Don't Teach Them To Be Stupid, Teach Them Well.

My job is to be wonderful with children. My job is educate, entertain and inform. It is to nurture and promote the intellect of every child regardless of perceived ability. My job is not to correct authors of children's books and classroom supplies.

But if it were...

Curious George is actually an ape, not a monkey. His nose is flat and broad, not snout-like and he doesn't have tail. While there are exceptions to the tail rule, given his appearance and high intelligence he is most likely a Bonobo. This means your beloved children's books are about a man in a yellow hat  essentially stealing a small, determined sex maniac and setting him loose in suburbia. Furthermore, said man is in fact guilty of poaching from the Democratic Republic of the Congo and is due a lengthy prison stay.

Wanted for poaching: "The Man in The Yellow Hat" Height: 6' without hat, 7'4" with hat.

The question "how many sides does a circle have" is far too complex to have a primary school answer.  The simplest answer is to say that there is no easy or natural way to answer how many sides a circle has because one first has to determine what one means by the word side. The inside of the curve? The outside of the curve? Or are we referring to a disc? In that case there is a front and a back as well as the curves themselves.

A turtle is not the same thing as a tortoise. While they are both chelonians, turtles have webbed feet, some even have flippers, and live most of their lives in the water. A tortoise has short, stubby feet and claws and and dwells entirely on land. Franklin the Turtle is able to tie his shoes because he doesn't have flippers.  He's not a turtle, he is Franklin the Tortoise.

It's Apatosaurus, not Brontosaurus. 137 years ago a very eager paleontologist (that's a good word, children, let's clap it out) named Marsh found and named the remains of an Apatosaurus and then a short while later found another, smaller fossilized skeleton of the same species and named it a Brontosaurus. The mistake was discovered and rectified in all the major scientific forums of the day and it's only idiots like the stamp makers at the US Postal Service who persist in using the wrong name. Don't be like the US Postal Service. Don't be idiots.

A spider is not an insect. Insects have three main body parts and three pairs of legs. Spiders have two main body parts and 4 pairs of legs. Simple. Easy to remember. Stop getting it wrong.

Giraffes do not have long necks to let them eat the leaves from the tops of trees. Giraffes feed predominantly on low bushes. They use their long necks to beat the hell out of each other.

The phrase "non-Newtonian fluid" is every bit as important and wonderful as "goop".

It's hard, being a geek who is paid to nod and smile.

You Shall Not P*ss!

I am constantly reminded by my fellow Earthlings that on the whole, people are good, decent, strong, brave and generally really neat to be around, especially the ones who can cook. I am also, occasionally, reminded by a select few that those same decent folk can turn on you like your nanny's Shitzu if you aren't careful where you tread.

Take Neighbour Man for instance. This spring we developed a wonderfully amicable relationship with the Next Doors based on a strong foundation of courteous nods and vague smiles exchanged at a distance. Everything was going so smoothly, until we fired up the lawn mower.

"Ya, if you wouldn't mind not mowing the lawn between our houses, that would be great. It's just that I am feeling really protective of my [big/obnoxious/white]* truck and I don't want anything to happen to it ever."

Oooooo-kay.

Lazy sods that we are, we agreed not to mow the strip of grass between our houses because hey, who doesn't like to quit mowing the lawn 10 minutes ahead of schedule? The summer progressed and soon we were chatting whenever we happened to be outside. We watched each other's dogs and I promised not to let the contractor installing their new front door steal their [old] couch and [terrifying] stockpile of firearms while the Next Doors were at work.

Then the snow fell...

"Hey I saw some foot prints in the new snow today, so if you wouldn't mind not letting your dogs sniff our lawn when you walk them past the house, that would be great. It's just that my husband, Mr Neighbour Man, is feeling really protective of his [permanently parked/broken/never going to move] truck right now and doesn't want any dogs around it."

No problem. Perfectly reasonable request. Our dogs, two of about 50 different dogs in the neighbourhood who are walked past the house daily, can certainly stand to sniff else where.  Expect absolute and universal compliance forthwith, I'm sure. No dogs to be walked in front of your home. Check. Will use opposite side of street. Check.

Then, 10 minutes later...

"Ya, so did Mrs Neighbourman talk to you about the footprints we saw in the snow today? It's just that I am feeling really [obsessively/unnecessarily] protective of my [derelict] truck right now and I don't want any dogs around it."

Sure. Okay. Yup. Message received. Again. Don't hesitate to tell the 50 other families who live in our neighbourhood the same thing. Twice. Keep me posted your progress. Make a chart.

Then, 24 hours later and at the end of the worst week ever which involved, but was not limited to, Meeker having surgery, me having insomnia, Husband being away and some hillbilly wacko trying to force me off the road during a snowstorm after tailgating me for 15 minutes from my driveway which means, goody gumdrops, he knows where I live, I arrive home to see all 22 cm of snow totally removed from my driveway and Neighbour Man, standing there waiting for me...

"Ya, so I saw some tracks in the snow again today and I just want you to know I only want people to be straight with me when I ask them if they do stuff to my property because as you can see I have [fake] security cameras pointed at our property line and I am just [delusional] wondering if you care to explain yourself? I am feeling [psychopathically] protective of my [soon to be landfill] truck right now and just don't want anything happening to it ever. To show that I have no hard feelings about you being a complete liar I have shoveled your driveway. Note that all of the snow is over there and not near my [shitty fucking] truck."

Let's pause and let that really sink in. 

I took a deep breath and I did what I've been trying not to do since Meeker spent the night at the hospital, since I've moved to a province no one wants to visit me in, since I discovered a grey hair in my eyebrow...

I stood there, as darkness began to fall over my quiet street, as families were emerging to walk their 50 dogs perilously close to Neighbour Man who apparently can only count to Jesse and Meeker, as I wanted desperately to run into my house and shut out the crazies and the angry drivers and Alberta and this person, I stood there, dropped my shoulders, took a deep breath and I sobbed. Great hiccoughing sobs so loud that the [rational/normal] neighours came over to make the [complete nutter] bad man stop.

It felt wonderful. As I stood there gasping and sputtering, with boogers running out of my nose, Nieghbour Man watched, horrified. It was a thing of beauty. I turned and walked to my front door saying I couldn't help them, and that boy, dog tracks in the snow, that is a really horribly frustrating thing to have to deal with. My goodness, yes. Thank you for shovelling. You've done a lovely job. SLAM.

You know, readers, I can't imagine how Jesse and Meeker left tracks on Neighbour Man's lawn while I was at work and they were home all day. In a locked house. Snoring. It's almost as though there were more than two dogs in the Universe.

Not that Jesse and Meeker will ever acknowledge it.

If Neighbour Man had screamed "YOU SHALL NOT PISS!"
I would have at least given him points for cool.

*Editor retains the right to add notes for accuracy. And vitriol.

Does The Grape Kool-Aid Taste Funny To You?

The room was dim when I entered. The supplicants were seated in a semi circle around the alter. The alter was arranged with a number of vials and jars of varying sizes. A novice handed me something to drink and bade me sit with them in the circle. As I drank the bitter, warm liquid each member of the group was asked to follow the leader from the room. I was taken away to a small chamber where she proceeded to bathe my hands in fine oils, "cleansing away the deadness". Returning to the circle, "renewed", the leader then began to speak.

We were encouraged to reflect on the error of our ways, cautioned about the sorts of things which could and would happen should we choose to ignore her words and then provided with an opportunity to sample from the true path. Each jar and vial was lifted reverently from the altar and offered to us by the leader.  She gently anointed our skin with the contents and as she did so she told us of the secret. Should we join with her in her quest to spread the word and share the truth we too would reap the monthly rewards as follows:

      $100/month - Level: Padawan

      $500/month - Jedi

      $1000/month - Yoda

      $15,000/month - Darth Vader

      $20,000/month - The Emporer. Unless you get the car, then you have achieved 
                                     Level: Kardashian 

Last week, in a fit of trying to blend in with the normals, I agreed to attend a home sales party for a certain cosmetics line which I can't name here because my blog won't let me do the little superscript TM thingie after the name. Let's call it Old Lady Face Grease. I went to and OLFG party on Tuesday. It went something like this, although I seem to recall there being a fruit tray, as well. 

Also, my party is December 3. See you there.

For Nicole, who is incredibly persuasive, even though I still have not forgiven her for The Volley Ball Incident. And for Adam, who nags.

Humiliation For Beginners

Goaded by a "friend" and tricked by another, I went to play volleyball on Monday. I am only writing about this now because until this morning I had no sensation in my arms, apart from searing agony.

"Go play with the ladies team on Base," I was told.  "It's just a fun league," I was promised. "They're all beginners," I was lied to.


It is really very sweet and quite lovely to think of the ladies on the Base Volleyball League as beginners. Lanky and tanned, to a woman, they each of them arrived with knee pads and ponytails and far more muscle tone than I. I arrived with a water bottle and an adorable sense of naivete, both of which were gone before the end of the 30 minute warm up routine involving squats and burpees done continuously and at speed for 20 second intervals.

A brief side bar on the burpee. Invented in the 1930's by Royal H. Burpee, a physiologist and complete dick, it is only slightly different from the Flub Gub Tuck (FGT) exercise, in that the FGT finishes in the fetal position and "focuses on the tensing of one's buttocks."(Wikipedia, 10-10-13). I mostly just stayed in the fetal position, sobbing quietly.

I didn't intend for what happen next to happen to me, ever, at any time, in my life. It was horrifying, bizarre and awkward for everyone involved.  What happened next was... team sports.

Honestly, I just showed up for a little indoor v-ball and some laughs. I thought there might be funny team names and we would all plan to get together and tie-dye t-shirts and do Jello-shots or something.  Instead I was doing drills. With athletes. For an hour. 

Pictured here: I have no idea. The map to Narnia?

The coach took pity on me and made certain no one hurt me, nor did she place me in a position where I might hurt others, although so help me I tried.  I did not successfully send the ball in the proper direction even once that night. However, I was given the rather unique opportunity to experience life as one of my students might. For, despite my utter lack of skill, each attempt I made was greeted, much to my shame, with a chorus of "good for you" and "good try"! Sincerity is all about tone. I've since been practicing mine in the mirror.

I left just before the skills game began and slightly after the earth threatened to open up and swallow me whole. I have since, and with growing alarm, watched as great dark bruises bloomed on my arms, knees, shins and (yes) chin. Watched, that is, but failed to react as, thanks to Professor Burpee, I haven't been able to move more than my eyebrows for three days.  

Is This The Real Life?

There is nothing more satisfying, more delicious to the soul in all the Universe, than waking up on a Saturday morning just for the sheer pleasure of going back to sleep. 

This is never more true than on rainy Saturdays, when you crack an eye to peek at the dawn, see nothing but drizzle, scootch closer to the cat, squirm a bit and drift back into dreams of Jason Statham holding fluffy bunnies. 

Close enough.

All of that is true but what is more true is this: waking up for a second time to the sudden recollection of the night previous, which was bizarre bordering on surreal and is now a jumbled blur of police interrogation rooms, disastrously mixed up sushi orders, the physics behind the failure of aluminium to bounce adequately for a decent game of Beer Pong, Fresca, a deadly game of Spoons with Newfies and Swedes and, probably too late, Benedryl. 

All of which results in the realization of the final truth. That bed surely, truly, is the best place to wait out the day and perhaps the rest of this posting. 

Keeping Score

With few exceptions do I rarely answer my cell, should it happen to ring. The reasons for this are deeply rooted in my experience as a receptionist, for which position I seemed to be uniquely qualified in that, being a sociopath, I could, with little or no effort, generate a chipper persona I called Dealing With The Public Tam who could be relied upon at the mere ring of a phone, to blow sunshine up anyone's arse.

I also enjoyed wearing the pumps. 

However, as enjoyable as the pumps and the deep personal satisfaction I received from assisting a client while using my own pen which no one else was allowed to touch, were, the job did leave me with a strange sense of powerlessness when confronted with a ringing phone, one that must be answered at all costs.  There was no escaping it, it was my job, I accepted it and Dealing With The Public Tam excelled at it. 

And here we come to the root of it. I am no longer a receptionist, at the mercy of Alexander's shrill invention. Free to do as I wish, I have in my possession a phone which can follow me everywhere, can interrupt me at any time. It rings when I am watching Doctor Who, when I am walking my dogs, when I am at the beach, when I am in line to buy groceries. It rings and I, luxury of luxuries, ignore it. Bliss. 

Except.

Except for when Husband is out being dangled over wreckage or flinging himself into the ocean in the black of night, risking his life to save others from the grip of Death's cold fingers. Then, only then, do I answer this phone when it rings, should it ring. For what if the heart that was beating it's last was the one I can hear in my sleep? What if the breath that whispers my name in the darkness was calling one final time? When Husband is out risking that life more precious than my own to save someone else's one and only, I will always answer, will always respond. 

Which is why I was so thrilled to discover, upon answering my phone this morning, that I have been selected to receive a free trip to Las Vegas, Nevada. 

Well played, Mystery Caller. Well played. 

One Big Happy Family

Meeker joined our family about a year ago and things are going far more smoothly now than in the beginning.

It was last October when we spotted the add on a trading website, "Toby, retriever cross, 1 yr old" and there was a picture of a sweet face with ears back, shy of the camera. When we rolled up to the hobby farm, we were greeted by a boiling mess of fur, paws and slobber. We counted not less than 7 noses and 27 feet but, since one dog turned out to be named Lucky, the math is actually accurate if a bit cliched. From out this seething horde shot a muddy orange torpedo which proceeded to pin ball it's way off three fences, the barn, a goat, two cows, a chicken coop and a hay bale before stopping to roll in a cow pat. 

We were told he was "about a year old" and from a good home that could no longer keep up to his "special needs". Guesses were made about his breed but the best information placed him at a mix of Golden Retriever, Rhodesian Ridgeback and Atomic Weapon. 

 

"Great with cats," we were told, as he chased two up a tree.  "Easy going around other dogs," we were assured, as he catapulted over a horse jump and landed directly on top of a snoozing canine. "Loves to explore," as he disappeared into the distance, "and to swim," when he returned soaking wet and trailing duck weed. 

Standing in the middle of the chaos, watching chicken feathers drift to the ground, Husband looked at me with that big beautiful smile of his and said "He's perfect."

I watched Husband watch this insane orange dog wreak havoc in the farm yard with big tears in my eyes.  I knew he was looking 16 years into the past and seeing a yellower, goofier puppy, coated in mud and chasing chickens. And I knew that this bullet of a canine would never replace him but would go some distance towards healing the big sadness in our hearts left behind when JD's footsteps disappeared from our lives.

"You're right, honey," as we loaded the squirming puppy into the van and watched him shake mud and straw all over the inside, "he's perfect."

 

Husband's Hierarchy of Swears

Husband is the reason I wake up smiling every morning. He is the cheese on my Mac and  the extra whip on my pumpkin spice latte. He brings joy to my days and fills my world with music. He also swears like a sailor at inanimate objects, shattering the boreal stillness of an Albertan afternoon and it's usually at that point that the dogs and I make for the sofa and consult:

Husband's Hierarchy of Swears (ominous thunder)

From the bottom up we have:

"Dammit" - This is a DEFCON 4 situation.  Something has disturbed the zen master in his practice of the subtle art of trying to fix stuff/leave the house/find a tool.

Action: Spouse and canines may choose to ignore or investigate without risk of stepping on debris.

"Oh for f*ck sakes" -  DEFCON 3, examples of  which include things which beep, bounce back or "are stupid". May easily become a DEFCON 2 if the volume is anything above what one might use to call their loved one for dinner. 

Action: Canines mobilized for retreat to sub-couch territory in less that 15 seconds. Spouse continues with normal activities, locates first aid kid in readiness.

"You stupid (a word which, being a lady, I have never used. Ever. Rhymes with stunt.)" - Here we find ourselves at DEFCON 2. Something has catastrophically failed/exploded/jammed or remained lost despite desperate searching.

Action: Everyone is under the couch at this point, enjoying a quiet read and giving the dust bunnies names and  a back story.

"(Yosemite Sam-style regression into garbled snarling)" - Here at DEFCON 1 it is most likely that whatever broke, bounced back or took too long to be found is now either scattered in a million pieces across the driveway or flushed down the toilet.

We've all been here

 Action: Move the couch across the road and set up camp until the mushroom cloud dissipates. See also: The iPhone Incident

Nobody Home

Dear Mystery Caller, 

Still no.

Blow me,

Remote

Mystery Caller

For those of you not following along at home, I have a strict "not answering my cell phone" policy which I seldom, if ever, break. Exceptions include NEVER.

Just scanning through my missed calls over the last few weeks it would seem that there is a very persistent person or group of persons unwilling to infer, from my continued refusal to pick up, that I want them to die a horrible death, pinned under that bus that has them all riled up and chat-happy. Seriously, if the person you are attempting to reach hasn't picked up after 43 attempts, it's possible they are using your misery to fuel their own petty amusements. 

Or  something. 

It's not that I hate talking on the phone. Husband will testify that I can happily spend the better part of a day on the phone with family or friends, and often do. It's that I specifically hate talking on my cell phone. I can and will happily answer a text at my leisure, confident that Emily Post considers anything up to four hours a reasonable length of time in which to respond. A ringing phone, and more specifically a ringing phone while (at the bank/ in the library/on a jog) or any other euphemism for coitus interruptus that you can imagine, really steams my broccoli. I find the ubiquitous use of cell phones for conversation in public one of the most obnoxious social developments of the 21st century. 

That and people who don't plan their order while in the line up for coffee.  

My cell doesn't even have voice mail or caller id. If I had my way, it wouldn't even vibrate when a call is coming through. Instead it would order me a selection of lacy things from the Victoria's Secret online catalogue and charge it to the Mystery Caller's card.  

How do you feel now, Mystery Caller? Dirty? Wait 'till the mail comes in...

Blending In With Albertans

The Rodeo Weekend

It is possible to attend a rodeo in Alberta and not have a fantastic time, if you don't like beer in solo cups, baskets of hot wings, mini doughnuts, meats on sticks, the smell of horses, crowds of cheering fans, pink "Corona" cowgirl hats or being hit on by old men in dusty plaid jackets.  

Fortunately, I enjoy all of those things. I especially enjoyed telling everyone that it was my first rodeo, at each rodeo I attended, because who doesn't like free beer? It has been pointed out that this is a huge breach of the 'this ain't my first rodeo' charter but I stopped listening on account of the beers.

Coming from small town Ontario, I imagined rodeos would be a lot like tractor pulls and crash derbies, only with horses. And it was, apart from the fact that they don't actually allow the horses to crash into each other.  On purpose. I mean, the announcers assured us that the rider was just fine, it was only a small collision with another horse and a fence post and the ground. Alberta! Exciting!

I have absolutely nothing bad to say about rodeos in Alberta that PETA has not
already written on poster board and thrust up and down out front of the Saddle Dome.

The Pros and Cons Of Tenting

Pro: small, portable; can set a tent up nearly anywhere.

Con: small, forgettable; can leave a tent nearly anywhere, often heading out on a camping trip leaving the oh-so-portable tent behind on the driveway. 

Pro: good emergency shelter in most weather conditions. 

Con: a bitch to set up during an emergency in all but one weather condition.

Pro:  thin walls keep you in touch with Nature. 

Con: thin walls do not prevent Nature from touching you. 

Pro: the smell of smokey nylon brings back happy memories. 

Con: smokey nylon is smelly. 

30 day ab challenge

Day 1: 15 sit ups, 10 crunches, 5 leg lifts, 10 sec plank

That was harder than I thought it was going to be. How does one actually do a sit up? I thought 10 seconds of  plank felt like an eternity. I need a nap.

My Heart Glows

Canada Day is red t-shirts and jean shorts. It's barbecues and ice cold beer. It's friends and family out on the lake in an epic canoe flotilla to the best secret beach for campfires and ukulele music. It's bacon burgers and noodle salad and those weird Devilled eggs with pickle juice that no one has the heart to tell Uncle Bobby they can't stand.

Canada Day is fireworks at dusk and fiddle music 'till dawn. It is Flippy Cup and Beer Pong and Washoo. It is singing at the top of your voice to "Life is A Highway" and "Bud the Spud". It is sunburned noses and freckled shoulders and the smell of Deep Woods Off.  It's maple leaf tattoos on babies cheeks and drive-by peltings with water balloons in the back of the Jeep.

Canada Day is pride and joy and laughter because Canada is the best place in the world to be.

Paint Chips and Dip

The latest renovation Husband and I are attempting to complete with a minimum of fuss or bloodshed is the downstairs bedroom which was painted a murderous red by the Filthingtons, who I am gradually coming to picture as a roving family of butchers. I cannot fathom any other reason why anyone would select for the walls of their home a colour I have come to refer to as "Sucking Chest Wound Red".

So far it has been fairly smooth sailing. We peeled from the walls the 4 square feet of cork board that had been glued on with industrial strength adhesive. We filled the holes and patched to space the cork board damaged. We sanded and swept and did all the other things one does in order to prep a room for surgery. And then took a nap because we were up late the night before playing Flip Cup with a bunch of Marines.

It took less time than we thought to transform the Murder Room into my new library. Husband and I worked very hard. We are  sore and tired, yet pleased with the results. We have also come up with an effective system for home reno that saves time and wear and tear on the marriage. Because it works so well I am going to pass it along to you:

Buy a house that doesn't need renovating.

Je suis un artiste?

I am headed to a meeting of the Cold Lake Art Society tonight. Just to clarify, I do not identify myself as an artist in any medium, including reality. However Husband, in his enthusiasm for my silly doodlings, chatted me up to some people we met at an art show last winter and now I am invited to attend as a guest or, as I like to put it, a fraud. 

I have no portfolio prepared and I'm hoping to blend in with the wall next to the hummus dip.  

This is a fine example of art that I did not make.

Death by Elocution

Dear Parent,

Never let me know you hate it when it's pronounced...

Nuculer

Sangwitch

Liberry

Suposably

Exspresso

Affidavid

Volumptuous

Triathalon

...because you'd be amazed how often I can work all of these words into a simple conversation about your child's day.

I want to ride my bicycle. I want to ride it where I like.

I'm slowly getting a feel for what it means to live in this part of Alberta. This morning I learned a few more lessons when I hit the pavement for my first road cycle of the season. Nothing too crazy, just a short loop to suss out the road conditions and maybe spot a few new side trails to walk the pooches. 
Returning home after an hour, I feel as though I have achieved something very special, as though some sort of award is now mine to claim. I couldn't have done it on my own.

To the three motorists who gave me the courtesy of a full lane when passing, thank you.
To the rest of the hundred or so pick up trucks who sped up and refused to budge even one centimeter, thank you for not actually clipping me. Or maybe your aim was bad.
To the Grand Am who honked and shouted "Nice tits!", thank you.
To the on-coming black Ford pick up, license number (deleted) who swerved into my lane and deliberately forced me into the ditch, I sincerely hope we meet again when I am wearing my cleats. 

A Hippy's Lament

A million, million dragonflies, bodies blue and beautiful, take flight from sun dappled willow branches.

Garter snakes and grasshoppers scatter, -swish!- into the reeds at the edge of the muddy trail.

Beaver head for cover, sleek and swift in the dark water, slapping the water in affront.

At the pond's edge moose crash, thinking the trees a safer bet.

Yet another photo is ruined.

Low flying jets are stupid.

Seen here: nothing at all. Thanks Maple Flag.

Tuesday

Tuesday is Monday's boring cousin.  The one you are too polite to ignore at the wedding so you wind up having to sit through endless stories about how he and Monday used to gang up on Wednesday and kick him in the humps. Tuesdays are jerks.

This bear is more interesting than Tuesday

Those Aren't Raisins

It seems the family living here before us made the decision to sell rather hastily. That is the only explanation I can offer for the following list of things I have discovered on our lawn, revealed slowly, item by item, as the snow melts. It's like the Easter Bunny hosted an orgy. And invited incontinent pit pulls.

"Put the kegs on the table next to the giant pile of paint cans and Doritos."

Thus far, we have discovered...

• one office chair, missing a seat
• two metal storage units
• two paint cans, colours not found within the house
• 15 beer bottles, Bud Lite (how common)
• 1 beer bottle, Cariboo Genuine Draft (this guy probably didn't get invited back)
• 2 empty vodka bottles
• half a dozen McDonald's Super Size beverage cups
• a left glove
• nine pieces of stove wood (front yard)
• a stone fire pit (back yard)
• two lawn chairs, broken
• one deck chair, ugly
• one dog house, floor chewed out
• a variety of gum and candy bar wrappers
• 3 metric tonnes of dog 'doings'
• a charming planter box containing last year's petunias and a deer skull

...and the snow isn't gone yet.

Feel the Burn

It's official. Alberta is killing me. 37 years of wonderful good health marred only by infrequent and delightfully blurry bouts of rampant alcoholism, and Alberta takes that all away with four little letters that sound more like a wart than a stomach condition. After months of suffering through heartburn and lack of sleep and voluntarily giving up coffee, chocolate, sugar and beer and everything else that makes life worth living, I am being assessed for ... GERD. (That means heartburn from Hell, the acronym really doesn't make sense to me either.) 

Remember that time when you woke up from a good night's sleep after a night spent munching nachos and sipping beers with friends, did some yoga and then had a cuppa joe with your bacon and eggs? I hate you.

I am now that annoying person in restaurants who orders a salad, hold the dressing and everything else that essentially makes it salad and not just a plate of what amounts to very expensive grass. "I'll just have a bowl of leaves with a glass water, thanks." 

Giving up coffee in the mornings was the hardest. Giving up a beer on the weekends was also the hardest. Giving up everything that could possibly cause the slightest shift in my pH  also made it possible to sleep at night without wondering if I'm having a heart attack so I guess that's the silver lining. 

This actually looks soothing.

Thank heavens I don't have to give up sushi because, once again thanks to Alberta, I already have.

Luckily, I'm Already Crazy

Moving about the country as we do it is sometimes hard to feel as though one fits in. A person has to be really strong in their sense of self to handle this sort of constant upheaval or else they could snap, go crazy and really lose their identity.

Fortunately for me I am already a sociopath.

I also like the great outdoors so, chameleon-like, I will blend in with the closest group of hippies in my geographic location. In BC, this was actually harder than it sounds because of, well, B.C.  There are just so many groups to choose from there. Did I want to be an art hippie? An environmentalist hippie?  A crazy hippie? Eventually I gravitated towards surf hippies, not because I have anything against trees or pottery or wife-swapping but because I figured, since I'm never going to give up my pink Daisy razor in defiance of the preconceived notions of feminine beauty dictated by the male oppressors, I may as well get some mileage out of my smooth underarms and flounce about in the waves in a rash shirt.

Also, it was easier than being a vegetarian.

I'm finding it a little tough out here in Alberta, as well. They have a whole other word for hippie out here: target. I was starting to get a little worried that I may actually have to develop a personality of my own until, out of the corner of my eye at the 12th Annual Cold Lake Home And Leisure Show ("Mini Doughnuts on sale now!") I spotted something familiar. People wearing toques indoors. They were wearing organic bamboo cargo everything, sporting serious boots and eating trail mix. Hippies!  And not just any sort of hippies but my very favourite sort, canoe hippies! They embraced me as one of their own when I demonstrated that I knew which end of the paddle goes in the water and was able to say the words 'pit toilet' without throwing up in my mouth a little bit.

Husband and I had originally planned on heading back to Tofino at the end of August, in order for me to get some salt in my blood because I miss my ocean so. Now, though, we are seriously considering an extended canoe trip into the wilds of the Canadian Shield in northern Saskatchewan.  Although I do miss the ocean, I grew up on lakes and rivers and for the first time Alberta is reminding me a little bit of home. Canoe hippies are people I understand, they know the hardships of bears in the camp and pine-scented biodegradable shampoo/dish soap. They come from all walks and will not judge my need for under-eye cream even though we are on day 6 of an 8 day trip. They will not fidget with their holsters if I say the words 'recycling' or 'hold the beef'. They are my new favourite thing.

However, just for fun, and because old habits die hard, I still like to ask for the vegan option at the steak house.

Noli Me Tangere

Noli Me Tangere: "Don't touch me, you greasy little back country rapist"

Creepy grocery store stalker, 
I watched you watch me from behind the pineapples.
You aren't fooling anyone with your dark sunglasses
In this brightly lit store.
You tried to hide when I caught you in the feminine hygiene aisle.
Use tampons often, do you sir?
Leaning in to whisper in my ear in the check out line 
Nearly got you killed by the two good old boys in front of me.
I wonder if that was part of your plan?

It's Okay, The Van Is In Park

Husband whispers "I love you" and sings my favourite songs. He shouts at obnoxious trucks in traffic and hollers for Meeker to stop trying to catch Saskatchewan. His voice is both my beacon and my map; the one sound in all the Universe which can cut through the goofy, frazzled clutter of my mind and bring me back to my soul and my self.  

Unless he calls out "Honey, can you come here and help me with this?" in which case I usually hope there is enough gas in the Volvo to get him to the emergency room once all the bits have been found and packed on ice.

The day was a sunny weekend day like any other. I was painting over the strange combination of blue and mustard stripes in the guest room and singing along to Long Beach Radio, waiting for the Mandatory Marley song to air and thinking that the Filthingtons had just about the worst decorating sense of any family in the history of home decor because who puts a shiny bronze wallpaper border of constipated-looking elephants in their actual house? 

Husband had left in a flurry of phone calls and activity, in an effort to move Ze Plane from it's temporary location to our new home. I know this because before he left I was asked to produce the usual pre-departure items using only my wifey powers and keen memory skills: tie down straps, head lamps, mittens, cell phone, trailer plates and, that Holy Grail of trips, the van keys.

Hours passed. The guest room looked less like a zoo keeper's nightmare and I could hear thumps and bumps from the garage. Husband had returned with Ze Plane and was installing it in the garage where it would be lovingly restored to it's former glory, landing gear and all. 

And then, from the stillness of the sunny Alberta afternoon, those ten words that chill me to the bone and send me scrambling to press 9-1 on the phone, finger hovering in readiness over the final 1.

"Honey, can you come here and help me with this?"

Normally, I am not certain what I will encounter. Husband is, after all a resourceful adult with ADD and a brain the size of the planet. There could be any number of things I will see when I dash outside. A felled tree. Large holes in the ground, spouting sparks and jetting water. Puppies. Literally anything you can think of, I have probably seen Husband standing in the middle of it, holding pliers and wearing look of intense determination. But I knew he had Ze Plane in the garage. I knew that he had carefully measured the space available and was confident that it would fit with room to spare. 

I knew that he had been left unsupervised for at least three hours.

That is the entire list of the things I thought I knew. What I did not know was this: 

"It's okay, Honey. It's dangling from a beam."

Naturally he had Ze Plane suspended by pulleys, strapped around a rafter, accessed through a hole carefully smashed in the garage ceiling with the first tool that came to hand (his hand), held there by the weight of our minivan and preventing the garage door from opening more than about four feet. And of course I was able to help him with this. I have ten years in at this point, the only thing I couldn't do was hold my finger over the final 1 of 9-1-1 and take this photo at the same time. 

To the nth degree

Life can get a little mundane, out here on the prairie, so Husband and I have developed an approach to the everyday grind that seems to help. To be fair, we've done this everywhere we've lived because let's face it, the Internet has pretty much destroyed any sense of awe and wonder left over after Jason Statham's movies have groin kicked all the rest.

And so I give you... Extreme Alberta!  

In today's episode we go on an Extreme Dog Walk.  Rather than simply take Meeker and Jesse to a park and walk the trails we decided to don snowshoes and head out across Cold Lake. Weather reports called for winds out of the north east at 20 kph, with nothing to slow it down from off the Arctic but the odd caribou.  Normally this would be enough to qualify as Extreme but why stop there? Let's let Meeker off his leash! And now lets chase him down as he races off into the distance toward what will turn out to be a very nice Dene Nation family out for an afternoon of ice fishing. On the opposite side of the lake. 

You really can watch him run away for three days.

The family was very accommodating and not at all irritated that a furry orange torpedo blasted into their camp, followed (much later) by two very out of breath idiots obviously too stupid to operate a snowmobile because who walks nowadays? Jesse is our best ambassador in these situations, where Husband and I would normally be ushered by gentle but firm hands to a safe place for the night.  She is adept at convincing people, through her sweetness, that she is obviously some sort of Lunatic Support Dog (LSD!).

Two hours later we returned to the van with both dogs, a half-eaten fish carcass gifted to Meeker by the family, wet boots and a limp. 

Next week: Extreme Groceries!

Blending in With Albertans

The Prairie Stare

Stare Number One - Head lowered, eyes glassy and fixed, mouth slightly agape.

You have just driven into the field of vision of this Albertan and will be watched until you drive out of sight over the horizon. Or until Tuesday, whichever comes first.

Stare Number Two - Direct gaze, expression calm verging on stern, jaw relaxed.

You have indicated that you are from "out of province" by demonstrating that you have a basic grasp of the fundamentals of recycling and water conservation.

Stare Number Three - Eyes narrowed, head cocked to one side, lips pressed into a thin line.

You have failed to spit  after saying the words "hippie" or "Toronto" or "provincial sales tax."

Stare Number Four - One eye shut, dominant eye pressed to the sight on the scope.

You have inadvertently insulted an Albertan's truck/dog/mama/hockey team/brand of whiskey.

Conversations With Bruno

Dear Jeep,

Thank you for always being parked on the street just past my new house. I can't tell you how many times I've almost gotten lost on my way home only to see you and slam on the brakes, then skid crazily and wheel into my drive.  You look like a 'Bruno'. 

Thanks Bruno.

Remote

Blending in with Albertans

Going to 'The City'

I don't know where you live but I can only assume that you live in or within a day's drive of a major city somewhere in Canada or, if the stats on Blogger are to be believed, Eurasia. That is just dew on puppies dandy but if you don't live near The City then you are lost in a barren wasteland bereft of the cultural richness that is Edmonton Alberta and it's many glorious meats on sticks.

The pride an Albertan takes in claiming The City as their own is inversely proportional to how far from it they live. Someone living in Old Strathcona might think they feel a certain civic pride as they hop from bus to slushy sidewalk but that's nothing compared to the guy from Fort Mac on a weekend off. You can tell a true Albertan by how fiercely proud they are of the trouble it takes to get to The City and how fast they can make the drive on a Friday night.

Going to The City is a major pastime here. Talking about going consumes the 50% of the day not spent commenting about how arid is the snowfall. Planning the next trip, complaining about the length of time between trips, bragging about the trip just made or pretending to be interested in someone else's trip even though they clearly have no idea what they are talking about because everybody knows the best shopping is on White Ave.; it all blends together into a passionate yammer that you would do well to join or risk being branded a Torontonian (read "forner").

One final tip: Albertans only refer to one city as The City and I warn you now if you have to ask an Albertan which city that is I suggest you do so only after putting on The Kevlar. Those who live in Calgary or even Red Deer (hits spittoon dead on) are, for the most part, proud of their little metropolises and their cute little sports teams and adorable towers. So precious. But only the capital gets the capitals and that's that.

I am excited because I am, this very weekend, going to The City. It's my first time making the nearly four hour drive on my own but the payoff will be a visit with a fantastic friend. The shoe shopping will make up for the October arrival of winter and the sweet taste of freshly prepared sushi will go some distance towards making up for all the rest.

All the rest naturally refers in this instance to Alberta.

Letters To A Shut-In

Dear Neighbour Lady,

It's not you, it's me. I think we need some space for a while. I'm just emotionally unavailable. I need some time to find myself. You deserve better. I don't want you to settle.  It just wasn't meant to be. We're just at different points in our lives right now. When you define something, you limit it.

I think we should see other people.

Sincerely,

Remote

Still Life With Walking Cane and Stranger Porn

The move is complete. We are now officially Townies, at least by the standards of Alberta, in that we live on the very edge of town where the sidewalk ends and the vast, sweepy nothingness of the rest of the North American continental plate begins. I am glad to report that with the help of indispensable friends the move went rather well. We broke less than the professional movers who got us to Alberta in the first place or, to put it another way, nothing at all. The house is now a mess but it is our mess and that is grand indeed. 

The mess left behind by the previous owners is another matter altogether.

The place needs some attention, which the previous owners were unwilling or unable to provide. Things like new flooring and a kitchen counter top and a colour scheme from post-1995. But that is all very easy to remedy and, in fact, why we chose the place. Renovations keep the marriage strong.  Once they are completed. And the bleeding stops.

Further, when the previous owners, henceforth to be referred to as the Filthingtons, vacated the grounds they left behind a number of items that have entertained, puzzled and in one instance downright appalled us.  The engraved cane left hanging in the front closet is a fun mystery we happily will never solve. The cheese spreader and Pampered Chef stoneware scrapers excavated from behind the stove were on the mundane side, as was the little pottery ashtray from Mexico, delightfully decorated with a flamingo in a bikini. The metal sign in the garage which reads "Caution: Live Bombs Inside, Risk of Serious Bodily Harm, You May Die" is getting framed and hung on the bathroom door. And the greasy digest of dirty stories left in upstairs bathroom was removed with double gloved hands and thrown hastily in the trash.

The detritus of others lives can often paint quite a picture. Anyone poking through my house will deduce right away that I love Husband, books, my camera, chocolate chip cookies, almost knitting stuff, and science fiction.  I believe my new home was once owned by a world traveling foodie/explosives expert who smoked like a chimney, walked with a limp and had incredibly hairy palms.