in the pay phone and were able to call the Rogers 1.800 number directly, if not toll-freely. I can't stand voice recognition systems. You know the ones. They tell you in a semi-human voice, "I'm sorry, I didn't quite get that" when you scream "SWEET ZOMBIE JESUS, GET A REAL PERSON ON THE &*%$# LINE NOW OR I SWEAR I WILL STAND HERE AND SCREAM AT YOU SOME MORE TO THE AMUSEMENT OF PASSERS-BY!"

Seriously, there is no "press 0 for an operator" option in Rogers' system. When you do, they still want more information. So after entering 454.558.3323 as the phone number to be cancelled (translation: I KILL U DEAD), we finally got hold of someone who was almost able to understand our request before putting us on hold for approximately three minutes, give or take an hour. During that time, someone took mercy on us and simply disconnected the call so we left it at that, relying on the fact that the call would be monitored or recorded for quality assurance purposes so they had a formal record of our intent, even if they didn't quite grasp it.

Total time spent in Venice: 18 hours. But the memories will last a lifetime. Whether I want them to or not.

Venice be where the Hillbilly and his family are at. Left London this morning after visiting the old bird for a week and tomorrow, we leave for our next destination for the week. I'll try to act humble while you browse through the website. Note that all of this is relative to when I'm typing this (June 23, 2007) because there be no knowledge of Internet where we are now. Hope the hotel we go to tomorrow has one somewhere because I'm starting to get the shakes.

The London portion of our trip is fairly routine in that Cabbage and I come here every year at this time for work. It was getting so routine, in fact, that we had to bring the young'un with us this year just to shake things up a bit.

The hotel we were in while in London is one I've come to love. Uncharacteristically large rooms and exceptional staff. The bathrooms include a bathtub and separate shower with five nozzles which is a source of unending fun with Syd (and, I'm guessing, the cleaning staff who has to deal with our room afterward). It also boasts the largest free-standing marble staircase in the world, which proves my theory that everyone can be the best at something if you add enough qualifiers.

Sights seen to date: Buckingham Palace ("Look, Daddy, I can wave like the queen"), London Eye ("It would have been better if it went faster"), Tower of London ("Henry the Eighth was an angry king"), The Lion King ("Daddy must have been a young warthog once too") and Madame Tussaud's (gallery of wax figures notable for having the coolest activity we've seen so far - immortalizing your hand in wax).

We also took a double-decker bus tour which gave us nice family-friendly tidbits of information like the fact that King Charles I had his head cut off for treason but they had to sew it back on because they forgot they had no decent portrait of him. There were a number of clarifications I had to make for that for Syd:

• No, he didn't come back to life when his head got sewed back on
• This happened a long time ago, not last week. They don't cut people's heads off now, we're much more civilised
• What's treason? Why that's when you don't finish your vegetables at dinner, of course.

Syd has unabashedly declared this her best vacation ever, praise which I'll temper by saying she has inherited her dad's memory so there's a good chance it's the only one she remembers. Still, she's had a perpetual smile on her face ever since arriving so maybe there's something to it. It may sound sweet but you weren't the one listening to her sing, "He' gorgeous! He's Teddy! He's gorgeous! He's Teddy!" to her Hamley's teddy bear last night for forty-five minutes. And now that I've typed that out, the &*%$# song is stuck in my head again.

Here's hoping the fine folks at Google Maps have carefully researched tomorrow's destination because it does NOT look easy to get to.

Apologies for short-changing the offspring's ability to contract a serious illness. Her cough wasn't due to cold but rather pneumonia, which has since been brought under control. As for the puppy, she is in the veterinarian's capable hands and we plan to bring her home on Wednesday.

In the meantime, I'm at home dying of my own illness. There's some debate in the household as to what exactly I've come down with. My guess: acute hyperglucomyokenesthesis with a touch of mitrohypoallercardiolisis. The missus' take: a sniffle.

Whatever the case, here I am left to my own devices and I thought: what a tremendous opportunity it would be to finally talk to my readers about my hernia!

According to Wikipedia, a hernia is a pain in your abdomen usually caused by serious strenuous activity, such as the type of activities normally associated with movies on channels your parents or wife have blocked. Or by performing a clean and jerk in the Olympic games with a weight roughly equivalent to the average Overeaters' Anonymous meeting. Also pooping hard.

Or, as in my case, it can be conveniently attributed to genetic factors for those people who prefer not to take responsibility for their general health.

So after a multitude of tests by various people, all confirming what my regular doctor determined just by looking (well, that's a bit of an exaggeration but if you don't mind, we'll skip the initial examination), I was declared the proud owner of a baby hernia. (Side note on private health care: The average Canadian would be astounded at how badly things have deteriorated in the public system.)

So the day of surgery arrives and, as is my way, I met it with naive optimism. "At least I won't lose much billable time," thought I, "since I work from home." I met the doctor beforehand and after putting him through the same tests police use for possible DUIs, I went under the knife.

Cut to a couple of hours later. My first sight is the beautiful Mrs. Hillbilly smiling in that way that says, "I love you but DON'T EVER PUT ME THROUGH THIS AGAIN!" Before long, a nurse appears with a wheelchair so that I can be transferred to it and another unsuspecting victim can use my bed. I lift my head to prepare to move to the wheelchair.

"LORD TUNDERIN' JAYZUS AND MOSES ON A BOAT, WHAT UNHOLY PAIN HAS GOUGED ITS WAY INTO MY LOINS!?!?!" says I discretely.

It seems I underestimated the invasive nature of slicing through the abdominal muscles because the feeling was not unlike having several hundred chorus girls tap-dance on your groin in golf shoes. (And hoo boy, remind me to tell you the story of how I know what *THAT* feels like.) And this was while I was still under pain medication.

Needless to say, the road to recovery was a learning experience. I learned the exact position to rest a laptop so as to minimize the impact on your abdomen (answer: in its carrying case on the floor beside the bed). After careful analysis of various digital music channels, I learned that it is very possible that a woman could get pregnant simply by listening to Dean Martin sing. And I became acutely aware of just how many muscles are involved when one sneezes (answer: Every. Single. One.).

Mrs. Hillbilly definitely earned a Purple Heart for duties that made me feel guilty about how inadequately I treated her after her c-section. And the offspring had a ball playing, "let's hide the remote in plain sight on the bed just out of daddy's reach."

But now, ten months later, it is an ordeal I can laugh about. Particularly when I talk to someone whose own hernia repair surgery is upcoming.

Rough night last night so forgive me if I...umm...kind of...my bed...pillow...what? What was I saying? Oh yeah, I might space out a little today.

Sick child and sick puppy last night. What? Oh yeah, we got a puppy. Her first night was last night and she didn't fare too well, apparently picking up a virus before we brought her home. Brought her to the vet who did not inspire confidence when, after the examination, he asked, "Have you named her yet?" and tsk'd when I said yes.

The chosen name was Sally, after a character in one of Syd's favorite movies (The Nightmare Before Christmas). This was better than the alternative Syd originally came up with.

We had initially settled on Atticus for the puppy after a long successful campaign of smear and slander by myself against Syd's choice, Buddy. ("Honey, Buddy is the name of a singer with big goofy glasses that died in a plane crash. Is that what you want to happen to your puppy?") But when Syd eventually picked out a girl from the litter, it became clear the name would have to change. No problem, says Syd, we can call her Attica instead. That's a girl's name, right?

So after explaining the ramifications of naming our puppy Attica ("Darling, if we give her that name, it will bring about seven plagues, each more deadly than the last, culminating in the election of a religious zealot to the White House"), we settled on Sally.

But alas, we shall see if a strict diet of Pedialyte and soggy Rice Krispies mixed with bacon fat can nurse her back to health.

The child is nursing a more standard illness in the form of a cough due to cold which has numerous remedies, all based on the idea that if you can make it taste like bubble gum, the child will get better.

This follows on the heels of a particularly active Sunday when we had four little bundles of birth control visit us for a play date, ranging in age from "boy, that electrical cord looks tasty" to "if you don't go swimming with us, I'm going to call family services".

So again, apologies for....the drifting...dozy...zzzzzz.....