OK, I’m having too much fun not to share this. I’ve mentioned before how this website comes up in the strangest places in search engines. Here are some more things that people are searching for and finding us:

-          Theodore Geisel

-          Bahamian Centipede

-          Skittles and Bahamas

-          Defcon Five

-          Annie Liebovitz

-          Church of God of Prophecy (I’m particularly proud of that one because the page it links to is called Rudolph the Red-Nosed Headbanger)

-          Baron von Rashke

-          Air Canada Customer Reviews (heh!)

-          Calgary Transexuals

That last one is a little scary not because people are searching for it but because the Ho Down featured so prominently in the results.

 Yes, we’re all still here. Not sure why I haven’t posted in a while. We’re just hanging about “keeping it real” as the young ‘uns say these days (a saying I like better than “my bad”; in my day, colloquialisms required nouns).

Last year, I and several friends from good old TCI planned a mini-reunion for around this time and it happened a couple of weeks ago. Of course, the dashing and endearing Wayne van der Zweep was the only one of you people with balls enough to show up so to you, Wayne, and your family, our hats are off in gratitude and well-wishes. The rest of you can go suck an egg.

I jest, of course (if I didn’t, I would have used something more coherent than sucking on chicken pods). But Wayne, Nancy, and Seth were gracious guests and are welcome back anytime. Surprisingly, there was little to no reminiscing of the old days but that’s, of course, because I don’t remember them. Besides, Seth and Syd were busy creating some old days of their own to forget when they’re in their thirties.

 Y’know, I keep directing people to this little neck of the virtual woods, usually with a note like, “Here’s what’s happening in our life.” But as I look over these entries, I realize I’m missing a lot of fairly major events. So I’ll touch on a couple just so I can justify calling this an account of our lives:

·         Syd’s reading like crazy now. She keeps asking the teacher to send home more and more books and I swear the teacher’s gonna send her home with War and Peace one of these days just to shut her up. I should be proud but I can’t stand it now when I’m reading to her and she keeps interrupting with stuff like, “Where does it say, ‘chocolate’? Why is that spelled with an ‘a’?” and useless crap that breaks the lyrical rhythm I’ve so meticulously built-up. Can’t she just keep quiet long enough to find out what a Zizzer Zazzer Zuzz is?

·         She’s in piano lessons now and, surprisingly, she loves it. I had visions of strapping her down to the stool every day with duct tape to get her to practice but it’s the opposite. I need a &$*%# crowbar to get her away from it. And again, I should be proud but the songs she’s practicing are driving me nuts. She knows only three notes so they’re amazingly repetitive. Plus it’s brought back a whole lot of painful memories. Syd’s asking about drum lessons but I think we’ll stick to instruments less likely to inspire a revolt from the neighbours. And I’ve grown increasingly sensitive to noise in the last five and a half years.

·         Syd and I went to the beach last weekend for the first time in, oh, I dunno, let’s say six months. Wandered down to the one next to the Atlantis resort and the first thing she said was, “Let’s go to the pool at Atlantis”. We did end up at the Atlantis but they allow you in only if you’re a guest (who all have these wristbands which has always struck me as a little Orwellian). Of course, you don’t exactly need Navy SEAL training to get past their crack security team so we managed to make it into the pool. Syd had a blast but I kept glancing over my shoulder expecting the Bracelet Police to come at me wielding little fluorescent strips of plastic. One alert lifeguard did look up from his book long enough to tell us to get a wristband which ended our fun at that pool. Luckily, the resort has three others…

·         Scott and Conchita were out again for a visit with two of their friends, Beth (“The Educator”) and Marty, and it was a good visit as it always is. On the last evening, we went out with our neighbours Andrew and Tara. Andrew invited us to one of his local hangouts assuaging Tara’s concerns with, “This one’s not bad; they should be okay.” Had a great time at Scoe’s Bar which is essentially a big room with alcohol along one wall, mix along another, and about half a dozen guys rotating through a continuous game of dominos. After a few mistrials, Marty and Scott learned the fine art of slapping dominos against the table without scattering the existing ones to the four winds, which is apparently the dominos version of “pissing for distance”. The evening ended with one of the neighbours yelling at us unintelligibly as we returned to our vehicle. This was a bit of a concern for me because although the seven of us technically outnumbered him, I was the only one in any condition to actually feel the effects of any ass-kicking, if you get my meaning. It didn’t help that everyone else was laughing hysterically at everything he said but Scoe, himself, escorted us out with the keen intuition of a bartender who recognizes the danger of losing potential repeat business in a drunken brawl.

I was going to claim that I didn’t touch on these things earlier because they wouldn’t make very entertaining reading but I sure had fun writing about them…

 I think I’ve been here long enough that I think I’m justified in starting a list of rules for living in the Bahamas. I’d like to say this will be the first in a series but I don’t want to commit to anything just yet. So we’ll start slowly. The subject of this post will be:

 Rule One: Shake It Out Before Putting It On

The impetus for this rule arose yesterday, apparently to counter the positive aspects of living in the Bahamas (let’s look at that picture once again, shall we:)

So anyway, as I got out of the shower and unwrapped my towel, this Flaming Cockroach of Death leapt at me, with a cry of "LONG LIVE THE GLORIOUS COCKROACH REBELLION AGAINST THE GREAT SUBURBAN BOURGEOIS OPPRESSOR SWINE-PIG!" And lucky me, I’ve inherited my mother’s tolerance for bugs. So, naked, dripping wet, and doing my best to pronounce b, I ran from the bathroom to be comforted by my loving wife who always knows what to say to make me feel better (in this case: “Shut the &%$ up, I’m trying to sleep!”). Fearing another attack if I got another towel, I eventually dried myself off with Sydney’s toothbrush.

Corollary to Rule One: Flush Before Sitting (and I SHAN’T elaborate)

Two other items of interest just to keep you on your toes. It has become clear that I am not meant to keep animals penned up. I’ve already accepted this with Tiger and Smudge and we’ve come to a tentative arrangement where they agree to leave the yard only after dusk and I agree to research British common law with regards to lawsuits from people who have been bitten by dogs.

But you may recall that we have another pet, a bird named Tweety. One day, two weeks ago, while ma and pa were visiting, Dad was kind enough to point out that Tweety’s cage (which we normally leave on the patio during the day to taunt Tweety with other birds who aren’t so immobile) appeared to be missing its key tenant. After fingerprinting, a full spectral analysis, and using the keen observation that the cage door was open, we determined that he had lifted his cage door and flown out.

The only natural course of action was to buy a new bird, of course. We waited over a week though and after six or seven days, Syd finally noticed the cage wasn’t quite as bird-y as it usually was. I wasn’t about to launch into a speech on the importance of taking care of your pets so I did what any parent would do: I outright lied to my child and said Tweety was at the vet’s getting a bath. A great line, by the way, ‘cause when Syd grew suspicious that the new bird looked different, I just said, “well maybe we should have bathed him earlier”.

Second item of note: the software that runs this little online oratorium has a feature that lets me see who is linking to it. Once in a while, I browse through it and it’s usually search engines searching for something obscure that I’ve written about (e.g. DefCon Five, Air Canada Customer Reviews, Massage Therapists in Bahamas). This morning, I notice that someone is searching Google for “alpacas mating”. Nice to know we’re reaching our target audience.

Two weeks since anyone posted here and no riots. Nice to know you’re missed.

Apologies for the lack of one-way communication. Been kind of busy with the reverse-offspring visiting and, of course, studying. As it is, there’s probably a lot I could write about but I can’t remember any of it at the moment. But if I’m ever going to quit my job and blog full-time, gotta keep the content going, I suppose. If only to attract readers without the sense to laugh heartily when I ask for donations for something that’s free. Perhaps I need more booger-themed posts.

So yeah, Ma and Pa are working on their last full day East of Paradise. They claim to have enjoyed myself which is probably true ‘cause they’re planning to come back next year (well, Mom is planning; Dad knows better than to get in her way). I joined them at Harbour Island earlier this week where we spent part of the day on this beach:

I’ll refrain from any “eat your heart out” comments to give you all a chance to stare at that picture a little longer… If it makes you feel any better, there were one or two clouds in the sky that day.

The people there are crazy friendly. Who says hello to strangers on the street anymore? The first couple of times it happened, I didn’t know how to respond so I went with a De Niro impression (“You talking to me?”).

More to come if my memory holds up.

My mind usually wanders when I’m trying to study. These days, that probably means I have some sort of acronymic disorder. (I started reading an article on it once but couldn’t be bothered to finish.) The good part is that I can brain-dump my random thoughts thus adding to the guilt I feel for shirking my studying. Welcome to 2005 where there are many levels to slacking off.

Anyway, it occurred to me that once our property deal goes through, we’re going to have a good chunk of land. It also occurred to me that almost every good-sized chunk of land in the Bahamas has a name. There are the usual generic names like “Song of the Sea”, “Hard Bargain”, and “Brought to You By Alimony” along with the plays on people’s names, like “Rose House” and “Full Sayle” (although that one’s owned by the Stanhopes).

So I started thinking of potential names. The obvious choice, of course, is The Hillbaley Ho Down and Extravaganza, although people may get confused with the “baley” part so maybe “Hillbilly Ho Down and Extravaganza” would be better. Gotta think of the resale value, you know. Of course, there’s no way Liza would go for this so I need alternatives. People like making up plays on family names that sound clever almost once so I thought I’d give that a try, but for some reason Baley Dancer doesn’t roll off the tongue the way I’d like. Maybe my mom’s maiden name? Nah, my grandparents already lived in a house called The Crow’s Nest. I couldn’t take that away from them.

Then I thought of my grandmother’s maiden name and the possibilities came flooding in. In the end, I think I’ll keep it simple (as befits our family). So in honour of my great grandmother of whom I have many fond memories, may she rest in peace, we will christen our new property: Hoar House.

 Despite the obvious pitfalls, I kind of like being sick. Syd has been laid up with a fever the last few days and I caught it yesterday. So I’m schooling her on comfort items. Things my mother did to me while I was sick that very likely have absolutely no medicinal value. Chicken soup (Campbell’s, of course; as if there were any other kind), 7Up (although Liza dropped the ball and bought Sprite; I can’t tell the difference but it’s just not the same; plus she bought cans), and throwing a thermometer in her mouth every couple of hours and saying “Tsk, tsk” no matter what it says. I do wish I had brought my copy of The Secret of Nimh from Canada because I like to read it when I’m sick and since I was lucky enough to get sick at the same time Syd is, I could have read it to her.

There are downsides, of course. Syd’s not so sick that she feels the need to lie down all day so I have to guard my stomach whenever she gets the “jumpsies”. Plus there’s no pleasant way to respond when she’s crying on the toilet because her bum hurts and she says, “Why is this happening?” And I have to act as mediator ‘twixt Liza and Syd. Liza usually walks in and declares that Sydney is too cold and piles on three layers of shirts. As soon as she leaves, Syd says she’s too hot and we negotiate how many shirts she can take off. (Don’t get me started on the ceiling fan.)

So until I recover, here’s hoping I don’t pass on this disease to my gentle readers through this blog.

 After experiencing the birthday party Syd went to last Saturday, I don't think we can, in good faith, use the word "Extravaganza" in the name of our website anymore. This party (for a six-year-old boy I doubt I would recognize again if he kicked me in the...shins) was, to paraphrase George Thomason, unbe-smurfing-lievable.

I arrived fashionably late and in fact, wouldn't have arrived at all had Liza not called me in a tizzy saying she really had to go to the bathroom and there was no way in Komarno she was using the port-o-potty. Faced with a dilemma, studying for actuarial exams vs. attending a birthday party with who knows how many screaming kids, the brownie point factor tipped the scales to the latter and I went to bail Liza out. (If only I had a dime for every time...)

The gala was held at a communal area in a gated community, a popular place for kids parties, the likes of which I haven't spoken of before on the advice of my psychiatrist. The first sign I should have turned back came from the security guard when he said, "if you can't find any parking at the park, you'll have to find a spot in the field behind you."

When I approached the area, my original thought was, "there must be two other parties going on at the same time." There was the standard Bahamian party regalia: bouncy castle, balloons (although I don't think the other parties went so far into triple digits as this one did), a playground, and pizza. Add to that: a rock-climbing thingy, a popcorn machine, a sno-cone machine, and a carnival ride and you have half the picture. They also had a DJ blasting music (Kid Popz 7) that clearly made residents living next to the park realize why their property was listed so cheap. There was also a tent housing tables with real linen tablecloths, decked out in yellow, green, and purple, which the parents in my audience will immediately recognize as the colours of The Incredible Hulk. The food consisted of curry mutton, curry chicken, conch fritters, and at least half a dozen other dishes that were gone before I even arrived.

And kids. Oh yes, there were children. There was a flock of them, a gaggle of them, and a pod of them. There was a pride, murder, pack, brood, herd, hive, and horde of them. The park was saturated with children. You'd have to boil the place to get any more of them in.

I crowd-surfed my way over to Liza and it took her a few seconds to realize that hope had arrived. When her eyes began to focus again, she said something like, "hihoneyireallyhavetogobadthanksforcomingillbebackin..." and that's all I caught before she was out of earshot.

So I made my way over to the tent which had turned into a parental haven. Judging from the cold, dead look on the eyes of everyone there, they were either deep in their happy place or planning revenge against their spouses for not being there. I found a friend who was there with his two girls. He had already told them they could either have a birthday party like this one or he'd pay for their wedding but not both.

Near the end, they had about half a dozen people come in doing a mini-Junkanoo (which can not be described; it must be experienced). They came in banging drums and cow bells playing a beat even I could almost sorta dance to. And they were like Bahamian pied pipers the way the kids just fell into line behind them. It took all my will power not to offer them $50 to keep right on walking out of the park.

Anyway I'm sure Syd was there and I'm sure she had fun. Liza eventually did show up again but after, she later confessed, taking an "impromptu" nap. She asked me if Syd ate anything and I told her that the extent of my love for her clearly did not include wandering into natural disasters, war zones, or acts of God, all of which, I think, applied in this case.

 How many of you, my precious readers, have heard me play the piano? Hmm? Don’t be shy, raise your hands. That many, huh? OK, well all of you SUCK!

As I mentioned, I’m recording some music for my dear old Grammy so she can delude herself that I’m a much better piano player than I actually am. In my previous post, I complained about the pressures of nailing a piece in one take. Since then, I’ve discovered the magic of editing on my computer and it’s done wonders for my ego. There’s something cathartic about being able to delete your mistakes, if only for one small part of your life.

So I recorded a bunch of pieces and started editing last night. The problem started with a piece called Sarabande by Handel. The tempo is listed as “Grave” which is pretty much what it sounds like. Slow and stately. Well, substitute “slow” with “festive” and “stately” with “unnaturally giddy” and you have my version. It sounds like there should be &*$% circus bears prancing around. I followed it up with a version of Haydn’s Romance in F that would make Alvin and the Chipmunks proud then nailed one of Chopin’s Nocturnes, normally a five-minute piece, in less time than it takes Liza to recant for accusing me of forgetting her birthday (I couldn’t have planned that flower delivery better if I tried; Happy Birthday, Honey!).

My point is, I’ve obviously been playing like this for years. So where the hell were all of you armchair critics? Am I to assume that by “Sounds good, Kyle” you really mean, “I’d sing along but I’m not a Smurf”?

Of course, you say, why can’t I tell if I’m the one whose playing as if I desperately need to take a leak? Well, frankly, I don’t listen. I go through the motions. I press the keys I think I’m supposed to and do my best to hide mistakes but I don’t stop to hear what sounds are coming out of the piano. I do it ‘cause it’s fun, not to get any musical enjoyment out of it. I’ve been playing the Edelweiss Glide Waltz for nigh on twenty years and I doubt I could hum it in its entirety. Listening to it on the headphones, I’d forgotten what a beautiful piece it is.

The upshot of this is that I need to re-record about half the songs I’ve already recorded. Either that or re-think my repertoire.

Phew! January 12 already. Where DOES the time go? Apparently not to the Bahamian postal service judging by the rate our Christmas cards are starting to pour in.

So Liza and Syd are still in Canada. Haven’t heard much from them. A few days ago, Syd seemed in good spirits on the phone. I tried the age-old parental trick of trying to gauge how much she missed me but it backfired, as it always does. To add insult to injury, she started crying when I mentioned Tweety, our bird, and passed the phone off to Dolly, her aunt and publicist, who informed me that she wasn’t taking anymore calls until Tweety’s whereabouts and good health could be confirmed and arrangements could be made to smuggle him up to Canada in a crate of rum cake.

Not one to let daddy’s ego recuperate, Syd called again last night in tears because she saw a bird on TV and it got her going again on this stupid yellow ball of feathers that she never plays with when she’s home. My response was, “He’s fine. Honey, I’m just cleaning his cage in the bathroom and he’s”-- *FLUSH* -- “oops! Ummm…Ihavetogosweetieloveyoubye”. Let’s see how her five-year-old psyche handles some friendly mind games with daddy.

Liza’s shopping list while in “The Village” includes a digital video camera about which I’m very excited. Now I’ll have cryptically names videos spread across three computers to go with the gigabytes of images with names like “IMG_7946.jpg”. Funny how the marketing for digital cameras no longer includes phrases like, “No more searching through volumes of pictures looking for the right one". Liza’s also planning to bring down some Tim Horton’s coffee but she’ll probably have to smuggle it in with a carton of cocaine to throw off the dogs.

So what am I doing to pass the time? Well, a few nights ago, I caught the last half of a recent horror movie on HBO. It was the most amazing thing. I was absolutely mesmerized by its idiocy. I actually felt myself get more and more stupid the longer I watched. I was genuinely concerned that I wouldn't be able to perform basic motor skills by the time it was over. It became a personal vendetta to watch it to its conclusion and still be able to communicate in a reasonable manner with Sydney.

It was a tough battle. I actually flinched in pain with every moronic death scene. The acting winded me and the dialogue has left permanent scars but I persevered! Then, with my strength hanging by a thread, they tried to finish me off with a "twist" ending that was as unpredictable as a Roadrunner cartoon. And I have to admit, I considered taking my own life but then lo! The credits rolled and I was saved! A shadow of my former self, but alive nonetheless.

So yeah, I’m a little bored.

Seems there was a problem with the website that was preventing people from posting comments. Thanks to the dapper and beguiling Mr. Matrick for bringing it up and ruining all of your excuses for avoiding contact with me.

So the girls are north these days. Liza had to go to Alaska for some PR and dropped Syd off in Calgary along the way. Apparently the sun rises at 10:30am in Anchorage these days and sets around 1:00pm. I was going to say that I can see an up side to that but I can’t think of a punchline. Seriously, two and a half hours of sun? Where do you get your vitamin D? Anyway, Liza’s there until tonight then it’s back to Calgary. After that, I’ll have one more week of holiday recuperation on my own before they return to the tropics and raise the volume in my world about thirty decibels.

In other news, I am now a recorded artist. Thanks to the microphones and the mixer Hunkie Todd sent to me last month (although you could have gone with a mixer about $100 cheaper there, T-Bone), I’ve started recording some piano music for my dear old Grammie. Before you sigh about what a wonderful grandson I am, she’s been asking for this for nigh on ten years now.

So I’ve recorded two songs and have about a dozen or so more queued up. It was kind of fun playing with the software and volume levels and mixing. Then I actually clicked record and sat down to play… For those of you who are graduates of the School of Forced Music Lessons, let your minds wander back to the festival circuit. You remember. When parents from your area would gather their prodigies-in-their-minds and they would play for judges who probably thought they were clever ducking jury duty to sit and listen to some “beautiful music”.

I played many a festival. And it was nerve-racking, certainly, but this is worse. See, at a festival, you prance up to the piano, play your piece, and sit down. If you played well, more power to you. If you played badly, c’est la vie, you got to sit down at the end anyway and plot your strategy for contracting malaria the week before next year’s festival. When recording for your grandmother, however, there is no reprieve when you make a mistake. You can’t say, “Oh well, nothing I can do about it now. May as well go out with a bang”, and segue Beethoven’s Fur Elise into Elton John’s The Bitch is Back. When I make a mistake, I have to start over.

And let me tell you, grandmothers don’t like simple three-chord songs that ZZ Top could bang out on a banjo and a harmonica. They like songs by people who have been dead several centuries and have names that are pronounced in such a way as to make fools of people that try to sound them out phonetically. Songs that are eight minutes long and that start deceptively simple but end with a flourish and a variation on the theme in B harmonic minor. And I swear, if I can’t get the end of Chopin’s Nocturne down in the next hour, Grandma’s CD is going to be filled with piano renditions of Ricky Martin’s greatest hits.

In which case, I need only to record one song and save it at different tempos.

 When it comes to logistics, I’m like Salieri in Amadeus. I can recognize when it’s done well but can’t pull it off myself. Such was the case on New Year’s Eve with our neighbours, Steve and Michelle. Technically, what they did that night should not have been physically possible. To attempt to describe it would take away from the actual event but suffice it to say, it involved floating candles, bartenders, goldfish, tents, karaoke, a coffee machine, and one impossibly delicious chocolate molten lava cake.

Syd was on hand to enjoy the festivities, too. Decked out in her evening wear of choice, a Sleeping Beauty costume, she was every bit the princess when we arrived and discovered that William and Ethan (Steve and Michelle’s boys) were going to be put asleep early. No matter. She watched TV and played for a couple of hours before joining the party outside (lured outdoors by the melodious strains of ABBA’s Dancing Queen). Her moves, dress, and staying power were a big hit. It wasn’t until 1:15 that she stumbled over to me and said that memorable phrase Liza has used on me many parties before: “I think you’d better take me home now.” Many thanks to Steve, Michelle, and Conch (who learned first-hand that you don’t start dancing with a five-year-old and expect her to run out of energy before you do).

My own contribution to the event came the next day when I, being the only one without a hangover, took Syd, William, and Ethan out to play video games and watch a movie (Spongebob Squarepants), where Ethan promptly fell asleep.

So Happy 2005 to all of you. Good luck to everyone who made resolutions. For my part, my only resolution is not to make any resolutions and I expect to have about as much luck keeping it as all of you do.

 Wow! Two posts in one day! Maybe the Miami Herald will hire me to replace Dave Barry. And this one is even politically motivated. Note, however, that all reporting is based on “stuff I’ve heard” rather than actual research so it is probably also factually inaccurate (which would probably make Dave Barry proud).

Disaster in the Indian Ocean. Over 100,000 dead and still counting. You can practically hear the groans from the CNN newsroom when someone’s number in the office pool is knocked out of the running. But that’s not what I’m hear to talk about. I’ve been hearing stories of the aid “pouring in” from other countries. The number I’ve heard from France is $100,000, an amount Sally Struthers would spit at. (“For less than a dollar a victim, you can put on a good show and possibly gain re-election.”) I seriously hope this number is inaccurate because Liza’s boss is personally matching 5% of the contribution of a nation of sixty million people.

The next number I’ve heard is $15million from the U.S., up from their initial gift of $7million. I imagine this is an initial disbursement but for the remainder of this commentary, I’m going to assume it’s the only one. Fifteen million is nothing to sneeze at and I’m impressed the US is giving it out so quickly without performing a thorough background check on the Red Cross (who I’m sure Rumsfeld has proven has ties to Al-Qaeda and Martha Stewart). But I’m going to compare the contribution to the $40million some guy told me they spent on Bush’s inauguration. Firstly, I’m thinking they should send out for pizza the next time someone is elected president. Secondly, and I have no experience in throwing parties of this magnitude, how does one spend $40million on one party? I’ve been to pretty elaborate parties for five-year-olds that have cost less than $1000 (and I think the comparison is fitting). But bashing the U.S. for frivolous overspending is too easy a target these days so I’ll move on.

Canada’s donation: $40million. God bless a minority government and Paul Martin’s budget-slashing, surplus-building ways for proving that, yes, in fact you CAN buy publicity like that. Martin, like all Prime Ministers before him, evolved from a man of the people to someone who now thinks Acadia is a mythical land that sunk into the ocean, but kudos to him for showing him how the big boys manage a disaster.

 Happy Festi-kwanz-ukah-mas, everyone. Hope you all found the true meaning of Christmas wrapped up in coloured paper with a pretty bow.

I’ve decided to let Syd in on the Santa thing a little early, like next year. Santa was nice enough to bring her a Barbie Jeep and of course, it was, and is, a big hit. She was concerned Santa wouldn’t be able to find the tree from the second floor balcony so she made a sign for the door showing him the way.

So we put all this effort into maintaining the illusion and getting these gifts that clearly overshadow ours (we got her a dress and some socks) and when all is said and done, Santa takes all the credit. What makes it even more frustrating is that if were anyone else other than Santa, she’d have nightmares about this guy who’s always watching her and is guaranteed to break into our house once a year while we’re sleeping.

Anyway, it didn’t take long for Syd to change her future career once she got into the driver’s seat. The Jeep was “kinda fun” for a while until I realized that high gear was blocked for “safety reasons” (i.e. some twit in the U.S. probably sued Mattel because his poor excuse for evolution couldn’t pick up on the physics of momentum quick enough). After that, the fun factor jumped three or four notches, especially when she discovered that the brakes can be used for turning, Dukes of Hazzard-style.

Busy weekend but not interesting enough to go into details. I’ll cover the highlights.

Jason “Glitter” Bunn and Scott’s dad, Al “Pipes” Spencer, came and left last week. Due to my working more than should legally be allowed (but, according to my billings, is more than physically possible), I didn’t get to spend too much time out and about with them but Scott and Conchita (hereafter referred to as Wahoo and Conch) managed to entertain them. Pipes enjoyed his first trip to the Bahamas and experienced the quintessential Bahamian events: the beach, the weather, and, of course, having a fishing trip cancelled by hangover.

Said trip was to occur the Sunday of his and Glitter’s departure but was, in hindsight, doomed from the start by the very mechanism under which it was planned. The evening before started normally, with drinks on the porch and threats to tie people up. At some point, someone suggested inviting our neighbour, Andrew “Spanish” Wells, over to share in the festive spirit (or spirits as the case may be). You can see where this going. Yup, we ended up on Andrew’s driveway singing Silent Night (after rejecting The Little Drummer Boy for being too hard) very loudly, and, I must say, very melodically (so much so that several members of the local Canine Choir joined in the merrymaking with their own rendition). Andrew’s friend Mike greeted us warmly with the traditional Bahamian welcome: “Hey Andrew, there are white people on your driveway.”

Sunday night found us at the Church of the God of Prophecy, which seems to have been modeled after James Brown’s church from the Blues Brothers. Lots of singing and lots of “Halleluia”s and “Amen”s. Syd and Cajiah performed a little ditty called “Christmas Babe” but could have been “I’m a Believer” for the amount I understood it. She did look, in my objective opinion, like the cutest angel in the history of mankind. Seriously, I’ll post pictures soon and you’ll agree.

The other highlight I’ve skipped over recently has been Conch’s chihuahua, Margarita (named after the beverage that inspired Conch to buy her…you think I’m kidding). She’s pretty small (I’m not positive but I’m pretty sure she was smuggled into the country in Conchita’s hair) but Tiger and Smudge and the rest of the neighbourhood chorus are bringing her up to speed. She’s developed a nice potcake-size attitude and is pretty quick with her barking now, which is pretty much the one thing Conch was hoping she wouldn’t learn from Tiger and Smudge. In any case, she’s a huge hit with Syd who has replaced a rabbit with a chihuahua on our list of next pets to buy.

Probably my last entry ‘fore Christmas. We’ve been gorging ourselves on Christmas carols. Syd’s personal favorite is “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” (the traditional version by The Jackson 5, not the Billy and the Boingers version). Happy holidays to all and be sure to check out the temperature to the left. Notice the lack of a minus sign.

 Y’know, I have no real clue what to write about at the moment but I feel an overwhelming urge to pontificate so let’s see where the keyboard takes me.

Weather’s always a nice generic way to start. It’s been kind of cold here the last two days. Weather.com claims the daytime high has been in the low 20s but I don’t think it’s been that high. It’s been cold enough that I’ve had to wear pants during the day which, I have to admit, has drastically reduced the number of scrapes I usually get on my legs when I let the dogs off their leashes.

Syd’s Christmas concert was last Friday during the day. It was quite an elaborate production overall. Syd’s class did a short rendition of The Nutcracker with the most adorable sugar-plum fairies anyone with a daughter in the class has ever seen. I brought the leftover skittles from the night before to ensure quality control (“Booo! Get off the stage!”). Thankfully for Syd’s continued admittance at St. Andrew’s, the show was pretty good (as in: it was easy to ignore the segments with kids I didn’t know; oh, come on, you know you do it, too) and I had to settle with actually eating the skittles.

So as I was showering this morning, I grabbed Liza’s shampoo because mine had run out. My brand is L’Oreal Kids Strawberry Almond shampoo mostly because it’s Sydney’s and with as little hair as I have, any shampoo I buy would expire before I used it all. Anyway, Liza’s brand was some obscure company but emblazened on the bottle was something like, “Now with avocado!” I checked her conditioner, and it was avocado-less but apparently has the goodness of “wheat protein”. I’m guessing ninety percent of the buyers of this shampoo had no idea avocado and wheat protein was actually good for their hair until they read it on the bottle. Furthermore, I bet the science behind such claims is probably as rigorous as what I do to make a sandwich (“Hmmm…wonder how long THIS has been in the fridge…oh well, still smells okay”).

The people that sell these shampoos are marketing geniuses. If I could add “now with the emboldening power of guava” or “Refreshing marmalade essence! It’s not just for toast anymore!” to my generic vat of goop and sell it as a brand new product, I’d move to a Caribbean island and live my life out there. The people that came up with this little scam rank up there with the Baking Soda industry (“I’ve got an idea! Let’s tell people to open the box, put it in their refrigerator for a month, then throw it away!”). Or whoever first put “eau de toilette” on a bottle of alcohol and charged people $300 to douse themselves in it.

Finally, my brothers will be proud to know that I have successfully introduced Potty-Mouth-Friday to the Bahamas. We haven’t grown bold enough to practice in fast food restaurants the way they do in Manitoba but we’re growing. Racial-Slur Wednesday and Repentence Thursday have been met with…ummm…less enthusiasm.

A couple of lines on Syd and the weather and a nice little ditty on hair products. Yeah, that’ll do.

 My faith in the Bahamian health system continues thanks to the poking and prodding Sydney has endured this week. On Monday morning, we took her to her regular pediatrician, Dr. Smith, who works with Dr. Lightbourne, who was recommended to us by almost everyone we spoke with. I get the impression Dr. Smith is still inexperienced as she usually consults with Dr. Lightbourse for anything out of the ordinary but she has a good bedside manner (albeit not quite as natural as Dr. L) and Syd seems to like her. I digress.

Drs. S and L had already been informed of the fainting episode and were prepared when we showed up. Dr. S gave Syd the usually physical exam, checking her blood pressure, ears, throat, etc, etc. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Dr. L took over and gave her some more thorough tests involving most letters of the alphabet in their names. He made it clear that he was treating this very seriously as five-year-olds do not often faint for no reason. Syd was a trooper in the next two days as she got, among other tests, an ECG (I think it’s an ultrasound of her heart), an X-ray, and another blood test (which she survived a lot better than the one she got at the hospital). Plus she got to wear a heart monitor for the day. All tests came back indicating she is in perfect health (despite the fact that she unplugged the monitor at least twice that we noticed).

Yesterday, she received her first EEG (the one where they attach a bunch of wires to your head, Matrix-style, and meaure your brain). The technician clearly had had other plans that we interrupted by making an appointment late Friday afternoon but she was polite and very accommodating, considering she expected Sydney to sit still in a chair with her eyes closed for twenty minutes (one of the notes I caught her typing: Lots of peeking). During part of the test, the technician flashed a light at Syd’s eyes while they were closed and this apparently caused various shapes and colours to appear in Syd’s mind which she enjoyed telling us about (“Daddy, I see China words!”).

As expected/hoped, they have found nothing wrong with Sydney. Liza takes that to mean they don’t know what caused her to pass out. That’s true but I have a different take. Syd has gone through the most thorough examination ever in her life (including when she was first born). She even got a flu shot (which, despite you conspiracy theorists, I consider a good thing). Her brain, blood, urine, stomach, and heart have all been under the microscope and they haven’t found a scratch on her. The fainting spell aside, I am more convinced than ever that we have a healthy daughter. Which means I can stop worrying that we aren’t feeding her properly, that she’s not getting enough exercise, or that she’s not getting enough sleep. Add to that the fact that her teacher says she’s advancing very well with her reading and this has been a very uplifting week, all things considered.

 Two exciting events today. First one doesn’t use the good form of “exciting” but it did get the blood pumping. Liza and Syd were roaming the streets of Nassau with some friends when Syd blacked out for a few seconds prompting them to make a beeline to the hospital. Before I go into detail, Syd appears to be fine. Absolutely nothing wrong with any of her tests and I’m hoping a visit to her pediatrician tomorrow will confirm that.

I was at home when Liza called from the waiting room and I was out the door before she hung up, pausing just long enough to grab Sydney’s favorite teddy bear since he would probably hold up under pressure better than I would. One of the main thoughts racing through my head at almost the same speed I was driving was what to expect at the hospital, which I’ve never patronized. Well, dear readers, if today’s experience is indicative of health care in the Bahamas, I plan to sign up for at least a dozen high-risk activities tomorrow. By the time I arrived at the ER, Syd had already been assigned to a room. I had time to put on a brave smile and ask how she was when the doctor (yes, an actual real live doctor; not an orderly, not a med student, not a janitor with delusions of grandeur) came in to examine her. Asked her questions about the incident, put some cool looking stickers with metal fasteners on her chest, and gave her a fairly thorough physical exam.

Shortly after that, a nurse showed up and hooked up an IV attachment thingy to her wrist (“just in case”). Syd’s only comment during the ordeal was “Ow”. On a more humbling note, I had to leave the area twice during this procedure (once on orders from the nurse based on the colour of my skin) for fear of fainting. Shortly after that, they wheeled Syd to the radiologist area and she was given her first ultrasound. Then they took a blood sample where Syd’s bravery disappeared in a flurry of screams (that’s my girl!). Then they called our regular pediatrician to let him know what was going on. And they gave us the actual results of the blood analysis and urine sample (which they took before I had even arrived). Total elapsed time: just shy of four hours (which, from what I understand, is the actual wait time just to get directions to a hospital in Calgary these days). And the doctor and nurse were both fantastic, each stopping in regularly to let us know what we were waiting for (and to try to get back on Syd’s good side after taking blood). End result: She’s healthy as can be except for a little emotional trauma from the needles (that’s my girl!).

Side note: I was singing the praises of the hospital to Liza later and she just said, “Yeah, well, money talks.” Sounds ominously capitalistic but we’re talking about my child here!

But that’s not the most exciting thing that happened today. After she got ready for bed, we both laid down for a bedtime story. In this case, Down by the Cool of the Pool, a book she got from the library (and a really fun one, too, if you’re looking for a book for five-year-olds). So a couple of pages in, I turned the page, and before I could get a word out, she starting READING! That’s right, she was spitting out words with the same staccato emotion of HAL but it was awesome! Sounded out some words, recognized others, made educated guesses at others (lot of repetition in kids’ books), and outright butchered her fair share. But dammit, she was reading!

And in between these two episodes, she still found time to ask, “Daddy, what does ‘fate’ mean?”