The other day at work I came across someone with a relatively rare and decidedly aboriginal name that made me think back.

It wasn't so much the name, but someone whose family I know has it.

Back in public school I was friends with a girl named Ellie. She was smart, funny, and lived with her mum in an apartment above a convenience store and her mum worked at the IGA bakery in town. I couldn't think of a cooler thing - to live ABOVE a place that sold mounds of candy. We both wanted to be writers and she dotted every "i" with a heart. I could probably still recognize her handwriting today. Her mum had a big birthday party for her at the bowling alley, and ordered pizza and, decked in our fluorescent jelly bracelets and equally atrocious bowling shoes we partied the afternoon away.

At the end of grade four her and her mum moved to the reserve north of town. Her mum was of aborginal background, and moved closer to family there. It was really only 25 minutes away or so, but in grade 4 that's a long way.

We talked on the phone since it wasn't long distance, but we didn't see each other much after that.

I remember exactly where I was when my mum told me she had sad news. my sister and I had been vising my grandparents for a weekend at their farm, and were in the mud room when she mentioned an obituary she saw.

It was for Ellie's mum. She had been hit by a transport truck when she was backing out of their driveway onto the highway. Ellie and I were in grade six, and the funeral was a couple of days before.

I don't remember how I got out to see her, but a few weeks after her mum died I went out to visit. She was living on her own in a band house, with her grandparents living across the road. I remember how the house smelled like cat litter that needed to be changed, there were stacks of dishes, and it was cold. What I remembered most, though was the shrine she had made for her mother. She had candles, and a wall of photos to remember her mother by. I don't remember much about what we talked about, apart from her grandparents giving us cookies and being struck at how alone she was.

She lived on her own from that point on, going to school and working at a local restaurant for barely slave wages. A few months after her mom died the dad she never knew, and only visited once died suddenly of a heart attack.

Our contact was fairly sporadic over the years, but when we were sixteen she called out of the blue one day. it was one of the more terrifying calls I'd received. She was calling to say goodbye, she didn't want to be here any longer. I remember the panic I felt, and relief when she agreed she deserved better.

When she was 17 she moved to what I think was somewhat of a 'promised land' to her, at least in comparison to rural reserve life. She moved to Scarborough, got by on social assistance, worked, and had two kids.

I visited them when her daughter was just a few months old, and her son was 2.5. Neither of the kids' dads were really around that much, and that didn't seem to bother her - she was more interested in the little ones. They were someone for her to love, and more importantly, to feel love from.

I haven't seen her since I visited that weekend. I think we exchanged phone calls a few times, but I think our lives turned out so different that the friendship was hard to continue. I blame myself for that. I didn't like that she bragged about stealing from stores, I didn't like the guys she picked to be her kids' dads. They seemed to have no interest in her (besides the obvious), little interest in their kids, and wore way too many pagers and had too much cash on them. I don't think at that age I had enough insight into what her life was like, and how hard it would've have been to lose a parent at twelve and live alone from then on. How hard it would've been to be a parent herself when she was 18, and again at 19 without any support system close by. I'm ten years older than she was when she had her first kid, and don't think I'm ready to be the capable parent a kid deserves.

I tried looking her up, tried calling 411, but without luck. Since running into someone with the same last name as her mum, I think of her often, wonder how she and her kids are doing, where life has taken them, and whether we'd be friends now that I've grown up a bit.

Here in Ontarie-airie-airy-o the license plates are simple. It was always three lnumbers, then three letters (123 ABC), then that ran out, and for most of my life it's been three letters then three numbers. Not too many years ago they ran out of three letter license plates and moved to four letter license plates starting AAAA 123.

(yes, I promise I'm trying to take this somewhere, no I don't promise I'm actually getting there)

For nearly a year Dave and I did the long distance relationship thing while I articled (the last thing you do here before you're officially a lawyer) and he was in Teacher's College. I lived in Ottawa, he lived in Windsor.

This meant I worked long(ish) hours Monday-Friday, and often drove down to Windsor for the weekend. For those of you unfamiliar with Ontario geography the drive looks something like this:


Between those little dots is about 492 miles, door to door. Many Fridays after work I'd walk home to my apartment, load up the cats and a couple of changes of clothes, and drive the sometimes 7 hours, sometimes 9 hours to get there. It all depended on traffic, and since the 401 is the busiest and widest highway in the world. There are times I could fly down in seven hours (which yes, probably involved breaking the speed limit), and other times I would hit construction or traffic and take hours upon hours and would end up just sitting there waiting for traffic to just. move. already.

Usually by Friday night I was already fairly exhausted by the work week, so leaving Ottawa at 6:00pm, getting through traffic on the 417 would land me in Windsor at about 1am or later. This, of course included a stop at my parents' place because leaving food out for the cats is not such a great option with one like Rhett. I think when he sees plates of food for the weekend he thinks to himself "well, better eat it all now, there's no telling where my next meal could be coming from!" Hence his current shape is best described as "round."

Needless to say it was a fairly exhausting trip, driving 1600 km over 14-18 hours in a weekend so Dave and I both developed "keep awake" games and little tricks to pass the time by.

Never being a math kid (as my alcoholic grade 12 teacher would quickly tell you), I think it's funny my game was to add up the numbers in my speedometer, or I would add, then subtract, then add each number so that 93,762 was 8 (9-3+7-6+2) or get all excited when it was a pallindrome number (like 85,658). Sad, but it kept me awake just as well as the truckers falling asleep in Tilbury drifting into my lane did, though that was a "suddenly more awake" feeling.

Dave, of course made lots of trips after school to Ottawa as well, and his game is more license-plate centred.

As I mentioned, our license plates are typically ABCD 123 type format. I think the plates started at AAAA, and went sequentially to AAAB then AAAC, AAAD, etc. His game was to see how far we were into the "A" series and kept looking for the furthest letter.

In fact, it's such a game that occasionally when I ask how Dave's day was he'll say "Fine, OH and guess what I saw! A "AZRV" plate! Getting closer!" and later tell me that two kids got suspended in his class and he pulled a great practical joke on someone.

This past weekend on our drive to Windsor to attend his Aunt's memorial we noticed a proliferation of AZY? license plates, and I realized that his addiction was bad when he woke me up (not realizing I was alseep) to tell me he saw AZYR plates. He admits to being a bit of a "goober" about this, I still think it's cute.

edited to add: Dave thought he saw his first B license plate last night on the 401, and had to slow down to ridiculous speeds on the 401 to confirm it. He was right.

Both soap box and non-soap box

Happy Birthday Sara! One of these days I'll actually make a list of all of our inside jokes. I think it's a good sign of a strong friendship when one (frequently nonsensical) phrase can cause the other person to burst out laughing and we have quite a few of them.

I found out late yesterday afternoon my dad was in a cycling accident. We're not sure how it happened (and neither is he) but after an ambulance ride we've determined he's got a concussion, broken thumb, torn calf musle, pulled hip flexor, serious road rash on hands, legs and other places he didn't know existed, and a family who is very, very, very thankful it wasn't worse.

And now for the soap-box portion of tonight's blog. If you ride a bike or rollerblade, WEAR A FREAKING HELMET. No, they're not sexy, yes, they'll flatten your hair, but that's way better than having your brains spilled on pavement. I figure with seven years of university poured into my head and its associated debts it's worth protecting. Hell, it's the only thing I've got because I'm certain I couldn't get by on looks alone (see sidebar). All it takes is one idiot driver and things are completely beyond your control.

So for the non soap-box portion of tonight's blog, I realized this morning that things were dire when I had a choice between a potato and past-their-best carrots at the bottom of the crisper for lunch options today. After having spent the weekend in Windsor for Dave's aunt's funeral we came home to a clean, but virtually grocery-free household. I managed tonight to to stock up on a few basics at the grocery store (we have fruit again! phew!) to at least tide us over to the weekend.

We spent last night planning our new kitchen at Home Depot, and think we've found a way to add more space to the kitchen which will be freaking great. Saturday before we left for the funeral the decorator who just re-did my parents' house came over to check our our digs. She's supposed to have sent us a quote but like a watched pot that never boils, my email hasn't coughed one up yet. I know having a decorator makes me sound all fancy-pants and hoity-toity. I'm self conscious about it but re had her over because some of the plaster in here needs some SERIOUS re-working and my time getting a law degree has done nothing to assist my ability to work with plaster. Also, we tend to be pretty busy of late and it's not like things are progressing here, we've totally gone stagnant and realistically I. Just. Want. It. DONE. Finally, I'm clueless as to picking a colour and figure it's better to get help with someone who can do this stuff instead of spending successive weekends pining over what colour we should use and is it the right one (and repainting when we realize that no, we definitely did not pick the right one).

We're both sick with colds (again!) and Dave was sound asleep when I got home from getting groceries at 7:15pm, so I'm thinking I'll join him very shortly with the hopes of kicking this cold once and for all.

Talk of Loins and Salmon

Last night we went to the Golden Griddle as a post-funeral meal, and it quickly became evident to everyone that this was a poor decision on our part. At 7:00pm on a Sunday we had the whole restaurant to ourselves, apart from a grandmother with teenage girls with her, one of whom never removed her ipod headphones the entire meal, and a older man, all of whom left shortly after we arrived.

As an aside I'd like to think my grandparents would kick my butt if I ever tried to listen to headphones during dinner. No matter how bad the musak was (and it was BAD) with the fake instrumental track and the saxophone covers of adult contemporary hits, and how brutally loud it was (perhaps it was just me?), I'm pretty sure headphones are verboten at the table.

I quickly began to recall the last time Dave and I went to the golden griddle (known as the golden girdle in this house) it was less than stellar, but we needed a quick meal last night because his brother was playing hockey later that night and we were going to watch.

We were looking over the menu, wondering what to order, when Dave's mum and I both saw this (First column, near the bottom):


I really like salmon. It's healthy (that is to say when it isn't covered in hollandaise sauce), good brain food, lots of Omega3 fatty acids. This was even wild salmon, better than the farmed variety.

What I don't get is what cut of salmon is the loin? Perhaps Pacific salmon have evolved to the point that they have loins (which evolved into us having a conversation about chicken loins) and walk upright, and maybe then they might have loins.

Despite what was obviously a doomed idea from the start idea, we decided to ask our waitress about the salmon and their loins (what can I say, our curiosity was piqued). Dave's mum politely asked what part of the salmon it was and the waitress helpfully pointed out "um, it comes out like salmon" putting her thumbs and forefingers together to make a filet shape. A couple of us tried pushing a bit further, but it became obvious that only served to frustrate both the waitress and us so the subject was quickly dropped and we steered clear.

I still don't think that salmon have loins. They have filets, steaks, but no loins.

_
I'll be good enough to give you more advise you didn't ask for. Should you be about to dine out at the golden griddle, and have no option available to you to go elsewhere, I might I suggest you not order the chicken parmigiana unless you have a ten foot pole. For my money there's nothing worse than over-boiled noodles that have turned to mush, aren't drained properly, tomato sauce sans basil, and pre-formed chicken, and this had all four kitchen disasters wrapped into one. Truly a perfect storm of bad food. Definitely a miss and not a hit.

Grandma's handiwork

We're in Windsor this weekend unexpectedly for a funeral, so here's a quick post. I'm looking forward to blogging about the meal we just had at the golden griddle. I suspect they've been doing some genetic engineering.
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I'm lucky to have had 4 grandparents and two great grandparents around for most of my life. I'm down to three grandparents now, but having known them has definitely enriched my life. My dad's mum has a number of talents that have ended up decorating our house to a degree, and I'm glad they have.

She writes in calligraphy all the time - grocery lists, cheques, notes to friends. I have a couple of poems she wrote out for me hanging in our spare room. The second one is my absolute favourite, it's a prayer by Chief Dan George from Canada Day called O great spirit (I'll post it here one day, it's a great read). I think if the house were burning down I'd grab Dave, get the animals, and grab this on my way out. It used to hang at her house, but after I admired it for so many years she gave it to me for Christmas a couple of years ago.


She also crochets (and knits! you should see the socks!), and made this blanket out of scraps of yarn to keep me warm while I was in university. It definitely did the trick.

Our wedding gift this year was this bequtiful crosstich, now hanging in our bedroom. The detail is amazing and it reminds me of the patterns of china she has and being a kid drinking tea (like a grown up) at her house.



What objects would you grab with you if your house were burning down?

Sailing with my dad

It's a warm, bright November day, and if it weren't for the lack of leaves on the trees, and the ones strewn over the lawn, you'd swear it was a warm summers' day outside judging only with your eyes.

Yesterday was my dad's birthday, and I'm fond of joking I'm the only boy in our family. As a kid I was a bit of a tomboy, and have tons of memories of dad and I going down to the lake to explore or skip rocks and explore, riding our bikes (including a few pretty good wipe-outs) and a special Saturday morning treat.

I'd go sailing with my dad.

To be clear, not the boat kind of sailing, but yard sale-ing. We weren't a yacht-owning kind of family. We weren't even a yacht-borrowing kind of family. Heck, I'm not even sure we could sail a dinghy.

We'd get ready for our sailing adventures the night before looking through the classifieds to find sales that sounded good - neighbourhood ones would be a huge volume in a small space, and usually the shorter ads would reveal better finds than big, flowery descriptive ones. Which isn't to say that the descriptive ones were skipped over - we'd check those for items we particularly needed.

Sailing was a big part of growing up in a family that was rich in other ways, but definitely not rich monetarily.

Dad and I would circle the ads we thought would be good, and set off early the next morning on our bikes with pockets laden with change to see what we could find.

Often a collectible die-cast toy would catch our eye - a friend of the family collected them and showed us what to look for when finding something valuable, other times we'd find plates that would match the so-called "unbreakable" corelle dishes to complete our set.

I mostly don't remember what we bought, but the time we spent together and the people we came across.

One lady we nicknamed a rather large and boisterous woman "BO" because of her pungent aroma. She smelled like the word "bathe" hadn't crossed her mind, and, being from a small town I think she was out pretty much every weekend and our paths crossed quite often.

It often became a social visit as well, as we'd stop by friends' houses when we were close by.

On days like today I think of the fun we had and smile. I was a lucky kid.

Dear NaBloWhaFo,

I think I don't wanna be your friend anymore. I'm tired, having just come from visiting my parents and sister for my dad's birthday (I said nice things about him last year, which was not amidst this BloPo crap, and happy birthday dad)). They have a big fancy pants TV and wine that comes in reeallllly big bottles and this chocolate cheesecake thingy, with an espresso mousse top, and toasted almonds, and holy crap was it freaking awesome. I drank some vino ate some, and Dave drove home while I practically snored in the passenger seat.

But back to NaBloPoMoFo. Apparently I don't have much to say, and certainly not enough to keep it interesting. Hell, the 3 people who read this rag of a blog have probably left given how uber boring it's been around here. Ooooh they want to re-do their kitchen! Ooooh there's their ugly linoleum! Oooh they had dinner. Oooh something funny in the news! How charming! Bleh!

I think the issue that I have with you, NaBloPoFoWha, is that I like this whole writing thing and sharing little quips about our life in the 'shwa, but frankly think the blogosphere hearing from me Every. Day. On. End. is enough to make all of the three people who read this blog run away, and perhaps screaming. There are only so many quips I can share before I get to be posting the cat. And I've seriously considered it.

I will work it out, though. I will finish you like leftovers in the fridge I don't want to go to waste, even though you didn't taste so great the first time, and are even raunchier after a thorough microwaving. Because I started, and damnit I will finish. I'm stubborn like that.

So please, dear three people who read this, bear with me. I promise when the "must-come-up-with-post, oh-hell-no-time-to-be-funny-or-witty, just barf words on internet" stuff is over I'll lay off and try think of actual, interesting posts. Less quantity, and hopefully, more quality (but the only thing I promise without budging is less quantity). Try not to be driven away by the level of inane-ness my blog currently has. I'm working on it.

Sincerely,
Crankpants in the 'shwa

Discovery

We may have hardwood floor in the kitchen! We won't know until we completely destroy the current flooring! If it's there it's buried under two layers of linoleum (which includes uber sticky glue), two layers of plywood, and lord knows what else. This may take some digging. Anyone want to have a tile party? Hardwood refinishing party? Any takers? No? Shucks.


Not even the dog can feign interest.


(Yes, the floors look that dirty 30 seconds after they've been swept. Animal hair everywhere here)


News item of the day? Also? Now THIS is a HIGH rise.

My favourite commercial

I saw this commercial for the first time today (we don't have cable and don't watch much tv so you'll have to forgive me if I'm the last person on earth to see it) and LOVE it.

Why public transit rocks

To the older guy I see en route to work at the bus stop:

I love your outfits. I love that you're clearly in your late fifties or early sixties. I love that you're not afraid to wear big pink frilly skirts. I love that your legs are unshaven and clearly freezing waiting for the bus every morning. I love that this doesn't deter you from wearing them. I love that you've kept your big shaggy beard, and your comb-over. I love your impractical shoes, and that navy really wouldn't be my choice with a pale pink skirt with a visible crinoline. I love that your coat hangs open and doesn't hide a deep purple appliqué sweater. I love that you're unapologetic, standing with the most gruff blue collar people, and skinny teenagers.

Thanks for making me smile.


(who made you smile today?)

(very) regional dialect

There is a four letter word in the 'shwa that is so heinous, so awful, so insulting that the most hardened criminals recoil at its ferocity.

Using it here is like calling someone the most heinous, vile, despicable word imagined. None of the most vile "yo momma" statements, or swear word combinations can match its level of insult. I'm sure fist fights, broken beer bottles, and serious injury have resulted when people used this word.

This is an interesting phenomenon, because it's unique to this area, and is pretty innocuous elsewhere, but has its own special meaning in the 'shwa.

The word?

Goof.

Add a "y" and you have a disney character, as in "don't be such a goof." Them's fighting words, especially in certain circles around here. Telling someone to "stop goofing around" is akin to wishing their hands will get chopped off and fed to ravenous wolves in their sleep, and getting an infection in the wake of it so bad that they wished they were dead. Goof. An innocuous word elsewhere has an entirely different meaning anywhere else.

Some police officers say that its sting is in homophobia here (ie it's implying you're more fond of the gents than the ladies, or are a pedophile) but others say it's just a swear word like any other.

Either way it's deeply entrenched here as a faux-pas word.

Any words like that where you're from?

Sunday Dinner in the 'shwa

Take portobello and white mushrooms, chop coarsely, simmer in olive oil and sherry. Add milk, and if lazy, cream of mushroom soup mix. Add more sherry. Season with pepper, garlic, whatever your heart may fancy.


Pour yourself a glass of wine, preferrably red. I chose a masi valpolicella but whatever you have on hand will do, and pour into a decanter to breathe, before pouring into red wine glass. (it's so nice not to have to drink wine from plastic glasses since we got nice ones for the wedding)

Make polenta (or if lazy buy it pre-made and slice into circles). Place on baking sheet, cover baking sheet with wax paper and spray wax paper with nonstick spray. Add thinly sliced garlic and thin slice of provolone cheese on top, drip of olive oil and throw in oven at 350 for about 12-15 minutes.


Drink more wine while watching cheese turn golden colour and stirring soup. Add more milk and sherry to soup, serve in cheap, easily chipped ikea bowls.



Dream of the day you can do this in your new fancy kitchen.

Dessert: It's antioxidant day! Eat a half pomegranate while drinking red wine. Take that, free radicals! Also, there is haagen dasz ice cream in the freezer - doesn't chocolate contain antioxidants?
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We spent the afternoon at home depot looking at kitchens and may have found cheaper alternatives that are actual wood. Anyone have any way of knowing whether we'll have to take up the linoleum? It's looking like there is no linoleum under the cabinets, and we have no idea what's under the linoleum. I can, of course hope that it's beautiful hardwood, but am not holding my breath. Anyone feel overwhelmed by the state of their house and the work needing to be done?

I'm just stopping home briefly between a wedding ceremony and reception for friends of ours, and thought of another wedding taking place today. It's our final wedding this calendar year, which is an accomplishment when you have 7 weddings you're invited to in 2006 (including our own).

Today's the day that Katie Holmes officially marries the couch jumper (apparently Oprah wasn't invited, even though her couch was the one that started it all!) . I'd say that this makes Katie an official beard for life, but I'm pretty sure Tom Cruise would sue me. Apparently he's not fond of insinuations. Luckily I don't have any money for him to take even if he did.

Despite the renewed work of his PR people, I still can't say I'm a fan of his at all with all the scientology stuff, and the "anti-medication for women suffering from post-partum depression. (It's a real condition! And not a nice one! Don't minimize it jackass!), Brooke Shields may have forgiven him but I'm not sure he didn't say what he means and just backpeddle effectively.

Oh well, I'm sure Katie knows what she's doing and they'll be very happy. This photo, apparently taken just before the wedding shows her over-the moon happy, almost unable to contain her excitement at her coming nuptials! Look at the anticipation in her eyes! Her relaxed brow, her sparkling grin! It just screams "just try to hold me back while I run toward the love of my life down the aisle and commit to spend eternity with him!"




Well, enough of that! We're off to a non-sham wedding reception!



P.S. Dave says GO BUCKEYES!

Ikea: Swedish for "out of stock"

After several dreary days, I decided some retail therapy was in order.

I don't think I've ever posted a picture of our kitchen, and since it's a wee bit messy right now, I'll just post a picture of it when we were house hunting.

What you can't see is that you have to yank drawers ope (because they're plywood drawers on a plywood frame with no track) and slam them closed. It's a workout I'm really looking forward to ending.

we have a stainless steel stove, and our microwave is
on an unfinished wood table opposite here

The fridge is at the other end of the window here, outside the picture.

Since this is our starter house (it's under 1000 square feet) we're not going to re-do the floor, we'll just work with it. Our kitchen is highly lacking in functionality, and storage space, and I love cooking, so I definitely want to change it. As it stands right now it's a galley kitchen with a fridge and microwave on an unfinished table on the opposite wall.

The last few days we've been toying with the Ikea kitchen planner and re-configuring our current setup to see how much more counter space we can muster. So far, I think Dave's come up with a genius plan (though I have to say it was my idea to move the fridge)

So, here's the plan:

The view from above. The right of the picture goes to our front hall (no door),
the top left door frame goes to the dining room and
the bottom right one to the basement and side door.

The south wall (with stainless fridge, and stove,
and white dishwasher. Can't win 'em all).

Looking north from our dining room. I'm especially excited about having a shelf
beside the window that I could grow herbs on! (assuming I don't kill them!)
The dog/cat treat jars will go on the open shelf and we'll have prep area! Awesome!

OOoh I'm so excited! I think I'll get up bright and early tomorrow to check out tile samples at Home Depot to see what we can find! Go backsplash! Hah I'm such a geek. After that we just have to figure out the counter top and voila!


P.S. Why is it when you have baby fever that there seems to be some sort of "pretty pregnant women" convention going on at Ikea. You couldn't turn around without seeing one tonight. I just kept my head down and drank my stupid lingeonberry juice (which I now think would be FANTASTIC with vodka).

End of an era

It came into our lives as a four year old car. It had been owned by an elderly Welsh couple who came here after the war, had a family and built lives here and decided in their seventies to sell all their worldly possessions and move back "home" to Wales. They sold everything they had, and I think the car was one of the last things they had left to sell. Even though I met them only briefly they struck me as one of those cute old couples who seemed hopelessly bright eyed, still looking at each other like teenagers. They embarked on the adventure back home. We ended up buying their fridge, chainsaw and wheelbarrow as well.

Walter and Grace kept it spotlessly clean, stored it in their (heated, I think) garage where they kept it locked. They had records of every oil change, every time a warning light came on, and I'm sure it was cleaner than most new cars when we bought it. It had remarkably low mileage on it for its age. We even received Christmas cards from Walter and Grace from Wales for years afterward. They wrote about how much Wales had changed since they left, how they missed Canada but not our winters, and how they were enjoying their new life there.

Seven years later, the Christmas cards were still coming, but were now just from Grace - Walter had died of a stroke leaving her a widow. I remember the sadness from that card. I think we made a donation in his honour, but I'm not sure. A couple of years after that card we stopped getting Christmas cards at all from Grace, and ours were being sent back. We never knew what happened.

The car we bought from Walter and Grace was a 1988 Chev Corsica - it was a replacement car for our 1979 Datsun (If you're guessing about now that we weren't exactly wealthy you'd be right. By the time I was 6 I could remember driving two cars to the wreckers.) when it finally bit the dust. The Datsun was a putrid 1970s diarrhea brown and I'd be lying if I were to say I was sad to see it go. Even the most devil-may-care tween girl would be mortified to be seen in that car, and I was both devil-may-car and mortified to be seen in it. I think the Corsica was the newest car we'd ever owned.

Coming to our house must've been a shock for that car - Walter and Grace would never have approved of us storing it outside in the winter, exposing it to salted roads, and, in two short years, me driving it.

I mostly learned to drive in a car known as the Death Star (my parents' 1992 Grand Marquis, which is approximately the size of a planet when you're learning to parallel park), but since it was the secondary car in the family, I often got to borrow the Corsica for toodles around town. It was so much easier to manoeuvre than the Death Star, which felt like you were steering a ship, spinning the wheel to turn slightly to the right.

The Corsica was the car I excitedly drove to pick up my high school friends from the GO station when they came home from university on weekends. It was my ride to work at my crappy high school jobs. It shuddered uncontrollably if you went faster than 120 km/h. It was my first taste of freedom that went faster than my bike.

In 1998 and 1999 after my first and second year of university I had full run of the Corsica for the summer. Every day I drove 40 minutes each way up the highway for a job titled "summer project supervisor" that paid $8 an hour. For two summers I drove it 80 minutes a day, five days a week. It was my first grown-up-like job, and the Corsica was my ticket to freedom that summer. I got to know exactly when I should pull out or wait for traffic to go by, and exactly what it could do that summer.

It had its quirks, and one was particularly dangerous. If you had a quarter tank of gas or less and you were turning left, there was a very good chance the engine would stall on you completely mid-turn. This included several times turning onto a highway from a dead stop, with oncoming traffic barreling toward me at highway speeds, and yelling "SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT" as I slapped the gear shift into neutral, turned the key, and slapped it into drive as fast as I could. I would have thought I'd earned a few grey hairs from those experiences alone but since I make Dave check daily he assures me that, as yet, there are none.

One time on the way home from work the battery light came on, and I knew instinctively it was the alternator. Being at least 20 minutes away, I called my parents, and our mechanic who told me to keep driving, and that I should even have enough time to stop, deposit my paycheque at the bank, and drive over to Steve's shop so long as I didn't turn off the car. He was right, and I was right to guess the alternator. I guess that's one thing I've been good at is car diagnosis, since every car we've owned has required some major parts overhaul or another. My sister and I even pushed it home a block once.

A few years later my parents decided it was destined to be an "in town only" car, staying off the major highways, but it continued to sputter along largely without incident. It started getting age spots of rust that Walter and Grace would never approve of, and the bottom of the wheel wells started rusting away. I think it was one of the few Corsicas that didn't end up with a disastrous paint job, clear coat flaking off and bubbling. Its steel grey colour hid the fact that it was dirty most of the time.

It survived a neighbour's kid backing into the door causing $600 damage. The neighbours never owned up to it even after we pointed out it had to have been someone backing out of THEIR driveway and it was exactly the right height for their bumper. It survived a low speed slide into the curb in on black ice, and came through alright.

It had a simple speedometer and gas guage were the only thing on the instrument panel. I could spin the radio dial to hit all my favourite stations without even looking and spin back to the song I liked. The wipers were a dial on the dash, the high beams were a click forward, the lights an on-off button on the dash. It was great in the snow in winter, gripped well with its front wheel drive, and any spin-outs I had never ended in disaster. There were times I wished the windows were automatic, but it was so good on gas I couldn't complain.

We've been going to the same mechanic as far back as I can remember. If I came home from university and called Steve, he'd recognize my voice and tell me what was wrong with the cars or how long they'd take to be done without me introducing myself.

I drove it a few weeks ago when Dave and I went to visit, and still love driving it. Sure it's got lots more road noise, and felt so different from my car but I still had a good deal of affection for it.

Last week my parents called Steve to ask if it was worth having the Corsica emissions tested, and whether it was worth it to buy a sticker to put it on the road for another year. The news this time was grim. While the engine was still in good shape, evidently that was about the only thing that was; the rest of the body and parts wouldn't last a year.

My parents took the plates off it today, and took the "Corsica" decal off the side of it. The decal now sits with the decals from other cars we've driven into the ground - a Cordoba (pronounced Coooooorrrrrr-doe-baaaaa! with your 'r's rolled in our house), a nissan one from the yellow rusted out station wagon, a buick sticker from my mum's car when I was little, and the datsun as well. They're the cars from my childhood, but this was the car of my independence. My brain turns to anthropomorphizing, wondering if the Corsica is sitting at the side of the road, feeling naked without license plates and wondering why it wasn't worth fixing anymore.

I'm sad to see it go, but after 18 years and 14 with us, it owed us nothing.

Kevin: This one's for you! (and you'd better leave a comment!)

I used to work at a place I like to call the 7th circle of hell. There are many former employees of that place now, and by coincidence I ran into a few of them to share the latest gossip earlier tonight over tea (aka scotch and water).

The person (now formerly!) at the helm of said sinking ship bore a striking physical resemblance to Ichabod Crane (though he's entirely devoid of any of Ichabod's good characteristics), and given that there are so many former employees of that place, that we should get badges to wear. I volunteered to design them.

In Latin (with some guesswork using an online Latin translator), here is the button I would have made:



(it says (or should say) we left them behind, THANK GOD!)

The only question is how many buttons I should order.

Bah humbug

Dear Neighbours,

I'm a big fan of the enthusiasm thing. I like happy neighbourhoods, and I like living in an established one (however sketchy some neighbours were and however happy I am that they moved!). It's so much better than the student ghettos / retirement apartments I've lived in. Even if some of you didn't bother so much with the hallowe'en thing (this year OR last).

That being said, I noticed on my run tonight that no fewer than 13 of you in a 4k radius of our house have their Christmas lights up. Not just up, they're on.

I understand the desire to put up the lights BEFORE the snow really flies and avoiding the risk of having exposing flesh to the risk of being flash frozen to any surface it comes in contact with when take your glove off for just a second. I see the value in putting up lights before interminably cold weather hits, and by not doing it now myself, I understand I will likely be cursing the fact that we didn't put our lights up when it was warm in a few weeks.

I have to say, though, I'm not a fan of the early-mid November Christmas decorating. Your lawn shouldn't be blinking yet. It shouldn't be as bright as daytime when I run by your place at night. Giant Santas and enough spotlights to illuminate a black hole have no place in November.

I get that the holidays are exciting, bringing with them constant visiting, going place to place to place, frantic shopping, wrapping, commercialization to the hilt - and for some - religious significance (all but the latter are a rant for another day), and that you want to show off your excitement, but it's too early!

Sincerely,
Scroogey McCrankypants.

Worst date ever

As NaBloPoMo drains me and I have little to write about I thought back to my mental archives. This is the true story of a date I actually went on. I'm not proud of it, but there isn't any exaggeration here.

I'll also confess that I met the guy online, and at that time, he seemed perfectly normal. I can't remember his name, but we'll call him Carl. We exchanged a few emails, he seemed capable of intelligent conversation. Seemed being the operative word in both those sentences. I hadn't seen a picture of Carl, but he hadn't seen mine either, and while I'm far from a knockout, I can't say I usually make people run screaming in the other direction so I figured he was in the same category.

Carl asked me out after an exchange of emails, and he told me to pick any restaurant and dinner was "on him." I agreed to meet him at my favourite local restaurant which was somewhere I was comfortable, where I knew the owner, and where I knew the food would be good.

Since I lived within walking distance and it was a beautiful summer day I walked the 20 minutes to get there - we had agreed to meet at 7 sharp at his instruction.

Even at a place where you know the owners and you're warmly welcomed it's odd to sit alone, waiting. There were other patrons at other tables in the small place and I felt like they were saying "poor dear, stood up" to each other about me. My checking my watch every few minutes probably didn't help that perception. I started to get was a bit miffed to be left waiting. I even went in back to say hello to the owner and converse in some broken English with gestures. I drank my water and poured myself another.

After 20 minutes I ordered a Thai iced coffee for myself (nectar of the gods that it is) and continued to peruse the menu like I hadn't seen it a gagillion times. I figured 20 minutes was the magical time. Sure, someone can easily be late 10, even 15 minutes because of some comedy of errors like having to change at the last minute, traffic, or not being able to find your keys. It can happen to anyone, and I'm totally understanding about. Once I hit the 7:20 mark, it it crossed that indefinite line to "maybe something happened, no big deal" to "this is getting rather jerky."

I made a deal with myself that if he weren't there by 7:25 I would order a tom yum soup and leave and curse him the whole way home.

Twenty-five minutes passed, I finished my coffee with an unexpected slurp and the owner came over and I ordered my tom yum. Just then I was blinded by a flash of light. It turned out to be my date's head being hit by the sun as he walked through the double doors.

To say I found him unattractive would be to say Everest is a big mountain, or that the Arctic is cold during wintertime. He looked like Homer Simpson with his two strands of hair in a combover that was so awful I think it would give the Queer Eye guys simultaneous heart attacks. I decided, though that I wasn't going to just back out right there - he could have a sparkling personality and quick wit that could make the night enjoyable. and he seemed to have both in his emails.

He stumbled in mumbling something about "late" that didn't include "sorry" or "have you been waiting long" and I decided to wipe the slate clean with Carl the homer-esque man across the table from me. I cheerily started the conversation, asked him what he'd done so far that day, what his favourite music was, about his job general small-talkey stuff. I even tried talking about the weather, and he mostly just sat there looking at the table, stunned, unsure what to say. The conversation consisted either of me talking or silence. His facial expression didn't change with either.

When it came to ordering I had my tom yum soup and I ordered mango sticky rice for dessert (is there a more perfect food than mango sticky rice?), and he decided nothing interested him so he had plain white rice and a dish they prepared "extra bland" for him (which I translated into "no spice" for him to the puzzled owner). This is after the guy implored me with his love of Thai food. Apparently he hadn't tried it before.

Apart from the above, there were four major things that made dinner really unpleasant. He chewed with his mouth open, smacking his food and lips constantly. He licked his fork and knife like it was an ice cream cone in front of him (paging Dr. Freud). One of the few things he said that night was that my soup smelled spicy and made his nose run. That led to him blowing his nose rather explosively right at the table (and not neatly) into the napkin. The spray range on it was awful. He then reached across the table to be suave hold my hand when they cleared my plate. Yeah that didn't go anywhere as I quickly grabbed my water and put my hands in my lap, out of sneeze range. He blew his nose a few other times as well, attracting the attention of other tables that night, and I sank into my chair and tried to hide behind my soup bowl unsuccessfully. He also belched out the side of his mouth no fewer than four times without so much as an "oops" or a "hah pretty good, eh?!"

When I asked what he thought of the food he said his was "awful" and "way too spicy" and had "too many vegetables."

He did eventually start responding to things I asked him as opposed to staring at the table, but didn't bother to wait until his mouth was empty to talk. Food flew when he spoke. I recall a single grain landing in my soup and pushing it away. If Dave had done that now (as a joke) I'd have finished the soup. With this guy? No freaking way.

Mercifully the bill arrived not too long after. It sat there, unacknowledged by him for a good 20 minutes. He'd been the one to ask me out said it was "on him." I was a starving law student, he bragged in his emails about bringing money in hand over fist and not knowing what to do with it all. Despite all that, I needed to take action and end this. I decided to go to the bathroom and hope it might be taken care of when I got back. When it wasn't I grabbed it off the table and said "well since you're not going to, I'll get this," and he muttered something about "oh I'll get it next time." I almost ran to the counter to pay, thinking that would free me from the awful situation I was in more quickly. Seconds counted. The faster Visa processed this, the sooner I was outta here. Unfortunately, it wasn't the perfect cure, as when the owner went to collect our dishes, he insisted that the two mouthfuls of food he had left (seriously, two bites. honest, and he didn't like it!) and I told him I should call it a night, that I had homework to do for school. He asked if there were law school classes taught during the summer, and I acknowledged that no, there weren't.

He offered to walk me home, and I said I would be fine. I stopped to politely say goodnight at his car (no idea why in hindsight) when he suddenly moves in for the kill. Like a plecostomus to aquarium glass in a south facing window, he came toward me, mouth open, eyes closed. I thought his giant mouth was going to swallow me. I reached out for his hand to shake it (forgetting momentarily he had just sneezed entire colonies of bacteria and viruses onto it, which likely included new species never seen before) and said goodnight, knowing I would never return any of the subsequent 7 phone messages he left for me.

So that's my worst date story. What's yours?


The best date I've had? Read about it here.

Weekend ditherings, and a meme

Much of this weekend was spent on some much-needed house work. Our place was/is in desperate need of organization, paring down our things, and finding homes for wedding gifts. We re-organized the living room, and that's made a nice difference already, and hopefully things will start coming together. I've finally called my parents' decorator for help with picking colours for our front hallway, and living and dining room. We need help with the plaster work and the hole in the ceiling, and figure it's best left to the experts. We've stripped most of the paint from the wood but they still need work. Finally, since the kitchen here might actually be original to the house (built in 1942) and is made of plywood and is useless when it comes to storage, we've been playing with the Ikea kitchen planner. When we go to peoples houses Dave and I have both accidentally slammed drawers closed because we're used to having to muscle ours closed (they're just open plywood on plywood so it takes some force to close them). Oooh am I getting excited at the prospect of a new kitchen!

We also ran errands and I got a dress to wear to a wedding next weekend, and I got my half of the thank you cards done. I think just to get that monkey off our back would be awesome.

Finally, I owe Sara a meme:

1. If you were a muppet, and had to pick ANOTHER muppet to be your best friend, who would you pick?
I think Elmo would exhaust me, Grover might be a bit too silly, and I'd have to pick Kermit.

2. Would you rather live on Sesame Street, with the Muppets on the Muppet Show, or down at Fraggle Rock?
Muppets for sure. I think it'd be a nonstop party!

3.If you were forced to date a Walt Disney Charcter (human or animal), who would it be?
Not a huge Disney fan... I really have no idea.

4. If you could only eat one vegetable ever again, what would it be?
Broccoli. How I love the stuff (mushrooms are a very close second though)!

5. Do you have any recurring dreams?
None that I remember. Most of my dreams are completely bizarre (ie Dave taking our moose out for a walk so they could mate, me being very pregnant and worried wolves would eat our dogs... interpret that, Dr. Freud! On second thought maybe not.)

6. If you could have a superpower, what would it be?
Teleporting all the way!

7. Did you rename your Cabbage Patch Kids, or keep them with the name Xaiver Roberts gave them? What were they called?
I think the one I had kept the name she came with. No idea what that was.

8. First Concert you ever went to?
Bruce Cockburn when I was 5 (quickly followed by Sharon, Lois, and Bram) - and if you're counting "sans parents" then Barenaked Ladies in Peterborough when I was 14.

9. Does it bother you that Sebastian Bach from Skid Row was acting in Gilmore Girls?
Oh how I love that show and am addicted . Nope, think he's kinda cute though not attracted to his character.

10. What are the Best 3 Simpsons episodes?
Only three? I love them all!
1. The one where Homer meets Mindy and falls for her and presses the button for the stimulator, I mean Elevator! and then sees Barney dancing in a bikini.
2. We put the spring in Springfield! - the one with they try to shut down the, um, burlesque house.
3. The one about SUVs where they have a Canyonero ("Can you name a truck with 4 wheel drive, smells like a steak and seats 35!")

12. Who do you tag?
Steve! And anyone else who wants to!

Remembrance Day

I've gone ever year to remembrance day services as far back as I remember, but it's become more important to me to go since losing my grandfather. Grandpa enlisted as a Rocky Mountain Ranger in his home town of Medicine Hat, Alberta shortly after WWII started in 1939, and spent the early part of the war on Alaska's Aleutian Islands to ward off the threat of a Japanese attack. I used to love looking at the few photos he had of that time in his life and his stories during the war. I hate that there are gaps in what I know of the story. He spent time there before being shipped overseas, where he ended up meeting my grandmother. My great grandfather was gassed with mustard gas during the first world war, and while I never met him it was always a connection to my history and a time to reflect on the impact of war.

I went this year with Dave, who was dressed like a relish tree* to the remembrance day services he was participating in.

Dave met up with his battalion, and I went with a friend of his' wife and their two incredible little girls to watch the service. I held their six year old through most of the service while the ten month old cooed and entertained herself with crackers in the stroller for most of the service.

I have to tell you how adorable these kids are. The six year old is a smart, talkative, insightful and considerate kid thoughtful and loved the attention from someone other than mum (who is such a cool parent herself). I had a blast talking to her, about school (we sang some of O Canada in French), about the service and pointing out Daddy in the parade of green, and Dave marching past. She helped hold the umbrella and played with her sister to make her laugh. I can't say enough good things about their kids and loved every second of it. My ovaries were aching when I strapped her in the car. Odd how I'm finding that if we got pregnant now I wouldn't be that worried. I mean financially we have a long way to go, but man do I love kids. I hope they let us babysit.

I'll leave you with this - the video Dave made for the school assembly which he's graciously let me upload to YouTube. See if you can pick the photo of my grandfather out from it. There are also shots of Sarajevo, where Dave did a tour with the UN Peacekeeping forces. I think he did a fantastic job of it.



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*Canadian military uniforms have pixelated camouflage patterns, which look somewhat like relish, hence me referring to him in uniform as a relish tree. He'll even hold his arms up in the air to look more tree-like to amuse me. The more recent pictures show the uniform in its pixelated state.