Ryan McFadden

Joyce McFadden left on a final journey on Thursday October 15^th.  There to see her off were her son Rick McFadden and his wife Sylvia, grandchildren Kelly (Brian) Northup, Kim (Terry) Ziebell, and Ryan (Kari) McFadden. Missing her are her great-grandchildren Sarah, Meaghan, Amy, Daniel, Paige, and Cordelia.

Joyce in her 89^th year is predeceased by her husband George McFadden (1995).

Visitation will be held at the Needham Funeral Home (520 Dundas Street) on Monday from 10-11a.m. with the funeral service to follow at 11 a.m. in the funeral home chapel.

In lieu of flowers, donations to a charity of your choice would be greatly appreciated by the family.

Tributes may be made online at www.mem.com

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Hockey is a viscous, brutal sport.

Especially when it involves 5-year-old girls.  And one of those girls is yours.  Paige started playing hockey this year (though playing is kind of a misnomer) because of the generosity of my boss.  You see, he paid for her registration and some of her equipment.

Two years ago, I started teaching Paige how to skate.  She did really, really well. Last year, for various reasons, we didn’t get out as much.

Saturday was her first practise — and I immediately dreaded not getting her skating last year.  All her optimism and drive went out the window 1 minute in when she fell and proclaimed ‘I hate hockey!  I never want to play again!’  Great, and only 49 minutes to go (it went downhill from there).

So Saturday was a disaster.  She could barely stand let alone skate.

Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) she wasn’t allowed to quit.  So like the loving father I am, I kicked her back onto the ice today.

Glorious!  Why, it was as great as watching a triple sow-cow reverse tuck! For Paige could get up after she fell!  She could even skate (more like shuffle) backwards.  All this after one week.

My little trooper.

I’ve never seen her happier when she first picked herself up off the ice without help.  She raised her arms in the air in victory and turned to me (my arms also raised in victory).

Finally…no tears.  Smiles!

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Just got a brand-spanking new laptop. Yup, not even a reconditioned (as I’m so apt to do). I bought a Lenovo IdeaPad Y530-3231U. I could give you the stats, but nobody cares. Suffice to say, it’s got a good assortment. Read more…

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For the e-test from my brand new old 1997 Malibu, I filled it with Ethanol to ensure I passed the e-test. Do I feel guilty? Not at all. Ethanol is the same price as regular, and can be bought down at Hammond Fuels on Hamilton street. The guy told me it was a zero emissions fuel, better mpg, and kept the engine clean. Wow, a miracle fuel! Read more…

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Tap-tap-tap (that’s the sound of me working in my Mom’s kitchen on my laptop). Tap-tap-tap.

Damn, I forgot how LOUD apartment life is. Why, I can hear people walking around, I can hear them taking a shower. Odd how they have a shower right above my mom’s kitchen. And even stranger how the water sounds like it’s right inside the walls.

You’d think that the workers would’ve insulated those pipes as a sound barrier because that’s just annoying.

Tap-tap-tap.

Okay, now I’m really on edge (not that I wasn’t before). This is just ridiculous.

Ignore it. Ignore it. Pull out something from the Buddhism to give me peace. I know, the Third Noble Truth: Suffering will cease when a person can rid himself of all desires.

But my desire is to END that freaking water.

Drip-drip.

Huh. That’s kind of weird.

Hey, look, I can see the drywall seam. Hey, the paint on the wall is bubbling. Where’d all the water on the floor come from?

You see, I was right. Yay, I was right! There is water in the walls…and the ceiling, and the floor.

Was is the drip becoming a stream? Why is the drywall beginning to bow?

Quick, call someone, I thought. No problem, every time I have a problem, I call the one person that can always help me.

Damn it — my Mom isn’t answering the phone.

Okay, think. What would SHE do?

Would she cry? No, I don’t think so. Watch TV? No — simply because her TV is so damn small (seriously, is that a Nintendo Gameboy she watches?). She’d call the landlord.

I call the Landlord.

“What apartment are you?”

“601,” I reply.

“You’re parked in the wrong spot.”

“My ceiling is raining.”

“You were in 73 and you should’ve been in 74. The person from 73 had to park in YOUR spot last night.”

“Flood.”

“Those spots are there for a reason.”

“Water.”

“Next time you’ll be towed.”

I now have my umbrella out. Finally, she comes to the apartment.

“That’s a lot of water.”

“Yes.”

“There shouldn’t be a lot of water.”

“No.”

Turns out that someone had a washing machine above…and the hose burst. Lots and lots of water.

That wasn’t in pipes.

Buddhism never taught me how to deal with exploding washers.

Screw it — I’m becoming a Muslim.

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