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.

Jack Bauer - watch your bachttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifk

2006-06-06T19:23:00.000-07:00

I must apologize to all Mini Proportions readers. TW has been away for the last two weeks so I spent the time alone constructively. I rented the entire first season of "24.” I watched each episode; slack jawed, marveling at the machinations of Jack Bauer and his CTU team and was unable to tear myself away to attend to the blog.

Inspired by the concept of the series – to track every minute of an entire day in real time – I decided to follow suit. Here are my 24 hours for Monday, June 5th (the day before TW came home).

12:00 AM: Sleeping soundly in my queen size bed covered by my green cotton duvet.
1:00 AM: Continuing to sleep
2:00 AM: Still sleeping
3:00 AM: Sleeping some more
3:05 AM: Wake up coughing
3:06 AM: Get out of bed. Go to the kitchen. Take a sip of water.
3:08 AM: Back in bed. Sleeping
4:00 AM: More sleeping
5:00 AM: Sleeping
6:00 AM: Sleeping
7:00 AM: Wake to CBC radio.
7:01 AM: Press Snooze
7:10 AM: Press Snooze again
7:19 AM: Press snooze one more time
7:28 AM: Allow the radio to play and listen to the inane banter about the Stanley Cup playoffs.
8:15 AM: Rise from bed
8:16 AM: Go to the bathroom. Relieve my bladder.
8:18 AM: Download NPR and CBC podcasts
8:20 AM: Check and respond to e-mail
8:26 AM: Listen to podcasts while making breakfast.
8:28 AM: Fret that none of the frying pans are clean and opt for a hardboiled instead of a scrambled egg.
8:30 AM: Boil egg.
8:50 AM: Eat egg.
9:00 AM: Shower
9:15 AM: Towel dry.
9:30 AM: Dress
9:45 AM: Sneak into the laundry room. Put my clothes in the washing machine even though it is not my sanctioned time slot.
10:15 AM: Sneak back into the laundry room. Stealthily put my clothes in the dryer.
11:15 AM: Enter the laundry room to pick up my clean clothes and find a tenant nonplussed by my disregard for the regimented laundry schedule.
11:17 AM: Apologize. Leave the laundry room sheepishly – clothes in hand.
11:19 AM: Put clothes away.
11:45 AM: Check and respond to e-mail – again.
12:00 PM: Start to prepare lunch.
12:02 PM: Close the refrigerator realizing that there is no food in the house.
12:03 PM: Decide to go to the mediocre sushi restaurant down the street.
12:10 PM: Order a tuna roll and a salmon roll.
12:11 PM: Watch biblical paid advertisements on the restaurant’s TV while waiting for my sushi rolls.
12:20 PM: Become enamored by the paid advertisements that consider converting to Christianity from Judaism.
12:22 PM: Food arrives. Forget about conversion in lieu of delicious tuna and salmon.
1:00 PM: Head home.
1:10 PM: Nap on the couch.
1:40 PM: Do dishes.
2:20 PM: Meet friend at café down the street.
2:30 PM: Order a San Pellegrino and banana bread.
2:55PM: Relay the story of my most recent visit to the coffee shop.
3:45 PM: Head home.
4:00 PM: Clean the toilet bowl. Convince myself that if the toilet bowl is clean that TW will believe the entire apartment is clean.
4:20 PM: Read the New Yorker
6:40 PM: Start dinner.
6:45 PM: Realize there is still no food in the house.
7:15 PM: Head to the grocery store realizing I have to purchase groceries if I expect to trick TW into believing I upheld my haus frauly duties while she was away.
8:00 PM: Return home with food that I think TW would purchase – spinach, soy milk, eggs, carrots, wheat free bread, and beef.
8:15 PM: Finish the New Yorker
8:45 PM: Turn on the TV
9:30 PM: Fall asleep on the couch
10:45 PM: Wake up.
10:46 PM: Brush teeth. Wash face.
10:48 PM: Head to Bed.
11:00 PM: Sleep

Now, as I write this entry, I sit around the house waiting for the day when some TV producer will call me so that we can discuss making my life into a series on Fox. I can take on “24” – no sweat.

No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service - Please

2006-05-31T09:02:00.000-07:00

One month prior to moving away from Baltimore I went to a coffee shop where I stood in line with a shirtless man sporting a hairy chest and back. I waited for the barista to request that he put his shirt back on but she never did. I gagged on my coffee. I let that experience go because I thought for sure when moving to Canada I would leave this gauche behavior behind but - I thought wrong.

Yesterday, while I sat at my neighborhood coffee shop, two professionals presumably on their lunch hour sat down in the armchairs next to me. I briefly glanced at them trying to deduce what, aside from work, might connect them since they seemed to sit uncomfortably with one another trying to find conversational topics.

The man, in his early 40’s, wore a blue blazer, crisp white button down shirt, gray tie, conservative tan pants, and matching brown shoes and belt. The woman, in her early 50’s, wore an entirely white t-shirt material outfit of kulat pants and matching shirt. She accented her white post-Labor Day look with white shoes and white purse.

Then, without any warning, the man stood up, sat on the coffee table separating their two armchairs, and pointed to the woman’s feet. She immediately slipped off her shoes, lifted her feet in the air, and placed them securely in his crotch. He proceeded to rub her shoeless feet – for 15 minutes.

He rubbed. She moaned. I waited for someone – anyone – to ask him or her to stop. This did not happen.

So: I asked him to rub my feet next. He declined.

Canadian Cultural Imperialism?

2006-05-28T10:30:00.000-07:00

I am a slave to reality TV. I know it is passé but I cannot help myself. The high drama and the twists and turns of the manufactured mini-contests within the larger meta-contest (like the time each of the aspiring models were required to wear 10 inch heels and walk the runway), draw me in. So now that American Idol and America's Next Top Model are finished for the season I am in reality TV withdrawal. But fortunately for me I live in Canada.

I recently discovered that Canadian Idol and Canada's Next Top Model begin in Canada this week. I love this Canadian nod to American’s basest level - yet another example of America’s cultural imperialism.

With the advent of these copycat programs it got me thinking: are there any examples of Canadian cultural imperialism? I thought not – mostly because Canadians are so polite – but as a true investigative blogger I went on a search anyway.

Within minutes of beginning this search I found a website celebrating the successes of Canadian historical figures. On this site, I discovered a video re-enactment of a dandified explorer named Jean Nicollet who in 1634 sought to find a trade route to China.

According to the video’s narrative, he pushed through the wilderness “searching for the Western sea.” As the video progresses, Nicollet discovers a large body of water and is confident that it is the Pacific Ocean. Nicollet convincingly exclaims, “The Sea. China.”

I, a sucker for any and all underdogs who persevere through seemingly impossible conditions, felt my eyes well up at this early Canadian success story. Then as I was about to leave my desk to find a tissue I heard the senatorial voice of the narrator proclaim, “But Jean Nicollet was wrong – it was lake Michigan not the pacific.” Upon hearing this pronouncement my eyes stopped welling up and I started to giggle, guffaw, and chuckle heartily.

So, as an American very familiar with the process of cultural imperialism here is a note to all Canadians: if you want to take over American airwaves I would recommend that the first step in the process is to stop celebrating Canadian failures. Seriously, I can’t think of any American who, on the fourth of July, celebrates the “other guy” on Paul Revere’s journey through Boston.

It’s just a thought – do with it what you will.

The Heebie Jeebies

2006-05-23T13:38:00.000-07:00

There is just something so utterly disturbing about a sixteen-year-old high school student with a full grown moustache.

I saw one today.

Three hours, two bus rides, and a hearty tuna salad later I still have the willies. Yick.

How does this $200 T-shirt look on me?

2006-05-20T08:43:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, on an especially hot and sunny day, TW decided that she wanted to buy some new summer pants. So we went on a shopping excursion.

Even though I hate shopping, I decided to accompany her on this quest since she would be leaving town for two weeks and I would not see her during that time. However, midway through the day - as soon as the sweat started rolling down my face, sunscreen started stinging my eyes, and my feet started feeling like stumps - I started to regret my accommodating decision.

So: when we arrived at a high end store where I could not even afford the cheapest piece of clothing – a pair of $150 cut off jeans – I decided to take a seat. While I sat resting my stumpy feet I noticed a smattering of decorative books adorning the shelves. So in an effort to entertain myself while TW shopped I headed to the shelves and scanned the books. After inspecting the books – mostly classics I read in high school – I chose the Charlotte Bronte classic - Jane Eyre.

I took the book back to my seat and immediately became so engrossed in the goings on of Jane that I lost track of TW in the store. Then about fifteen minutes later TW came to find me to request that we leave since she too realized that she could not afford the clothes. I explained to her that I was really interested in reading a bit more so asked that she continue onward and come back to find me when she finished shopping for the day. She agreed.

Fearing that a salesperson might wonder why I sat in the store alone reading I decided to look up every so often, mimic feigned interest in the shoppers in the store, and look at my imaginary watch. This tactic worked – for 45 minutes.

Then, one of the salespeople – a twenty-something woman wearing size two pants – asked if I was waiting for someone. I explained that I was waiting for TW but that she was actually in another store. The bemused salesperson stammered, “Uh. Well. I ask that you please leave since you are not shopping and you seemingly have no plans to buy anything.” Aghast, I pointed at the book in my hand, “Well, I am planning to buy this copy of Jane Eyre.” She chuckled, “Those books are not for sale. We use them to show off our fabulous foot ware. When you picked up the book you might have noticed the Van sneakers we sell for $300.” Not ready to give up my seat I asked, “Well, if I buy the sneakers do I get the book for free?” She told me no but after a protracted argument/discussion she relented.

So, I spent the next twenty minutes trying on Vans – none fit. But I swear, some day that book will be mine. All mine.

Gotta Have Heart

2006-05-17T21:57:00.000-07:00

I recently saw a moving truck advertising the services of: "Two Small Men with Big Hearts." I considered hiring them for all of my future moves but then realized that a small man with a big heart is actually a heart attack waiting to happen. So I guess I shouldn't move until I find two big men with small hearts.

A night like no other

2006-05-13T16:12:00.000-07:00

At 10:25pm last night, TW and I discovered that we were in dire need of a toilet plunger. So, as she is apt to do, TW jumped on the computer and found a drugstore open until 11pm. The store in question, within walking distance on a normal day when a jaunty stroll is in order, was just far enough away that it required we jump on a bus if we were to make it in time.

At 10:28pm we sprinted out the front door. Actually neither of us has the lung capacity to sprint so we put our arms and hips into the proper position and attempted to speed walk to the bus stop. However, since neither of us really has the hip strength required for such a physically demanding sport we soon slowed to a relaxed lope.

At 10:37pm we reached the bus stop. We looked far down the horizon for a bus, any bus, but did not see any coming. So: we waited.

At 10:43pm the bus finally arrived. We boarded. The bus lurched forward. We looked for the drugstore from the dirty bus windows. TW looked at her watch and calculated the number of minutes remaining before the store closed. We prayed.

At 10:50pm we disembarked from the bus – at the wrong stop. So: as we watched the bus roll forward to the correct stop we speed walked – again. We prayed – again.

At 10:54pm we reached the store entrance.

At 10:55pm we reached the hardware aisle but could not find a plunger. We searched frantically.

At 10:56pm a woman in her early twenties asked our opinion about which martini glasses she should buy. We tried to put her off by ignoring her request but she insisted. So, we asked her to show us the glasses so we could give her a quick assessment but she explained that the glasses were two aisles away.

At 10:57pm I tried to explain to her our toilet situation but she seemed perplexed so I relented and followed her to the martini glass aisle. I recommended she choose the glasses with the rounded stems. She agreed.

At 10:58pm the store manager announced that the checkout counter would be closing in sixty seconds. We continued to search. We prayed.

At 10:59pm we found the plungers. TW dashed to the only open checkout counter behind a man in his forties buying a stuffed teddy bear at 11pm on a Friday night.

At 11:01pm we questioned why a man in his forties would be buying a stuffed teddy bear at 11pm on a Friday night.

At 11:02pm we decided we did not want to know the answer.

I feel rested.

2006-05-10T09:14:00.000-07:00

Last week I fell asleep on the bus, at the movies, and analyzing the prices of the peanut butter jars at the grocery store. I told TW that I thought I had narcolepsy but TW told me that she dated a narcoleptic in college and assured me that I was not a narcoleptic. She also told me that I slept because I was just so easily bored. Of course TW re-thought her diagnoses when she discovered from one of her students that I fell fast asleep in her lecture class – while she lectured.

In an effort to defend myself for falling asleep during her lecture, I explained that even in college – where my grade depended on it – I fell asleep during each and every one of my art history classes. I told her that each time I sat in the darkened classroom auditorium the professor’s monotonous voice lulled me to sleep within seconds of his first word. I described to her how every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon my eyes closed, my mouth opened, my drool landed on my shirt, and my head bobbed back and forth on the chair as I slept through class. She seemed unimpressed by this explanation.

So I continued, “My guess is that when I fell asleep in your class it was my muscle memory kicking in – since my muscles are so used to sleeping in anything resembling a darkened classroom I could not help but sleep.” TW stopped listening to my explanation. She also stopped making me dinner. My guess is that she is still a little perturbed but that is just a guess because she also stopped talking to me too.

Have you done something different with your head?

2006-05-05T09:26:00.000-07:00

I recently made a startling realization: I gained wait in my head.

Yesterday, in an effort to avoid the glare of the ruthless UV rays I pulled out my beloved 1975 replica Boston Red Sox fitted baseball cap. The cap – sized 7 and 5/8 – already marked my head as unusually large but I dealt with the trauma of my head size when I bought the cap in college because the cap fit me so perfectly. But now, when I put the cap on, it sits on top of my head like a beanie making me look like tweedle dum. As much as I try to pull the cap over my hair and down to my ears it is an effort in complete futility.

TW suggested I pull out some old pictures of me wearing the cap so that I might assess if my hair is bigger now than it was then. I checked. My hair is smaller – much, much smaller – than it ever was in college. Which conversely means that my head is just bigger – much, much bigger – than it ever was in college.

So: I decided to start the Atkins diet tomorrow in an effort to lose weight in my head. I’d like my head size to be down to 7 and 3/8 by the end of the month. Wish me luck.

Your voice sounds strangely similar

2006-05-02T08:11:00.000-07:00

As TW and I sat in our seats at an outdoor restaurant soaking up the sun we glanced at the drink menu debating whether or not to order pre-happy hour drinks. Then, when the server finally came to our table she asked, in a lilting voice reminiscent of a sultry, artificial, phone sex operator, "Do you need a few more minutes?" Aghast, by her lavish voice, I laughed nervously, "Uh no."

After we ordered our meals I asked TW if she thought the servers voice sounded strikingly similar to that of a phone sex operator. TW told me that I was hallucinating. So I asked if she would close her eyes when the server returned so she could hear just her voice without the distraction of her uniform. TW smirked, "I will not close my eyes in the middle of the restaurant. She might think I'm on drugs or that I'm narcoleptic. I am neither." I begged. I pleaded. I cajoled. She agreed just so I would stop whining.

So the next time the server came to the table to drop off our meals she asked if there was anything else we needed. As she asked the question TW closed her eyes – tightly. The server looked at TW strangely and asked me if everything was OK with her. I explained that TW preferred to close her eyes when she ate so that she might really savor the flavors of the meal. The server seemed content by this answer even though TW and I were not yet eating.

As soon as the server left I asked TW if she agreed with my assessment of the server’s voice. She did not. I pushed, "What? How can you not hear the phone sex operator voice? It is so disturbing. Each time she says, 'How is everything?' or 'Are you finished?' or 'Do you need anything else?' I feel dirty." TW ignored me.

Then, at the end of the meal the server told us "to leave the money on the table" in that same lilting voice. After we finished paying, TW turned to me and said, "Oy. Now I see what you mean. I feel dirty too." I questioned, “Want to come back here tomorrow?” She nodded vigorously, “Heck ya.”

I can't get this pesky song out of my head

2006-04-29T07:44:00.000-07:00

TW and I decided to purchase a pay per view movie last night. However, the advanced technology of the pay per view system escaped me, so with one accidental slip of the finger I purchased Rent instead of The 40 Year Old Virgin.

TW and I loathe musicals.

So: we watched Rent - mouths agape.

The film, lacking true narrative depth, did, however, inspire us to live our lives through song.

This morning, TW just finished a rendition of "I need to brush my teeth" in B-minor. I responded with my rendition of, “Can you wait until I use the facilities” in A-sharp. Then TW responded with the ever popular, “No way sucka” in the key of F.

Dang. This point goes to TW.

Duct Tape or Salted Fish - You Decide

2006-04-26T14:21:00.000-07:00

In case of a catastrophic emergency I'm moving to Indonesia. I just learned that while the Department of Homeland Security encourages U.S. citizens to prepare for a disaster by purchasing duct tape, heavy duty trash bags, water, and canned goods the government of Indonesia is much more pragmatic on the matter.

According to a 1998 document issued by the Indonesian Minister of Trade, the nine essentials for living, in order of importance, include:

Rice
White sugar
Cooking oil and margarine
Beef and chicken
Chicken eggs
Powdered milk
Corn
Kerosene
Iodized salt

Additional essentials include:

Wheat flour
Soybeans
Instant noodles
Chili peppers
Shallots
Garlic
Salted fish
Mung beans
Peanuts
Cassava or sweet potato
Cement
Fertilizer

I am not quite sure what I would do with the cement and the fertilizer after a disaster since I have no discernable gardening or construction skills but you better believe that after a year as a haus frau I could at least whip those instant noodles into shape without any trouble. I think.

Getting My Money's Worth

2006-04-24T10:44:00.000-07:00

TW and I went to the aquarium last weekend because I wanted to get the most value out of our yearly membership.

As we walked into the aquarium we stopped at the sea otter tank. On that day, a beautiful spring day with temperatures in the low 70’s, the crowds at the aquarium were vast. When we reached the tank, we pushed our way through the crowds of mothers holding their children, elderly people in their wheelchairs, and children in their strollers. Then we planted ourselves directly in front of a couple of toddlers and marveled at the animals. As the sea otters lounged in the sun, they looked like animatronic stuffed animals.

As we continued to watch the sea otters, two of the three of them moved toward each other. Then the limbs of the two sea otters became entangled and they began to roll around in a bear hug. Given the quaint hallmark moment, I looked at TW and said, “Isn’t that cute. They’re cuddling.” She nodded her head in agreement. As we continued to watch them cuddle we both smiled broadly at their cuteness.

Then, without any warning, as the otters continued to cuddle, I spotted a four inch pink appendage pop out of the water. I whispered to TW and pointed at the appendage in an effort to hide the truth of the “the birds and the bees” from the children surrounding us. I failed. Soon after pointing out the appendage, I heard a four year old girl behind us yell, “Look at his pee pee.”

Immediately parents gasped and tried to cover the eyes of their children but other children – those children who slipped through their parent’s grasps – barreled through the crowds and moved to the railing surrounding the tank to get a better look at the sea otter’s “pee pee.” The wily children pointed, giggled, and pointed some more.

I turned to TW and said, “Finally, I think we got our money’s worth.”

It's Like an Onion

2006-04-21T09:22:00.000-07:00

A very special attempt at prose poetry written on the stall door of a women’s bathroom in a downtown Vancouver dive bar:

Finding Nemo
This film is like an onion;
depending on your knowledge…
you can continue to pull back new layers and discover
reference upon reference.
It is also known to make audiences cry,
another trait it shares with onions.

Wow. This poem sheds so much light for me on the power of the onion. I will never look at that innocuous vegetable in the same way again.

Wacky Easter Revelers

2006-04-18T08:42:00.000-07:00

TW and I went to a party this weekend. While at the party I felt hot and cramped because the hostess crammed twenty-five people into the 325 square foot studio. A space, that according to the fire code regulations posted on the back of the bathroom door, recommended that only four full-grown adults or two height challenged adults and three mid-sized children should congregate in the apartment at one time – safely.

After 45 minutes of pointing out the fire door exit to the other partygoers TW pulled me aside. She informed me that she was pretty sure she saw a few of the other revelers point at me and remark in hushed tones, “Who invited the crazy one with the faux hawk?” So: I stopped.

For the next half hour I tried to relax but I could not. Throughout the evening, the sour stench that emanated from the majority of the partygoers reminded me of the smells of the shared taxis I traveled in while visiting Zimbabwe. While traveling, every time I hailed a taxi I dreaded the drivers orders to “find space” amongst the nine other full-grown adults already crushed into the compact two-door car. A feat I accomplished but did want to relive – at this party.

TW, embarrassed by my steady pacing – from the bathroom door to the exit door and back to the bathroom door – demanded I relax. So: I tried hard to ignore the rank smells, the fire code violations, and the hushed chatter about my faux hawk but I could not.

As I was about to turn to TW and ask if we could leave, I spotted a woman, adorned in orange and yellow flowing robes with hair shorn within millimeters of her head, walking toward the dessert table with a large plastic covered tray in her hands. Through the semi-lucid lid cover I thought I spotted green, pink, yellow, and blue pastel frosted cupcakes. I turned to TW and asked, “Do Hare Krishna’s eat cupcakes?” TW, annoyed at me for my frenetic behavior earlier in the evening, shrugged, “I think the last thing you need right now is a cupcake.” I disagreed.

So as the robed woman cut through the crowds I followed. When she finally reached the dessert table I was hot on her heels. When she placed the tray on the table and opened the lid I was the first to spy the treasures within. I now regret that decision.

When she opened the lid, instead of basking in the aroma of freshly made cupcakes I inhaled the sulfuric aroma of deviled eggs. I could not plug my nose fast enough. The smell of the eggs overtook the entire room within fifteen seconds. So I immediately sought refuge in the bathroom, the only room with a door, but other partygoers beat me to it.

Since I could not escape the smell of the eggs I decided that I might as well move closer to examine them. It seemed that the colors, which I assumed to be frosting, were actually died egg yolks. According to those shoveling the eggs into their mouths, the pastel blue yokes were flavored with garlic and chives; the pastel pink yokes were flavored with chili pepper; and the pastel yellow yokes were flavored with egg and yellow food coloring. Although fascinated by the display I chose not to cave to the peer pressure – I chose not to partake in the egg eating frenzy around me.

As I stood at the table mesmerized by the inanity of the colored and flavored eggs another partygoer joined me in wonderment. I turned to her and inquired, “I thought followers of Hare Krishna were strict vegetarians and did not eat eggs.” She responded, “Oh, she’s not a Hare Krishna.” Puzzled I queried, “But what about the robes and the hair?” She responded, “She just dresses that way because her boyfriend thinks it’s hot. She’s actually a third grade teacher.” I mumbled under my breath, “Ugh. My life is so boring in comparison.”

So: I ate a pastel green egg flavored with wasabi. I am still regretting that decision too.

Life at Sea

2006-04-15T16:57:00.000-07:00

Guest contributor, Marma, provides these words to live by from her fleeting stint on an ocean liner.

1. Pink camouflage doesn't look good on anyone.
2. Free drinks are always worth it, even if it means standing in line to shake hands with the Argentinean captain who just ate garlic shrimp and keeps kissing you on both cheeks.
3. Mariah Carey songs should only be sung in karaoke bars by Mariah Carey.
4. Running on a treadmill on the back of a docked ship really makes you feel like you're going nowhere.
5. Drunken gamblers look the same in every casino.
6. Kids are loud. kids in swimming pools are louder. kids with access to ice cream 24 hours a day are loudest.
7. White people (even entertainers) should not sing any song from "The Wiz."
8. "Formal night" for people from Nevada means tucking in a plaid shirt.
9. Only a 13-year old can lay on a deck chair in a bikini eating a plate full of desserts and not look like she's tempting fate.
10. Even tall men from Thailand are short.
11. The redder the sunburn, the more you want to laugh.
12. Judging from the couples holding hands, opposites do attract.
13. No matter how much cologne he's wearing, a drunk man always smells like a drunk man.
14. If you want to make a hot tub unappealing, fill it with teenagers.
15. There are six bars, four dining rooms, and one library (which doesn't even have any books)--am I in the wrong profession?
16. Most people in the world are not good looking.

Phew. Now that this posting is done I have to skedaddle to my rehearsal for "The Wiz." I play "monkey number five." Judging by the favorable reviews of my stunned relatives I think I really bring life to the character.

Are you crying?

2006-04-15T09:37:00.000-07:00

I now know with one hundred percent certainty what will make a grown man weep. I made this discovery at a Cambodian restaurant earlier this week. I will share this information with you but ask that you use extreme caution since it is a powerful tool in the weeping game.

Grown men will weep as soon as they bite into the “Pear.” That is of course, according to a ratty, cardboard placard advertising the “Pear.” The placard, situated between the saltshaker and the sugar canister on our table, read, “The Pear is a rich hazelnut ice cream shaped like a pear and dipped in dark Belgian chocolate with torrene pieces. Enough to make grown men weep.”

I decided to test this hypothesis.

So: I hid the ratty placard from the one man at the table, Adam. Then as soon as we finished our meals I informed Adam that I wanted to buy him a dessert of my choosing. He liked my take-charge attitude so he agreed.

When the waiter returned to our table I informed him that I would like to order the “Pear.” He looked at me quizzically. I pulled out the placard from my pocket and surreptitiously showed it to him. He responded, “Oh, that pear. We don’t have any pears since they elicit such strong reactions from our male clientele.”

Upon hearing this news I turned to Adam to explain that there would be no dessert. He, however, was already wiping tears from his eyes. When I asked Adam why he was crying, he explained that the tears were the result of too much hot sauce in his soup. I, suspect of his innocuous explanation, told him my hypothesis. He disagreed. We bickered.

Then I again pulled the placard from my pocket. This time I showed the placard to Adam. Specifically, I pointed to the black and white text about men weeping and conjectured, “If it is in writing then it must be true. Right?” He agreed.

Naturopathic comedy?

2006-04-13T10:25:00.000-07:00

Although a big fan of taking Sudafed when I feel the twinge of a cough or cold and taking Advil when I have bad cramps or a nagging hangover, I started seeing a naturopath last week. I guess this means that I am not only immersing myself into wacky Canadian culture but I am also immersing myself in all that is West Coast and crunchy. I never thought this day would come.

The moment I cast off my last pair of misguided Birkenstocks, my freshman year in college – May 1991, I thought I left any and all remnants of crunchiness behind. I thought wrong.

At the naturopath last week we discussed the reason for my visit – sudden and unexplained allergic reactions to common food items including apples. He told me that a syndrome called “leaky gut” might be the cause of my allergies. He, however, did not explain more. Nor did I ask. Instead he handed me a clear plastic cup with a lid. He instructed me to take it home, pee in it, and return it to him next week. Shell shocked by this request I nodded my head, “Uh. OK.”

So this morning, as instructed, I peed in the cup. As I held the full cup in my hands I debated what to do with it since I was not leaving for the naturopath’s office for another two hours. I decided to leave it in the least offensive place in the house – on the back of the toilet. I thought TW would not mind. I thought wrong – again.

As soon as TW woke up she headed to the bathroom and spotted the urine sample on the toilet. She yelped.

I ran into the bathroom to calm TW’s nerves. She pointed quizzically, “Why is this on the toilet?” I explained the situation – cup, pee, doctor, two hours – she responded, “Why didn’t he have you pee in a cup in his office?” I thought about it for three long beats and responded, “Oh you know those crazy naturopaths trying to cut costs left and right. Maybe he doesn’t have a bathroom in his office. I will check today and get back to you.” She seemed mollified, at least temporarily, by this response.

With the sample a safe distance away from TW, she showered and dressed. However, before she left for work she queried, “How are you going to get the sample to the naturopath’s office?” I responded, “I guess I will have to walk with the cup in hand.” She reacted with a look of disgust on her face, “Ugh. At least use a bag.” I retorted, “Of course – ‘cup in hand’ was a euphemism – it will not be in my actual hand.” She left seemingly pleased by this response.

After I showered and dressed I looked at the cup and thought more about her question – how was I going to get the sample to the naturopath’s office? I decided to put the sample into a Ziploc freezer bag then into a plastic grocery store bag and then into a backpack. To my chagrin, the sample did not fit into a freezer bag. So I opted for two plastic grocery store bags and then directly into backpack.

With the sample carefully placed in the grocery store bags I tried to find a backpack sturdy enough to withstand a possible toxic disaster. Since I do not own my own backpack I picked TW’s backpack up off the floor and examined its fortitude. I thought that she wouldn’t mind if I used her backpack since she was the one who made a stink about using a bag in the first place.

Then I left the house and headed to the naturopath with TW’s backpack securely on my shoulders like a Sherpa on the trail of an Everest hiker. However, each time I moved the slightest bit I heard a slosh, gurgle, and slosh noise emanate from the backpack. I feared a possible toxic spill inside the pack so I slowed down. The walk to the naturopath, which would normally take ten minutes, took upwards of forty-five because I stopped to check the pack after each and every step. Step – slush, gurgle, slosh – stop – open pack – close pack – repeat.

When I finally arrived at the naturopath with sample in hand I pulled it out of the backpack and the two grocery store bags and gave it to the receptionist. She opened her eyes wide and asked if I walked to the office with the sample. I replied yes. Then she asked why I didn’t use their bathroom to procure the sample. I explained to her that I was told to take the cup home and then bring it back full on my next visit. She asked when I visited last. I replied March 31st.

The receptionist suppressed a laugh and explained, “Oh dear. I think the doctor was playing an early April fool’s joke on you. I don’t think he thought you would actually listen to him.” I, unsure how to respond, threw my head back in laughter, “Oh, of course I knew that. Well isn’t this a good laugh. Ha. Yes. Let’s do it again.”

Although this experience was all laughs and chuckles, I think from now on I will stick to the comedy of western medicine because at least then I can get some codeine for my troubles.

Wacky Canadian Customs

2006-04-12T09:12:00.000-07:00

Since moving to Canada, seven months ago, I immersed myself in the culture of the great white north. I learned to say “eh” after every third sentence even though I am still not sure what it means; I practiced pronouncing the word “about” in a manner of a true Canuck – “ aboot” – but coming from my mouth the aforementioned word still seems a bit affected; and I learned to hold my giggles each time I requested change in the form of a loonie or toonie even though it seems like a very peculiar thing for anyone over the age of nine to request. I did everything and anything to fit into this wacky and wooly culture – that is I did everything and anything until last weekend.

Last weekend TW and I went out for drinks with two acquaintances she knew from her graduate school days in Montreal. As we entered the bar, TW worried that she would not recognize her acquaintances because she had not seen them in close to five years but she spotted them immediately. As we strode through the bar they spotted TW immediately and stood up from their bar stools to greet us – mid-stride. With lightning speed, Amy, one of the women we were meeting held TW by the shoulders and planted a kiss on one then the other cheeks. Once Amy let go of TW, Danielle, the other acquaintance, grabbed her by the shoulders and planted her own cheek kisses.

As these two women manhandled TW I feared I was next. Ever since I was a very young child I required a great deal of personal space – I even requested that TW sleep on the floor next to the bed when we first started dating – so the thought of two strange women manhandling me sent me into an anxious panic. Nor could I forget how the one other time I met TW’s Montreal friends the cheek kissing confounded me. It confounded me so much so that when I moved my head to dodge the kisses I received two well-placed kisses on my ears – from people whose names I did not even know yet. The cheek/ear kiss is not my friend.

As I fretted over the introductions, the cheek kissing, and the invasion of personal space I tugged at my shirt and futzed with my hair to distract myself. Then, to my chagrin, Danielle let go of TW and it was my turn for introductions. Once TW gained her composure she pointed at me and said, “This is my partner, mini proportions.” As Amy readied herself to lean in for the cheek/ear kiss, TW continued slowly, “She is an A-M-E-R-I-C-A-N.” Amy leaned back, looked at TW, and nodded her head knowingly. Then instead of going in for the cheek/ear kiss she put out her right hand. Danielle followed suit. I shook each of their hands vigorously in an effort to demonstrate my appreciation for the civilized greeting.

The remainder of the evening progressed uneventfully until we had to say goodbye. The moment we announced that we were heading home, Amy again grabbed TW by the shoulders and planted a kiss on each cheek. Once Amy let go of TW, Danielle grabbed TW. I watched – mouth agape. I futzed. I fretted.

Then Amy looked at me with mischievous eyes. She leaned in and planted a kiss on each of my cheeks. I, like a good American, went limp.

I like to think I did my people proud.

King Kong isn't real?

2006-04-09T10:02:00.000-07:00

Prior to meeting TW I always hated when friends in committed relationships would say to me with righteous indignation, "Oh. I would really hate to be back out there in the dating pooling." As a result, I have never made such a comment to one of my single friends - that is until just now.

While out with a friend last night, I will call him Sean to protect the innocent, he regaled me with his most recent story of dating. He explained that he met a woman who asked him to join her for a night on the town beginning with dinner at a sushi restaurant. While at the sushi restaurant the opening conversation proceeded in this manner:

Sean: Do you want to share a number of different dishes?

Woman: No. I actually don't eat any meat?

Sean: Oh. Then why did you suggest a sushi restaurant?

Woman: I just recently stopped eating meat so I sometimes forget that I need to choose restaurants that don't focus just on serving animal.

Sean: Why did you recently stop eating meat?

Woman: Well, after I saw King Kong I realized that animals have feelings too.

Sean: King Kong?

Woman: Yes.

Sean: You do realize that a computer generated ape and not a real animal played King Kong?

Woman: Really? Gosh, maybe I need to rethink this not eating meat decision. Any chance you want to get a tuna or salmon roll?

Later in the evening this conversation ensued:

Sean: So what do you like to do when you are not working?

Woman: Well, until recently I was taking classes to learn how to teach yoga.

Sean: Are you a certified yoga instructor now?

Woman: No. Actually the thought of teaching other people yoga stressed me out so much I quit after the second class.

Sean: I see.

After hearing this story I asked TW if I could rejoin the dating market in an effort to garner blog material. She said, no. I explained it would be for research. She said, no. I explained that I would make all my dates pay. She said, no. I’m not sure but I don’t think she likes the idea. Alas.

Wow. I never heard of solar energy.

2006-04-05T14:45:00.000-07:00

On the bus today I overheard this conversation:

A burgeoning sorority girl turned to her friend and said, "Why are those windows outside the building?"

Her friend, a full-fledged blonde headed sorority girl holding a green sequined bag on her lap, shrugged her shoulders in response.

The conversation ceased until a balding man smelling fresh from a mid-afternoon bender at a local pub provided a clear, concise, and fact based account of the mechanics of solar energy.

As soon as the man exited the bus the burgeoning sorority girl turned to her friend and said, “Wow. When did they invent solar energy?”

Her friend moved her green sequined back to the seat next to her and responded, “Hmmm, I’m not sure. I probably can’t explain it as well as that drunken Italian man. Maybe we should get off the bus and ask him.”

The burgeoning sorority girl responded, “Nah. Let’s just go to the mall.”

Oh, how I love the bus.

Is there such a thing as a bathtub ladder?

2006-04-03T21:35:00.000-07:00

While on a weekend getaway for our anniversary, TW encouraged me to take a bubble bath so that I might relax my stressed muscles from a hard day of drinking beer on the top of Whistler Mountain. I immediately balked at this suggestion because I do not like the idea of sitting in my own filth under the pretense of relaxation. TW, however, assured me that if I put enough soap in the bath I would not see nor would I come into contact with said filth. Under the logic of her seemingly irrefutable argument, I relented, and filled the tub.

As the tub filled with water I added soap, and more soap, to ensure the perfect soap to water quotient. Once the water/soap mixture reached the lip of the tub I turned the water off and dipped my right toe into the murky soapy water. Within minutes both my legs, both my arms, and both my butt cheeks were fully immersed in the tub. I then lay back in the bubbles and relaxed.

After fifteen minutes TW knocked on the bathroom door to check-in about our evening plans. As she poked her head into the room and saw me lounging, she pointed and gasped, “I think you might have put too much soap in the tub.” Through hearty guffaws she continued, “You remind me of the episode of the Brady Bunch when Bobby tried to wash his clothes but the washing machine overflowed and the laundry room filled with millions of bubbles.” I looked around at the soapy water annoyed and responded, “Very funny.”

Once TW left the room I opened the bath plug to allow the soapy water to drain from the tub. As I lifted the plug I immediately noticed that the water sped down the drain but much of the soap remained on my body and in the tub. So in an effort to lessen the amount of soap remaining in the tub I turned on the bath tap again. However, as the water hit the soapsuds it created even more soapy water.

At that moment, I found myself surrounded by ever increasing amounts of soap and realized that I needed to try to extricate myself from the tub as soon as possible. So, I placed my right hand next to my torso and tried to raise my body weight up off the tub floor enough to get my legs under me. However, my hand slipped and I fell back into the tub. I then tried to use both of my hands to achieve the same result but again I slipped. Next I tried to lean my torso forward toward my legs, place my hands and arms between my legs and try to raise my torso and buttocks enough so that I could get on my hands and knees. This did not work either.

After five minutes of failed tub removal attempts I called to TW as she watched television in the other room. When she stepped into the bathroom I explained my dilemma. She responded cautiously, “So, what do you want me to do?” “I thought maybe you could help pull me out of the tub.” She remarked, “I’ll try.” Her tone of voice did not instill confidence.

As TW neared the tub I reached my arm out toward her. She grabbed my arm, close to the elbow, and pulled – hard. However, she was unable to help me up out of the tub because her hand slipped down my soapy arm. We tried again. And again. And again. After our fifth failed attempt TW suggested we call the front desk and ask them to send someone up to help me out of the tub. Since I was naked I nixed that idea immediately. She then suggested I just wait in the tub until all the soap and water dried out sufficiently to give me enough traction. I waited for two minutes before I tried to stand once again. This time I landed directly on my tailbone.

In a last ditch effort to live a normal life outside of the bathtub I asked TW to hand me all the available towels in the hotel’s bathroom. As soon as she handed me the three hand towels and two bath towels I lifted my buttocks up off the floor and gently placed one of the towels underneath my two butt cheeks. I then used the remaining four towels to line the rest of the tub. Now, with the tub lined from wall to wall, I again placed my arms next to my buttocks in an effort to heft myself out of the tub. To my surprise the towels provided just the right amount of traction to enable me to lift myself up and out.

Once out of the tub TW asked, “Don’t your muscles feel more relaxed after soaking in the tub?” Unable to disguise my sarcasm I remarked, “Indubitably. I would love to take another bath right now.” At that moment, TW lifted her palm in the air like one of the Supremes, picked up the hotel room phone, and started dialing. When I asked her what she was doing she replied, “I am calling down to the front desk to see if they might send up a bathtub ladder.” I did not laugh.

Yet More from the Annals of the Huh?! Diaries

2006-03-30T12:17:00.000-08:00

Inexplicably, a balding man in his early 50's holding a Charleston Chew in one hand and a broken umbrella in the other, turned to me on the bus and said; "I can remember quite a few mild experiences with nuns during my childhood."

Taken aback by his brazen disregard for my personal space I responded sarcastically, "My understanding of nuns is that it is not actually possible to have a mild experience with a nun."

Unphased by my caustic tone of voice he remarked, "Good point. Come to think of it some of the most powerful people I interact with professionally are nuns." He paused, took a breath, and continued, "There is one nun in particular that I would not want to come up against in a game of kickball."

I nodded agreement as if I knew what he meant.

Superstar...sort of...

2006-03-28T15:14:00.000-08:00

TW made her on-screen debut in a three second walk-on role on the L-Word two weeks ago. It has taken me so long to write about the experience because I have been supremely busy fielding endless phone calls from directors, producers, and casting agents.

The casting agent from "America’s Most Wanted" even called. She wanted to know if TW might be free to play a mother, denied custody of her two children, who recently decided to kidnap the kids. The casting agent informed me that the mother and children are still missing.

However, when I told the casting agent that TW lived in Canada she removed her offer from the table. When I asked why, she explained that "America’s Most Wanted" does not do “Canadian” since it would be antithetical to the name of the show. She informed me that we might check with the casting agent of “Canada’s Most Wanted.” I am currently doing so.

Imagine you are on Jeopardy!

2006-03-27T10:15:00.000-08:00

A plea to all Mini Proportions readers:

For the purposes of a side writing project I am currently working on, I am collecting interesting and irreverent factoids about regular people. As a result, I ask that you please take a moment and respond to this question:

Question: How would Alex Trebeck introduce you if you were a contestant on Jeopardy?

For instance – if Alex were to introduce me he might say, “So, I understand you are currently working as a haus frau. I also understand that when you met your girlfriend you did not know how to cook. Your girlfriend even claims that you did not have salt, spices, or food in your cupboards. I must ask, how do you think you rate as a haus frau now?”

Factoids can be humorous, witty, sad, poignant, boring, etc. etc.

Thanks,
Little g

Geography Rant

2006-03-26T14:33:00.000-08:00

In an effort to leave the dishes, laundry, and other haus frauly duties of the household behind, I often look in the local alternative weekly for seminars and readings of middling interest. This tactic has met with mixed results.

Recently, while attending a particularly long and drawn out seminar on the topic of “Hair through the Ages,” I could feel myself falling asleep. First my eyelids drooped; then my head lurched forward onto my chest; and then my mouth opened slightly. Each time this happened – four times within the first hour – I would be jolted out of my sleepy haze when the presenter posed a question to the audience.

So, in an effort to mimic intense interest in the topic I picked up my notebook and surreptitiously tried to list all fifty states by memory. I began by listing all the states I ever lived in – eight in total. Then I tried to list the remaining states by region starting with New England, then moving through the Atlantic Region, the Midwest, the heartland states – where beef is king, to the West Coast, and then back to the south. At the end of my cursory tour of the United States I still only identified 32 states.

Over the course of the next 45 minutes I racked my brain trying to identify the remaining eighteen states. First, I recounted every cross country trip I ever took – five in total – to make sure each of those states made the list. This tactic elicited ten more states – including Montana, Nebraska, and Delaware. Then I tried to remember which states the three most recent presidential and vice-presidential candidates hailed from. This produced three more states – including Tennessee and South Carolina. Then with five states to remember I started to go through the alphabet trying to list every state that began with A, B, C, and so on. After going through the alphabet twice I remembered four more states – including Nevada and Utah.

However, the last and final state still eluded me. In an effort to clear my head I ducked out of the room when the speaker began discussing the "social and political impact of hair in the 1850’s.” I ventured down the hall and to the bathroom. As I sat in the stall contemplating how long I could remain in the bathroom before someone began to worry about me the last, and final state came to me. I immediately jumped off the toilet seat with my pants still at my ankles and yelped, “New Jersey!”

After regaining my composure I exited the stall and washed my hands. As I stood at the sink I overheard a woman three sinks down from me telling her young daughter of six, “I think she might have Tourette’s Syndrome. Don’t be alarmed if she begins to yell out other state names.” After this remark the woman and her daughter quickly glanced in my direction and waited to see if I might say something else. I obliged. “Maryland, South Dakota, California, Idaho.” While in my mid-geography rant I observed the mother grab her daughter by the shoulder and scurry her to the exit.

Instead of returning to the lecture I decided to spend another thirty minutes in the bathroom since that is where I seem to do my best thinking.

How much is a facial?

2006-03-22T14:37:00.000-08:00

As I walked home with my pre-made Pillsbury chocolate chip cookie dough I noticed a storefront sign espousing “Body Kare” for the low, low price of $40. I immediately stopped short because even though I walked down this block at three times a week I never, until that moment, noticed this merchant. I tried to look inside the store to assess what kind of “Body Kare” one gets for $40 because I was in the market for some primping and pampering. However, I could not see anything because the blinds, on each of the three large picture windows, were drawn even though it was an unseasonably sunny and beautiful day.

As I was about to walk away I noticed a gentleman in his 60’s approach the entrance to “Body Kare.” He strode confidently to the door, pressed the buzzer – which I had not previously noticed, – and waited for the door to open. When the door finally opened I tried to peak inside but all I could see was a slight Asian woman wearing overdone bright blue eye shadow and purplish red rouge on her eyes and face. She opened the door just wide enough for him to enter, quickly ushered him in, and then quickly closed the door.

Upon observing this brief interaction I walked down the street muttering, “I think I might need to find my “Body Kare” elsewhere.” Alas.

I can do that!

2006-03-21T09:37:00.000-08:00

While briskly walking down a city street rife with litter and other detritus I bisected two men on the sidewalk, one a meter reader and the other an average, average Joe, involved in a bitter argument. As I moved past them, I noticed the meter reader place a ticket on a BMW parked at an expired meter. Then I overheard this portion of the argument:

Average, Average Joe: I know you have a job to do but come on.

Meter Reader: If he is paying you to watch the meter than do your job and watch the meter.

Average, Average Joe: I am watching the meter but you are still ticketing his car.

Meter Reader: There is no time left on the meter so he gets a ticket like everyone else. You should have put more money in the meter to avoid this problem – isn’t that your job?

Average, Average Joe: I don’t have any money for the meter that is why I’m watching it – so I can get paid.

Meter Reader: Maybe you should use your “meter watching” salary to pay for his parking ticket.

Average, Average Joe: Are you serious?

Meter Reader: Word of advice man, don’t go out and get business cards just yet. You are not so good at this job.

Average, Average Joe: I bet I could do your job. Are you hiring?

Meter Reader: Uh, no.

I am seriously considering giving up this haus frau gig and becoming a professional “meter watcher.” I am confident that I could come up against Average, Average Joe and beat him in a meter watching show down. Actually, I think I could watch four meters at a time without breaking a sweat. Dare to dream, dare to dream.

"I gotta have my bran!"

2006-03-19T10:01:00.000-08:00

TW and I went to Costco this weekend. Our intention in going was to buy one of the many Picasso's on sale for the low, low price of $139,000. However, after hearing the recent flap about how the Picasso's at Costco might be forged we opted to buy Raisin Bran instead – because we had a coupon that brought the price down from $6.99 to $4.99.

When we arrived home with the industrial size Raisin Bran, which weighed close to 5 pounds, we realized that the Bran could serve not only as a tasty breakfast treat but also as a weight room alternative. So yesterday, after I had my two scoops, I took the box in hand and walked down the street to the nearby park. As I walked, first I held the box in my right hand lifting my arm up and down and then held the box in my left hand and continued this pattern throughout my 30 minute stroll.

As I walked with the purple Raisin Bran box I received strange looks from small children in strollers, gaggles of old women, hipsters with faux hawks, and even dogs – all sorts of dogs. I, however, continued onward with my workout bolstered by the fact that I learned on the Food Channel that walking with weights in hand contribute to an increased level of metabolism. In my mind, the burning of calories outweighed the guffaws of the jealous on lookers.

When I returned home TW asked me for the Raisin Bran because she wanted to bulk up on her fiber for the day. I offered her the box but asked that she only take one scoop because I wanted to maintain the integrity of the five-pound box. She nodded assent.

However, later in the day I picked up the box and discovered that the weight decreased from five to four pounds. When I confronted TW about this matter she explained that she could not resist the draw of the raisins. She suggested, “Next time we buy a box of Raisin Bran let’s plan to shellac it so that it is not sitting on the counter as a tasty temptation too delicious to pass up.” This time I nodded assent and poured myself a box of bran.

Why must yoga mats be so rubbery?

2006-03-16T12:54:00.000-08:00

I just learned about an all-female, nude, yoga class in Vancouver seeking to recruit participants through a posting on Craig's List. I was tempted to reply to the posting and request more information about the class but TW reminded me that my sensitive skin could likely not handle the chafing of the rubber yoga mat against my bare bottom. Then she continued, "Need I remind you of the rubber body suit incident three Halloweens ago." Ah yes – she is so wise.

I guess I will forgo this opportunity and wait for an all-female, nude, ceramics class since there are no rubber yoga mats to stand in my way.

Bring it on I say. Bring IT on.

Breakin' 3?

2006-03-13T13:07:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, as TW and I were meandering through the city blocks of Vancouver’s downtown corridor we stopped short when we noticed a large semi-circular group of 75 to 100 people gawking at an unseen entertainer. As we edged nearer and nearer to the crowd we were able to make out the lyrics to “When doves Cry” blaring from large stereo speakers. At that moment I convinced TW that we had to make our way to the front of the crowd because I had to know what was going on within that semi-circle. She seemed skeptical but I said, “How can we pass up an opportunity to listen to Prince?” She nodded assent.

I then used my 5’ 2” frame to my advantage as I blazed a trail through the throngs of people. TW, on the other hand, with her 5’ 6” stature could not follow my spry moves. Instead, a family of three – a pregnant woman, her husband and their three year old on his father’s shoulders – let me through the crowd but closed ranks when they saw TW coming. In response to their blockade I reached my hand through the couple, standing shoulder to shoulder, grabbed TW by the sleeve and pulled her through the crowd. When she finally made it to the front of the crowd her normally tidy hair stood straight up on her head in a style reminiscent of a “new wave” faux hawk.

Once we settled into our positions at the front of the crowd we observed two twenty something, red-faced, barefoot women, standing on yoga mats and badly mimicking dance moves from Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo. The woman on the left tried a move reminiscent of the “Knee Drop.” Specifically, she tried to kick herself down onto one knee but she did not succeed. Instead, she landed on both her hands and her knees. In an effort to play off her misstep she tried to move into a modified “worm.” However, this move looked less like a worm and more like a woman lying on the ground flailing her arms and legs in the arm like a drowning swimmer.

After this series of failed moves, the woman on the right sensed the crowd’s interest waning. So in an effort to rile up the crowd she raised her hands in the air and shouted at the gathered multitudes to enter the circle and show their own moves. Smartly, no one budged.

As I awaited the next moves I looked behind the two dancers and noticed for the first time costumed store employees standing in the floor to ceiling store windows. The sign on the first window read, “The Garden of Eden.” Within that window stood a sizable bare chested man – close to 6’ 3” – wearing just a loincloth and a boa constrictor around his neck. He stood frozen in place alongside a woman similarly dressed but without the snake adornment.

In the other window, labeled, “Dare to be Naughty,” stood another poorly dressed young female break-dancer. She tried to break dance to the music but her moves were sorely curtailed by her lack of skill and the inability to move in the 2 foot by 2-foot window.

After 10 minutes of being “entertained,” TW tugged on my shirt and asked that we leave. She explained, “This 80’s flashback is making me want to put on my jelly shoes, pick up my long forgotten Rubik’s Cube, and ask the next door neighbors if they want to play hacky-sack for a spell.” Oh, how naughty.

She thinks I'm rad!

2006-03-09T09:31:00.000-08:00

As I age I find that I am not only becoming curmudgeonly but I am also becoming cheap. As a result of this new cheap behavior, I am now in the habit of only going to a hairdresser when someone gives me a discount coupon for a first-time visit.

Recently, I went to a “salon & boutique” because I was given a $20 off coupon to see the stylist named on the coupon. When I arrived at the “salon & boutique” I felt that I, at 34, was way too old to be in such an ultra-hip hair palace – a place where lace underwear, chic handbags, and size zero pants were sold - but I needed a haircut so I remained.

When the stylist greeted me at the door, I soon learned that she - a heavily tatooed, skater, snowboarder, and surfer – just returned from traveling for a month to Australia and New Zealand trying to catch that illusive “killer wave.” At that moment I knew I was even further out of my element than I first realized. Since I do not surf, skate, or snowboard we had very little common ground but in an effort to make conversation she asked me about myself. When asked to talk about myself, I tried to think of the coolest and most hip thing I could tell her but all that came out of my mouth was, “I am a haus frau. I moved here with my partner and now I make her lunches, do the laundry, and wash the dishes.” Although she seemed mildly interested in my haus frauly duties it was hard to tell if she, herself, was really interested or if she was feigning interest out of professional obligation. Regardless, I continued to bather on nervously throughout the hour-long cut.

At the conclusion of the haircut she handed me five $20 off coupons and explained that I should give them out to first time visitors to the “boutique & salon.” I took them obediently. When I got home TW gushed about my cute hair and expressed an interest in going to see this new stylist. So I dutifully gave her one of the $20 off coupons with the caveat that I made a fool of myself and that she might not want to announce her affiliation to me if she wanted to retain some street cred. TW agreed.

However, when TW arrived at the salon she instinctively told the stylist of her relation to me. To TW’s surprise the stylist immediately remembered me and remarked, "Oh, yeah. She's your house bitch, right? That’s really rad."

When TW told me about this exchange I laughed like giddy schoolgirl. I love being a house bitch. I am so totally going back to see her for a haircut, that is of course after I have used all my other half off coupons for the myriad of other stylists in the city.

Just Bras...

2006-03-07T19:38:00.000-08:00

Yesterday while I was researching the contentious position of lady’s undergarments in post-colonial but the pre-industrial Canary Islands I read a statistic that shocked me. A nameless statistician claimed that 80% of women do not wear the correct size bra. In response to this news, I decided to tromp down to a lingerie store to uncover the rest of the story.

As I headed into the first lingerie store I spotted, I held my pen and paper tightly in hand so that I could record the responses to my provocative questions. I immediately went up to the woman at the counter and launched in to my first question, “How many of the women who come into the store each day come in looking for just bras?” She looked at me surprised both by my tenor of question and by my question itself. She pointed at the store’s inventory located behind me and remarked, “The store is called ‘Just Bras.’ Since all we sell are bras everyone who comes into the store is looking for juts a bra.” I responded sheepishly, “Oh, right. That makes sense.”

A little more self-conscious but still resolute I continued onward with my original line of questioning. “Of all those women who come in for ‘just a bra’ how many ask to be fitted by a bra specialist?” She replied to my question with a look bordering on disgust, “None. Cherise gets to them before they think to ask for assistance.” She then continued, “I think you should talk to Cherise directly. She can answer all of your questions.” I asked her where I might find the famed Cherise and she pointed me toward the dressing room.

As I approached I could see a towering woman standing 6 feet tall in flats. Slightly intimidated I walked up to her with my questions in hand. However, before I could utter a single word she looked at my chest and waved her hand back and forth with the flourish of a drama student. She remarked in my direction, “Oh no, that will NOT do. Come here sweetie, we need to fix you up.” I looked in front and behind me expecting to see a 14 year old that might answer to the name “Sweetie” but to my chagrin I was the only customer who stood within shouting distance of Cherise’s barb.

I immediately regained my composure and responded in my best Robert De Niro voice, “Are you talking to me?” She did not see the irony in my remark or in my paltry imitation and she responded to my questions very sincerely, “Yes. You really need some help. That bra will not do. Your boobs are way to low. Come with me.”

Within seconds Cherise shuffled me into a change room and asked me to remove my shirt. As I disrobed she returned with a tape measure and placed the tape measure over, under, and around my breasts. Once she finished this banal ritual she left the room. I remained stock-still waiting for her return because I was unsure how she might react if I tried to put my shirt back on.

When Cherise returned she handed me one purple and two hot pink bras. She must have seen me look at the bras suspiciously because she said, “Don’t worry, you can pick out your own colors these are just to assess if we have the right size.” As I held the first bra aloft I remarked, “If you caught the right wind you could really set sail with this thing.” She did not laugh. She then told me to put on the first bra. She remained in the change room but did have the courtesy to turn her back to me. She said, “I am turning my back to give you a little privacy.” I gritted my teeth and thanked her for her consideration.

Once I successfully put the first bra on I informed Cherise that she could turn around. As soon as she turned to look at me she stood in front of me, behind me, and to the side of me appraising the fit of the bra. Her facial expression indicated a certain level of bemusement at the manner in which I put the bra on. Without warning or explanation she reached out her sizable hands and pulled at the excess skin on my arms, back, chest, and stomach. As she poked and propped she repeated the mantra, “This is booby. This is booby. This is booby.” I was so flummoxed by her deft hand maneuvers that it was well after the fact that I realized she had been to a place that only a few pre-TW people had been and I did not even think to introduce myself to her.

Once the bra was fitted to Cherise’s liking she told me to look in the mirror. Since she seemed to be waiting expectantly for my reaction all I could think to say was, “Geez Batman, I didn’t know I had so much booby.” Again, she remained unmoved.

Hmmm, free samples - delicious

2006-03-06T08:49:00.000-08:00

TW and I decided to grab a quick breakfast the other day but since our local breakfast nook burnt to the ground we needed to find a new locale in close proximity to our house.

We stopped first at a Dutch style breakfast restaurant called, Le Holland (name changed to protect the “innocent”). After quickly glancing at the menu we ruled this place out because every item on the menu used either “Le” or “Holland” in their name. Since neither of us wanted “Le Pancakes” or “Le Holland Toast” or “Le Fruit Bowl” we moved on to another Le locale. Next, we walked to a neighborhood coffee shop but could not find a seat so we continued to trudge onward.

Our faith in finding a suitable locale for our food cravings waned after we walked, and walked, and walked block after block after block for a total of 35 minutes. My hunger pangs became so great during this trek that I began seeing visions of sugarplums dancing in my head and I am Jewish so I don’t even know what a sugarplum looks like.

Then, as if by sheer luck, we hit the jackpot, or so we thought. We saw a plastic, air filled bagel blown up to be 100x the size of an actual bagel. This bagel, hung from the awning of a nameless restaurant, beckoned us to enter.

As soon as we walked into the restaurant and saw the stark white bagels on the counter sitting amongst free samples of sushi we should have turned and run out the door but we did not. Instead we let our extreme hunger override our wisdom. Out of sheer instinct we each reached for a piece of the sushi. The sushi was warm to the touch, which is never a good thing when you are talking about raw fish, but we could not put it back on the plate because the chef stood behind the counter waiting for our reaction to the taste of his food. I took a deep breath, gulped, put the sushi in my mouth, and chewed.

As soon as I got the sushi down my throat and was able to open my mouth I turned to TW and said, “That wasn’t so bad.” She looked at me skeptically and said, “Well, since I am from an underdeveloped country I am used to eating food that is suspect but I am a little concerned about your constitution.” I explained, “I come from hearty New England stock – I will not let rancid sushi get me down.” Within minutes my bravado waned and I searched for a bathroom.

The remainder of the day I alternated between the couch, the floor, and the toilet. The entire day, all 24 hours, I could be heard grousing about my mistake. “I will never eat again.” “Food sucks.” “Sushi is a bad, bad, bad idea.” “Free, shmee…oy, I will never eat another free sample.”

When the toxins finally passed through my system TW asked me if I wanted to go out for dinner. Since I am a weak person and could not swear off food for more than a few hours, I agreed. She then asked where we should go and I responded, “Hmmm. I am kind of in the mood for a spicy tuna roll.”

The Great Apartment Caper of '06

2006-03-02T12:32:00.000-08:00

Yesterday as I threw two large bags of food trash in the dumpster behind my apartment I realized with sudden clarity that I locked myself out of the building. Within seconds I came to the dire conclusion that not only did I lock myself out of the building but I also left the keys, my apartment keys, dangling in the mailbox emblazoned with my apartment number, for anyone passing by the building to see. At that revelatory moment I ran.

I ran with the grace of a winded 34 year old panicked that she will never see the inside of her home again. I ran so hard that I knocked over an old women walking her dog in the alley, I ran into a homeless man picking up returnable bottles left out for him by the various recycle bins, I ran into a child on a tricycle. I ran through the alley, took a sharp left onto the sidewalk, then another sharp left onto another sidewalk, and then within seconds there I stood in front of my building staring through the glass door at the keys dangling from the mailbox three feet off the ground.

Once I knew that the keys were within site I immediately went into problem solving mode. The first idea that popped into my head, call someone. I immediately nixed that idea when I remembered that I do not own a cell phone.

I then decided that I should just run to TW’s office and pray that I can find her and borrow her keys. I nixed that idea too, however, because of the obvious flaw in the plan - while I innocently run to and fro some nefarious person manages to get into the building, find my dangling keys, proceeds to my apartment, and steals my couch. Oh, we love that couch too much to risk it.

Since I did not want to leave the keys unattended I decided that my best bet would be to buzz another apartment dweller and beg and plead them to let me into the building. As I was about to pick an apartment at random I realized that I did not have anyway to actually prove that I lived in the building. I did not have any ID with my current address nor did I have any mail in hand, which was even more irksome since I was trying to get the mail when I locked myself out. I decided that I could show them my fitness center card because it is the closest thing I have to proving I actually live somewhere in the city. Although on second thought I realized that all it would demonstrate is that I like to be physically fit.

As I shrugged my shoulders in defeat, a light bulb went off in my head, I could describe the interior of the apartment to whoever let me into the building. I could then take said person up to my apartment thereby demonstrating that I actually do live inside the building and I am not some immoral person looking to engineer an elaborate heist.

I steeled my nerves, eyed the buzzers closely, and chose a button near the top of the list since the person inside the apartment likely lived on the first floor and would not have too far to go if said tenant decided come look me over. I buzzed.

Within seconds, a woman’s voice came over the intercom. She said, “Hello.” I responded, “I live in” and was immediately cut me off by a loud buzzing noise. The door latch magically opened, I bolted to my mailbox, grabbed my keys, and held them tightly to my chest. With my keys safely in hand I said to nobody in particular, “That was anticlimactic.”

You are looking very New Wave these days...

2006-02-27T16:38:00.000-08:00

I went out with two friends the other night to see a film. At the theater one of my friends ran into a very important professional acquaintance. However, it was clear from the outset that my friend did not recognize this acquaintance because instead of saying hello she stared blankly when the aforementioned acquaintance looked directly at her and said, “Hello. It is so great to see you. How have you been?”

After a few seconds, and a quick nudge from her partner, my friend returned to form, and responded to the initial query with, “Hi. It is great to see you too. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. It must have been the new haircut.” At that moment it seemed that the conversation was salvaged and was to move in a new, less awkward, direction. However, to my surprise my friend continued, “Your new haircut makes you look very New Wave.” This remark was met with silence.

In a fleeting attempt to seek validation for her “New Wave” comment, my friend turned to her partner and said, “Doesn’t she look new wave.” Her partner responded, “New Wave – yeah, like the Pet Shop Boys.” This remark, too, was met with silence. My friend tried once again, “You look really good. I really like the new haircut – it is so modern.” At this point the acquaintance seemed a bit perplexed and moved away from our circle of red-faced embarrassment and onward into the theater.

Once the acquaintance was out of earshot I said to my friend, “I don’t think telling someone their haircut looks New Wave is in any way a compliment. Especially when said person is in her mid-50’s.” She responded, “Why not? I think she really looked like Morrissey, what is so wrong about that?” At that moment my mouth fell open and I said, “Morrissey is still alive? Hot diggety, I had no idea.”

I feel dirty...

2006-02-26T18:22:00.000-08:00

While working out on the treadmill at the gym today I witnessed a 16-year old boy straddling his 16-year old girlfriend as she worked up a minor sweat on a recumbent bike. As the girl sat on the recumbent bike seat, her boyfriend sat behind her on the portion of the machine normally used to move the bike seat closer to and farther away from the bike pedals.

As I watched in horror, I observed the girlfriend turn her head and ask her boyfriend to place his hands on the heart monitor handles when prompted by the machine since she could not be bothered. As a result, each time the machine beeped he would dutifully place his hands on the handles, wait for the computer to register his heart rate, and then remove his hands. When his heart rate was no longer needed he would move his hands away from the heart monitor handles and move them to his girlfriend’s stomach, neck, face, and hair.

This off-putting pattern continued the entire time I worked out my machine – the machine directly across from them. I tried to look away but much like a bad car accident it was nauseating and yet weirdly compelling.

The Lesbian Ex-Pat Bridget Jones?

2006-02-23T08:05:00.000-08:00

While talking to a friend yesterday she said, "Don't take this the wrong way but your blog is like Bridget Jones's Diary. You are the Bridget Jones of the lesbian ex-pat haus frau community."

Hmmm, I am still trying to grasp the meaning of this commentary. I wonder, is that a compliment?

I will own the Olympic podium in 2010

2006-02-22T10:25:00.000-08:00

Since the 2010 winter Olympics will be held here in Vancouver, BC I decided that this would be my chance to compete on the world stage and impress my newfound Canadian friends. So, in an effort to be ready to compete in 2010 I began my rigorous training last week.

First, I called a local ski resort and signed up for a beginning snowboard lesson. When I called to sign-up for the lesson the resort employee requested my credit card number and proceeded to tell me that the $80 lesson fee was non-refundable and non-transferable. I responded, “Uh, ok but what if I throw my back out the day before or decide to see a limited release documentary on the same afternoon or cannot find my long underwear and snow pants.” She responded in a tired and bored voice, “Tough luck.” I spent a few seconds mulling over her pithy response and responded, “Ok. Then I guess it is officially on.” She was silent for a few seconds and responded, “Uh, does that mean you want to take the lesson or not?” I said, “Yes. Sign me up.”

As the transaction neared completion she asked, “Will you be renting all the snowboarding equipment or will you be bringing your own?” I informed her that I would be renting the equipment and went on to say, “You probably get this question a lot so excuse me for my obtuseness but do you know if the rental folks spray the snowboard boots with anti-fungal spray like bowling alleys do when you return rented bowling shoes?” I believe I heard a faint guffaw on the other end and then she informed that in the two years she has worked at the resort that she never received that question. As a result, she did not know the answer but she would give me the number to the rental chalet if this were a major concern of mine. In true risk taking fashion I told her that I would not need the number to the rental chalet and that I would make sure to wear thick socks to avoid any fungal diseases. However, as soon as we got off the phone I had second thoughts about this newfound risk taking behavior and looked far and wide for the rental chalet number on-line but to my chagrin was not successful in finding it.

The night before my first training day I lay awake in bed thinking of all the positive feedback ahead of me the next day. I envisioned the snowboard instructor taking me aside and informing me that I was the most talented beginner he had ever seen. I also imagined him telling me to follow my dreams of being the oldest snowboarder in the 2010 Olympic competition.

When I awoke the next day I put on my winter gear and headed to the mountain. When I arrived at the rental chalet I informed the rental attendant that I needed a size 8 women’s snowboard boot. She subsequently informed me that they do not differentiate between men and women’s boots but she would bring me a size 8. I took one look at the mammoth boot and realized that this shoe could envelope my entire head and was thus likely too big for my foot. I mentioned this realization to the attendant but she pooh poohed me so I put the boot on to humor her. The boot went on my foot with ease but since the boots were too big I tripped over myself and landed on my hands and knees as I tried to walk toward the attendant. Once I picked myself up off the floor I took my right boot into my hand and pulled it off my foot. At that moment I got a whiff of the boot and knew then and there that they do not spray anti-fungal spray into their boots. I was a little disturbed by this fact. Once both boots were off I returned them to the attendant and asked for a smaller size. This cycle repeated itself three times until I found the right size.

With the boots firmly on my feet I went upstairs to retrieve my rented snowboard. The attendant asked if I was “regular footed or goofy footed”. I looked at her perplexed and she said, “Is this your first time snowboarding?” I responded that it was and she informed me that I should start out snowboarding “regular footed” with my right foot guiding the board. She also informed me that she would highly recommend I rent a helmet, wrist guards, kneepads, and butt pads. This time I was the one to pooh pooh and I informed her that I would only need the helmet. She looked at me skeptically and said, “OK but remember we take no liability if you break something.” She then handed me the snowboard and the helmet and I proceeded outside.

I proceeded to walk, with the snowboard in hand, to the ski school. Once at the ski school I waited for my class to gather. As I stood waiting, I observed a school group of second and third graders on snowboards barreling down the mountain at top speeds. The sight of this school group strengthened my resolve to go forth and conquer the slopes. Five minutes later the instructor arrived and he brought the class together. There were six of us in the class and he asked that we all introduce ourselves. It was at that moment that I learned that at thirty-four I was the oldest member of the class by fifteen years. This information, however, did not deter me and I ventured onward with my goal of owning the Olympic podium in 2010.

After the introductions the instructor asked that we each buckle our left boot into the snowboard. I fumbled for five minutes with the board and looked at the others in the class to learn the proper technique. After falling on the ground three times the instructor finally came over to me and buckled me in. He then showed us how to use our non-buckled foot, the right foot, to move across the snow with our buckled foot on the board. He and the rest of the class easily glided up and down the snow moving backwards and forwards. I, however, fell on my knees, my butt, my wrist, and my back every time I tried to move. In an effort to be helpful, a 10-year old boy in the class came over and tried to explain the concept to me again. I thanked him for his assistance.

Once we “mastered” this concept the instructor demonstrated another technique we could use to move around on the snow. This technique required that we twist and contort our bodies in such a way that our non-buckled foot faced forward, in a normal walking style, and our buckled foot was to be placed in a 90-degree angle to our lead foot. I tried to use my yoga breathing to relax my muscles so that I could manage this Houdini-like contortion but needless to say this tactic did not work. Instead, as I “moved” through the snow I felt an immediate and searing pain rise up from my ankle all the way to my knee. This pain felt like my calf muscle and all the accompanying tendons were being torn from my bone. At that moment the overly helpful ten-year old came to my assistance again and sought to teach me the proper technique. I informed him that regardless of how it might seem to him as an observer that I actually understood the concept. I then, through gritted teeth, asked if he might be so kind as to unbuckle my left boot from the snowboard binding. He obliged.

Once my boot was unbound I picked up my snowboard, walked back to the rental chalet, and returned my equipment. As I left the rental chalet feeling defeated by my lack of snowboard acuity I looked up and noticed a few kids whizzing across a frozen pond of ice. It was at that moment that I knew, in my heart of hearts, that I too could whiz and glide. I decided then and there that I would hang up the snowboard forever and take up speed skating. I mean really, how hard could it be?

I care about crap!

2006-02-18T17:22:00.000-08:00

As I was walking down the street yesterday I smelled a distinct combination of burning paper and metal. Within seconds of recognizing this smell, I spotted a great cloud of smoke billowing from a newspaper box. The burning newspaper box housed a free daily paper that recently began running television commercials with the in your face tag line, “We cover what you care about unless you care about crap.”

For close to five minutes I stood in the vicinity of the newspaper box considering how to proceed. Without a cell phone or car I was not much help. Eventually, a fry cook from a nearby diner came out of his restaurant holding a coffee pot full of murky water. He opened the newspaper box and dumped the murky water on the burning embers. This tactic put out the fire but also increased the level of smoke in the air.

Through the thick cloud of smoke I asked him, “Why do you think someone set fire to this newspaper box?” He responded, “I guess they care about ‘crap’.”

Kids these days....

2006-02-14T08:30:00.000-08:00

As I listened to the NBC coverage of the Olympics I heard one of those ubiquitous athlete back-stories. This story was about Michelle Kwan, the prolific US figure skater. As the story began, I heard the narrator remark in a serious voice, "When did Michelle Kwan become old?"

This question prompted me to look up from the dirty dishes in my hands and take note. I immediately jumped onto the computer to find a biography of Michelle Kwan. During my intrepid quest for information I found out that Michelle Kwan, born in July 1980, is just 25 years old.

As I shook my head muttering to myself, “25 she is only 25…” TW walked into the room with a bag of frozen corn serving as ice for my back and shoulders. She said, “I know you hurt yourself lifting those 10 pound weights at the gym yesterday so this corn should help with the swelling.”

After TW handed me the corn I turned to TW and said, “When did 25 become old?” She looked at me with a serious expression on her face and said, “You are 34 years old and are holding a bag of corn on your back...do you really need to ask about getting old?” Point taken.

Another day in the neighborhood

2006-02-12T16:59:00.000-08:00

While walking down a blighted, drug addled, downtown street last night, TW and I experienced three very peculiar occurrences in less than 15 seconds.

First, as we walked toward the Church of Scientology we were privy to a conversation between an L. Ron Hubbard true believer and a ZZ Top look-a-like. The Scientologist yelled out to the ZZ Top look-a-like from her perch, a table publicizing free stress tests, "Do you want to discover how much stress you have in your life?" The look-a-like responded, "I already know, I am very stressed." The Scientologist retorted, “We can help you." The look-a-like pretended not to hear those words and kept on walking past the table. The Scientologist tried again, "You don't have to live with stress." The look-a-like stopped, turned around, and said, "If I take the test can I meet Tom Cruise?" The avowed Scientologist responded, “Well, no.”

As soon as we cleared the Church of Scientology we stopped to look into a store window. In the window we took note of a peculiar lamp. The base of the lamp, which stood about 9 inches tall, was molded plastic in the shape of women’s legs. Miniature fishnet stockings and high heels shrouded the tiny plastic legs. The lampshade, in the form of a miniature bustier, stood atop the legs in an effort to mimic a woman’s chest and body. Shocked and amazed at this sight we continued to gawk in horror. As soon as our disbelief ceased we continued walking down the street.

Within two seconds of departing from the store window we spotted a gaggle of Asian teenagers wearing street clothing but holding snowboards. The teens did not hold the snowboards under their arms in the usual manner of most snowboarders but instead held the boards directly in front of their faces. The awkward placement of the snowboards obstructed their ability to see other sidewalk denizens walking toward them. Thus, as they walked their steady, forceful pace those around them, including TW and I, were forced to bob and weave as they approached. During our acrobatic dance maneuvers to avoid the gaggle, TW was almost knocked in the head by one of the snowboards. She, however, managed to avoid the collision when I set a basketball-style pick whereby I stood between TW and the snowboard in question. This pick forced the snowboarder to move to the right as TW moved to the left. However, what I did not count on was that the snowboard would then sideswipe me in the backside.

Ah, the city's economy at work.

Raccoons of Unusual Size

2006-02-09T17:17:00.000-08:00

Today while walking down a sleepy neighborhood side street on the way to the gym I came face to face with a raccoon of unusual size. Even though it was a warm beautiful day the raccoon was still holding tightly his winter weight. The raccoon’s body mass index was likely equivalent to that of a plump 12 year old loathe to give up his baby fat.

I tried to walk slowly past the raccoon unnoticed but I was not so lucky. The raccoon lifted his head out of the trash bin and immediately spotted me. He then proceeded to stare at me with his confident, beady eyes. I tried to match his gaze but instead of appearing confident I stared back with my “deer caught in headlights” look.

As I looked into the raccoon’s eyes I could not help thinking to myself, you sure do look like that Davie Crocket replica cap my parents bought me at Disney World when I was 8 years old. As if sensing my daydream about his ancestors, the raccoon edged ever closer to me.

When the raccoon came within five feet of me I realized I had to do something. I thought back to my days as a Brownie and tried to remember the lessons I learned in “Wilderness 101”. I, however, soon realized that the only lessons I could remember for those halcyon days included how to macramé a beer cozy and how to make s’mores. Since I did not have the materials on hand to make a macramé cage nor did I have the ability to distract the raccoon with some delicious s’mores I opted for plan B. Plan B involved following the advice of all those know it all wilderness guides that tell you when you see a bear to “make yourself big”. I figured if it works for bears then it should work for raccoons too – I think.

In an effort to make myself big I raised my hands in the air and stood on tiptoes making my total height close to 7 feet instead of my normal 5 feet 2 inches. The raccoon, undeterred, continued to edge closer and closer to me. It was clear to me by the raccoon’s reaction to my “bigness” that bears and raccoons are very different animals – no pun intended. The raccoon, now within three feet of me, sensed my complete and utter terror.

At the very moment when my panic was the greatest a car backfired forcing the raccoon to turn his head and look to see the origin of the noise. I took that fortuitous opportunity and I ran like the wind leaving the raccoon behind. When I finally stopped running I looked back but did not see the raccoon anywhere near me. I then thought to myself, “Take that raccoon. You aren’t half the raccoon that went into making my beloved hat."

Strong Like Ox

2006-02-06T20:23:00.000-08:00

As TW and I waited for the bus yesterday a man turned to me and commented on my hat. The hat, a blue winter hat emblazoned with a "B" on the front, demonstrates my outward love of the Boston Red Sox. He said innocently enough, "I like your hat." I nodded and said thank you and proceeded to continue talking to TW.

A few seconds later he turned back around and asked about my relationship to TW. Specifically, he said, "Is she your friend, friend or your sister, sister?" This question baffled me since TW is Asian and I am a Jew of Eastern European descent an aside from our hair color we look nothing alike. Perplexed, I turned to TW to seek some insight into how best to answer this question. She, however, just shrugged. Wanting to say partner, partner but fearing a geo-political discussion about gay marriage I responded, “Friend, friend.” He seemed contented by this answer and turned to look for the bus once again.

However, within five seconds he turned to me once again and said, “You must be a strong woman. Are you a strong woman?” I responded, “I guess I’m strong. I mean, I am no Wonder Woman if that is what you are implying.” He laughed and responded, “I like strong women.” It was at this point that I feared he would ask about other, more personal attributes of mine, so I turned to TW seeking her assistance in extricating me from this conversation with one of her pithy retorts. She, however, had no pithy retort to speak of at that moment.

Luckily for us the bus arrived within mere seconds of this final question. We allowed him to board the bus first. He took a seat near the front in the wheelchair ready seats and we moved close to the back so that he could no longer see us. Once we were well out of earshot of him TW turned to me and said, “Do you think he was hitting on you?” I looked at her with my steeliest gaze and said, “No. I think he wanted to know if you were my woman and I was your man.” TW responded, “Ah. That was my second guess.”

It's for the animals!

2006-02-04T16:57:00.000-08:00

On a recent trip to the Vancouver Aquarium, I suggested to TW that we purchase memberships. Upon hearing these words escape from my mouth TW informed me that I am a “joiner”. Her derisive tone of voice when she said the word “joiner” made me believe that she thought all joiners were bourgeois and that I, by virtue of my desire to “join” the Aquarium, was also bourgeois.

In an effort to counter TW’s effrontery I asked her, “Why are you calling me a joiner?” She immediately retorted, “Lest I remind you that you ‘convinced’ me to join Costco even though we do not have a car and have no way of getting the large-scale food items to our home.” I harrumphed and responded, “That is not a problem. We can just take the bus.” She retorted, “Actually a trip to Costco will require three buses and a 1 kilometer walk.” I sighed and said, “Don’t sweat the details.”

In response to my dismissive reply she launched her counterattack. “You seem to forget that you ‘suggested’ we join the movie theater down the street just so we could save a few dollars. To date we have paid $10 each to see one movie, $12 each for our memberships, and have saved just $2. At this rate we will each need to see six more $10 movies to recoup our $12 membership fee.” In response I stammered, “Don’t forget we saved $0.75 on our purchase of a large popcorn, medium drink, and Reese’s Peanut Butter cups.” TW continued with her point, “Right. We paid $8.50 on top of our movie tickets and membership fees for the privilege of saving $0.75 on a few food items that would cost us $4.00 in the grocery store.” I conceded the point, “You may be right about those previous membership blunders but an Aquarium membership is a good deal.”

I proceeded to regale TW with the benefits of an Aquarium membership. I began, “Since it costs $17.50 each to go to the Aquarium we will easily pay off the $44 membership in just three trips. We will also get unlimited admission for a year, one free guest pass for each of us - a $35.00 value, and 10%, guest discounts on subsequent visits.” TW was not convinced so I pulled out the big guns. I continued, “We also get a 20% discount at the Aquarium café. Come one you know you love the institutional cafeteria food served at museums.” She responded, “Well I did quite enjoy that meal at the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam.” After this remark I knew she was on the ropes so I continued, “Yes, exactly. You will love the cafeteria food here.”

TW spent a few moments working out the math in her head. She then relented. Before she could change her mind I went to the membership desk and requested two individual memberships. The sales person asked if she could include them on the same receipt since we lived at the same address and I agreed. She then processed the memberships and we each paid the $44.00 fee.

As we were about to leave the membership table I took a cursory look through the membership package given to us. I immediately noticed that instead of the two free guest passes we were promised there was only one. I turned back around to the membership salesperson and made note of the mistake. She informed me, “Our policy is one guest pass per household.” I responded in kind, “Your policy is one pass per membership and we purchased two memberships so even though we are living in the same household we are two different members.” This tautological argument continued for close to five minutes until another, more senior, membership salesperson entered the fray.

This senior membership salesperson, a man in his early 20’s wearing a black concert t-shirt evoking the primacy of “Queens of the Stone Age”, asked if he might be of assistance. I explained the situation to him and he responded with the party line, “We provide one free guest pass per household.” I pulled out the literature provided by the Aquarium and pointed to the section on membership benefits that states, “Each member receives a free guest pass.” He looked at the passage in the brochure and responded, “This is for the animals! Are you really going to deprive the animals of $17.50 by making me issue you another free guest pass.” I responded, “I am here for the animals too. I used to watch ‘Flipper’ on TV religiously and saw ‘Free Willy’ three times.” He seemed content with my response and begrudgingly gave me an additional guest pass. TW and I victoriously ventured into the Aquarium with our head held high.

On our way out of the Aquarium I turned to TW and said, “I am really craving salmon for dinner tonight. How about you?” She looked and me and said, “It’s for the animals.”

Who knew copyright issues could be so cool?!

2006-02-02T20:36:00.000-08:00

TW and I went to a lecture on copyright issues at the library a few days ago. The lecture, given by a man in his early 60's who likely polishes his shoes every morning, focused on the thrilling topics of the use of copyright in educational settings and the amendments to the copyright act.

I remained awake throughout the lecture out of sheer force of will since TW picked two seats in the front row. When the lecture finally ended I began to pack my bags but TW shushed me and motioned that she quite enjoyed the lecture and wanted to stay to hear the questions. I reluctantly agreed.

When the speaker opened the floor for questions I turned to face the others in attendance. Of the eight other people present in the room each of them seemed to have a question. The speaker pointed at a slight woman in her early 20's to be the first questioner. She immediately stood up and said, "Right on." She then raised her fist in the air and continued, "More power to you." She then finished her thought by bringing her index and middle fingers to her mouth, kissing them, and then raising them in the air in a v-shaped pattern, reminiscent of Sammy Sosa after hitting one of his ubiquitous homeruns. The lecturer looked at her quizzically and responded, "Thanks...I think."

Once the questioner sat down I turned to TW and said, "Did I miss something?" She responded, "I guess some people get really jazzed about copyright issues in the same way that you get really jazzed about National Public Radio." Aghast, I responded, "There is no comparison. You may think NPR is stuffy but in my mind it is so cool. Oh how I dare to dream that one day I will be important enough to make the cut. Sigh."

The Chicken Dance?

2006-01-31T16:13:00.000-08:00

TW and I ventured out to one of the many malls in Richmond, a suburb of Vancouver. While at the mall we stopped on the second floor to eat in the food court. While we ate our delicious coconut soups, duck breasts, and sushi we noticed a crowd gathering at a railing near to our table by so that they could look down on the first floor.

Out of curiosity we got up out of our chairs and joined the crowds at the railings. As we looked down we discovered that the water fountain below was spraying water in complex synchronicity in concert with various musical numbers. As the first song, “We are the Champions,” reached its crescendo point the water spray grew so high that I actually felt droplets of mist land on my head and face.

The next song, “Dancing Queen,” raised the choreographical bar by including colored lights into the already frenetic scene. The lights would turn on and off in harmony with the water and the music. The intensity of the strobe lights coupled with the torrents of water frightened a few young children and came close to causing someone in the crowd to have a seizure.

During the final song, “Ooops!…I Did It Again,” a pair of drag queens dressed like Brittney Spears, ran down the stairs and began to dance on the retaining wall of the water fountain. Most of the on-lookers stared blankly at the performance giving me the impression that this was not the first show performed by the Brittney twins. I, on the other hand, stood with my mouth agape and my eyes wide open taking it all in. At the end of the set, TW turned to me and said, “Do you think they take requests?” As I was about to answer the person standing next to me pointed at a sign on the wall behind us.

The sign read, “Anyone seeking to make a requests must do so between 3:30pm and 4:30pm on Mondays and between 9:15am and 10:00am Thursdays. We reserve the right to determine whether or not your request is inspired or just plain ridiculous. Ridiculous requests will not be played.”

After we read the sign, the gentleman that pointed it out to us, said, “If you want to make a request be forewarned the panel of judges is not kind. They turned me down three times already.” In response I asked, “What songs have you requested?” He said, “The ‘Chicken Dance’.” I then asked, “What were the other two songs you requested?” He replied, “I asked them to play the ‘Chicken Dance’ all three times.” Upon hearing this I turned to TW and said, “Note to self…no ‘Chicken Dance’.”

My haircut doppelganger

2006-01-29T17:43:00.000-08:00

TW and I went to a reception at one of the local art galleries this past week. This monthly event/reception, geared to "woo" younger patrons", features a DJ, spoken word artists, and booze. We decided to check it out because we are suckers for advertising targeted to thirty-something artsy types.

When we arrived at the gallery we soon learned that the highly touted spoken word artists and storytellers finished their third set and were done for the evening. However, the receptionist at the door informed us that a musical ensemble was coming up next. She actually spoke the words, "They are not to be missed." She seemed like a nice lady that would not steer us wrong so we walked through the doors and sought to find a place from which to view the ensemble.

To our chagrin, the ensemble was performing on the ground floor of a rotunda. Throngs of people encircled them and since they were not on a stage we were unable to see them. As a result we ventured to the second floor so that we might be able to look down upon them as they played. However, on the second floor came head to head with yet another mob and moved on to the third floor. As we stood on the escalator on our way up to the third floor we realized that we, for a mere three seconds, had the best view in the entire building. As a result of this discovery, we rode up the escalator and then down again close to eleven times. Each time we would look to the left, as we rode up, and to the right as we rode down, and take in a view of the musicians.

As we were about to embark on our twelfth journey up the escalator, TW said to me, “Are you even listening to the music.” I turned to look at her and responded, “Not really. I feel that their use of sewer pipes and artillery casings as musical instruments is really derivative.” TW replied in a flat voice, “Then why have we been riding up and down the escalator these past ten minutes?” I responded in the flattest voice I could muster, “I really like to look at the top of people’s heads as we move up and down the escalator. As a height challenged person this is the only opportunity I have to look down from on high.” TW shook her head and stormed off to the galleries to view the art exhibitions. I, however, took a few more trips up and down the escalator and only left my escalator perch to find her and suggest we go for a drink.

TW agreed to the drink so we headed up to the “Members Only Lounge” located in an underused corner of the gallery. When we arrived at the entrance to the lounge we flashed our membership cards and proceeded inside. As we entered the lounge in our handmade sweaters, Gap jeans, and winter coats, we immediately felt like soccer moms who stumbled into the twilight zone. Inside the club we observed a man wearing a long white trench coat with epaulettes that spanned the length of his 6’5” frame, a woman wearing a body suit made of a leather and Lycra blend, another women wearing a white lace skirt, white lace stockings, and leather boots reminiscent of the renaissance fair or a bad production of Peter Pan, and my haircut doppelganger.

My haircut doppelganger was a child in the range of two to four months old. He had very little hair on his head but the hair he did have was carefully fashioned into three spikes at the top of his head. As his parents held him in their arms he would move his head ever so slightly to rhythm of the music, which in turn, would make each spike move up and down in time with each of the musical beats. I briefly tried to mimic my doppelgangers movements but TW caught site of me and began to laugh. She said, “What are you doing?” I innocently replied, nothing, and then sought to change to subject but to no avail. TW continued, “Look, you have the same haircut as that baby. Maybe his stylist could cut your hair too. Do you want me to ask his parents where he gets his haircut?”

Although slightly embarrassed that evening, upon further reflection I have come to peace with the fact that I, like Madonna and Brittney Spears before me, am setting fashion trends for all future generations. I wear this mantle as trendsetter with pride.

Diaper Breath?

2006-01-26T17:17:00.000-08:00

Today on the bus I was privy to a conversation between three nerdy, gawky, and awkward 13-year-old boys.

The conversation began with two of the teens railing against the third teen’s bad breath. According to his friends, his breath smelled like diapers. I am not exactly sure how one's breath can smell like diapers but such is the logic of 13 year olds.

Then with nary a warning the conversation shifted from breath to fashion. The ringleader of the group informed his friends that he was wearing a Tommy Hilfiger vest. According to him the vest cost $250 plus all the applicable taxes. The teen with the diaper breath responded that he prefers Calvin Klein to Tommy Hilfiger. The ringleader informed him that Calvin Klein is gay. This remark spawned a ten-minute conversation that lacked what I would consider any logical reasoning.

Ringleader: Calvin Klein is gay.
Diaper Breath: He is not.
Ringleader: He is.
Diaper Breath: He is not.
Ringleader: Is too.
Diaper Breath: Is not.
Ringleader: He uses purple and pink in a lot of his clothes. That means he is gay.
Diaper Breath: No he’s not. He’s heterosexual.
Ringleader: What does that mean?
Diaper Breath: He loves women - like me.
Ringleader: How do you know?
Diaper Breath: I have seen him having sex on TV.
Ringleader: Yeah right. He’s gay.
Diaper Breath: How do you know?
Ringleader: Dude, he is so gay - he makes men’s underwear.
Diaper Breath: Oh. I guess you are right.

A few times I considered turning around to set the record straight, so to speak. However, I decided to hold my tongue and take solace in the fact that these two will likely be relegated to a life of celibacy until they are at least 40 years old. Oh, such sweet revenge.

Maxi Pads, Sleigh Rides, and Snowboarders

2006-01-24T09:45:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, Meta-M and I took a tram to top of a mountain that stands 4100 feet above sea level. Needless to say, given Meta-D's pathological fear of heights, he remained planted in the coffee shop parking lot while we were up on the mountain.

As soon as we reached the peak we trudged through the snow to the free sleigh rides. We stood in line waiting for the sleigh for close to 7 minutes. As we waited Meta-M learned that that Adam, an 18 year old college student was cutting his philosophy class so that he could spend the day snowboarding; Chris, also a college student, was taking snowboard lessons for the first time upon the advice of Adam; Leslie and her husband Albert, home schooled their two children, Sam and Madison, and thus had the freedom to take them skiing for the day; and Allison, a 15 year old high school student, was there on a school trip.

When the sleigh finally arrived we discovered that all the seats were wet since there was a rain/snow mist coming down steadily the entire day. Since Meta-M and I did not have waterproof pants on we sought to dry the seats off as best we could but without much success. First, I tried to use my mittens but since the mittens were waterproof they just moved the water around the seat. Then I tried to use the sleeve of my jacket but instead of drying the seat I moved water around to a greater surface area making the seat even wetter. Meta-M then pulled out some tissues thinking that she might have more luck with them. However, the tissues broke apart the minute they touched the water and left shreds of white tissue on the seats, on our hands, and on our clothes.

In a last ditch effort Meta-M pulled a maxi pad from her purse, unwrapped and unfolded it, and began to wipe down the seat. To my surprise, chagrin, and embarrassment the maxi-pad worked so well that our seat was bone dry. Once the seat was dry I urged Meta-M to put the pad back in her purse so that no one would see us. Instead, she pulled three more pads from her purse and offered them to everyone else on the sleigh. I cowered with embarrassment.

As it turns out, Adam, Chris, and Leslie took her up on her offer. They each unwrapped and unfolded the pads and used them to wipe down their seats too. Once all the seats were dry the sleigh driver asked Meta-M her trick for drying off the seats without a towel. In response to his question, Meta-M pulled out another pad from her bag and explained the absorbency power of the maxi-pad. The sleigh driver responded, "Wow. I have to get myself some of those for the remainder of the winter season."

I looked at the sleigh driver cautiously and said, “Instead of buying max-pads maybe you can use just a good old fashioned towel.” At that moment everyone of the sleigh turned and looked at me. Adam, the college snowboarder, was the first to speak. He said, “Clearly you need to learn to think outside the box man. Think outside the box.” Meta-M nodded her head vigorously and said, “I agree with Adam. You are too inside the box. You need to learn to relax and take the wave in stride.” As I slumped in my seat defeated I thought to myself, my mother speaks snowboarder – who knew?

The Meta Proportions

2006-01-22T09:41:00.000-08:00

The meta proportions are in town this week. Although often confused with some ubiquitous doo-wop singing group of the 1960's the meta proportions are actually my parents. For all those mini proportions readers that have not met my parents, which is likely most of you, you should know that Meta-D and Meta-M have some distinctly charming quirks.

Meta-M's quirk is that within the span of three, maybe four, seconds she has the innate ability to meet, speak to, and learn the life story of all those that cross her path. This was evidenced, yet again, as she traveled across the country on three planes to be here with me. As soon as Meta-M got off the plane she told me of Jane, the airline ticket agent whose daughter lives in Ottawa but would rather be living in Toronto; Thomas, the airport security guard who has spent his entire life on the East Coast of the United States but dreams of traveling to the west coast; Martha, the airline baggage handler whose family is from Montreal but whose parents live in Florida during the winter; Russell, the flight attendant whose family has a history of high blood pressure and fears that he, too, will have high blood pressure as he ages; and Jack, the air traffic control agent who is often cold while working outside and is in need of one of my mother's hand knit sweaters - which she has asked me to deliver to him at the airport.

Meta-D's quirk, a pathological fear of heights, is equally as charming in its own way. Before arriving at the hotel Meta-D informed the reservation agent of his fear of heights and requested a room close to the first floor. Upon arrival and check-in Meta-D was handed the keys to the room and told us that the room was located on the 2nd floor.

Meta-D, Meta-M, TW, and myself took the elevator to the 2nd floor where we found a laundry room, a gym, a pool, a sauna, and three conference rooms. We walked up and down each hallway and into the sauna, the pool, the laundry room, the gym, and the conference rooms looking for some hidden entrance into my parent’s room. We also asked three swimmers, two gym attendants, a woman exiting the sauna, and four conference goers if they had seen any guest rooms on the 2nd floor and they informed us that they had not.

After close to 25 minutes of walking up and down the hallways fruitlessly, TW, the only non-blood relation in this motley crew, ventured to say, "I don’t think there are any guest rooms on the 2nd floor." Meta-D responded, "How is that possible? I asked for a room close to the 1st floor and my room number is 2017 so it must be on the 2nd floor." TW warily replied, "Um. I think that means your room is on the 20th floor." Upon hearing this news, Meta-D’s face reddened and he replied through clenched teeth, “ I knew we should have stayed at a Motel 6.”

As we left the hotel and got into the car to drive home TW eyed me suspiciously. In response to her wary look I turned to her and said, "Don't worry. I have done the math - I inherit one of my parent’s quirks every two years. At this point I already have Meta-D's corny sense of humor and Meta-M's "yoda-like" wisdom. So according to my calculations means I am not due to inherit another quirk for two more years." TW continued to look at me and said, "I can't wait."

Help! I'm in a box.

2006-01-19T14:42:00.000-08:00

I saw a mime on the bus today. I knew he was a mime because he wore a black and white striped shirt drawn tightly across his chest, tight black bellbottom pants, stark white face paint, and black eyeliner framing his eyes and accentuating his eyelashes.

As the mime entered the bus he mimed shaking out his imaginary umbrella. However, as he walked toward me it became clear that his mimed umbrella did not work since his shirt and pants were soaking wet. He then took the empty seat directly behind me.

Soon after sitting down the mime tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around, secretly wishing that he would “speak” to me, but that did not happen. Instead, he mimed that he was cold by crossing his arms, grabbing his shoulders, and shaking back and forth. He then pointed at the open window above my head and mimed shutting it. I dutifully complied and shut the window.

As I exited the bus I looked back at the mime to see if I might catch him off-guard talking on a cell phone. He was not on a cell but was engrossed in sending text messages on his blackberry.

The mimes actions raised two questions for me:

1. How/why does one become a mime?
2. How does a mime afford a blackberry?

Life's little mysteries....

Avant-garde Animal Art

2006-01-17T08:01:00.000-08:00

Yesterday while TW and I were on a walk we discovered an Oriental rug store going out of business. Since the store was trying to unload their entire inventory before closing their doors many of the rugs were being sold for half their original price. As we ventured into the store we thought we discovered a gold mine.

Once we crossed the store's threshold we were greeted by one of the many rug salesmen seeking one final commission before moving on to a sales job at a home appliance store, a car dealership, or a clothing store. Our salesmen introduced himself as "Doug the Rug Guy." As soon as I heard this moniker I turned away for fear of insulting him with my hearty laughter. As my head was turned TW hit me hard on the back in an effort to make me stop laughing. It worked. As I turned back to face "Doug The Rug Guy" he began the hard sell.

Doug the Rug Guy explained to us "The beauty of Oriental rugs is achieved through the manipulation of designs and colors to form pleasing patterns." He then went on to say, "Patterns in Oriental rugs are never quite what you expect - a flourish here, a surprise there. The more you look, the more variations you will find." He seemed so knowledgeable about the history and patterning of Oriental Rugs that for a minute I actually thought Doug the Rug Guy would earn this commission.

Doug began to walk and asked that we follow him. He explained that he wanted to show us some of the more unique rugs on sale. We dutifully followed. As soon as he stopped walking he directed our attention to a 5-foot by 7-foot rug hanging from the ceiling above our heads. When TW and I looked up at the rug we saw a visage of a water buffalo. The face and horns of the water buffalo were on such a large scale that they encompassed the entire facade of the rug.

Upon seeing this rug, I immediately gasped in horror, which Doug mistook as a gasp of delight. As a result, he immediately went on to explain the distinct features of the rug that make it valuable. He explained that the hand stitching, color pattern, and the portrait of the Water Buffalo make this rug a rare a collectible item. In an effort to stop his oratory I explained that we were looking less for a collectible rug and more for a rug that would sustain the wear and tear of daily use. In response he nodded his head and said, “Not to worry I have many rugs that fit that description.”

Again we dutifully followed Doug as he walked further into the depths of the store. This time when he stopped he pointed at a rug hanging on the wall directly in front of us and said, "Feast your eyes on this one. I think it will be to your liking." As we "feasted" our eyes we took in an Oriental rug in the shape and coloring of a life-size tiger. Doug observed our perplexed looks and assured us that this rug could withstand daily wear and tear. In an effort to move on without offending him I responded, “We are not sure the color of this rug would fit well in our apartment. We like the black on orange look but we need a more muted color to match our couch.” He assured us he had the just the right rug and commenced his now patented walk through the store.

As we followed Doug once again, I turned to TW and said, “What do you think he will show us next? A giraffe? A gorilla? A zebra?” She responded, “I would love to see an Oriental rug in the shape of a pig.” I nodded my head in hearty agreement.

This time when we stopped walking Doug pointed at a rug that combined elements of traditional Oriental rug patterning with elements of "avant-garde animal art". The rug’s border used intricate Oriental rug design patterns to draw the viewer into the interior of the rug. The interior was that of a black bear’s back – much in the style of a bear rug found in front of the fireplace of an avowed hunter. Upon closer inspection I came to realize that the black bear was actually one of those aforementioned bear rugs sewn on top of a traditional Oriental rug. When I touched the bear’s back I realized it was elevated about three inches above the rest of the rug and was furry to the touch.

As I recoiled from the touch of the bear’s bottom on my bare hand I turned to TW and said, “I think I need to burn my hand.” She responded, “Before you maim yourself permanently can I take a picture of you next to the bear?” I said, “Umm. No.” I then lamented, "Alas. Yet another day without a rug."

The rainfall seen around the city!

2006-01-16T08:19:00.000-08:00

Vancouverites take their rain very seriously. Since mid-December we have had 27 straight days of rain in the city. Everyday of rain brought us closer to a rain record that has stood for 53 years. The record: 28 straight days of rain.

Well, yesterday it rained in Vancouver ever so slightly, a 28th straight day, but the official rain counters claim today that this rainfall does not count. Their argument, "If it does not rain at the Vancouver airport then it does not count as an official day of rain."

Vancouverites are up in arms because the airport isn't even in Vancouver proper. The airport is located in Richmond, British Columbia, a suburb of Vancouver.

The horror. A suburb foiled our rainfall record. A suburb.

The Great Yoga Smackdown

2006-01-14T10:14:00.000-08:00

In a moment of whimsy I signed TW and I up for a yoga class. I am now cursing that whimsical decision for what it was, a momentary loss of sanity. We attended our first class yesterday and I can now safely say that yoga is torture disguised as exercise with cutesy names.

During the ninety-minute class, the instructor would yell out a “cutesy” name every few minutes. I soon came to realize that each name equated to a humanly impossible contortionist movement we were expected to do with our bodies. She began with the child's pose, then moved to the cat's pose, the crow's pose, the down dog, the up dog, the inverted dog and so on.... after a while I felt like I was in a barnyard and not at a yoga class.

When we moved from a standing position to the first pose I, and the instructor, soon realized that I lacked any and all flexibility. I knew immediately I was in for a long hour and a half. At first the instructor tried to be kind and did not call me out for my inability to bend forward or backward, sit cross-legged or straight legged, or raise my legs or arms.

I first noticed the instructor’s empathy for my plight, when she demonstrated a pose that involved lying on your back, putting your arms and legs straight in the air and rocking back and forth. As soon as she demonstrated this pose she noticed my inability to do anything but lie down on the floor. As a result she said to the entire class, although meaning just me, "Those who cannot do this pose should try an alternative pose." In this case the alternative pose involved much less legs and arms and much more lying still on the floor watching everyone else as they moved their bodies effortlessly.

As the class progressed and the poses got more and more difficult the instructor dropped the pretense of trying to shield me from embarrassment. Instead of saying, "Those of you that cannot do this pose..." she began to look directly at me and say, "As an alternative you should just stand”; "...you should just sit"; “you should just lay on your back”; or "...you should just watch".

During these moments when I opted out of the proscribed poses and engaged in my alternative poses of sitting, standing, laying, or watching, I noticed that TW and all the women twice my age were able to do every pose with ease. This realization made me giggle. In turn, my giggles raised the ire of those women taking the class very seriously. They glared at me with the rage of soccer moms whose children were not put into the close game because they were not good enough and grandmothers who are told by their sons and daughters that they cannot hold their grandchildren for fear that they might drop them. It was at this point that I began to look for an escape route because I feared the verbal shaming I would receive when class ended.

As the class wound down to completion, the instructor asked us each to lie down. This was a pose I was very familiar with and thus I was able to lie down like a pro. As we lay on our mats she put on some soothing music and taught us how to breathe and release the pent up tension in our muscles. We remained in this position for close to 10 minutes and I dozed in and out of sleep.

The woman behind me, however, began to pack up her belongings and awoke me from my slumber. When she picked her mat up off the hard wood floor I could hear a sucking sound similar to a suction cup being removed from a bathtub. She then clomped around on the floor as she put her mat and the other yoga accoutrements away. Then she began to zip and unzip her backpack as she packed up her clothes to leave. Needless to say I had finally mastered a pose, the lying still and breathing pose, and she had broken my spirit. This time I glared at her like a haus frau on holiday forced by TW to stop into every store promoting a storewide sale in their window. She got the point and quickly stopped her needless moving until class was officially over.

At the end of class, the yoga instructor tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Have faith in your bodies ability to become more flexible. I worked with a woman in her 80's who was just a bit more flexible than you are when she first started coming to class. After two years she is now at the point where she can almost do almost a third of the poses." I turned to TW and mouthed the words, “Is that supposed to comfort me?”

In response to my question TW shrugged her shoulders and said, "Well I guess in six more years you can be confident that if you come head to head with an 80 year old in a yoga smackdown that you can take her." I then responded, "Thanks for those lovely words of encouragement. I look forward to that day."

It's a Slippery Slope, a Slippery Slope

2006-01-11T20:37:00.000-08:00

Here are some more entries that should seriously be considered for entry into the annals of “The Huh? Diaries.”

While in the gym locker room I heard two women talking about Christmas gifts. One of the women said to the other, I bought my son a telescope for Christmas." The other woman responded, "Is he enjoying it?" The first woman replied, "Well, since we have had 23 straight days of rain the only thing my son has been able to observe are the neighbors across the street. I fear I am fostering peeping tom tendencies in him." The second woman responded, "Trust me, its a slippery slope, a slippery slope." As they talked I feigned disinterest because it would be considered bad form to make eye contact in the locker room but oh how I wanted to ask about the slippery slope.

While in a second-rate copy store I noticed a very carefully screen-printed sign measuring 6 feet by 3 feet. The sign was being uses to promote the value to the customer if they chose this copy store over a better established copy center like Kinkos. The sign read: "WE WILL MEAT OR BEET ANY QUOTATION IN TOWN". Needless to say the misspelled words did not instill confidence in me. The sign, however, did make me wonder how this copy store would fare in a one on one battle against Bartlett's Book of Quotations.

While walking out of a press screening of a soon to be released French film I heard one well established Vancouver journalist say to another, “The films over right. You don’t think anything else is going to happen do you?” I turned my head slightly to see if the film critic who asked the question might have been joking because the credits had been rolling for close to two minutes by the time he asked this question. He had a look of concern and confusion on his face and clearly was not joking. This conversation further cemented my belief that French filmmakers confuse film critics into thinking their movies are great – because really, aside from this critic who would admit they did not understand the plot.

Oh the joys of listening surreptitiously to other people's conversations.

The Canadian Definition of Irony

2006-01-10T09:32:00.000-08:00

TW and I went to a movie the other day. We were a bit early so as we sat in the theater waiting for the movie to begin we glanced up at the screen as various advertisements flashed across every few seconds. As we waited, we caught sight of the standard movie theater ads hawking products as diverse as coca cola to liposuction to cranial therapy to dental surgery.

We continued to sit and wait for the movie as the advertisements looped once, then twice, then three times. During the fourth loop we noticed for the first time a hand written slide soliciting artists to display their work in the theater. As I read the solicitation I turned to TW and said, "I didn't see an art gallery when I came into the theater. Did you?" She shrugged and said, "No but I would be curious to find it."

As soon as we turned back to the screen we saw a slide with typewritten block letters reading: "JANE BROWN, PAINTINGS OF EVERYDAY OBJECTS". At that moment I turned to TW and said, "Um. I think we found the art gallery". Following the typewritten sign was a slide with a brief artist statement. The artist’s statement read, "My paintings convey the raw emotions of people using everyday objects on a daily basis."

As we sat waiting for the impromptu art show to start I overheard an older gentleman turn to his companion and say, “I have seen this exhibit already but it is so great I don’t mind seeing it again. The yearning for everyday objects is so…oh, what’s the word I’m looking for?” His companion responded, “So powerful.” The older gentleman responded in agreement, “Yes, that’s it. The yearning is so powerful.” Upon hearing this profound endorsement I waited expectantly for the first painting.

The first slide depicted a painting of a household toilet. In an effort to display the realism of the painted toilet in both the painting and the slide of the painting, the artist propped the painting on top of a real toilet. The title of the painting, written in bold type at the base of the picture read, “I need the washroom.”

The second painting depicted a young boy sitting on a park bench. This painting titled, “My legs hurt,” was displayed in the slide atop an actual park bench. It was at this moment that I tried to contain my giggles so that I would not offend the older gentleman behind me in case he was related to the artist. After the second painting I turned to TW and said, "Is this the Canadian definition of irony?" She assured me that it was not but I had my doubts.

The painting, “I need a book,” portrayed a painting of a bookshelf full of books photographed on top of a real bookshelf; “I want my MTV,” portrayed a painting of a TV on a TV stand photographed on top of an actual TV stand; and so on.

The final painting, “Look at me and my dog,” depicted a painting of a life-sized person holding a smaller painting of a dog. The photograph portrayed an actual person holding the life-sized painting of the person.

As the impromptu art exhibit ended the older gentleman turned to his companion again and said, “I am blown away by the meta-realism of this work.” I in turn looked over to TW and said, "I am not sure what to say except that you Canadians do meta-irony like no others and I thank you for that – I think.”

Canadian Super Heroes

2006-01-08T10:30:00.000-08:00

Recently in a conversation with some of my Canadian brethren the topic of superhero toys from our childhood came up. I reminisced about receiving a Stretch Armstrong toy was I was six and playing with him for hours and hours. I commented on how I loved to stretch his arms and legs and see them bounce back into place at the blink of an eye. However, those Canadians at the table met my comment with blank stares. One after another they admitted to me that they had never heard of Stretch Armstrong. I could not believe that Stretch Armstrong did not make it across the border so I went on-line and did a bit of research.

In my on-line quest, I came across an article about Stretch Armstrong. According to the article, when Stretch Armstrong debuted in 1976 almost every American kid wanted this toy. However, Canadian children were not nearly as enamored by it. Thus, after months of exhaustive research the toy manufacturer deduced that Canadian children didn't like the toy because of the high number of American action figures already on the market. In an attempt to woo Canadian children, the manufacturer introduced the "Stretch Leonard Cohen" doll, modeled after the venerable Canadian singer. According to the article, Stretch Cohen proved to be the poorest-selling toy in Canadian history. One young Canadian was quoted as saying, "It looks just like my principal".

I have no way of knowing if the statements is this article are really true since I searched high and low and could find no reference to Stretch Cohen. However, even if the claims made by the article are not true it got me thinking about what other venerable Canadians who could be turned into superhero dolls. Here are but a few of my thoughts....

“Stretch William Shatner"
Superhero Persona: Priceline Man
Powers: Ability to make you bid too high on plane tickets to far off places that you had no intention of traveling too before he got his hands on you.

"Stretch Pamela Anderson"
Superhero Persona: Bad Actress
Powers: Ability to convince casting directors of her acting prowess.

"Stretch Alex Trebek"
Superhero Persona: Game Show Host
Powers: Ability to provide answers to trivia questions before the question has even been asked.

"Stretch Corey Hart"
Superhero Persona: 80's Pop Icon
Powers: Ability to make you travel back to the 80's with his all but forgotten catchy pop tunes.

I believe each of these Canadian action figures will provide hours of fun, ah, hours of fun.

World Class Mitten Spotters

2006-01-05T21:11:00.000-08:00

As I was walking down the streets of Vancouver yesterday I spotted a lone, unwanted glove cast adrift on the sidewalk. I pointed the glove out to TW and then kept on walking at my usual brisk pace. TW grabbed my arm and said, "Aren't you going to pick it up?" I looked at her quizzically and said, "Why would I pick it up? Presumably the person who lost the glove will come back to look for it." She then said, "But if you pick it up you can get a free tote bag from the National Mitten Registry." At that very moment I thought TW was trying to fool me into picking up, laundering, and taking home someone's dirty, sweaty glove. However, I was wrong.

When I got home I typed the words "National Mitten Registry" into the computer and was surprised to find that such an organization exists. It seems the mission of the National Mitten Registry is to reunite Canadians with their lost mittens and gloves. You may think this utopian vision is true good to be true but to prove that it does exist I have reprinted verbatim the GUIDELINES FOR MITTEN SPOTTERS

1. Keep your eyes peeled around mailboxes, cash registers, subway turnstiles and anywhere else people tend to be digging around in their pockets. Our research shows these are mitten hot spots.
2. Does the found mitt look too gross to touch? Has it been repeatedly run over? Is it submerged in slush? Leave it be!
3. Is it propped up on a fence post? Again, leave it be! While we'd like everyone to participate in the National Mitten Registry, the greater goal is recovery.
4. While we sympathize with the plight of lost earrings, socks, keys, laptops, umbrellas and pets, they are more than we can handle here at the Mitten Registry offices. Handwear only, please!
5. An online gallery of all registered mitts will be maintained at www.nationalpost.com/mittens

I find two aspects of this project really remarkable. First, seemingly sane and reasonable people are spending money, hard earned money, to send a mitten that is likely never to find its home again to a “mitten” registry. Second, another sane, reasonable person is actually employed to take a picture of each mitten and post these pictures on a website with the expectation that one day, not too far in the future, someone will actually claim a mitten.

You know, on second thought the prospect of a tote bag is quite tempting. I think I'll go dig through TW's closet and find myself a "lost" mitten to submit. I do love a good tote bag.

Nature's Perfect Food

2006-01-04T16:48:00.000-08:00

I had a hankering for gefilte fish yesterday so I went to a local grocery store to buy myself a jar. I embarked on my search with some trepidation since I was not sure I would be able to find a jar of gefilte fish in any store so long after the major Jewish holidays.

The first stop on my journey was a major chain grocery store found in both the US and Canada. I thought for sure they must sell gefilte fish. As soon as I walked into the store I made a beeline for the fish aisle but did not find any gefilte fish. I then trekked over to the meat and chicken department, then the deli counter, the pre-prepared food aisle, the frozen food aisle, and finally to the miscellaneous aisle which housed a mish mash of Mexican, Chinese, Thai, and Indian food. However, I was unable to locate any gefilte fish so I moved on to the next store and the next store and the next store.

By the end of the day I realized that my gefilte fish vision quest took on epic proportions far greater than I ever anticipated. By the end of the day I had taken five different buses, walked 1.7 miles in the rain, lost close to 2 pounds in water weight, and visited five different grocery stores. The only thing that kept me going all day was the mantra, “It’s for the fish. It’s for the fish. It's for the fish.”

At the exact moment I was about to give up I spotted a small deli. As I walked into the deli I said breathlessly to the clerk, “Please help me. Do you sell gefilte fish?” He looked at me bemused, pointed off in the distance, and said, “Of course. It is in the international food aisle over there.” I responded curiously, “Huh. International food?” He did not respond but instead just took me to the aisle.

As I stood in front of the international food aisle I noticed flags from Italy, Mexico, Belize, the Ukraine, Indonesia, China, Iceland, and an assortment of other countries know for their distinctive cuisines. As I scanned the aisle I noticed freeze dried fish under the Icelandic flag; seaweed wraps and sushi rice under the Japanese flag; and hot tamales under the Belize flag. I was unsure what nationality would claim gefilte fish so I kept looking and looking but with no luck.

After five minutes of intensive searching I asked the clerk to help me find the nationality housing the gefilte fish. He begrudgingly came to my aid and pointed to the Israeli flag lodged between the Portuguese and Greek flags. On the shelf immediately below the flag I found bags of lentils, boxes of matzo, cans of chicken and split pea soups, and jars of borscht and gefilte fish. As soon as my eyes spied this cornucopia of pre-prepared food I decided to buy everything on the spot and surprise TW with a special dinner.

When I finally got home I pulled all the food out of the bag and presented my loot to her. TW looked at me warily and asked, “What is all this for?” I responded, “Oh this. Well, I decided to surprise you with dinner. Actually not just any dinner but a theme dinner.” She looked at me again, then looked at the food on the counter, and then again at me. She finally said, “What’s the theme?” I responded, "Isn't it obvious - the theme is 'The food of my people.' Look, I have gefilte fish, lentils, chicken soup, and matzo."

In response to my offer of a special dinner TW shook her head and said, “I think I’ll order a pizza.” Stunned by her reaction I sought an explanation. I asked her why she was rejecting the food of my people and explained to her that, “Gefilte fish is high in fiber and low in carbs. It really is nature's perfect food." She looked at me again and said, "If you don't mind, I think I'll get my fiber elsewhere." I guess that means more fiber for me!

Clamato...its what's for dinner

2006-01-02T20:41:00.000-08:00

TW and I went out to brunch this past weekend. Since I was in such a festive post-new years mood I decided to order a Bloody Mary to accompany my bacon and eggs. When I asked the server for a Bloody Mary she explained to me that they do not serve Bloody Marys, instead they serve Caesars.

Since I had never heard of a Caesar I asked her to explain the difference between the drinks for me. She explained that unlike a Bloody Mary, which uses tomato juice and vodka, a Caesar uses clamato and vodka. When she observed my perplexed expression she further explained that clamato is "a robust clam tomato cocktail with secret spices". I immediately grimaced upon hearing the words "clam tomato cocktail" and "secret spices". She, however, assured me that clamato was "delicious" and that I should consider one of the "spicy clamato Caesars" on the menu.

Her words of encouragement did not assure me that a "clam tomato cocktail" would be delicious but I took a chance since I want to live like a Canadian. I hesitantly asked her to suggest which of the clamato Caesars she would suggest I order. She opened the drink menu and pointed her finger at an entire page of clamato Caesars.

Each of the drinks contained the requisite clamato and vodka, as well as, varying degrees of spice including horseradish, hot sauce, Worcestershire sauce, and pepper. As I quickly glanced at the menu these Caesar descriptions caught my eye...

1. The Rock'n Caesar - The Fender Stratocaster of Caesars.
2. The Mardi Gras Caesar - You may want to hold on to your beads for this one.
3. The Fireworks Caesar - Use only under close adult supervision. Designed for outdoor use only. Always keep a pitcher of ice water close by for emergency situations.
4. The Russian Caesar - Nikolai would be so proud.
5. The Fusion Caesar - Domo arigato, Mr. To-mah-to.
6. La Fête César - A Caesar recipe designed specifically to satisfy all generic and third tier festive occasions.

The Caesar descriptions sounded so fun that I turned to TW and exclaimed, “Why had I never heard of clamto before?!” After much thought and consideration of the choices I opted for the “Maple Caesar” because I thought the addition of maple syrup to a clam juice based drink would be a taste sensation like no other.

When the drink arrived I immediately took a sip. At first blush my mouth and lips experienced a savory, fishy, and tangy zing. This taste was surprisingly smooth and crisp. The second blush, however, was indescribable. The drinks aftertaste was a cross between a sugary sweet syrup and liquid fish.

When the server came by the table to ask how I was enjoying the drink I looked at her and said, “Do many people actually order the Maple Caesar?” She looked at me and said, “A sucker is born everyday and I guess today is your birthday.”

Touché.

Second-String Towel Holder

2006-01-01T20:14:00.000-08:00

Canadian children are a hearty lot. This thesis is evidenced by the fact that 3-5 year old children play in a toddler hockey league that allows them to check one another to the "boards" and shove their opponents to the ice in the same manner as professional hockey players. This is also evidenced by the fact that most Canadian children learn the fine art of curling in elementary school gym class and begin to curl competitively as early as age six.

However, the most shocking evidence of this hypothesis is the fact that young Canadian children of all ages are invited and encouraged to participate in the annual polar bear swim. The polar bear swim is that annual tradition that occurs in many North American cities every January 1st. It is the time of year when those seeking fame, glory, and a jolting rush of heart palpitations akin to a heart attack strip down to next to nothing and the jump into water at or below 40 degrees Fahrenheit in the dead of winter.

Although the polar bear challenge is not my idea of a fun new years day event TW and I chose to attend this year because a friend of ours asked us to serve as his "official towel holders". We were awarded this honor early this morning because his other friend was too hung over to get out of bed. We felt honored to serve as second-string towel holders so we attended the event.

While engaged in my towel holding duties I surveyed the vast expanse of the beach. While shaking my head as one after another person entered the water I noticed out of the corner of my eye a group of young children readying themselves for a dip in the freezing cold bay. As I ventured closer to the gaggle of young people ranging in age from four to fourteen I could hear a male voice coming over speakers positioned in the lifeguard station. In a booming voice loud enough to drown out all the other noise on the beach the announcer declared, "Pee Wees get ready to rumble. On your mark, get set, go."

At the word “go” 25 children between the ages of 4 to 7 years old dropped their towels, bathrobes, and all other extraneous clothing to the ground and took off running. One after another of those hearty youth leaped into the water. Some stayed in for as little as three seconds and others remained in the water bobbing their heads, swimming, and riding cresting waves.

The announcer then said, “All Pee Wees please exit the water so that we might announce the Polar Bear awards for your age group.” As the crowd quieted down we all awaited the announcement of the awards with great anticipation. The announcer boomed, "The prize for 'The Longest Time Spent in the Water' is awarded to a 5 year old who spent 42 seconds in water reaching as low as 40 degrees Fahrenheit. The prize for 'The Longest Time Spent Holding One's Breath Under Water' is awarded to a 6 year old who spent 12 seconds under the water - a new Pee Wee record. The prize for 'The Longest Distance Traveled from the Shore' is awarded to a 7 year old that swam 6.8 meters. Finally, the prize awarded for 'The Cutest Bathing Suit' is awarded to a 4 year old wearing a matching polka dot bikini and hat."

The next group to enter the water were the youth in the "In-Between" category. There were close to 35 “In-Betweens” and they ranged in age from 8 to 11 years old. I kind of felt sorry for this group of young people because not only were they in that awkward pre-middle school age but this awkwardness was made apparent to everyone by the fact that no one could come up with a title more creative than the “In-Betweens”.

Once all the “In-Betweens” entered and exited the water the awards were announced. The reigning “In-Between” champion, a 10-year-old girl from a Vancouver suburb, swept all the awards categories. I thought this was a phenomenal achievement until I heard various people rumbling that this was her third year in a row winning all the prizes and that they could not wait for her to age out of the “In-Betweens” category.

The final group to enter the water were the "Tweens” ranging in age from 12 to 14 years old. The Tween competition was by far the most exciting of the three. Within 35 seconds of entering the water all but 5 tweens exited and returned to their towels. Those five that remained in the water were two girls, one girl of twelve and the other of thirteen; and three boys, two boys of thirteen and one of fourteen. Each of the tweens was vying for the overall title of “Heartiest Polar Bear” in the 14 and under category.

Since this was my first polar bear competition I turned to the man standing next to me and asked how the judges would determine who was the "Heartiest polar Bear" if all five competitors remained in the water for equal amount of time. He informed me that if it came to that the judges would factor in height, weight, smallest change in lip color after being in the freezing water, and greatest need for a towel upon exiting the water. As he informed me of these additional measures two of the boys and one of the girls exited the water. The only remaining competitors in the water were a twelve-year-old girl and a fourteen-year-old boy.

The crowd began to take sides. Those crowd members chanting for the male tween yelled "manly" words of support - "You can beat her", "Don't wuss out now", and "Win one for the Gipper." Those crowd members chanting for the female tween urged words of support that included, "Go girl", "Womyn Power", "Even if you don't win you tried your best. Be proud of yourself". After ten minutes the judges called time and both tweens were forced to exit the water. The female tween was declared the winner because her lips were mostly red with a slight tinge of blue. The lips of the male tween were a dark shade of blue verging on purple.

When the competition ended I freaked out when I realized that I still had a dry towel in my hands and had not handed the towel off to my friend. I scanned the beach for my friend who was undoubtedly in need of the towel and could not find him. I finally ran into TW and asked her about our friend and she told me that because of my lack of commitment to my towel holding duties we had been demoted to third string towel holders. I responded, "Does our friend still need my towel?" TW said, "No. He was desperate so he paid a nine year old $20 to borrow her towel." Ooops.

Year-End Musings

2005-12-31T12:22:00.000-08:00

In the grand tradition of year-end musings I offer my own version of lessons learned in 2005.

[A note to MP readers: I have chosen the four most important lessons I have learned so that when you too travel to Canada you can carry a print out of these lessons in your wallet very inconspicuously. Trust me, you will be glad to have a copy of these lessons on hand for future reference. I wish someone had armed me with this knowledge before crossing the border.]

Lesson 1: Be wary of children under 10 years old in the Ikea food court.

On two different occasions young children accosted me. On the first occasion I was sitting at a table in the food court waiting for TW to return with our food when a girl of middling height and middling size sat down at my table. When I asked her if she was looking for someone she explained that she wanted my table for her family since I was clearly finished eating. I explained to her that she was mistaken and that my friend was on her way with our food. The middling size child shrugged and in reply told me that it was "not fair for of me to save a table when others who had food could not find a place to sit". I looked at her perplexed and responded, "If I gave this table to you then wouldn't you also be depriving someone, with food in hand, of a place to sit." She smiled sheepishly and said, "But I'm a cute kid and they would understand." We both sat our ground until TW returned to the table with our food. At that point I said to the middling girl, "We have food now so this is our table. See ya."

On the second occasion, TW and I were sitting and finishing our meal and enjoying some quiet conversation when a girl, seemingly tall for her age, came up to us and said, "Are you done?" Since we still had huge portions of eggs on our plates we responded that we were not yet done. This, however, did not deter the freakishly tall girl. Instead she remained standing within one foot of our table and stared at us. TW and I tried to ignore her but her gaze beat down on us from on high and we could not concentrate. As a result, we gave up our table and took our plates and our eggs and stood in a corner of the room trying to finish them without further disruption. However, in mid-bite another child came up to us, pointed at her jackets and gloves on the floor, and informed us that she was saving that corner for her family. We conceded her point and left.

Lesson 2: Canadians take their picket lines very, very seriously.

Canadians take worker rights very seriously. This is definitely an admirable quality but to an outsider it also seems a bit, how shall I put it, overzealous. During my brief time in Canada I have been witness to over 10 striking unions including K-12 teachers, phone company workers, Red Cross workers, and casino workers.

Most amazingly, however, a renegade union worker chose to picket one of the major East-West bus routes serving Vancouver and the outlying suburbs in an effort to galvanize the bus drivers to join her cause. The bus drivers affected by this renegade picket line took her picket line so seriously that instead of driving their buses they chose to eat donuts, drink coffee, and read the newspaper. As a result of her solo picket line she prevented thousands of people from getting to work. Oh Canada.

Lesson 3: The Barenaked Ladies will negatively impact your well-being if you listen to them too frequently.

Every time I turn on commercial radio I hear a refrain from some ubiquitous and sugary sweet Barenaked Ladies song. Even when I try to change the station I am haunted by their ever-present nasally voices. I make this plea to any and all radio DJs out there for myself and all other lovers of good music:

Please have a heart and stop the madness. Each and every time you play the Barenaked Ladies I tear another piece of hair out of my head. At last count TW found two bald patches on my head. So, if for no other reason, please stop playing "One Week", "If I had a $1,000,000" and "Be My Yoko Ono" so that I might retain a full and lush head of hair.

Lesson 4: Stock up on any and all cheeses before you enter Canada.

The cost of cheese in this country is so high that private charter bus companies offer trips to Bellingham, Washington to purchase cheese. TW and I are considering taking one of the trips at a cost of $25 per person just so that we can get our cheese fix.

I miss cheese so much that it not uncommon for me to dream of Gouda, Havarti, Jarlsberg, Muenster, Brie, Edam, Assiago, Goat, or Parmesan cheeses while soundly asleep.

These lessons are no joke. Heed my words if you want to live a happy and healthy existence while in Canada.

Happy New Year.

You will rue this day

2005-12-29T10:47:00.000-08:00

TW and I were walking on a main street in downtown Vancouver on Boxing Day, the day after Christmas. Prior to the walk TW failed to inform me that Boxing Day is a huge shopping holiday in Canada when thousands of people are on the streets "getting their shop on". I panicked when I saw all the 50%-70% off signs because I knew TW would want to shop. In an attempt to preempt her shopping needs I sought an agreeable solution for the two of us. I informed her that I would be willing to accompany her into three total stores but beyond that she was on her own. She begrudgingly agreed.

TW requested that we walk up and then down each side of the street twice so that she could look inside each of the store windows to assess the worthiness of each sale. This time I begrudgingly agreed. As we walked up and then down each side of the street we weaved in and out of the throngs of people standing in roped-off lines waiting to get into various stores.

After much deliberation TW chose a line for us to stand in. I asked her if she knew which store we were lining up for and she admitted to me that she was not sure since the line was so long it required that we line up around the block. We stood in the line for close to 15 minutes before we finally turned the corner. When we did turn the corner we saw that the stores on the horizon included five high-end clothing stores and the Levi's store. As our line moved we continued to pass one high-end clothing store after another. When we passed the final high-end store I knew for sure that we had not chosen our line wisely and were in line for the Levi’s store.

When we were within spitting distance of the store entrance I noticed that there were two bouncers standing at the door counting the number of patrons entering and exiting, checking bags, and stamping hands. I also noticed that there was a DJ standing in the storefront window spinning house music on three turntables. I could not help thinking why anyone would want Levi's jeans so badly that they would endure this experience but then I realized that we, too, were enduring this experience.

When we walked into the store the smell of body odor, hair spray, and bad cologne mingled to create a powerful and unwelcome stench. I began to gag and asked TW if we could leave the store. She, however, gave me one of her "are you crazy looks" so we stayed.

To make the experience bearable I began to look through hundreds and hundreds of jeans. When I finally found my size I walked up the clerk policing the changing rooms and asked if I could try on the jeans. She laughed in my face and explained to me that I would have to take a number. I responded incredulously, "A number? Are you serious?" She assured me that she was and pointed out the machine dispensing the numbers. I noticed that there were multitudes of people waiting in line to grab numbers so I immediately got in line too. When I finally got to the front I grabbed number 68 only to realize that the number called most recently was 49. So in an effort to pass the time quickly I found a seat by the DJ table and watched people shop/dance.

When I finally heard the announcer call my number over the loudspeaker I jumped up and began to weave in and out of other shopper/dancers to get to the front. I was not even close to the changing rooms when I heard the announcer say, "Final call for 68. Number 68 you have five more seconds before we move on to the next number." I tried to yell that I was coming but it was so loud in the store that I could not be heard. In another attempt to be noticed I began to flail my arms but instead of getting the announcers attention I hit another patron in the face knocking her glasses off her face and onto the floor. When I stopped to apologize to the woman I had knocked out I knew I had missed my chance to try on the jeans in my hands.

When I finally reached the announcer I tried to explain what had happened but I could tell by her expression that I was not the first sob story of the day. After much haranguing I finally convinced her to let me slide in when/if someone else did not show up when his/her number was called. As a result I stood and waited for someone to miss their chance too. I was about to give up when number 89 did not show up. I cheered loudly and was escorted into a changing room.

While in the changing room I slipped the pants over one leg and then the other. However, within seconds I realized I misread the label and had grabbed pants three sizes too small in the waist and one size to long in the in-seam. I feared that if I left the changing room that I would not be able to get back in without taking yet another number. So I peaked out the door and tried to see if TW was anywhere in site so that she could find me the right pants size. I did not see her but I did see a 12 year old girl waiting for her sister so my problem solving skills moved into overdrive.

I called the girl over and asked her if she would be willing to go find TW. She looked at me slightly confused until I told her I would pay her $5. I gave her a cursory description of TW, short hair, glasses, 5’ 6”, and sent her on her way. Within five minutes she was back with a woman who matched the description I had given but was not TW. I apologized to the woman for bothering her and asked the girl to try one more time. This time she came back with a man fitting my vague description and knew that I was out $5 and out a pair of pants.

As I readied to leave the changing room I caught a glimpse of TW and yelled at the top of my lungs to get her attention. When TW came over to me I told her of my dilemma and asked her to find my size. She agreed to venture out into the store to find my pants. When she returned with the pants the look on her face implied, “These pants better fit because I am not going out there again.”

The pants fit perfectly and I was ready to purchase. However, when I got to the front of the line the sales clerk informed me that the price on the pants was misprinted and they were not $15 but $115 on sale. I turned to TW and said, "Can I borrow a $115?' TW responded, “I will not allow you to pay $115 for a pair of Levi’s jeans!” As she dragged me out of the store to the thumping base of the house music I said, "$115 is a small price to pay when you consider that they frame my butt so well. TW trust me when I say, you will rue this day. You will rue this day."

My head hurts...

2005-12-27T18:16:00.000-08:00

I was flipping through the 150 digital cable stations on our TV today and heard an "ultra-hip" snowboarder quoted as saying, "If you want Hollywood you go to Whistler. If you want church-Hollywood then you go to Salt Lake City. If you want church then you go to church. If you want the real deal then you go to Banff."

My head hurts trying to decipher the meaning of this quote. Can someone in the know please explain it to me so that I, too, might be "ultra-hip"?

A Dream Deferred

2005-12-26T11:03:00.000-08:00

The other day I needed two passport pictures so I stepped into one of those ubiquitous photo stores that promise "passport pictures in minutes". As I stood waiting for the pictures, far longer than the promised five minutes, I realized that this was no ordinary store. Instead, this was a photo store where the DVD-R reigned as king. I made this realization when I noticed a TV monitor playing a five-minute video loop extolling the virtues of the DVD-R.

The loop begins with an instrumental fade-in of the "Chariots of Fire" theme song. As the song gets louder and moves closer to the first crescendo a jumble of letters arrive haphazardly on the screen in an alphabetical scramble. Within seconds the letters unscramble to read, "The Power of the DVD-R: See What It Can Do". Soon after, the song reaches the first crescendo and the letters re-scramble, slip across the screen, and the screen fades to black.

As the volume of the music lessens and returns to a more moderate level a 8mm reel to reel tape takes center stage on the screen. The tape floats on the screen as the background color of the screen fades from black, to bright blue, to fuchsia. As the music begins to crescendo again the tape is summarily banished from the screen. In its place is a glowing DVD-R. Once the crescendo ends the screen returns to black and the next object is introduced. The next item floating on the screen is a still camera, followed by a 35mm roll of film, then a videocassette, a video camera, and finally a digital camera from the era of the early 90's. Each of these objects is introduced as an outdated museum piece that does not compare to the virtues of the DVD-R.

As the song nears the final crescendo the video loop builds to a highly anticipated climax. The screen fades to black and remains black for what seems like 15 seconds. Then without warning, manufactured sunlight streams from the sky and a pair of hands are shown very gently and reverentially cupping a DVD-R. Without the use of words the image conveys the sentiment, "Look what my hands hath borne. I present to you a DVD-R."

At that very moment I knew I had to have one. I walked up to the counter and asked for a DVD-R. The clerk at the sales counter looked at me and said, “We don’t sell them here but we wish we did.” Alas, another dream deferred.

A day in the life of a haus frau on holiday

2005-12-24T22:22:00.000-08:00

TW and I are currently taking a break from our busy lives in Vancouver to spend some time with friends in Portland Oregon. However, TW's idea of a holiday and my idea of a holiday are vastly different. If I had my druthers we would wake up late, sit around in our jammies, read the paper, and ease into a day of coffee drinking, book browsing, and movie watching. TW, however, embraces each new city with gusto unmatched by any person I have ever met. Yesterday was no exception.

TW came into the bedroom and jarred me awake at 0800 hours by dripping water from her wet hair onto my head. When I asked her to stop she told me that I had to get out of bed immediately so that we could make it downtown before we lost our shopping momentum. I looked at her quizzically because I was unaware that I was required to possess "shopping momentum" on this trip. When I finally did get out of bed I could tell by TW's giddy reaction that she thought she had won the shopping war but she did not realize that the battle had just begun.

At 0845 hours we left the house and walked to the bus stop. We waited at the stop with those commuters not high enough on the totem pole to get out of work the day before Christmas Eve. When we arrived downtown and were greeted by a multitude of "closed" signs. After walking three blocks without finding even one store open I looked at TW and said, "You got me up for this?” When we finally found an open coffee shop we nursed our respective drinks until 0950 hours.

At exactly 1000 hours we began the shopping marathon. The marathon consisted of walking 15 feet, entering a nameless store, browsing the nameless products, exiting the nameless store, walking 15 feet, entering a nameless store, browsing the nameless products, exiting the nameless store. This pattern continued until 1200 hours when TW finally consented to a bathroom break. While in the bathroom I crafted my counterattack, "Shop Club".

When I emerged from the bathroom I implemented the counterattack plan. I told TW that if we were to do anymore shopping that she would need to abide by these few rules:

1st RULE: You do not talk about SHOP CLUB.
2nd RULE: You DO NOT talk about SHOP CLUB.
3rd RULE: If someone says, "stop" or goes limp the shopping is over.
4th RULE: One store at a time.
5th RULE: Shirts and shoes must be worn while shopping.
6th RULE: Shopping will go on as long as it has to.
7th RULE: If this is your first time at a nameless store, you HAVE to shop.

This last rule required that TW try on at least three items of clothing at each and every store when/if there was a pleasant seating area for me to rest my weary legs.

At 1300 hours we resumed shopping. The first store we entered sold shoes. TW tried on three pairs of shoes and we left without a purchase but my legs felt rejuvenated. As we continued onward TW was soon seduced by another window display. When we walked into the store TW soon realized that the store sold ballet gear including tutus. TW began to backpedal when I reminded her of the 7th Rule of Shop Club, "If this is your first time at a nameless store, you HAVE to shop".

I sat back on the couch and watched TW squirm. First she picked up a pink tutu but I told her that pink is too cliché and that she needed to venture "outside the box". She headed my advice and put the pink tutu back on the rack and gathered up three other tutus, one green, one red, and one camouflage. As she tried on each tutu I required that she come out of the dressing room and twirl. Oh how I reveled in the absurdity of the moment.

As we continued to shop I kept a running tally of all that I required TW to try on so that I might remind her of this day when she suggests that we shop again. In all, TW tried on two cowboy hats, one bowler hat, two pairs of mittens, one pair of gloves, two dresses, one skirt, three jackets, one pair of pants, two pairs of shorts, three pairs of socks, two pairs of glasses, one monocle, and three pairs of leather chaps including one with fringe tassels.

Finally at 1500 hours the shopping war of attrition ended and I declared victory. However, I soon learned that TW actually won. While I sat watching and waiting in the wings, TW purchased some great wares including a doorstop in the shape of a banana, cowboy adhesive strips, and two books. I purchased nothing.

Oh how I want that doorstop.

Guns, Heart Monitors, and Maple Leafs

2005-12-19T10:11:00.000-08:00

In an attempt to appease the English speakers in Canada, the top four parliamentary candidates participated in yet another debate - this time in English. The format of the debate mimicked the "town hall" meetings made popular during the Clinton era in the United States. However, in this case there was no "town" in the "hall". Rather, "people on the street" peppered the candidates with pre-recorded questions from their homes, their places of work, and their gun shops.

The first question came from a woman standing on a cold and snowy street in Montreal. She stood bundled in a puffy coat, hat, mittens, gloves, and two scarves while asking a three-part question on the subject of gay marriage. Her casual demeanor belied the fact that she was likely experiencing frost bite on her two little toes, her nose, and her right ring finger.

The second question came from a nurse, dressed in scrubs, who stood in front of a heart monitor machine and an empty gurney. She asked a question about health care which given the backdrop did not surprise me. What concerned me most about this question was what happened to the patient who until that moment lay on that now empty gurney and heart monitor machine.

The third question came from a man, surrounded by a backdrop of rifles, shotguns, and handguns. He asked the candidates about thier views on gun control. It was at this point in the debate that I sensed a theme. I suggested to TW that we not only watch the debate as passive observers but also participate in the debate. She did not immediately understand my request until I said, "This is the perfect opportunity to create a new drinking game."

I suggested to her that every time the camera panned to a "person on the street" we guess what question will be asked based on the background cues. The person that is wrong would be forced to drink. She reluctantly agreed.

We continued to watch the debate with great interest as a woman in a nursery asked about child care, a man on a soccer field asked about youth sports, a woman in a museum asked about funding for the arts, a man in a car asked about the high cost of car insurance, a woman surrounded by old growth trees asked about environmental conservation, and a man in a bright orange neon hunting vest asked about hunting rights. Since TW and I were able to guess every question without error we decided to add more complexity to the game.

In addition to guessing the question correctly I suggested that we also guess the number of times the camera would pan to the 10ft. X 10ft. Maple Leaf painted on the floor in front of the candidate podiums, the order in which the candidates would respond to each question, and the amount of righteous indignation the conservative candidate would invoke when responding to questions about gay marriage. This last aspect of the game was a little harder to assess since it was somewhat subjective but I insisted we try because what is more enjoyable than making fun of a right wing zealot.

By the end of the debate we had plowed through a once full bottle of wine, two beers, and three shots of whiskey. It goes without saying that we are now both looking forward to the next debate with great anticipation.

All Canadians Must Now Eat Horseradish!

2005-12-16T17:22:00.000-08:00

As much as I like Canada there is one thing about this country that terrifies me - French speakers. I failed French in high school and have never recovered from the terror of sitting in a classroom full of teenagers whizzing back and forth in incomprehensible French.

I raise this issue because last night the four major parliamentary candidates engaged in a debate - in French. I feared flashbacks to high school French class so I chose not to watch the debate. Instead, I immersed myself in all things English including cricket, fish and chips, darts, and Guinness.

When I returned home from my gluttonous night on the town I turned on the news and came head to head with the news coverage of the debate. At first I considered changing the channel but then I realized that the only way to overcome this fear of French and French speakers is to face it head on. I decided watching the news coverage of the debate would be like eating bran cereal - it is terrible going down the gullet but ultimately good for you once you are finished.

Once the news coverage began I settled into the couch, closed my eyes, and braced myself for the worst. The newscaster began the coverage by discussing one of the primary issues of the debate, childcare. I knew the next step would be to pan to each of the candidates and listen to each of their responses to the question - in French. So I breathed deeply and held on tightly to the couch pillows. When the first candidate began to respond I could not hear any French. Instead I heard an "Iron Chef" style voice-over translation of the French into English.

Much like the Iron Chef, each of the translators overtly enunciated each word making their speech pattern seem awkward, stiff, and somewhat Eastern European. In addition, the lips of each of the candidates moved faster than the translation making it feel like I was watching a badly dubbed Kung-Fu movie. I could not believe the unintended comedy of the debate and continued to watch in stunned amazement.

At times I half expected one of the candidates to reply to a question by saying, 'I quite enjoyed the use of horseradish in the dessert. The taste is disguised quite well but still offers an edge to the chocolate éclair. If I am elected I will make it policy that all Canadians must consume horseradish in 60% of all dishes they eat." Delicious.

The Life of Leisure

2005-12-15T18:17:00.000-08:00

You know that you are a haus frau when....

1. You start seeing reruns of Oprah.
2. You know the laundry schedule by heart.
3. You can predict to the minute when the mail will arrive.
4. You let the dishes pile up in the sink so that when you do them it is an event.
5. You engage in in-depth conversations with telemarketers so that you can remember what your voice sounds like. Sometimes you even ask them to call you again later in the day so that you can continue the conversation.
6. You organize all of your books by the color of the spine.
7. You count the number of times each day you use your bus pass to ensure that you get all that is coming to you.

Ah, the life of leisure.

I stand corrected

2005-12-14T16:28:00.000-08:00

In my previous blog entry I mentioned "the Queen of England is on every single piece of major currency from the quarter, to the toonie, to the $20 bill on up." I, however, stand corrected.

I recently had the chance to hold $50 and $100 bills, which is rare for an unemployed ex-pat haus frau. When I looked at the bills I noted that the Queen is not on either of those bills. Instead old, white men grace the $50 and $100. Now that is what I am talking about - old white men on currency – just like home.

I really like the gumption of those Canadians to throw off their imperialist British oppressors by banishing the Queen to all currency under $20. You show 'em.

Revolution or Evolution - What's the Difference?

2005-12-12T21:08:00.000-08:00

Recently when I went to the post office and asked for a book of stamps the postal worker asked if I would prefer the stamps with the profile or the frontal view of the Queen. I asked for clarification, "What Queen?" The postal worker said, "The Queen of England of course". I asked to view both sets of stamps and opted for the stamps with the profile.

Later that same day I ordered a soy hot chocolate at one of the five Starbucks around the corner from my house. When I was ready to pay for the hot chocolate the server was ensconced in a conversation so I had a few moments to really look, and I mean really look, at the $10 bill. I am not sure why but at that very moment it hit me that the Queen of England is on every single piece of major currency from the quarter, to the toonie, to the $20 bill on up.

Both of these incidents raised two critical questions. Question 1: Is Canada still British a colony? Question 2: If Canada is not currently a British colony, then why is the Queen still such a prominent force in the country?

On a quest to find answers to my questions I opted to go to one of the most knowledgeable sources around - the reference librarian at the public library. When I walked into the central library I noticed a bespectacled man sitting at the reference desk reading The Enquirer. Since he seemed wrapped up in his "research" I stood as his desk and waited patiently for him to notice me.

When he looked up from The Enquirer I waved at him to make sure he noticed me. When I was sure he saw me I asked, "Is Canada still a British colony?" In answer to this question he politely laughed. He then explained to me that Canada is not a colony but has always had a "very polite, long relationship with British government." I retorted, "Then why does the Queen hold such a prominent place on Canadian currency and Canadian stamps?"

In response to my last question, his polite demeanor waned and he asked in an irritated voice, "Are you an American?!" I explained that I am indeed American and asked why he wanted to know. He explained that at least once a year he is peppered with questions about Canada's colonial status. He then went on to explain that it is almost always Americans who ask these questions. I pushed further and asked, "Who, other than Americans, ask you questions about Canada's colonial past?" He responded, "Actually, I was being polite. No one but Americans ever ask if Canada is still a colony."

At this point he was visibly annoyed but went on to explain that there was "No Canadian revolution, but instead an evolution. Britain ceased to be involved in Canada's internal affairs in 1867. In 1982 Pierre Trudeau, the former Prime Minister of Canada, retrieved the constitution from the British. Specifically, he went to British Parliament with the intention of bringing the constitution back to Canada."

As the librarian continued with his canned presentation I could not get the image of a French speaking older white man in a tailored suit boarding a plane, landing at Heathrow airport, taking a taxi to the British Parliament, knocking on the door, and demanding the Canadian constitution. I can only imagine his rallying cry, "Please give me the constitution or else we will spread rumors about what you wear under those wigs." I am sure the Brits were quaking in their boots.

When the reference librarian finally ended he asked if I had any final questions. I said, “Only one. Did he take a private plane or did he fly business class?"

Another night I will never get back...

2005-12-09T19:02:00.000-08:00

Although I consider myself to possess a fairly sophisticated sense of humor there are times in my life when I wonder, what is so funny? Last night was one of those times.

Last night, TW and I went to go see a former 90's lesbian queercore punk rocker perform a solo comedy show. The local alternative weekly billed the event as a “queer, homohop, punk rock, standup comedy on transgender bodies, feminism, family, and community.” As an aside, I am not much for stand-up comedy but TW loved this musician in her heyday and was eager to see the show, so we went. I realize now, that was a mistake.

When we arrived at the bar we paid the $12 cover and ordered a couple of beers. We milled around for a bit drinking our beers and talking to other friends. When we learned the show was about to start we looked for two seats together. Unfortunately, all of the aisle seats were taken so we took two interior seats.

As soon as we sat down the performer jumped on stage and the "fun" began. As she stepped to the microphone a blaring base rhythm began to emanate from the speakers. The performer then pulled out two small stuffed animals. She introduced both animals, one a teddy bear wearing a pleather jacket and the other a seal. She then proceeded to give them anthropomorphic voices. In those two distinct voices she began to make the animals sing.

The bear began with the phrase, "You shut up." The seal responded, "No you shut up." The animals went back and forth with this combination of phrases for close to five minutes. After the first five minutes the performer asked the audience to join in. Soon all those around me were chanting, "You shut up. No you shut up. You shut up. No you shut up." I was holding my head and wishing that everyone would shut-up. To my surprise my mental machinations worked and the crowd soon shut-up. Unfortunately, the performer did not get the message.

Once the "shut-up" piece ended the performer proceeded to try her hand at comedy. It soon became clear, however, that she never learned the basics of comedic timing. All of her punch lines fell flat, her stories dragged on well past their natural ending point, and her jokes - well let's just say - were not the least bit funny. However, as I looked around the room I observed heads thrown back in gales of laughter, huge smiles, and guffaws. I could not, for the life of me, understand what was so funny.

I wanted to get "it" so I tried really, really hard. I let my guard down by looking inside myself and trying to find my more base sense of humor. I even tried to smile non-stop just so I was that much closer to laughing. As hard as I tried I could not figure out how to make myself laugh at jokes that would make a 14-year-old boy hyped up on hormones fall off his chair in uncontrollable chortles of laughter.

TW and I were ready to leave within the first 10 minutes of the show but since we sat in interior seatswe were boxed in by endless chairs, bags, and people. So we decided to give the performer the benefit of the doubt that she would finish her first set within the standard 45 minutes. We would then duck out at the intermission. However, to our chagrin when the 45-minute mark rolled around there was no end in sight. Instead the performer continued well past the hour mark. When the performer hit the hour and 15 minute mark TW and I grabbed our jackets and began to move through the human gauntlet. However, the performer saw us immediately and yelled out, "Don't get antsy. I'm almost done." After the public shaming we immediately sat back down.

As we sat in our chairs we continued to wait patiently with the knowledge that she was "almost done". As we waited she began at least 5 new jokes/stories, each taking close to 7-10 minutes to complete. The remainder of the show, from the point at which she yelled the phrase "I'm almost done" to the show's completion, took close to 50 more minutes. In total, the show lasted over two hours. When the performer finally uttered the words, "Thank you. Good night." I looked at TW in shocked amazement and said, "Let's make a break for it."

The evening was so traumatic for the two of us that we have been unable to communicate with each other about the events of the previous night. I am not sure we will ever be able to speak of that night again. Another night bites the dust...

I must have been in Vegas when the government fell....

2005-12-08T16:10:00.000-08:00

The Canadian government toppled last week. A coalition of minority parties ganged up on the party in control and politely demanded a "no confidence" vote - the end result of the vote was to topple the government. I am still wrapping my head around the concept of politely toppling a government.

The reaction on the Canadian news stations and in the local papers to the toppling of the government was fairly blasé. For every one article about the toppling of the government there were two, if not three, articles about the National Hockey League. One of the local news stations even spent three solid days focused on the trade of Joe Thornton from the Boston Bruins to the San Jose Sharks and the impact of this trade on the entire league.

I could not understand this "take it in stride attitude" so I dug deeper. I asked several average Canadians their thoughts about the toppling of the government and the responses I received further confounded me.

Question:
How did you react when the liberal government toppled?

Answers:
"Huh, the government toppled. It must have happened when I was in Vegas."
"It's the first time in 14 years - I guess it was due."
"Hmm. Do you know where I will be able to vote in this neighborhood? I should find out."
"I'm not too worried. We will bounce back."

Since I did not have the answers I needed I turned to the undisputed arbiter of news, CNN. I camped out in front of the TV watching CNN Headline News eagerly waiting for a story on the toppling of the Canadian parliament. I watched the TV for close to five hours. The only mention of the recent events in my adopted country was displayed on the headline news ticker. The ticker read, "The liberal government of Canadian Prime Minister Paul Martin loses a no confidence vote. Elections to be held in January 2006." I could not believe that a news station that spent three solid weeks and countless human and monetary resources on the "runaway bride story" could not send a reporter up to Canada to cover this story.

I guess I should thank my lucky stars that the government, and not the NHL, toppled. Now that would be national news – I think.

Don't I know you?

2005-12-05T11:46:00.000-08:00

I took my car in for service today. While I sat waiting in the dealership lobby for the shuttle driver to arrive I picked up the local newspaper. As I scanned the paper I noticed a picture of Jake Gyllenhaal. The caption below the picture read, "Heath Ledger is enjoying life as a new dad, at home in New York with four-week-old Matilda and his wife Michelle Williams." I was a bit confused by the juxtaposition of the picture of Jake Gyllenhaal with a caption of Heath Ledger so I examined the entire page trying to find the story about Jake Gyllenhaal. To my surprise, there was no story.

After much thought, I deduced that since Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger, are playing gay cowboys in the upcoming film, Brokeback Mountain, that they are now victims of the "gay male clone" syndrome even though they are not gay men.

I think I speak for all lesbians with short, spiky hair who have been confused with other lesbians with short, spiky hair, that it is nice to know that all straight men look alike too.