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
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, February 11, 2013
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
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
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.
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.
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