mini proportions

On to the Cube Farm!

2006-11-16T19:42:00.000-08:00

The Canadian government finally deemed me worthy of taking a job away from an able-bodied Canadian. So my days as a lesbian ex-pat haus frau are numbered. Actually, I will always be a lesbian and will presumably remain an ex-pat so I guess my days as a haus frau are the only ones that are truly numbered. As such, this is my farewell posting - for now. I'm am sure once I get a cubicle job there will be many more stories to tell...

Thank you all for reading. I’ve really appreciated your snarky comments and your fascination with my mundane existence.

I will keep the blog up indefinitely so if you are feeling like a chuckle check out some of my all-time favorite incidents:

My Third Mistake....
A bookstore with a complex
Canadian Cultural Imperialism?
Loonie Tunes
Socialized Laundry
Maxi Pads, Sleigh Rides, and Snowboarders
Just Bras...
Wacky Canadian Customs
Frodo sure does look smaller in person

I take my hair very seriously

2006-11-03T08:19:00.000-08:00

Yesterday at the naturopath I got a haircut. Mind you, the naturopath ranks right up there with Great Cuts and the Hair Cuttery in terms of hair styling, but I had no choice. He ordered the haircut so that his lab could perform some heavy metal tests on my hair.

For most people this haircut would be a minor endeavor and the few hairs cut off would likely not be noticed. But for me, someone with extremely short hair, cutting enough hair off my head to perform these tests required cutting in MANY spots. So, after ten minutes and twenty snips the naturopathic barber finished her butchery. But, unlike my usual hairdresser, she did not give me a mirror to examine the back. So I walked out into the world ignorant to how my head looked to those behind me. That is, until I met TW for lunch.

TW took one look at my head and started giggling. She tried to help defuse the situation by matting my hair down and giving me a poor-man’s version of the comb over but nothing worked. My glaringly white scalp shone through in a series of loonie-sized patches. So in an effort to minimize the spectacle of my head, I spent the bulk of the rest of the day walking backwards down the street like a tour guide pointing out landmarks.

This tactic worked until I ran into an elderly woman ambling down the street with her walker in tow. Since she was heading in the same direction as me - just at a slower pace and face forward - my elbow rammed into her back when I overtook her at my brisk pace. She yelped in pain.

But as soon as she turned around and caught sight of the back of my head she began laughing heartily. I started to laugh too but then I stopped when I remembered we were laughing at my own hair. I take my hair very seriously.

I winked, she stared.

2006-11-02T14:26:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I went to the grocery store. Not the meat and potatoes grocery store that I frequented long before my naturopath got his hands on my diet but the grocery store that sells only overpriced organic produce. The grocery store that requires a two bus commute. And the grocery store that charges me extra money whenever I ask for a bag because I never bring a reusable one.

It is at this grocery store that the cashiers make me feel like I am the cause of global warming and every other natural disaster that is befalling our planet. Actually, it is one cashier in particular whose indifferent smirk, aloof stare, and total disregard for my witty banter that makes me feel this way. She does not smile, she does not laugh, nor does she talk to me. Rather, she talks over me to the customers behind me who are almost always holding bicycle helmets and reusable shopping bags.

I try to avoid these encounters but I almost always duped by bad timing. Whenever I unload my produce onto the conveyor belt waiting for a more kindly cashier to fondle my purchases they are always relieved of their duty – just before I am to be rung up – by my cashiering nemesis. I silently beg them to stay with my puppy dog eyes but they do not.

So my items are left in the hands of my nemesis. She looks at each item with the careful scrutiny of a research scientist. And even though she does not make her thoughts known to me I can see in her eyes that she is judging my selections. Pears – too big for one serving; apples – bruised and too much sugar – even though it is natural sugar; celery – not worth the effort and no nutritional value, and roasted cashews – salt induced heart attack waiting to happen. I dread these encounters.

But yesterday I believed we had a breakthrough. Even though my cashiering nemesis smirked indifferently, spoke to the man behind me – holding his own bicycle helmet and those of his three kids, all under the age of five, and scrutinized my produce, we had a moment. She, without speaking directly to me, acknolwedged her admiration by giving me a 10 percent discount on my bill.

When I looked at the screen and discovered this discount I smiled broadly content in the knowledge that this cashier liked me. She really, really liked me. So before I left with my grcoeries I winked at her in an effort to silently acknowledge the favor she was doing for me. She just stared.

Then on my way out the door I glanced at the sign promoting a ten percent discount for all customers on that day - customer appreciation day. Needless to say, I can never go back.

The Great Absinthe versus Alleve Debate

2006-10-27T10:45:00.000-07:00

So. I just discovered that you can legally buy Absinthe in liquor stores in Canada but you cannot buy Alleve in drug stores.

Let me repeat, Absinthe - the liquor credited with making more than one 19th century artist go totally and absolutely insane - is completely legal but Alleve - an over counter drug meant to dispel the side affects of menstrual cramps - is not.

I love this country.

Boxers or Briefs?

2006-10-25T12:36:00.000-07:00

The city of Richmond, a city that neighbors Vancouver, is seeking to rectify a sexual harassment law suit filed last year by a number of female firefighters. One of their solutions: unisex underwear.

All firefighters - men and women - will now be required to wear unisex boxer shorts. The cost to the city: $16,000.

This leaves me with one question: Isn't it sexual harassment to talk about the underwear adorning the bums of firefighters, police officers, and other civil servants? If not, then I might just go ask my accountant down the street what kind of underwear she is wearing...

I don't need no stinkin' tryptophan to have fun.

2006-10-06T08:38:00.000-07:00

OK. OK. I know I have been remiss in updating my blog postings...I have no excuse unless you count sitting at home debating what I am going to do for the upcoming Canadian Thanksgiving holiday.

After hemming and hawing for three weeks I finally decided just this morning. It came to me in a sudden flash while lying in bed.

As the radio alarm clock droned on I listened excitedly while the CBC morning host interviewed two local television personalities about their own Thanksgiving plans. They, like me, will be watching a turkey roast – live – on television.

The word around town is that this roasting turkey will surpass the burning log made famous by Christmas holiday because the turkey will require at least two, maybe three, bastings. And we will get to see them all.

So, I convinced TW that we should invite friends over to watch the roasting together. We are both excited about the prospect of placing bets on the basting timeline, the size of the disembodied hand managing the basting process, and the style of basting tool. I told TW that I think we can take our friends for $10 Canadian ($9.10 U.S.) but she thinks we can take them for much, much more. Oh, how I love Thanksgiving.

Is that you behind the tree or just the Keebler Elves?

2006-09-20T15:31:00.000-07:00

On the bus this afternoon a gaggle of high school field hockey players fresh from practice – adorned in plaid kilts, shin guards, and holding field hockey sticks – discussed fellow students they considered to be beneath them.

While discussing a particularly icky specimen of a boy one of the girls – most likely the goalie given her girth in comparison to the others – commented, "He looks like he’s spent most of his life behind a tree."

I, not privy to what life behind a tree might look like, am still trying to wrap my head around that concept. But of course that won’t stop me from co-opting that as an insult the next time someone cuts me in line at Starbucks.

Funny har har or funny hee hee

2006-09-13T16:16:00.000-07:00

At the gym yesterday I geared myself up for a rousing workout. The type of workout that gets your blood pumping, your adrenaline rushing, and your face bright, bright red.

So: I stepped onto the treadmill, set the incline level and speed, and began to walk. However, within three minutes of my thirty-minute workout I heard chuckles, giggles, and guffaws from the man on the treadmill directly behind me.

Since I did not have the coordination to turn around for fear of falling off the treadmill I tried to ignore the laughter although I secretly feared he was laughing at me. Thus, in an effort to assure myself that he had no reason to laugh in my direction, I looked down at my attire - mismatched black and gray socks, large green shorts resembling garbage bags, and a sweat stained t-shirt. After this cursory perusal of my attire I determined that I must not be the target of his amusement. Right?

So. I continued. And so did he.

In an effort to reassure myself again I looked down to make sure my underwear was where it should be, my shoes were on the right feet, and my bra was not on the outside of my shirt. Again I saw fit to continue on my way. And, again, so did he.

Finally, after ten minutes of this abuse I stopped the treadmill mid-climb, stepped off the machine, and slowly walked over to the man. “I’m sorry. But what is so funny?” He did not immediately respond. So I asked again. This time he took his iPod earphones out of his ears and remarked, “Sorry, I didn’t hear or see you because I am watching reruns of Law and Order: SVU on my iPod. Man, let me tell you, that Detective Stabler really keeps me in stitches.”

Ah yes. The Law and Order defense – quite clever.

well that's inovative...

2006-09-01T10:15:00.000-07:00

Last night I spied a mini cooper advertising one of the least innovatively named companies I have ever seen.

The name: innovative innovations inc.

Call me crazy, but if I were looking for an innovative innovation I would likely choose a company with a more innovative name. On second thought, I guess since I am spending time discussing their innovative name I must concede that they won this point. Argh.

Porn in the Multiplex

2006-08-30T20:55:00.000-07:00

Last week TW and I debated and debated and debated about what film to go see. Our choices: Snakes on a Plane – no explanation needed – or the Crash Pad – a lesbian porn film. Both films were playing at 7pm. Both films were playing at the large multiplex theater. And both films offered a compelling narrative.

So after innumerable hours of debate we opted for Snakes on a Plane. But since the show was sold out we settled for lesbian porn.

We bought tickets. We got seats. We settled in. And we waited with great anticipation for the narrative arc to begin. The film started. The sex started. The narrative arc, however, never started. So. The sleeping started instead.

As soon as my head hit the back of the movie theater seat I was out. I remember nothing of those 72 minutes of my life.

TW has since recounted for me – numerous times – how I sat in the middle of the 300-person theater with my head thrown back, my mouth wide open, and my nose emitting a patented snore/sniffle sound.

How she nudged me in the ribs throughout the film to awaken me from my hazy slumber.

How the 76-year old women with the walker seated next to us got up to move to another seat out of range of my wayward drool.

And how numerous other theater patrons turned from the screen and started hucking popcorn at my head.

Well, at least I got some free popcorn.

So that's what happens in there...

2006-08-21T12:03:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I went to a gala opening party for a queer film and video festival. The forward thinking festival programmers covered over the labels on the bathroom doors with signs reading, "Gender is a spectrum. Pick the shortest line." So, like a contestant on Let's Make a Deal, I chose door number two. But was unwittingly forced into door number one by a wily competitor.

As soon as I felt the urge to pee I extricated myself from the throngs and headed to the two unmarked doors. I bobbed and weaved while keeping the doors in plain view. Then, within three feet of door number one, I found myself in a foot race with a meandering 80-year old man with a walker. I, a spry 34-year old thought I could beat him the remaining three feet, but I was mistaken. My 80-year old competitor ambled ahead of me, pivoted to the right, placed his walker between the door, and me and ultimately boxed me out. So. I chose the other door – door number one.

I walked into the bathroom, turned to the right, and spied a figure out of the corner of my eye. I spied a man. A man standing with his back to me; a man holding his hands in front of his pants; a man standing in front a urinal; a man relieving himself.

I froze – for what seemed like fifteen seconds.

When I regained my composure, I continued past the bank of urinals, turned sharply into the one toilet stall in the expansive bathroom, closed the door, and waited. I waited to hear the urinal flush. I waited to hear the water in the sink run. I waited to hear the bathroom door open. And I waited to hear the bathroom door close. Then I flushed, washed my hands, and left – stealthily.

After leaving the bathroom I bobbed and weaved my way back to TW. From a distance I could see her talking and laughing heartily to a person I did not know. So I ventured closer. When I reached two of them, TW introduced me to her acquaintance, a man who looked oddly familiar. He and I exchanged pleasantries, shook hands, and then he remarked, “Actually, didn’t I just see you in the bathroom?” Surprised by his query I stammered, “Me. No. It couldn’t have been. I don’t go to the bathroom. Ever.” He nodded. I can’t be completely sure but I think he believed me.

Just call me moneybags

2006-08-14T14:08:00.000-07:00

One of the unintended consequences of living in a country with supremely high taxes is that I am now a cheapskate. I, who used to shower wait staff with ample post-tax twenty percent tips, am now foisting upon restaurant tables a paltry pre-tax fifteen percent.

Although I feel shameful leaving such meager pre-tax amounts I rationalize it to friends when they glare at my contribution. I explain that as a haus frau I am not gainfully employed, that there was a minor flaw with my meal and/or the service, and that in Europe tipping is very uncommon. This works – sometimes.

Even when it doesn’t work I am able to navigate this treacherous tip terrain in the privacy of my own shameful eternal monologue – until recently.

This weekend I went to a café. The type of place that requires you order at the counter, grab your own water, coffee, napkins, utensils, and table. The type of place that calls your name and requires that you return to the counter to pick up your own food. The type of place where the only real service you receive is in being asked by the cashier if the food is for here or to go. It is usually at the type of place that I put the loose change in my pocket – anywhere from 15 to 60 cents in the tip jar – since I am doing the bulk of the work. But I didn’t have any cash on hand so I paid with a debit card.

After agreeing to the amount requested for the food and punching in my pin code the debit machine posed a question – of sorts, “Advise the server of tip amount.” The question – more of a statement of fact – presumed that a tip was due and I was to say out loud how much I valued the time of the cashier, the wait staff, and the other employees of the café.

I froze.

I knew that I could not tip 15 cents or even say 60 cents, because saying one of these amounts out loud would illicit glares and verbal derision from the cashier, my friends, and the strangers in line behind me. So I tried to do a quick calculation in my head but to no avail. As a humanities major in college I saw no real need for math but at that moment I came head to head with the full force of math’s real life applications and cursed my 18-year old former self.

As I tried to find the calculator function on my cell phone I stalled. I looked to the cashier, a woman in her sixties with a weathered face, a woman not easily amused by small talk and said, “Looks like those Blue Jays are trying to make a run at the pennant.” No perceptible response. I tried again, “Beautiful day outside.” Same result. And finally, “How long have you held this job?” A look of scorn, “Are you almost done? There are other customers waiting.”

Realizing that my time at the till was running short I blurted, “Add five dollars to my bill” and as aside continued, “for the tip.” Through clenched unsmiling teeth she grumbled, “Thanks.”

As I ventured back to the table my friend asked, “What did you order?” I replied, “A bran muffin.” “Yum. How much are the muffins here?” I pulled the receipt from my pocket, “Usually two dollars but I paid seven.”

My friend shrugged her shoulders and remarked, “I wouldn’t have given a tip at all. I mean you have to butter your own muffin. I guess you are a bigger person than I.” Muttering under my breath I responded, “That is not what I would call it…”

I think I threw my rib out.

2006-08-07T17:06:00.000-07:00

Somehow, over the course of thirty-six hours, I amassed twenty dollars worth of loonies and toonies. The leaden coins, firmly planted in my right pants pocket, so weighed me down that I started to lilt into busy streets and massive hedges as I walked. TW, sick of hearing me complain about the back and abdominal pain the coins caused, demanded that I buy something, anything, to rid myself of the onerous load.

So, I tried.

I went to a bookseller to pick up twenty dollars worth of magazines and other sundry Canadiana. With the magazines and Canadiana in hand I made my way to the cashier. As soon she rung up my assorted items I pulled the loonies and toonies out of my pocket to pay for the $20.05 purchase.

The cashier smirked. In an acerbic tone she remarked, “Uh. We are only allowed to take up to $10 in change.” I looked at her quizzically, “Ten dollars?” “Yes. Ten dollars.” So I left ten loonies on the counter and put the remaining six loonies and two toonies into my pocket. Then I pulled my wallet out of my other pocket and looked inside for a ten or two fives. But all I found were two twenties.

Fearing my plan might be foiled I looked up from my wallet and beseeched the cashier with my droopy eyes, “Well. Here is the deal. I want to try to get rid of this change but if you don’t let me pay with the loonies and toonies then I will have to pay with a twenty dollar bill and that would defeat the purpose.” She nodded, “I understand.” Taking her response as my in through her stoic refusal, I continued, “So. Can I pay with the coins?” Her smirk faded to a scowl, “Nope. You can give me up to ten dollars but no more.”

Defeated, I handed her one of the twenties and one loonie. Then she handed me my change – nine dimes and five pennies. As she dropped the coins into my hand she remarked, “We are out of nickels and quarters. I really wish someone would show up with ten dollars worth of nickels or quarters. That would really make my day.”

Still seeking to ingratiate myself to the cashier, I nodded my head in agreement, turned around, and lilted into a shelf of neatly stacked books – now, not so neatly stacked.

Frodo sure does look smaller in person

2006-08-02T09:11:00.000-07:00

TW and I just returned from a town in British Columbia where sitting on broken down American cars in abandoned parking lots drinking cheap domestic beer predominated the social landscape. Although slightly tempted to partake in one of the numerous parking lot gatherings, we instead opted for a bit of culture – we chose to attend an event billed as the “Art and Music Event of the Year”.

As we walked toward the “art and music event of the year” we heard booming drumbeats and pitches of laughter. We also heard from our guide rumors that Frodo Baggins (i.e. Elijah Wood) stayed on the couch of a friend of a friend’s third cousin the night before and would be one of the hip-hop DJs at the event. We could not wait.

Then at 11pm when we arrived at the entrance – a rusty make-shift gate bordering an unpaved parking lot sans dilapidated American cars – we learned that we were to pay $20 a piece to enter. We balked at this price but ultimately paid because we wanted to see Frodo Baggins that badly.

Crossing the threshold we discovered that the “art and music event of the year” attracted close to 150 skinny white boys drinking cheap domestic beer and listening to the rap musings of a tap dancing hip hop DJ. It seemed that we unintentionally stumbled upon the meta-parking lot gathering of the year.

Undeterred, we scoured the crowd of skinny men looking for one – just one – short, squat, hirsute man reminiscent of Frodo Baggins. No luck. Next we traversed the dusty lot strewn with empty beer bottles looking for the promised artwork. We did not find any sanctioned art but we did find an artfully placed pyramid of beer bottles. Finally we negotiated through the assemblages of white boys wearing tattered Stephen Harper campaign t-shirts seeking even just an inkling of like-minded west coast progressives – without success.

So, soon after arriving we decided to leave. But as we were about to walk to the exit we saw a short, squat, hirsute man adorned with a red and black Mexican wrestler mask take the stage. We stopped mid-step waiting to hear the voice of the emcee secretly wishing he would reference his hometown - the Shire. He did not.

Instead, the hirsute man proclaimed from the microphone, “Thanks for coming to this event. Some of the proceeds from tonight will go to support the one and only skate-park in Uganda. So, because of you, we will be able to send them skates and shit, yo.”

Soon after the emcee finished speaking I turned to TW and said, “How do you think ‘yo’ is translated into elvish?” She smirked, “I think ‘yo’ is universal and needs no translation.” Ah yes, so wise.

Hey, that's my hedge.

2006-07-24T12:43:00.000-07:00

I hate the heat. So I have not left the comfort of my cold compresses and my super high-powered fan. But the few times I have made it out in this stifling 35-degree weather (95 degrees for those metrically challenged) I observed these strange sites:

1. A man jumping an invisible rope while wearing corduroys and a hooded sweatshirt. He seemed to be engaged in this activity in an attempt to impress a similarly adorned woman sitting on a park bench. She seemed unimpressed.

2. A man dressed in a pinstriped suit reminiscent of a Wall Street trader emerged from a drug store with a bar of deodorant in hand. He took the green deodorant cap off, pulled the clear protective plastic covering separating him from the deodorant, threw the clear protective covering on the ground, loosened his tie and unbuttoned the three top buttons of his crisp white shirt, placed the deodorant bar inside his shirt, and deodorized.

3. A mustachioed teen carrying a can of pink spray paint stopped in front of a 15 foot by 20-foot hedge. Then, he turned left, then right, and then left again. Once he seemed confident that I posed no threat he wrote his name, Bob, on the hedge in front of him. I giggled and took my spray paint can to the next hedge...

High Security Measures

2006-07-17T08:56:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, at the movies, I decided to buy a box of jumbo Junior Mints. The price - $4.00. However, when I placed my hand in my pocket I realized that I only had a fifty-dollar bill - so I handed it over to the cashier. She squinted at the large amount of the money and eyed me suspiciously. Then ten seconds later she took the bill in hand.

As I waited for my change I noticed her walk to a sink located between the soda machine and the popcorn popper. Then she turned on the faucet and placed the bill under the torrent of cold gushing water for five seconds. Seemingly satisfied with the degree of wetness, she held the drenched bill up to the light and examined the front and then the backside.

After she completed the examination she returned to the counter and informed me that my $50 was indeed authentic. Then she placed the bill in the cash register and handed me my change - two soggy twenties, a damp five, and a rusted loonie.

I took the wet money and walked to the bathroom. In the bathroom I stood in line waiting to use the hand drier behind a woman with three damp twenties and two soggy fives and another woman with a waterlogged fifty and three drenched tens. As each woman held the bill under the drier we looked at each other knowingly.

She is not convinced.

2006-07-11T11:18:00.000-07:00

TW and I live on the third floor of a three-story building. There are two staircases in the building but often – o.k. always - I opt to press my luck and take the rickety, slow moving, rusty elevator. The elevator, decorated in a faux wood grain finish, moves so slowly that TW can enter the building five minutes after me, ascend the staircase at a leisurely pace, enter the apartment, and finish washing the dirty dishes strewn throughout the apartment before I even make it to the third floor. Needless to say, TW, less foolhardy than me, refuses to join me in the elevator.

Actually, until last week I thought that no one – but me – took the elevator. I would often see mothers and fathers with bulky strollers and three children hanging off their hips walk up and down the stairs; delivery people laden with innumerable pizza boxes in their hands emerge from the stairwell with sweat on their brows; and moving company employees lumber up the three flights of stairs with couches and other apartment furnishings in tow.

But last week – after an overly greasy meal – I returned home and entered the elevator. On that night the elevator smelled like fish. Putrid. Rotting. Fetid. Fish. My first thought – “Huh, I guess someone, beside me, actually risked their life in this elevator.” My second thought, “I think this rotting fish smell is going to make me puke.” So, by the time I made it into the fresh air of my apartment my face glowed a pale shade of green.

As soon as I walked into the apartment I regaled TW with the dreadful story. She sensibly remarked, “So. It looks like you will be taking the stairs for a while.” In response I shook my head back and forth and responded, “No. Actually I think I will cloister myself in the apartment until the fish smell in the elevator dissipates.”

I have not emerged from the apartment in a week. TW is beginning to worry but I assure her that it will be just one more day, just one more day. She is not convinced.

Just in time.

2006-07-07T12:56:00.000-07:00

As I sat in the passenger seat of my friend’s 1979 Volvo station wagon waiting patiently for the stoplight to turn green, I witnessed a horrific site. A site that came to me in my sleep in the form of a sickening nightmare; a site that I continually seek to forget but cannot; a site that I fear is permanently imprinted on my synapses. I witnessed a Mentos style pick-up attempt.

To my right, driving a 1983 blue Jeep Cherokee, sat a man in his early-thirties wearing a frayed cowboy, drinking an A&W root beer, and smoking Kool cigarettes. To my left, sat a bleach blond nineteen year old driving her parent’s luxury car and adjusting her eye shadow and lipstick in the rearview mirror.

While stopped at the red light, the A&W fan leaned forward in his seat, pretending to open his glove compartment while simultaneously looking past me, my friend, and the roof of my friend’s car to catch the eye of the peroxided teen. As if on cue, the peroxided teen finished applying her make-up and turned to the right – looking past me, my friend, and the roof of my friend’s car – to return the glance of the cowboy lothario.

Then, when the eyes of the lothario locked with the peroxided teen – the lothario puffed on his cigarette, blew three smoke rings, and drawled in a faux southern accent, “Nice night isn’t it?” The peroxided teen giggled, nodded her head, and squeaked, “Yes. Yes it is.” The lothario bolstered by this response mimicked a phone by placing his pinkie finger near his mouth and his thumb near his ear.

In response to the cowboy lothario’s practiced display, I opened the car window to feign puking. But before I could carry out my Shakespearian dramatization, the light turned green. And we sped off. Just in time. Just in time.

It's as good a reason as any for a long weekend...

2006-07-01T21:38:00.000-07:00

Today is Canada Day. I am not sure what Canada Day celebrates since Canadian independence was somewhat of a non-event. But regardless, banks are closed today, there is no mail delivery today, and everyone is walking around the city today with Maple Leaf flag tattoos adorning their faces, Maple Leaf flag patches adorning their backpacks, and Maple Leaf flag decals adorning their t-shirts. In an effort to get into the spirit of the day I sought out a Maple Leaf flag of my own.

So, when I noticed a Canada Day information booth where volunteers were giving out paper Maple Leaf flags I stopped.

As soon as I arrived at the booth, I asked the volunteer if she would give me one of the ubiquitous Maple Leaf flags. She said no. When I asked why she explained, “You are an American. These flags are for Canadians.” I retorted, “How do you know I am American?” Bored by my question she responded with a grammar lesson. She explained, “You said, Could I have a flag please? You put the emphasis on the “I” instead of the “please”. So, you must be an American. A Canadian would ask, Could i have a flag PLEASE?” Flummoxed by her Canadian logic I repeated my question putting the emphasis on the “please” instead of the “I”. She declined my request again - this time she explained that I clearly harrumphed after saying “please” and that this again was an Americanism and not a Canadianism.

Undeterred by her rebuke I continued, “What if you give me the flag and I give it to a Canadian?” She sighed, “Only if you recite the Canadian national anthem to me first.” I breathed in deeply, puffed up my chest, and bellowed, “Oh Canada. Something, something, something. Canada, something else, something goes here, and then another something.” She, not fooled by my tuneful insertion of words, remarked, through hearty giggles, “That’s not the anthem.” Then handed me the flag in an effort to get me out of her hair.

I graciously took the flag, put it in the zipper of my backpack my bag in such a manner than all those around me could see the Maple Leaf, and walked off triumphantly. When I finally arrived at my destination I reached for the flag and held it up to TW to admire. She stared at me thoughtfully, “Is this why you are thirty minutes late?” Then she pulled ten Maple Leaf flags from her backpack and said, “I bought these in bulk at Costco. Next time you are feeling patriotic just ask.” Point taken.

Speaking words slowly...

2006-06-29T11:01:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week TW and I went to see a hip-hop show at one of the larger venues in downtown Vancouver. As the opening band took the stage we expected to see “a woman who sings like Polly Harvey but raps like Chuck D” – as the promotional materials proclaimed. But instead we saw a white woman from rural British Columbia with no rhythm. This was our first indication that we were in the heart of Western Canada. Our next indications were many:

Indication 2: The opening “rapper” – referenced above – was not rapping so much as speaking words – slowly.

Indication 3: The opening bass player had more stage presence than the “rapper” he accompanied.

Indication 4: Near the end of the set the “rapper” invited a guest artist to tap dance on stage. The guest artist, a white man with dread locks, black fedora, and tap shoes, danced to the “rappers” spoken words. He was no Savion Glover.

Indication 5: The only two people of color within the crowd of 1000 plus were TW and the drunken guy passed out at the table next to ours.

Indication 6: The headlining act sang a song about “craftsmanship.” The chorus rung out, “Craftsmanship. It’s quality that makes people keep coming back.”

Only in Western Canada could a song about “quality craftsmanship” get people moving their hips on the dance floor. I’m thinking about writing a song about architecture. I predict it will be number one with a bullet in this neck of the woods.

Spoons aren't just for soup anymore!

2006-06-28T12:27:00.000-07:00

When I lived in Portland, Oregon I used to go to karaoke bars on a weekly basis. I loved karaoke.

Sometimes at one of the nameless Asian restaurant/bars I frequented, I observed a baseball cap wearing woman named Snickers, tunefully play the spoons on her sizable knee as I sang Nina’s “99 Red Balloons”. The first time I saw this feat I felt special until I realized Snickers did not discriminate. She also accompanied the off-key renditions of Duran Duran, Pat Benatar, Neil Diamond, and Bonnie Raitt songs blaring from the speakers. I hung my head.

I did not think of Snickers and that heartbreaking experience again until this weekend when TW and I went to see a Portland based band. The band, numbering thirteen strong, played songs ranging in style from salsa to waltz and big band to swing. Mid-way through the first set, the bandleader introduced a song composed by one of its members. The song, a tango inspired ditty, prominently featured the spoons in the rhythm section.

The rhythmic ting, tang, tong of the spoons made me think three things: Snickers was ahead of her time and I just didn’t know it; spoon players are big in Portland; and I could do that too – no problem. So I tried.

The next day I picked out two good-looking spoons from the silverware drawer. Then I placed them back-to-back on my knee and started to jam to the sounds of the Decemberists playing from my computer. OK, maybe jam is too generous a word - I really started to clank, clank, clank drowning out the melodious vocals of the band’s lead singer.

I continued in this manner through one full album then decided to try my luck with a Shins album. Mid-way through the third song I looked up from my bruised knee to see TW with her Indonesian family in tow.

TW looked askance, “Uh. This is Mini Proportions.” This being the first time I was meeting TW’s family, I tried to regain my composure, “Hi. I was just polishing the spoons.” Then TW’s 10-year-old niece grabbed the spoons from my hand, delicately placed her foot on the kitchen chair, and began to pound the spoons against her knee – tunefully.

Once her niece finished playing the entire Indonesian national anthem with the spoons she looked at me and commented, “Ah. It has been so long since I have played the spoons. It brings back memories.” Flummoxed by this ten-year-old, I responded, "It must be all the antibiotics they feed the beef.” TW shook her head disbelieving, “Yeah, that must be it.”

I am Star Struck

2006-06-23T10:51:00.000-07:00

As I was shopping in a venerated Canadian bookstore yesterday I took note of a special display case prominently positioned near the entrance to the store. I, always eager to stop and assess the wares of any and all bookstores in an effort to assure that I am keeping my finger firmly on the cultural pulse, peaked into the case.

Inside the case I spotted two professionally produced signs. The signs read: “Picked by Men for Men” and “Picked by Women for Women”. Perplexed by the vague signage I glanced to the shelves below the signs for greater clarity. That is when I saw this:

Picked by Women for Women:
Pride and Prejudice
He’s Just Not That Into You
The Notebook
Shopaholic

Picked by Men for Men:
The Fellowship of the Ring
Angels and Demons
The Art of War
Fight Club

I, not wishing to partake in this petty battle of the sexes, picked up a copy of Pamela Anderson’s new biography, Star Struck, because the world needs more Canada. I am only 20 pages into the book but it is riveting.

A love of the country...kind of

2006-06-19T10:18:00.000-07:00

TW and I just returned from an extended stay in the country – a town of 75,000 people - much more rural than our usual vacations. So on this vacation we did what any urban explorer finding themselves in the country would do: we observed the wildlife. Below is a comprehensive list of our sightings:

Countless nameless birds crossing the country roads on foot like speedy cartoon characters.

A raccoon with broken foot also walking across the road. TW, enamored by the wounded animal, ooohed and aaahed when she spotted the raccoon while I placed my foot firmly on the gas and remarked, "dirty animal."

A bear cub with a glandular disorder galloping across the road.

A longhaired dachshund with a muzzle doing his best impression of Hannibal Lechter.

A monk in a friar tuck habit.

A deep-fried turkey. By far the most delicious sighting of the weekend.

When they are not hosting the world cup...

2006-06-12T12:08:00.000-07:00

Last night, TW and I went to an Asian night market to partake in the cornucopia of spicy food. As soon as we arrived we purchased some meta-spicy curried fish balls. (For those of you already in the gutter - the fish balls consist of fish meat rolled into a ball shape.)

As soon as we bit into the fish balls our faces flushed, our mouths burned, and our lips tingled from the combination of blistering spices. We continued to eat - with caution.

Then we overheard a conversation between two red-faced German tourists also eating fish balls.

Insert German accent here:

Tourist #1 remarked in disgust, "It's like eating nothing." Tourist #2 retorted, "It's like eating sausage but with no flavor."

Flummoxed by this snippet of overheard conversation I turned to TW and said, “Huh, they must really grow them hearty in Germany.” She nodded agreement, “They must.”

Stool Dust-Up

2006-06-10T13:24:00.000-07:00

To the bus patron blocking my exit today:

Please be advised that I, the one with the faux hawk, the four heavy bags of groceries, and the sweat pouring down my face, admire your ingenuity. But as a fellow lover of the bus I ask that next time you bring your own stool – for fear of finding no available seats – that you please situate the stool in a less conspicuous area on the bus. For instance, might I suggest an area of the bus that is not directly in front of the back door? Just a thought…

Thanks,
Mini Prop

P.S. I am planning to bring my own stool – a bigger stool than the wimpy kitchen stool you brought – every Sunday, every Wednesday, and every third Thursday. So, I would suggest that you plan to bring your stool only on my off days so that we don’t have a stool dust-up in the near future. No one wants to see that. Trust me.