Slice of Metrolife (A la Mode Not Available)

This week Mme and I took in a wandering, wayfaring stranger from the Katimavik program. Katimavik is a Canadian service-club/youth experience which sends young people in diverse groups all across the nation to serve and grow in experience.

We've hosted three of these kids--all about a week prior to Christmas. We often get "the French ones" who have little or no English, as Mme and I together can speak French (separately we muddle through).

The last batch tended to hang out in groups, went about independantly, and were rather a joy in that while we knew they were going out to smoke dope, they tended to gather in a friendly group and do it down by the school where all the other kids did.

The current kid has done little but sit and watch TV and movies. I managed to get him out to poker last night though, and he took seventh place (I got sixth).

He also talks. I am reminded of Alan Rickman's line from "Dogma":

The one who speaks ... an' he will ... at great length ... whether you want him to or not ... will make mention of himself as a prophet.

Si it is with Big G.

Big G has enlightened us as to the natures of his father, grandfather, and mother. He has professed support for the Bloc Quebecois, claims Quebec can be economically independant (16th largest economy in the world, apparently), and has generally displayed the blinkered certainties of a twenty-one-year-old who grew up in a separatist culture (two actually--he's part native and claims his grand-dad is a chief).

In short, he reminds me a lot of myself at that age.

I just wanted to apologize to anyone who knew me then.

He also claims he's bad luck, and has recounted many episodes when his black dog has dragged his friends down, usually in small ways. I notice he doesn't blame his bad luck for the street-racing death of his childhood friend, though.

Anyway--he may be attended by a poltergeist or other household demon. When he entered the house, our stove went belly-up. That was Saturday.

Yesterday the kitchen dimmer switch began to crackle and smoke, and the lights to flash in a manner reminiscent of your high-school play's lightning storm. I pulled it from the wall and shut off the breaker, deluminating half the house.

One is left wondering "What the hell next?"

Unless "next" is the fact that the smouldering brush war between me and the Black cat has flared in earnest.

It's a simple issue: The cat pisses in locations whence I do not desire that cat urine should be deposited. My new strategy is also simple. Where she pisses, I place a mothball. Cats apparently strongly dislike the smell of mothballs (which means the whole house must currently be very unpleasant for both of them.

Until now, the smell of napthalene orbs seemed to have a salutary effect. However, yesterday I discovered two old deposits of cat urine, followed by at least one, possibly two, new ones. Those are the ones we've found.

The odour of the spheres being unpleasant to her, Blackie has nevertheless continued to urinate outside of the desired receptacle. The war continues.

Eventually either the cat will remember what the litter box is for, or the floor will be so covered with mothballs that movement will become impossible.

I'm game if she is.