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There’s something not quite right about having three boy-people of various sizes in one’s bed before the clock strikes 7. While the biggest one was snoring, the middle two were engaging in some sort of call and response that can best be described as irritatingly humorous. ‘Whee whee’, announced the Hen and his older brother followed up with ‘whee whee’. ‘Choo choo,’ followed by ‘choo choo’, ‘cha cha’…’cha cha’….’pee pee’….’pee pee’.
It always culminates in pee.
‘Tomorrow is a school day,’ the Gort announced confidentially to his middle brother. Now that he has a calendar on the wall by his bed, he has an encyclopedic knowledge of each day’s activities. A knowledge he insists on sharing with others. Repeatedly.
But, little did he know that ‘tomorrow’ was, in fact, ‘today’. Just because it is pitch black at 7am, doesn’t mean it’s still the night before. But I didn’t correct him because, maybe, if he thought it was still ‘night’ he’d lie in bed for just a little while longer.
The Hen doesn’t have a calendar. Or much of an internal clock, it seems. At 5.56am he stood up in his crib calling ‘daddy’ and ‘mommy’ until someone (me) came and got him. ‘Do you want to sleep in my bed?’ I asked. But what I was really saying was: ‘you can lie in my bed but I am not taking you downstairs to eat breakfast.’ He nodded his head affirmatively. I thought we had a deal.
It didn’t turn out to be much of a deal. He writhed around on our bed, conducting his own form of morning revelry: roll call. ‘Whe baby?’ ‘Baby’s sleeping, shhh’. ‘Whe daddy?’ ‘Daddy’s sleeping…shhh’. ‘Whe Gaga?’ ‘Gaga’s sleeping….shhhh’. ‘Whe Hanho’…’there you are, shh’. ‘Whe mommy?’ ‘Right here. SHHHHH’.
It was barely past 6 and I’d already used up my allotment of shushes for the day. Not a good sign.
I tried everything in my sleepy power to keep him in bed as long as possible. I played ‘this little piggy’ more times than I could count. I’d finish with one foot and, without a word, he’d stick the other foot in my face. Next! For some reason the kid loves ‘this little piggy’. Almost as much as he likes cereal.
‘I wan shee-uhl’ he announced. Once, twice, three times. Fine.
We stumbled down the stairs. In the dark. I got out the frosted mini-wheats and the milk and the juice. He took a bite. ‘I done!’ he announced. No, you’re not. You don’t drag me out of bed under the pretense of your imminent starvation only to eat one bite and pronounce yourself ‘done’. I gave him the evil eye. And sat down at the table with him, eating my own bowl of mini-wheats. Feeling a tad guilty, he sat down again and proceeded to finish the contents of his bowl.
‘Nigh nigh’ he asked-said. ‘You want to go night night?’ I asked. He nodded. Relieved, I escorted him upstairs, where I practically had to pin him in order to get him to lie down on the bed. The clock hadn’t yet struck 7 when big brother joined us. Clearly still tired, but unwilling to miss out on all the ‘fun’.
‘Whe my jew’ the Hen requested. I pointed to the green sippy cup on my nightstand. ‘He’s not allowed to have juice,’ his brother informed me. ‘Juice is only for morning time.’ Little did he know we’d already been downstairs for breakfast.
‘I hunree’ my middle child piped up. I didn’t bother responding. ‘I wan shnack’ he clarified, lest I’d missed it the first time. The kid talks like an old man missing most of his teeth. He was lying in his crib three nights ago, talking to my mom on the phone. ‘Whadyousay’ he asked. For a moment it was as if he was lying in a nursing home bed talking to one of his kids.
When I didn’t respond to his request for additional food, he got off the bed and ran to his dad’s side. ‘Daddy, I hunree…I wan schnack’. No response there. So he ran back over to my side. ‘I hunree…I wan schnack’. It conjured up images of the Israelites marching around the walls of Jericho….in a semi-circle. Before the bed imploded, I gathered my posse and we went downstairs again.
This time for bowls of yogurt and ‘grape nuts’ (All Bran Buds, actually). The Hen didn’t touch his. Quelle surprise! It was still pitch black outside. And there is snow on the ground. And it’s snowing. And it’s October 14. Which means this year we will have eight months of winter instead of seven. And no amount of Chinooks can change that little fact.
I racked my brain for some kind of anything that would make me feel better. Since I’d eaten the last of the (second batch of) pecan pie yesterday, there was nothing but a cup of coffee with a teaspoon of butterscotch sauce for me. Maybe this sounds rather desperate, but I could have used the bourbon I’d bought for the pie instead.
I started pouring the boiling water into my cone filter. I noticed the conspicuous absence of dark grounds in said filter.
Twelve more hours.
Dear Calgary,
We’ve been together a year now. And what a year it has been: tattered world economy, the house that wouldn’t sell, moving house….twice, spending 24 hours of every day with my cherubs and growing a small elephant in the process. Really, in the midst of these fairly large changes, I hardly feel like I’ve given you the attention you deserve.
I could say you’ve grown on me, but I’m not sure that’s true. Maybe I’ve just developed a tolerance for you. When I wake up in the morning, I don’t think ‘wow, I hate living here.’ But I don’t think ‘wow, I love living here’, either. I guess I don’t think about you at all. Is that bad? Instead of a love-hate relationship, ours is more like an arranged marriage….or a 50 year old marriage; we make do with each other.
In the year since we were united in matrimony, I’ve found a few things I like about you. I like that you have places like Nectar Desserts. (Really, Nectar should give me free dessert for all the times I’ve mentioned them on this vastly popular blog read by thousands of people.) And coffee shops like Caffe Beano, Bumpy’s, Kawa and Caffe Artigiano. Where, for a mere $4 or $5 you can get a really good espresso drink with latte art. Perhaps you can guess from my tone that I don’t actually frequent these places all that often. That’s because I’ve curtailed my latte purchasing habit severely since moving here.
And let me not forget to mention my favorite neighborhood joint, Jeanne’s Pizza. I didn’t frequent Jeanne’s until a few months ago. Because, font snob that I am, I was severely turned off by the neon signs placed upon her storefront. Even if the neon signs said: ‘voted best pizza in Calgary’.
But one day, I put my aesthetic preferences aside and went in. And, Jeanne is the bomb; super friendly and an excellent pizza maker. She gave my boys 2 quarters last time we were there, so they could get Skittles from her candy machine. Her panzerotti are seriously delicious.
And then there’s the scenery. The prairie/big sky/mountain triumvirate. But, Calgary, you can’t really take credit for your surroundings, can you? It’s like a bride trying to take credit for having incredibly attractive parents, in spite of her own average appearance. If the looks didn’t transfer…..well, you lose bragging rights, I’m afraid.
But it is worth mentioning; that I enjoy driving around you and taking it all in.
I have some beefs with you as well, Calgary, they mainly involve price. Bear in mind, before moving here, I spent four years in Muncie, Indiana. Which could hardly be considered an accurate barometer of what things should cost (population 80,000 on a good day). My mortgage payment there was less than half of what we pay here…to rent a house.
You’re bigger, and Canadian, and I get it that you should be a little more expensive.
But, really, do you need to charge me $8 for a pint of Ben & Jerry’s? Are you the city equivalent of a New York Deli? Fair enough, I now only eat Chubby Hubby when I go back to Muncie, which is probably better for all involved. It being the most caloric, fatty ice cream available to mankind.
Did you know Meijer (in Indiana, much like your Superstore here) often has Ben and Jerry’s….on sale…..2 for $6? Sometimes it’s even a 2 for $5 sale…but that’s, admittedly, less often. Oh you’d better believe I used to stock up. Those were the glory days – 2 pints of Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer.
And plane tickets…oh don’t get me started. It’s just all kinds of wrong that I have to pay more to fly to Indiana than to fly to Europe. All kinds of wrong.
And I’m sorry, but I hope I never get to the point where I think $500,000 is a ‘good deal’ for a bungalow. If I plunk down half a million dollars of someone else’s money, I want a tennis court and a pool. And a maid. Maybe even a driver. Though that would require a car upgrade, since the Chevy Venture is not chauffeur-worthy.
There’s also the matter of the Calgary lie, I’ve discovered. It involves veteran Calgarians looking you in the eye and saying (when the weather is particularly atrocious)….’it’s never like this….this is really unusual.’ They also have another little phrase (lie!) they like to toss about….’it gets really cold….but we have the Chinooks….’ Which is a fancy way of saying you’ll freeze your behind off but there are these supposed ‘winds’ that come around (virtually never) that will warm things up. Hypothetically speaking.
Calgary, let me just say that this past winter, I think there were one or two Chinooks. In a four month period. There was snow on the ground for three continuous months (December to March). And let’s not forget: you don’t clean residential streets.
We arrived last August 18th. It was so hot and muggy, all I could think was ‘what have we done…I thought this place was supposed to be dryer and cooler?’ I can still recall our taxi ride in that yellow minivan with windows that wouldn’t fully open, and no air conditioning. Driving to our ‘vacation rental’ in the bowels of the northeast. And then walking almost a mile to the grocery store where things were labeled in Arabic.
But, the next day, when we went outside, it was cold. Cold. And rainy. And it stayed that way for a week. I thought ‘what have we done….we’ve missed summer entirely.’ But you shaped up in September and October. No complaints here – it was magnificent. We were outside nearly every day. Exploring Fish Creek park, Prince’s Island, the pathways by the river. Eating popsicles outside.
It was a thing of beauty.
And then there’s the blur that was December through, well, probably May. The only time in my life I could recall wanting to go insane about something as trivial as the weather.
Put it this way, you make an excellent case for polygamy. Judging from the tanned Calgarians who flood the airport between January and March, clad in shorts and tropical shirts because they forgot it’s colder than cold here…..I’m guessing I’m not the only one who thinks a second city might be a good option. You know, just for the winters.
You can be my main city the rest of the year.
Mention you live in Calgary and the number one response will be: ‘Oh, Stampede?! Have you been to Stampede?’ There is a couple in our Muncie church who regularly makes the pilgrimage to Stampede. Apparently it’s that….good.
From what I can gather – hearsay, the odd advertisement – ‘Stampede‘ or ‘The Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth’ occurs in the first part of July, shortly after Canada Day, and lasts for about ten days. It’s essentially a state fair with rodeos and musical entertainment all rolled into one; with half the populace wearing ‘western gear’ of some sort. And businesses and organizations everywhere hosting a ‘Stampede Breakfast’ each day of the festivities.
Jason’s department got in on the action, too. On Tuesday morning, they hosted a Stampede Breakfast (think pancakes and sausage served outdoors with an indie band playing vigorously), which we dutifully attended. The secretaries had created ‘Wanted’ posters with each faculty member’s visage emblazoned upon it. Naturally, I asked Jason to bring me his as a keepsake. ‘Put it with your Jon Gosselin autograph,’ he suggested.
At the preschool, the teacher had handed out little cards with information about ‘Kid’s Day’ at Stampede. There would be free admission, a free breakfast, and free cowboy hats. All for those who arrived before 9am. It seemed the least (financially) risky way to experience this particular aspect of Calgary culture. Still, we dithered about going. Right up to 11pm on Tuesday. I was leaning towards ‘not’ going. Jason, who previously adamantly refused to even contemplate the matter, was leaning towards ‘going’.
Yin and Yang. That’s who we are.
So, at 6.20am on Wednesday, when the Hen woke up, I decided it must be a sign that we should go. And proceeded to get ready, in an effort to get there by 8. So as to avail ourselves to all the freebies. Instead we left the house at 8. And drove to the University of Calgary, not the Stampede. Jason thought we should take the C-train (light rail) in, instead of trying to park our car in the mayhem. A wise idea, except it was quite a walk from his chosen parking garage to the train station.
There he was, pushing a speedy jogging stroller with a small person inside it, while I, at almost 34 weeks pregnant and holding hands with a five year old, lagged behind. ‘Hustle it up’ he called over his shoulder. I bit my lip in an effort to contain the choice words I wanted to toss back at him. Apparently I’m the only pregnant-woman-with-6-weeks to go who can’t speed-walk.
Naturally the ticket machines at this particular station only took exact change, which means we hopped on the train illegally; sans billets. I envisioned us getting hauled off the train by ticket agents, or being fined hundreds of dollars.
We arrived at the Stampede gate at 9am. Just in time to get free admission, but little else. We never found the breakfast – presumably it was gone by that point – and the ‘cowboy hats’, why they were blue paper cardboard hats with the sponsor’s logo. Judging from what the masses were carrying around.
Without an itinerary or clear idea of what we wanted to do, we wandered around aimlessly. Bought some overpriced food. Checked out some stinky farm animals. And then came the rides.
Mr. G had seen the cars from the ‘Skyride’ floating high above his head. He’d pointed to them and expressed an interest in getting on. So we, being good parents who want their kids to have fun, bought ride coupons and stood in line. Now, I’m not a fan of heights. At all. And I actually don’t like amusement park rides, at all.
As we waited in line Jason asked: ‘who wants to go with me, and who wants to go with mommy?’ Since we weren’t all going to fit in the same car. Mr. G clamored to go with his dad, which was great, except I’d already (mentally) decided that I would rather not take the little one in my car. Something about not wanting to be trapped at great heights with a screaming child who won’t sit down?
Suddenly it was our turn to get on; there was no going back. ‘How long is this ride,’ I asked the attendant in a panicky-trying-to-be-calm voice. ‘Oh, about ten minutes,’ she replied. That’s a long time, I thought. Jason and our oldest got on the first car. The Hen and I jumped onto the second one. It was going swimmingly, until my feet stopped touching the ground. And the Hen refused to sit down and started screaming. All my worst fears realized within the first ten seconds of the ride. And we still had nine minutes and fifty seconds to go?
Luckily he stopped screaming, opting to stand on my lap and look behind us instead. While I clutched him in an iron grip, trying to eradicate ‘child overboard’ images from my mind. All while trying to look neither up nor down. I had a flashback to the 7th grade when my sister and I had gotten on the ferris wheel at the Monongahela County Fair in West Virginia. How does it look so benign when you’re standing on the ground gazing up at it? Naturally the cars came to a halt – right as we were approaching the top.
Since neither of us had been on the ride before, we didn’t know it stopped periodically – to let other passengers on – or whatever. Both of us feared we’d gotten stuck. And we each freaked out. Me in my silent ‘if I don’t say anything, maybe it will be okay’ way. She in her not-so-silent ‘we’re going to die’ way.
Fast forward twenty some years later, and I’m suspended in mid-air, clutching my blue eyed cherub as though our collective lives depend upon it. Still silent; scared that if I actually voice my fears they will be realized. My plans for taking great pictures, evaporated. There was no way I was letting go of the Hen for even a millisecond to take a picture. So, with my camera strapped around my neck, I clumsily held it in my left hand, while trying to push the button with my thumb. Just like Annie Leibovitz.
As we approached the end, with our feet nearly touching the earth again, I relinquished my grip on the Hen and removed the camera from around my neck, in an effort to take a few decent shots. At the designated moment, we hopped out of the car. Except I’d forgotten the camera was just sitting in my lap.
Crash, was the sound it made when it hit the concrete surface. And as I stooped down to grab it, I got hit from behind by the moving car and yelled at by the ride attendant. Price saved on admission, $24. Probable camera repair, $400. Total experience, priceless.
‘Were you really scared,’ Jason asked me later, ‘because I was,’ he confessed without waiting for my reply. ‘I was holding onto our boy with all my might. He even said ‘Daddy stop holding me so tight’ but I couldn’t stop. Same thing when we went on the water ride. I was gripping him from behind with my arm, freaking out, while he was….laughing…having a great old time.’
It’s official: We’re just scared, old people. And we’re never going to the Stampede again.
It’s red and white (and blue) week this week, what with Canada Day and Independence Day just three days apart. Being a (pseudo) Canadian is a really perplexing thing – why is it so similar to America? The money is pretty much the same, the chain restaurants and shops are the same, they even have Thanksgiving (a month earlier, mind you) and a faux Independence Day’, though as Jason loves to point out: they’re not independent.
I flew to Montreal in the fall of 2000 (this is PRE 9-11, I should add). I had the audacity to fly without a passport. My rationale was that if one could drive across the Canadian border by simply showing a driver’s license, why should flying be any different? I tried to explain this to the customs officer who detained me. (Apparently I have a history of problems with customs officers.) ‘You wouldn’t fly to Paris without a passport, would you?’ the officer asked, dumbfounded at my stupidity. ‘Well, no,’ I wanted to say. ‘Because France is clearly a different country. Canada is only sort of a different country.’ But those are the kinds of responses that get you in trouble. So I just tried to look sincerely sorry and sincerely disinterested in ever defecting to Canada. And, luckily, I was released to enjoy a girls’ weekend with my mom and sister. Lesson learned.
So, as I was driving along the streets of Canada the other day, reflecting on the whole Canada Day-Independence Day conundrum, it occurred to me that I probably won’t hear the personification-of-Independence-Day song ‘God Bless the USA’ (or is it called Proud to be an American) this year. Which, despite having fond memories of singing as a fresh immigrant in 7th grade choir conducted by the very patriotic Miss Carolus, I’m not necessarily attached to. But it’s still a fact worth noting.
Thus, in honor of this week of patriotic celebrations, I’ve created my own version of the infamous chorus. Eschewing patriotic references. Because much as I love America and Canada, I’m not one for wearing flag t-shirts, or dressing up in red, white (and blue). Or putting little flags on my toenails for a patriotic pedicure.
It’s not of the same calibre as some of my other truly outstanding songs, in fact it may be the worst one yet, but I put it together in about 3 minutes. And it focuses on something we can all get behind – whether Canadian or American – dessert.
And I’m proud to be a North American
where at least the sweets roam free
there is pie and cake with whip-ped cream
e’en for those with a gluten allergy
and i’ll gladly stand up, next to you
for a second helping, too
cuz there ain’t no doubt i love pastry
God bless this continent
I can’t say I’ve pinpointed a vast amount of cultural differences slash language barriers between Americans and Canadians thus far. Granted, I’ve only been here nine months; maybe the big things will be revealed at the one year mark.
But I encountered my first ‘misunderstanding’ yesterday.
A friend had sent me an email inviting us over for ‘dessert and apples’ at a later date. As I read through the email I was perplexed. Dessert and apples seemed like a really odd combination to me. Is it a Canadian ‘thing’: to invite someone over for dessert and include some apples in case some of the guests are particularly health conscious?
It wasn’t the first time this had happened. We ‘d received a similar invitation last month, which has inclined me to believe ‘dessert and apples’ might be a Canadian thing. Another friend had sent me an email asking if we’d like to come to their house for the aforementioned delicacies. I gladly accepted her invitation, though I was puzzled about the apples bit. Then again, she hails from Michigan which is sort of ‘apple country’…right? Since we had a ton of apples in the house at the time, I almost asked if I should bring some over. But I didn’t, figuring maybe she’d gone to an orchard and recently picked apples off a tree. Extra delicious apples. Or something.
We went to their house and had a fabulous time chatting and eating the tasty hors d’oeuvres and dessert she’d prepared. But no apples were served – a detail that didn’t even occur to me until several days later. It seemed strange to invite someone over for something particular (apples) and not serve them, at all.
As I reread the most recent email invitation to record the proposed date, I saw I’d misread it slightly. She’d invited us for ‘dessert and appies’.
Appetizers?! I presume, judging from the spread of snacks our Michigan friend had put before us.
One nasty side effect of our trip to Seattle – besides a serious disdain for being in the car and a burning desire to purchase the largest SUV imaginable – is a major case of ‘the grass is greener on the other side’-itis.
Because, literally, the grass is greener in Seattle than in Calgary.
As we walked and drove around, we couldn’t help but notice that the city is, dare I say it, a lot prettier than Calgary.
Having never lived in Seattle, I really shouldn’t assume it would actually be a nice place to live. After all, appearances and first impressions aren’t ‘everything’. But I do like how it looks. I don’t think the weather would drive me batty. There are great coffee shops and restaurants. Mountains and water. Good public transportation – I hear. Attractive housing. It doesn’t appear to be much more expensive than Calgary….
The same thing happened when I visited London in February. And saw green grass and daffodils. And while I vividly recall how much I loathed riding the Tube each day when we lived there, there was no denying that London has a vibe. Calgary doesn’t seem to have one, or maybe it’s frozen. Maybe it’s because London has 8 times the population, or a history that dates back to who-knows-when.
‘Just wait until summer,’ people tell me. ‘The summers – that’s why people live here.’ Yes, I’ve heard the summers in Calgary are great. Dry. Not terribly hot. Green. Ish.
We arrived in mid-August last year and enjoyed a spectacular Fall, weather-wise. But that leaves November, December, January, February, March, and April. And possibly May – since several people have told me that one of the biggest snowfalls, ever, happened on May 19. And snow in July is not completely unheard of, either. As my fellow transplant friend, Carrie, wondered aloud one day: ‘is there ever a time when you know it will absolutely not snow?’
All this has been running through my mind the last several days. But then I got an email from my husband. With a link to an article that changed my way of thinking.
Silly me. Calgary is a great place to live. Especially if you read the comments following the article.
Nearly seven months into living in Alberta, and having endured (nay, continuing to endure) my first winter here….I have some additional thoughts on the subject of Calgary. Mainly in the ‘worst’ department. (Full Disclosure: I may have been feeling sick and in a bad mood when I wrote this one……)
Best of Calgary
In these tough economic times, blowing $20 on a takeout container of Sticky Toffee Pudding is not something I will do regularly. Even if it could serve six for dessert (or 3 Johnsons). But it’s seriously delicious. I will try and recreate my own at home….
2. Sunshine abounds
If you choose to live in Calgary, you will see the sun almost every day. There have been very few cloudy slash rainy days since we moved here last August. Yay for my Vitamin D levels, I guess. Though I’m not sure Vitamin D can be absorbed from inside the confines of a house, because…..
Worst of Calgary
1. Winter
Calgary is freaking cold. I may sound like an idiot here – ‘what did you expect, Nicola, you are living in the frozen tundra?’ But truly I’ve had it with negative something or other days. And snow that has been on the ground since December 7, 2008. Yes, that’s 3 months ago. I’ve also had it with people – long-term Calgarians – who feel the need to inform me that this winter is most unusual. ‘We don’t normally get this much snow,’ they’ll say, or ‘it’s not usually this cold…in March’ they’ll observe. A fat lot of good that does me – because in the winter of 2008 (or is it 2009), it did get that cold and the snow never left the ground.
2. Snow Removal
While technically falling under the ‘winter’ category, the snow removal (or rather, lack thereof) in Calgary deserves special mention. I took my sister and brother in law to the airport on Sunday. It had snowed Saturday night. Nothing had been plowed – not the major roads or highways and certainly not any residential streets. I could barely coerce my car into the intersection by my house – burned some serious rubber trying to get that little wagon out of harm’s way. Much less figure out where the lanes were on the road. On the way back from the airport, I counted six (6) cars stranded in the median along a stretch of Barlow Trail. I arrived home in a foul mood, muttering something about Latvia probably having a better snow removal system than Calgary. But Jason said Latvia’s economy was actually particularly bad. Whatever.
3. Access to Doctors
We took our oldest to the doc-in-the-box on Valentine’s Day. He’d been unwell for over a month, keeping US awake at night with his coughing. This particular doctor made a comment about the size of G’s tonsils and suggested he see an ENT specialist at the Children’s Hospital. To the doctor’s utmost credit, he followed up right away and got us an appointment. On July 7, 2009. Nearly five months after his February appointment.
I finally found a general practitioner willing to accept new patients. I booked an appointment right away. The first available – May 22, 2009 – more than three months from the date I called the office. As a mom at my son’s school said: ‘let’s hope no one gets ill before then.’
4. Lizard Skin
Is it the altitude, the mountain air or something else altogether…either way, my skin is dry as bones here. The boys’ too. I literally look ten years older in Calgary than when in the humid Midwest. And I’m really not at the stage of life where I wish to look older than I actually am. I apply lip balm continuously throughout the day. My knuckles are cracked and bleeding, and I’ve taken to using ‘intensive care’ body lotion on my face in an effort to hydrate myself. Not sure what my metrosexual English friends would have to say about that.
So some things seem completely unnecessary to me. Like Boss’ Day, the layers of packaging on kids toys or the show Two and a Half Men. But these things pale in comparison to the national holiday the boys and I awoke to this morning. CBC radio kindly informed us that it was 10 below and today was Hockey Day in Canada. This would be highlighted with hockey games all over the country matching retired hockey greats against members of the armed services, children with no teeth against children with fewer teeth and an entire town dressing up as Don Cherry. I found myself wondering what the heck every other day since the first flake hit the ground here has been. This is Canada where the junior hockey team leads the news broadcasts when it announces its lineups. Were the minor league teams can play in the same arenas as their NHL big brothers and still pack the place out. You can smell the stench of sweaty hockey gear every time a minivan/SUV door opens for crying out loud. Declaring a Hockey Day in Canada is like declaring a Fast Food Day in the US or a Fat Customer Day at Walmart. You had them at hello and there is no need to rub it in. OK well now that I have offended pretty much the whole of NAFTA, let me get to the only reason several of you are tuning in.
ARE THE CHILDREN STILL ALIVE? Yes I have gotten the urgent emails, ignored the caller ID, and tried not to be offended by the insinuation that we are probably just rolling around in piles of macaroni and cheese boxes. We are all fine thank you. Like any good Canadians we bundled up and headed down to the local pond to take in some aforementioned hockey and underwhelmed by local talent, we wandered over to the playground and proceeded to play for 20 minutes with the only patch of exposed earth and rocks the boys have seen in months. We wandered home, basking in the insanely bright and warm sunshine that seems to charactize even the coldest of days here in Calgary and stumbled upon the newly exposed sandbox in the front yard. Ice was removed from the “digger” and trucks and the boys spent another half hour bulldozing snow and pine cones around the yard. Finally their desperation for being outside gave way to the complaining of their cold fingers and we headed inside and trashed the house while I prepared the last of our provisions. Over tomato soup and grilled cheese we debated whether tomorrow would be a “school day, a church day with snacks, a big church day, or just a play day”. The answer was not well received since due to the lack of certain womanly qualities, I skipped the woman’s “coffee break” at the local church and G missed out on his Thursday snack.
So now that we have used up all the food prepared for us by the “beautiful one who travels abroad”, we will be the Three Stooges in a supermarket near you, my fellow Canadians. I only hope we can score some sweet deals in the after Hockey Day Sales.
It has been a long weekend of contrived observances.
G didn’t have preschool yesterday. I didn’t even bother asking why – I just mentally prepared for a longer day than normal. But Jason got the scoop, from who knows where. ‘Did you know it’s Family Day on Monday,’ he informed me. ‘That’s why schools (etc.) are closed.’
Weird. The U.S. calls this particular Monday in February, President’s Day…but in Canada it’s Family Day. Personally, I think Family Day should only be for people with 8-5 jobs who may not have the ‘opportunity’ to see their kids as much as, say, those with more flexible schedules. In our house, every day is family day. (In fact, Jason and I fully expect the boys will one day berate us for ‘being around too much’.)
So it saddens me that we had to miss out on two hours of preschool, because the Canadian Government thinks we need to spend more time with our kids. But, since there was mandated family fun to be had, we complied.
We started off the morning by watching a movie – Chicken Little; G’s new favorite movie of all time – and sipping hot chocolate and enjoying Anna’s Ginger Thins, which, for a store-bought cookie is quite excellent. The fact that IKEA sells them for $1 a box makes them taste even better.
If I omit the part about how I used the aforementioned movie, hot chocolate and cookies as bribery in order to cut the boys’ hair, it sounds like a very pleasant morning.
Except it wasn’t. Because my boys hate it when I cut their hair. G was so distraught that I had to augment the bribery, and let him watch a bit of a Dora DVD after Chicken Little.
Fortunately it’s ‘Family Day’ not ‘Education Day’.
After lunch and a nap for the Hen, we headed out for a ‘Family Walk.’
There are some micro climates in operation here in Calgary. I can step outside of my front door, think it’s a certain temperature, and dress accordingly. But when I arrive at the trail by the river it is about ten degrees colder. And really windy.
Which means wintry family walks are not terribly enjoyable, because certain little people sit in their strollers and make comments like: ‘my cheeks are freezing’ and ‘can we go back – I want to be done.’ [Call me dramatic, but age almost-five 'sounds' a lot like what I imagined age thirteen would sound like.]
Of course, the same certain little people will leap out of the confines of their stroller when they see a playground. Fully capable of setting aside ‘freezing cheeks’ for some time on the swing.
After almost an hour into the experience, we proceeded to walk back to the car. I stopped here and there to try and document the icy surroundings.
But Jason got a tad grumpy with me because he thought my stopping briefly to take 3 pictures sent the Hen into a state of recalcitrance, aka complete unwillingness to sit in his stroller. Bucking and fussing like those wild horses you see in movies. So we ended up carrying him much of the way back – because people give you nasty looks when your kid is sitting in a stroller screaming, with legs and arms flailing.
Before getting in the car we stopped at the coffee shop for a snack. Because promising a snack after a walk (on a cold day) is the only way we can get the grumpelstiltskins to come along. And sure enough, a little bit of cookie or some yogurt parfait erases all the torturous memories, and keeps them going back for more.
After we moved to Calgary, I searched somewhat intently for ‘things’ that distinguished Americans from Canadians. Cultural differences, if you will.
It was more difficult than I expected, because the ‘differences’ weren’t glaringly obvious to me. The amenities seemed basically the same: chain shopping (Gap, Old Navy, Pottery Barn, Restoration Hardware, Wal-Mart) and chain restaurants (Olive Garden, Red Lobster, Taco Bell, Wendy’s etc).
The one seemingly Canadian thing we stumbled upon is the phenomenon that is Tim Hortons. When we moved here we’d never even heard of Tim Hortons. I imagined it was the Canadian equivalent of Wendy’s. Mostly because it looked the same, at least from the outside.
Our introduction to Tim’s came via a conversation with our moving truck driver; the silver-haired guy who defied spatial limitations as he helped Jason force our queen-sized box spring up the steps to the second floor of our house. Ripping out pieces of plaster and chunks of paint in the process. Afterwards he told us about the various places he’d lived in Canada.
One particular town was apparently so small ‘the nearest Tim Hortons was 50 km away.’ A piece of information he shared while talking about how his wife was so miserable there, her only solace was found in driving to the faraway restaurant for a ‘fix’. Often. Apparently she racked up a lot of miles on their car doing this.
I figured that if Tim Hortons warranted driving 50km one-way….then it would behoove us to try out this little piece of Canadian culture. And goodness knows, we wouldn’t even have to drive 5km to get to one in Calgary: they’re more ubiquitous than Starbucks in these parts.
Still, six months passed and we had not yet set foot in one.
But on Tuesday, after a doctor’s appointment, when we were driving home with hungry bellies, we saw one and stopped. There was nothing else nearby. We walked in and joined the considerable line of people. Since it was well past the lunch hour – nearly 3pm – I could only imagine the line was evidence of the incredible goodness served on the premises.
I surveyed the menu and the display cases. Tim Hortons basically serves cookies, muffins and donuts, and sandwiches and soup. And coffee. Not much else. It’s like a cross between Dunkin Donuts and a small scale Bob Evans. Frankly, the muffins and donuts didn’t look particularly appealing to me, but we were starving, with no choice but to immerse ourself in the Canadian-ness.
I chose an apple fritter and Jason selected a BLT sandwich. And a Canadian maple donut. My apple fritter was okay – but not what I would call ‘delicious’. Honestly, I think the ones at the grocery store in Muncie, Indiana are tastier. Jason didn’t even offer me a bite of his donut, so I can’t report on it. There was a strange looking cream filling inside, though, which is probably why I didn’t insist he share.
The donut holes (aka ‘Timbits’) I’d picked up for the boys were reminiscent of the donuts we ate, many, many years ago, at a little church in Morgantown, West Virginia. I was twelve, and it was my first introduction to cake donuts. I hated the stale, cakey, weird taste then and I hated the Timbits too. They were yeast-like in appearance but cake-like in texture: the ultimate betrayal. And they tasted of nutmeg which, in my mind, is the vilest spice of all.
The BLT was a perfectly fine sandwich, even if we had to wait fifteen minutes for the guy to put it together. At least we know: if we ever had to go to Tim Hortons again, we could order the BLT and survive.
The boys, of course, loved the Timbits. I’m not sure if it’s their convenient bite-size, or the cute cardboard carrying case? Whatever the reason – G begged for them like they were something truly special. The next morning he jumped out of bed, ran to the kitchen to get the Timbits box and brought it to my bed.
‘Hey mom,’ he said holding the box with two hands in front of my face so I could see it, ‘remember yesterday you said we could have donuts for breakfast?’
I burst out laughing at this kid, who evidently spent all night dreaming about the two lousy donut holes he would share with his brother in the morning.
A true Canadian.
