It is 3:36 pm here in Nova Scotia, meaning I got home from high school, read the newspaper and am now on the computer checking my email/writing my blog. I really don’t do anything else on the internet now that the monster named school swallowed my time whole and did not stop to chew or burp.
On the way home across the Braemore bridge, I stopped for a second and exclaimed “Behold, the wild green plastic gym ball in it’s natural environment!” (I was a bit hyper) “but not quite as rare as the wild picnic table” was then said by one of my friends. We then started treating everything unnatural in our surroundings as being an animal, the rabid Subway Paper cup, the fields of Winnebagos in Whidden’s Camp Ground, and the shopping carts in the swamp nearby.
Someone suggested the houses, and we started discussing the idea of houses being animals who ate humans, trapped inside by too much clutter or too much house work. We suggested that the gastric acid is the chimney smoke, they have bacteria as digestive aids called “Housework” and “video games” and that they are perfect traps for human beings. We were even thinking about writing a story about a city where the buildings rule.
Yes, we are very weird and spastic. But that is the true joy of being the Rare Wild Clarinetist and the Endangered Harpist.

Today at Concert Band I found myself playing at the wrong place in the piece. It was because our band director told us to take it from rehearsal G, and I registered it as taking it from rehearsal J because in the french alphabet, G is pronounced Jhaa and J is pronounced Gee. I’ve been in French Immersion for ten years now, and I think it’s affected my ability to speak English. There are a number of words I can never say properly in English, such as Subtract (substract) statistic (satistique) , and many more. I can’t even talk French properly. I guess I should never have gone into French.

Today is Canadian Thanksgiving, and this year my mom is making me do all the cooking and baking. I’ve already made a pumpkin pie, although I’m afraid it’s a little too jelly-ish in the middle for lack of baking time. No matter how long I stick stuff in the oven, it can never come out burnt. It’s always not cooked enough. Some may find this a gift, but I think it’s a nuissance, waiting at eleven oclock at night for muffins that should have been done at 9:30.
This year I’m thankfull for my friends, family, and life, as usual, but this year I’m also thankfull for the weather we’ve had so far in Nova Scotia, and for my new saxophone.
On a topic unrelated to Thanksgiving but with everything to do with the category or “Family”, I recently heard an interesting comment about my family. My Mom has often been told that I sound like her. One evening, I picked up the phone from a call from one of dad’s colleagues. The Colleague assumed from my voice that I was my mom, and started talking to me as if I was, until I corrected him. He later told my mother that he finds this weird, because I look more like my dad than my mom, so it’s as if my dad is the computer, but my mother is the programing. I think it is true, although I’d like to think that I think for myself, not programmed to think what my mom thinks.