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.

Denial Is A Beautiful River To Float Along

I acknowledge that stress is there
in much the way you would acknowledge 
a Grizzly bear in your campsite.  

You can see that the bear is rummaging through your cooler 
and you have made terrified, 
white-eyeballed eye contact with the bear.

So you know it knows you know it's there.  

And none of this means that you go over to the bear with a rolled up newspaper
to smack it on the snout and rip your weekend's supply of Doritos out of it's claws.  

No. 

While the Grizzly is snorting the last of your Aunt Jemima's Buttermilk Pancakes Mix, 
like a junkie in an interstate bathroom stall, 
you hunker down in your sleeping bag.

And pray that he doesn't detect the Snickers 
you have stashed in your pillowcase. 

Up until now this explains perfectly how I would normally deal with stress in my life.  As it turns out there is probably a better way. Is definitely a better way. I mean, it's just that after a week spent packing and pacing and wishing the worst kinds of genital rash on our mortgage providers who just wouldn't answer the phone, the innocent cardboard box I reduced to shreds with a snowshoe really shouldn't look so startled. 

As I stood, panting and shaken, over my vanquished toe-stubber I had an epiphany. I highly recommend them, and you should have one yourself sometime. My epiphany was this: I should probably let out the stress and anger and frustration a little more often than once a decade. It's certainly healthier from the perspective of packing material.

So.

On order: One heavy bag and one set of ladies boxing gloves, size medium. Husband may have a new plane, garage, yard, dog, province, trail system, parachute, and drop zone, but I plan to have a right hook that can crack lumber by next Christmas.

Meeker Ball

Equipment

• Meeker
• 2 balls, or sticks which will be referred to as balls
• Alberta

Players

• Meeker
• Husband
• Not-Husband (Namely, me)

The Play

Throw a ball. When Meeker brings it back, throw the other ball. Repeat.

Rules

1. Never stop throwing the ball.
2. Unless Meeker gets distracted by deer tracks or Saskatchewan.
3. In which case, nothing you do will matter. 
4. Ever.
5. So you may as well stop throwing the ball.

Winning The Game

If everyone gets back in the house at the same time and you don't have to post "Missing" posters around the neighbourhood, you win.  If not, Meeker wins.

That Others May Freeze

Husband is leaving for Orlando in 3 days time. He will be gone for 10 days. During this period the purchase of our new home will finalize, Meeker will likely run away, I will consume nothing but homemade soup and salad (what I like to refer to as the Loneliest Loser Diet), the Pacific plate will drift another 0.109 cm eastward and historical records for the season indicate an average of 5.75 cm of snow will fall on my driveway.

Obviously I am pissed about all of this.

Husband's job is important and his skills must be honed like a samurai blade in order for him to perform it safely and effectively. Which explanation he has stuck to for 10 years in defense of why he must go somewhere warm every January while I spend two weeks shoveling, staring at fog or listening to the howling of hurricanes. It's not as though he wants to go. His country demands it. It's a sacrifice. That others may live, etc. etc.

"It's my duty, honey."

I have learned to approach the annual training schedule with something close to equanimity, through the help of yoga and meditation and vodka. I understand the need for constant training which could save lives, not the least his own. I steel myself to the time the light of my day must be gone from me and trust that it is for the greater good.

It's just really hard to remember while I stand hip-deep in snow, screaming myself hoarse at Meeker as he disappears over the horizon, wondering how I am going to move all of our worldly possessions from the PMQ to the new house. With the Volvo.

The Mother Tong. Tongeru. Tungue. Whatever.

In order to work as an EA in Alberta, I was required to complete a university English class. It has left me feeling considerably less confident about my ability to use my mother tongue, let alone spell the word tongue. Does that look right to you? I don't know anymore. 

If I have a conceit, or at least one that I'll own, it is that I have a fairly decent grasp of the English language and how to bend it to my will. What I have learned, these past few weeks, is that I know more about the field of advanced calculus than I do about English.  For example, I know that advanced calculus is stupid. I know what you are thinking. Is not the truest lesson I could have learned the discovery that there is so very much I do not know, may never know?

Possibly. 

I could also have used more clarity on the adjectival function of a gerund.