A Weekend of Bears and Fish; Valleys and Mini Ponies; Friends and Awesome Kids

This past weekend was one of the last long weekends of the summer that Bear and I will get to spend together. For the past six months I've been trying to use my banked holidays by taking a four day weekend every two weeks. This way I am off work when he is and we can spend eight days a month together instead of four. In a few weeks I will be in a black out period though, and I won't be able to take any more time off until mid September.

Having a man partner who works out of town isn't always bad. I have more time to write. And when he is away I can live more luxuriously by pooping with the door open-- live like a real princess.

But I do miss him when he's gone. I miss our driving songs, and calling each other derogatory names, and sharing snuggles, and conversation, and ideas, and laughter. I miss the way Snort momentarily forgets how to rape meow because he is there to distract her with upside down bum hugs. And when I tell him that a wasp is inhabiting the inside of the patio door, he sits outside with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and waits until the wasp comes back, and when it does, he glares at it and murders it, like pphhfftt, whatever. Then he seals the holes in the door, and he's all like, "what?", and I am all like, "where have you been all my life?"

Last Friday we got the call that Bear's vintage F-150 was fixed, so I spent most of the weekend sitting barefoot beside him as we drove around Central Alberta. I sang along to the radio in a munchkin voice. I squealed when I saw a miniature pony. I ate copious amounts of drive-through lard. No, I didn't feel bad about it. Yes, I sort of do now.

On Monday morning we headed to Sylvan Lake to meet Bear's friend, Doug, for an early morning fish off of the wharf.

Not Worf.

W-H-A-R-F.

Doug is in my top three favorite friends of Bear's. He is up there with Bear's foreman, a stellar man who is preoccupied with the notion of Bear and I procreating and is known for getting on the radio at Bear's work and asking him if he's thinking about babies.

Every man's worst nightmare.

But not quite as extreme as the last time I saw him, which was around this time, when he walked up to me with a huge smile on his face and said, "so I hear you two are having a baby." I looked over at Bear, whose face and body writhed in man-horror and, perplexed, he blurted, "OH MY GOD, MAN!?". I let him down gently and told him that no baby was cooking in the oven. "Babies are a good thing," he reminded us in his gruff, matter-of-fact man voice, ". . . a good thing."

And then there is Bear's cook, AKA "Mom", who regularly sends me bags of goodies. BAGS. Obviously she knows the way to win an undomesticated girl's heart. And obviously she feels that my love handles need to be bigger. A lot bigger.

Bless her heart, sweet woman.

Sylvan Lake is a little resort town that is about ten minutes West of Red Deer. Bear and I aren't huge fans of Sylvan, mostly because it is crawling with party-happy douche bags during the summer season and it takes away from any sort of feelings of serenity normally attributed to being at the lake. But at 6:00 am on a Monday morning, it was dead. And cold, may I add. Which, of course, I overlooked, and, once again, wore inappropriate footwear. An hour into it, Bear passed me his hoodie. Two hours in he offered his socks. "You're sure you don't want my socks?! You're SURE?"

"F!cking city girls," he muttered under his breath. "F!cking. . . city. . .  girls. . . "

Doug brought his eldest son with him. That kid is the shit. Meaning I love him. Not a bone of attitude in his body, except when he's being beaked by Bear and he tells Bear to shut up. And that's the kind of attitude that every kid needs to properly navigate through life. That's a life skill.

Later on, Doug's wife dropped off the younger two before heading to work. The middle boy is about eight or nine years old and has a quick wit that I really admire in a child. Like when he referred to  something being contaminated and commented that it was contaminated because it "saw his brother's face." Sibling love. Nothing is better. Especially when it's done well.

The youngest of the three is a petite, six year old girl with long, apricot hair and a sunshine giggle and a determination that she will sure as hell do anything and everything her older brothers do. "I can do it myself! I CAN DO IT MYSELF!" She doesn't hesitate to wind up her fist and punch Bear in the torso as hard as her little body can muster, either. Then she does her sunshine giggle. Again, life skills.

Apricot Sunshine refers to Bear as "Bob". "Bob" refers to her as "George".

"Bob."

"Bob!"

"Look what I got, Bob."

"Bob! Look what I got!"

"BOB?!"

"BOB!!!"

"Yessss, George?"

The last time we went fishing with them, she showed "Bob" some rocks she had found.

"If you rub them together long enough, you'll get a diamond."

"NOOO! That's not true," she said and sprayed her sunshine giggle all over the place. She wandered away, rubbing the two rocks together, and came back a few minutes later looking discouraged.

"Show me the right way to do it, Bob!"

"Bear showed her the appropriate technique. "It'll take awhile, he assured her, "so be patient."

She took the rocks from his hands and rubbed them together as she walked away, her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth in great concentration.

Her dad sighed. "I am so ashamed right now."

"Happy Canada Day... or whatever it's called."

We Canadians live in a blind spot about our identity. We have very strong feelings about who we aren't but only weak ones about who we are. We're passionate about what we don't want to become but oddly passive about what we should be. - John Cruickshank (in McLean's Magazine)

Today is Canada Day, a special day for Canadians to celebrate the anniversary of the 1867 Constitution Act, a day when all that British woo-ha united into one, singular country called Con-ahhh-du.

"The houses... the village...!"

As Canadians we are notoriously humble, so much so that we do not exert a lot of time and energy into celebrating, or even conceptualizing our own culture. We are, however, undeniably talented at poking fun of ourselves, which, in conjunction with our general disinterest in raping other countries, puts us at the bottom of the Douche Bag List and enables us to travel the world while proudly sporting the Don't Worry, I Am Just A Canadian flag on our knap sacks.

Through history Canada has come to be perceived as a place of refuge. Dodgin' the draft? COME TO CANADA. Escapin' slavery? COME TO CANADA. Wanna drink before the age of 21? COME TO CANADA.

Canada is probably the most free country in the world where a man still has room to breathe, to spread out, to move forward, to move out, an open country with an open frontier. Canada has created harmony and cooperation among ethnic groups, and it must take this experience to the world because there is yet to be such an example of harmony and cooperation among ethnic groups. - Valentyn Moroz

Our country is one of openness and vast, natural space. The desire to be alone with nature seems to be deeply rooted in our bones and is part of who we are as people. Most areas of Canada endure particularly harsh weather, and I believe the risk of getting stuck in a snow bank on our way to work and potentially freezing to death helps us stay grounded.

The beaver, which has come to represent Canada as the eagle does the United States and the lion Britain, is a flat-tailed, slow-witted, toothy rodent known to bite off it's own testicles or to stand under its own falling trees. -June Callwood

Indeed, we're all about the beaver.  No, I mean the animal. And the moose. Our religion is hockey and our pride is Canadian beer and simple niceties. We shop at Canadian Tire and indulge in Tim Hortons' coffee like it's a crack addiction. We breed amazing comedians like John Candy, Russell Peters, Dan Aykroyd, Phil Hartman, Mike Myers, and Martin Short, just to name a few. Even little Michael Cera and that potential douche in the making, Seth Rogan are from Canada.

Despite the fact that many American based movies and television shows are produced here, our film, television, and music industries are still in their adolescence. Well, except for Much Music, which has become quite the MTV-esque, sell out whore.

Remember the low budget, good ol' days of Much Music? REMEMBER TREE TOSS?

Author/anthropologist J. R. Colombo: "Canada could have enjoyed English government, French culture and American know-how. Instead, it would up with English know-how, French government, and American culture."

Unfortunately our adolescent media industries motivate many big artists to jump the border so they can reach a wider audience. If our industries better nurtured mainstream artists and they remained rooted in Canada, it would likely minimize our tendency to latch onto the bright lights of American culture and would help perpetuate the celebration of our own.

I was going to write about Kevin Bacon, the infamous Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, and then relate that to how great it is when different elements of Canadiana are merged together, like Alex Lifeson from Rush guest starring on Trailer Park Boys. Or Gord Downie, Joel Plaskett, and Emm Gryner appearing in the movie One Week starring Joshua Jackson. Yes, Pacey is also a Canadian.

And then I realized that Kevin Bacon isn't even Canadian. He's from Philly. Apparently I assume that all ugly American actors are Canadian. Like Tom Hanks.

We all have different things that make us feel in touch with our Canadian roots. Although I was not a fan of the Tragically hip when I was kid, nowadays when I hear a song by The Hip I feel distinctly Canadian, probably because they dominated the radio airwaves when I was growing up, and also because their lyrical content is very Thinking About Beavers And Drinking A Pint Of Canadian Beer While Adorning A Maple Leaf Tattoo.

Americans are benevolently ignorant about Canada, while Canadians are malevolently well informed about the United States. - J. Bartlet Brebner

The average American knows very little about Canada or Canadian culture, which gives us Canadians a feeling as though we're all sharing some sort of inside joke.

Some people name their kids after they are born. They look at the kid and say, "hey, he looks like a Jeremiah." So they name him Joey. - Mikel Nielson, The Wolf Pack.

Something that is fun to do is to Google Americans debating health care and to read their insights on the social, financial, and medical impacts of our health care system here in Canada. It's like listening to a thirteen year old Hannah Montana fan with downs syndrome who is drunk off rubbing alcohol explain Quantum physics. I love it! But it's not as great as Rick Mercer interviewing Americans on the street:

Or THIS link.

For those who get the day off from work, I hope you celebrate by listening to some Canadian tunes, drinking Canadian beer, and watching Canadian Bacon. Happy Canada Day.

I want to thank all the Canadians who came out today to wave to me. . . with all five fingers.
President George W. Bush (during his first visit to Ottawa Nov. 30, 2004)

Winter Hell: the update

Hour two:

Hour twelve: 

 

I was not high on PCP, so I did not attempt to get out of my communal drive way. Laura and Hank picked me up in Hank's man truck. Yes, I was late. And yes, Laura and I were expected to be on time, not because it was reasonable, BUT BECAUSE WE ARE CANADIAN. Yes, the roads were like a fucked up carnival ride-- black out! White out! Black out! White out! All while traveling through snow drifts and snow rutts and snow lakes and snow rivers and possibly a few snow oceans. And of course, our opening key holder was also snowed in (which Laura predicted would happen when she called work to make sure that we were still expected to be there-- seriously, Canada). Have I mentioned that I'd like to body slam snow over a coffee table? 

Twelve hours after I took the last photo and twenty-four hours after I had awoken to a wall of snow barricading the passage in and out of this condo complex, the snow removal guys finally showed up. A light shone down from heaven and angels sang and [insert politically incorrect word starting with the letter "R"] kitties pounced amongst the winter sky as miniature wings fluttered upon their backs like My Little Ponies from the Pegasus series.

Every winter the impracticality of my car becomes more and more pronounced. Like maybe, just maybe, driving a Mustang through unpredictable, Western Canadian winters makes me an idiot. And as this harsh reality sinks in, I am officially abandoning my mockery of all trucks and 4X4 vehicles. Even lifted trucks. Yes, you heard me. Ok, I will continue to mock Hummers, but once the Zombie Apocalypse hits, I will stop mocking those, too.

The everyday adrenaline rush of living in winter hell.

Up until Monday, Central Alberta had done a swell job at avoiding winter: minimal snow, above seasonal temperatures, overall awesomeness.  Like every year, we held our collective breath and discussed the possibility that maybe, just maybe, this winter will be mild. But then the snow came, then it half ass melted, then it froze again. And now the temperature is below -20 C and the roads are so slick that I'd probably be better off ice skating to work instead of driving my rear wheel drive sports car among an exhaust ridden sea of pick up trucks, sport utility vehicles, and front wheel drive four doors that have suddenly grown large, unshaven man balls.

People who live in mellow climates really don't know the winter hell that some of us endure. Fuck those people. Do you know how drastic winter is around here? Drastic enough that I wear leg warmers for half the year. Leg warmers paired with wool socks. Imagine sharing a moment of intimacy and your partner stopping mid embrace to ask you to remove your legs warmers because the homeless, butch soccer player look deflates his mojo. "And the wool socks, too, Lojo, don't forget the wool socks."

On the plus side, wearing a leg warmer/ woolie combo to bed is a good test in measuring a man's love for you. . . or, well, how badly he wants sugar. But things like wool socks are insignificant sidenotes when it comes to a gnarly winter. It's the discomfort and pain of severe cold that really gets to us. And unlike other locations around the globe, those of us who endure ugly weather on a regular basis do not get snow days. School is rarely cancelled, businesses keep rollin', and employers still expect employees to show up on time. All we get is zero visibility and frost bite warnings for skin exposed for more than two minutes.

A few days ago I met up with the new man in my life after we had both wrapped up a night shift. I will refer to him as Bear-- he looks like a brown bear, babies me like a teddy bear, growls like a grizzly bear, and when delirious from tiredness has informed me that he if ever comes across a bear he will wrestle that bear, and own that bear, and put fear in all other bears within the bear community. So, Bear it is.

It had gotten down to -22 C that night, and Bear who, more or less, works outdoors, had just finished a twelve hour shift. As we sat in a restaurant waiting for our breakfasts to come, Bear shoved his stiff fingers into the sleeves of my hoodie as he shivered. Seeing an alpha male shiver is like seeing a killer whale choke on an oil spill. Or witnessing a Terminator keel over from acid indigestion. Or watching your dad cry. It's just wrong.

When we laid in bed later that morning gearing up for sleep, he put his arm around me and pulled me close. And, like usual, I waited for the Furnace with a Heart Beat to warm me with eco-friendly body heat. I waited. And I waited some more. And then I waited some more. But all I felt was coolness radiating from deep within his bones and the surrounding muscles that had not yet forgotten the shitty discomfort of a cold, winter night.

8:30 AM. First hour of winter storm.

9:30 AM. Second hour of winter storm. Wind still at a minimum. Supposedly 11 hours to go. Le barf.

Right now an Arctic cold front is sweeping across Central/ Southern Alberta. Snow, strong winds, and my all time favorite, blowing snow. This is why I feel no need to sky dive. Or bungee jump. Or go white water rafting. Living in Western Canada is exciting enough as is. Today, a typical day, will consist of numerous gambles, like will I be able to get out of my communal drive way without getting stuck in the snow bank that will have accumulated due to my condo company's inability to offer the snow removal service that I pay for in my condo fees? Will I get stuck so badly that I will need to phone people to come push me out? Will I be late for work? If I get out of my drive way, will I make it safely down that slippery highway that will appear to be moving from side to side like some fucked up ride at the carnival? Will I even make it to work? Or will I just die?

Oooh, the anticipation.