Hello, fair readers,
I know it is becoming cliche to remark about the infrequency of these posts, but yowser, I haven't written since July? What is wrong with me? I do think longingly of taking to the keyboard to dump out my thoughts and musings in long-form, but I rarely do. You all don't want to read the mundane stuff, right? But, tonight, I have a lot on my mind, the least of which is that my daughter keeps leaving on all the lights.
As the myriad anxieties that have plagued my mind of late were stewing in my brain tonight, I decided to come down to the kitchen and get away from the charming snoring (love you, honey) for a bit and write about nothing in particular, just to see if writing could work out some of the restlessness. Actually, I was really coming for a snack and to lie on the couch, but I digress. Then, as soon as I reached the stairs, I noticed that the Christmas tree was still aglow. We usually put it on a timer, but we've been busy, even neglectful. Or even, flying by the seat of our proverbial Christmas pantaloons (which are red plaid, naturally).
The tree is roughly the eleventh source of electrical light that Eliana turned on, of her own volition, today, that she did not turn off. She left on her bathroom light (every time), her bedroom lights, my car's backseat light, two other auxiliary Christmas trees (we've got spirit; yes, we do!), and lights downstairs in the rec room, hall, and playroom. The kid must be getting a kick-back from Dominion Virginia Power. But, as I crossed the living room to tap the switch on the big tree, I paused. She is just dispelling darkness, all day long. As soon as she gets up in the morning, she plugs in a tree, even when she is supposed to be eating her breakfast and putting on her shoes. When she gets home from school, she'll hit the other ones. She lights the garland; she hums carols; she is enjoying the season. She is preparing her little heart for Christmas, kilowatt by kilowatt. I need to get on that train. For the love, if you are going to be stressed out and distracted this time of year, at least light the blessed tree.
You haven't heard from me; it's true. I have returned to Virginia in a bit of a funk. Gone is the excitement of experiencing a new place; gone is the novelty of being the quirky American in the room with a whole bunch of friends to make; gone is the freedom that comes with knowing you are in a temporary situation. Gone is the traffic. Just kidding. That's totally still here.
We're back! But, what now? We've been changed, but we're in the place where we started. It's overwhelming, the familiarity. It's haunting, the stuff that didn't resolve while we were gone. It's bizarre, the stuff that did. It's comical, the neighbors you finally meet, who didn't realize you were ever here in the first place. It's disorienting, trying to find your place when you're not sure what you should have left behind for good and what you should welcome afresh.
What have I worked out from all of that? Well, I think that I want to pretend I am here temporarily; really, aren't we all? There are so many museums, events, PEOPLE to see here that I haven't fully appreciated. Uh oh, this is getting to sound like a New Year's Resolution post. Ick. No, really. Just light the tree.
Merry Christmas.
And get some sleep. It's important.
Tuesday, 16 December 2014
Wednesday, 9 July 2014
Show Me the Money!
Is it time for my quarterly blog post again? Say it ain't so!? Summer has come to the beautiful province of Alberta, and things are sunny and pleasant. Our time in the True North is sadly coming to an end, as Christopher's job here ends in late August. It's so hard to say goodbye to this place, especially when it is so nice outside.
While we have truly enjoyed our time here in Wild Rose Country, it's no secret that we initially came to Canada for the money. Namely, we came here so that Christopher could take a great opportunity and stay gainfully employed. What we did not anticipate that the money we would receive would be so much fun. Yes, I know that money is fun to have and fun to spend, even fun to hold on to for a rainy day. I mean that Canada's money, its physical currency, is like a party in your wallet.
While we have truly enjoyed our time here in Wild Rose Country, it's no secret that we initially came to Canada for the money. Namely, we came here so that Christopher could take a great opportunity and stay gainfully employed. What we did not anticipate that the money we would receive would be so much fun. Yes, I know that money is fun to have and fun to spend, even fun to hold on to for a rainy day. I mean that Canada's money, its physical currency, is like a party in your wallet.
See what I mean? It's color-coded and just plain happy.
When we first arrived, not all of the bills had plastic holograms running through them. The five dollar note (blue) actually had children playing hockey on the back. That image has now been replaced with an astronaut and a cool space arm thingy that Canada is super-proud of developing. It's like they decided to tell kids, "Hey, we have the hockey thing locked down. Let's get back to space."
The holograms are a little spooky, I must admit. Having the Queen pop out of the ATM on your twenties is sometimes a little intense. It's like she knows I am going to spend it on something unwise. She would prefer that I be a little less frivolous, or maybe she would like me to stop dressing so casually and put a proper hat on once in a while.
"Do you really need that bag of crisps?"
It also took a while for the money to feel real. At first, it just felt like we were in the game of "Life," minus the other three child pegs and without Art Linkletter's signature on everything. Now, months later, it actually feels right. U.S. currency actually looks odd when I see it on TV. I think the solution is for me to sit quietly among a lot of U.S. currency until it starts to look right again.
Canada has some really nice coins, too. There is no paper dollar here; we use the Loonie, a golden coin with a loon on one side and the Queen on the other. (You won't hear any Queen/loon jokes here, move along, people.) As a special bonus, there is a two-toned two-dollar coin known as the Toonie. Brilliant. Both are lighter-weight than U.S. dollar coins, so your change purse stays manageable. Sometimes, you go a little while without spending them, and then you realize that you have $18 in coins in your bag. Then, you experience the euphoria commonly felt when you find money in last year's coat pocket. They had to have some way to create this effect, as your coat doesn't get tucked away long enough for you to forget about money in it here. I would take a picture of a Toonie and post it, but I just gave all of mine to the whipper-snapper with the whipper-snipper, who just mowed our lawn.
Canadians have also done away with the penny. The phase-out happened just as we moved here. There was an adjustment to that, as well, but I can now say that I do not miss the little guy. I think it is silly to mint a coin that costs more to produce than it is worth. There, I said it. You still use exact amounts in electronic transactions, but cash deals use rounding. Sometimes it goes in your favor, and you get to feel like you made a little extra money. Whoo! Other times, it doesn't go your way, but you realize that right now a Canadian penny is worth even less than a U.S. penny, and you move on with your life.
I hope you have all enjoyed my tribute to the wonderful world of Canadian currency. Remember, if you want to help me readjust to the U.S. dollars, feel free to send some to me for my tactile therapy. It will really help.
Monday, 24 March 2014
Feel the Burn
I am not, nor have I ever been, an athlete. I do recognize, however, the many health benefits that come from regular exercise, and one of my goals while living here in Canada has been to increase my activity level for general health and well-being. I am not getting any younger, and the butter here is delicious. I need to offset the butter intake, people.
I have tried to find activities that I enjoy so that I can overcome the gravitational pull of "Let's Make a Deal." This winter term, I decided to enroll in a barre class for the first time. The course description billed this as a class that incorporated elements of Pilates and dance with the aid of a ballet barre. The term "low-impact," a favorite of mine, also appeared, along with the promise that I would leave "feeling incredible." I used to enjoy dance classes way back when, and I like Pilates. How bad could it be?
The description of the class is accurate. I do feel incredible after each session. Incredible here means, "amazed at the fact that my limbs did not shake off my torso and that I did not collapse from over-exertion as the techno music pulsated along to the oxidation of my dying cells." Did I mention this class is called, "Barre Burn?" No? I should have known that anything with the word "burn" in the title is not designed for me.
The instructor of this course, I am convinced, is not human. She is a machine. She teaches an hour of a higher-level barre class immediately preceding my hour-plus-long class, and her energy never flags. In fact, she always goes about ten minutes over on our time, which I know because after about the first 15-20 minutes of class, I look desperately at the clock willing myself to go on. She was not present for the very first class session, which I have decided was a shrewd marketing technique. Her substitute on Week One made me believe I could have a shot at making it through an entire class without praying for sweet, sweet death. The first week that she did teach, I was unable to climb stairs without agony for four days. I overheard her say today that she was going to take a trip for a full two weeks "down there" and was going to steal ideas for more barre exercises. I am convinced her trip is not to Mexico or Arizona, but rather to Hades, and she is going to the Devil himself to find even more ridiculously painful and sadistic routines.
This powerhouse instructor has a charming habit of counting reps down from eight, after you have already done about 2,000 motions. Just when you think you have survived, she says, "and hold!" She then counts even longer and then commands you to pulse the motion in a new and horrifying direction. I did not know that so many muscle groups could simultaneously submit their resignation to me. Then, of course, you have to do everything again on the other side, for the sake of having both hemispheres of your body despise you.
The "aid" of the barre is debatable. By the time we get to the barre, I stagger toward it after having been worked to near-death in the middle of the floor for a good 25 minutes. The exercises at the barre feel easier than what has just transpired, but my legs are still shaking in protest of every bend, stretch, and yes, even standing still seems impossible. I try to save my miniature collapses for moments when the machine is looking away. I jump back in just as she is saying something like, "Just when you want to give up, keep pushing and breathe through it! This is when the body feels the change!" Her programming is apparently also suited to work as a doula. Why I am doing this? Lady Gaga sings overhead, telling me that I am holding my leg in a hydrant-ready pose "for the applause, applause, applause..." I don't hear anyone clapping, but somehow, I manage to hang on during this portion and am rewarded by...FLOOR WORK!
I can usually see the light at the end of the tunnel by the time we get to the floor. Even if the exercises there are difficult, at least my legs no longer have to support my body weight, and the pesky hand-weights that cannot just be 2.5 lbs each because they feel like the weight of the western world are cast aside. Plus, we will soon be stretching, thank goodness, and the techno remixes will give way to a slower-tempo ballad of hope and inspiration.
I know that the stretches feel so much better because of all of the abuse my body has just endured. But what feels the absolute best to me is the last cadence of music and the "Thank you ladies; you all were great!" that means I can profess to my classmates that I, once again, surprisingly, did not require medical attention, waddle to my car, and drive home.
The machine personally told me I did well today (our last session of the term) and asked me if I would be enrolling in the next session. I may have told her that I was moving out of the country soon, which is kind of true, if soon is "within the next four months." If you can't use your lack of Canadian citizenship to avoid pain and suffering, then when can you use it? There is some small part of me that would re-enroll, but that part is probably not any of the muscle groups below my waist.
I have tried to find activities that I enjoy so that I can overcome the gravitational pull of "Let's Make a Deal." This winter term, I decided to enroll in a barre class for the first time. The course description billed this as a class that incorporated elements of Pilates and dance with the aid of a ballet barre. The term "low-impact," a favorite of mine, also appeared, along with the promise that I would leave "feeling incredible." I used to enjoy dance classes way back when, and I like Pilates. How bad could it be?
The description of the class is accurate. I do feel incredible after each session. Incredible here means, "amazed at the fact that my limbs did not shake off my torso and that I did not collapse from over-exertion as the techno music pulsated along to the oxidation of my dying cells." Did I mention this class is called, "Barre Burn?" No? I should have known that anything with the word "burn" in the title is not designed for me.
The instructor of this course, I am convinced, is not human. She is a machine. She teaches an hour of a higher-level barre class immediately preceding my hour-plus-long class, and her energy never flags. In fact, she always goes about ten minutes over on our time, which I know because after about the first 15-20 minutes of class, I look desperately at the clock willing myself to go on. She was not present for the very first class session, which I have decided was a shrewd marketing technique. Her substitute on Week One made me believe I could have a shot at making it through an entire class without praying for sweet, sweet death. The first week that she did teach, I was unable to climb stairs without agony for four days. I overheard her say today that she was going to take a trip for a full two weeks "down there" and was going to steal ideas for more barre exercises. I am convinced her trip is not to Mexico or Arizona, but rather to Hades, and she is going to the Devil himself to find even more ridiculously painful and sadistic routines.
This powerhouse instructor has a charming habit of counting reps down from eight, after you have already done about 2,000 motions. Just when you think you have survived, she says, "and hold!" She then counts even longer and then commands you to pulse the motion in a new and horrifying direction. I did not know that so many muscle groups could simultaneously submit their resignation to me. Then, of course, you have to do everything again on the other side, for the sake of having both hemispheres of your body despise you.
The "aid" of the barre is debatable. By the time we get to the barre, I stagger toward it after having been worked to near-death in the middle of the floor for a good 25 minutes. The exercises at the barre feel easier than what has just transpired, but my legs are still shaking in protest of every bend, stretch, and yes, even standing still seems impossible. I try to save my miniature collapses for moments when the machine is looking away. I jump back in just as she is saying something like, "Just when you want to give up, keep pushing and breathe through it! This is when the body feels the change!" Her programming is apparently also suited to work as a doula. Why I am doing this? Lady Gaga sings overhead, telling me that I am holding my leg in a hydrant-ready pose "for the applause, applause, applause..." I don't hear anyone clapping, but somehow, I manage to hang on during this portion and am rewarded by...FLOOR WORK!
I can usually see the light at the end of the tunnel by the time we get to the floor. Even if the exercises there are difficult, at least my legs no longer have to support my body weight, and the pesky hand-weights that cannot just be 2.5 lbs each because they feel like the weight of the western world are cast aside. Plus, we will soon be stretching, thank goodness, and the techno remixes will give way to a slower-tempo ballad of hope and inspiration.
I know that the stretches feel so much better because of all of the abuse my body has just endured. But what feels the absolute best to me is the last cadence of music and the "Thank you ladies; you all were great!" that means I can profess to my classmates that I, once again, surprisingly, did not require medical attention, waddle to my car, and drive home.
The machine personally told me I did well today (our last session of the term) and asked me if I would be enrolling in the next session. I may have told her that I was moving out of the country soon, which is kind of true, if soon is "within the next four months." If you can't use your lack of Canadian citizenship to avoid pain and suffering, then when can you use it? There is some small part of me that would re-enroll, but that part is probably not any of the muscle groups below my waist.
Thursday, 6 March 2014
News Flash: It is STILL Winter
Hello, friends. I realize that I have not posted anything on this blog in a long while. I have had many thoughts and good intentions about writing a post. I wanted, for instance, to tell you all about the indoor Christmas parade I attended in Edmonton, wherein a woman from a local dentist's office dressed as a tube of toothpaste and some greyhound rescues were dressed as reindeer. Vixen, in particular, was not amused. There were mascot performers and some people from an organization known as the Knights of the Northern Realm. It was quite a display. It was the best (read: only) indoor parade I have ever attended.
But that was December. Several long months ago.
And it is STILL winter. But, take heart. The sun returned at the bus stop a few weeks ago after a long absence! There are also still festivals in this fair city. A few weeks ago we went to the Silver Skate Festival. Outdoors. It was a high of zero degrees Fahrenheit. We were undeterred, but I think I almost lost a toe, or two. My toes aren't that great, anyway, but I would like to keep the full set for resale value.
Almost everyone up here who knows I am from Virginia asks me how I am handling winter. I tell them that even Virginia has had a rough season this year. They are impressed by your snow totals, I must say, Mid-Atlantic folk. I have managed quite well, I think, to survive this long winter without losing my minds or my happy spirit, but I have to say that one thing, above all else has bothered me about winter here: One basically has to guess where the lanes to the roads are located, especially when it is actively snowing at night.
They manage to mark where stop lines would theoretically be at intersections. They put up signs to show where hypothetical medians go. There is no such aid for tracking the lanes themselves. You are on your own.
Last night, I was driving home from the concert hall downtown, the Winspear Centre for Music. It's a lovely place, and I had a great rehearsal with the Alberta Baroque Ensemble. It was such a great evening of music-making, in fact, that I had forgotten all about the weather outside. As I stepped through the doors with my fellow choristers out into the night air, one man gasped and said, "Not again?! It is supposed to be too cold to snow." That right there is a phrase I never adequately understood until I moved to Alberta: "Too cold to snow."
I got into my car and started down the road. The snow was light, glittery, and wispy-- beautiful, but it was blowing like white desert sand across my windshield and the road. One cruel joke of highway safety is that lane markers are also white. There are also no reflectors on the roads here; they would just be broken under the wheels of a plow. So, Kelley, just pick a spot that looks like a lane and pray you make it home. That is what I did. Tractor trailers, oil rigs, pokey little Hondas, and I just made our own highway configuration. It was terrifying: a snow globe of terror, brought to you by the Government of Alberta.
I feel lucky to be able to write this entry today. It is an entry of great gratitude that I paved my own path and survived.
Oh, and Saturday will be a downright spring-like 39 degrees. Cue the robins.
But that was December. Several long months ago.
And it is STILL winter. But, take heart. The sun returned at the bus stop a few weeks ago after a long absence! There are also still festivals in this fair city. A few weeks ago we went to the Silver Skate Festival. Outdoors. It was a high of zero degrees Fahrenheit. We were undeterred, but I think I almost lost a toe, or two. My toes aren't that great, anyway, but I would like to keep the full set for resale value.
Almost everyone up here who knows I am from Virginia asks me how I am handling winter. I tell them that even Virginia has had a rough season this year. They are impressed by your snow totals, I must say, Mid-Atlantic folk. I have managed quite well, I think, to survive this long winter without losing my minds or my happy spirit, but I have to say that one thing, above all else has bothered me about winter here: One basically has to guess where the lanes to the roads are located, especially when it is actively snowing at night.
They manage to mark where stop lines would theoretically be at intersections. They put up signs to show where hypothetical medians go. There is no such aid for tracking the lanes themselves. You are on your own.
Last night, I was driving home from the concert hall downtown, the Winspear Centre for Music. It's a lovely place, and I had a great rehearsal with the Alberta Baroque Ensemble. It was such a great evening of music-making, in fact, that I had forgotten all about the weather outside. As I stepped through the doors with my fellow choristers out into the night air, one man gasped and said, "Not again?! It is supposed to be too cold to snow." That right there is a phrase I never adequately understood until I moved to Alberta: "Too cold to snow."
I got into my car and started down the road. The snow was light, glittery, and wispy-- beautiful, but it was blowing like white desert sand across my windshield and the road. One cruel joke of highway safety is that lane markers are also white. There are also no reflectors on the roads here; they would just be broken under the wheels of a plow. So, Kelley, just pick a spot that looks like a lane and pray you make it home. That is what I did. Tractor trailers, oil rigs, pokey little Hondas, and I just made our own highway configuration. It was terrifying: a snow globe of terror, brought to you by the Government of Alberta.
I feel lucky to be able to write this entry today. It is an entry of great gratitude that I paved my own path and survived.
Oh, and Saturday will be a downright spring-like 39 degrees. Cue the robins.
Friday, 18 October 2013
Giving Thanks
This past Monday was Canadian Thanksgiving, our first (and perhaps, only) in Canada. We had a full turkey dinner with mashed potatoes, dressing, cranberry sauce, fancy green beans a la Barefoot Contessa, and pumpkin pie. We had just one additional guest at our table, which means I am still enjoying leftovers from our 14-pound, free-range, organic turkey that I was on a waiting list to purchase. Not that I am complaining; those Hutterites sure can farm! (I totally get the wait-list thing: seriously delicious bird.) It was strange having Thanksgiving in October, but it does fit nicely with harvest time, and I was able to bring out my Crate and Barrel turkey towels a few weeks early and enjoy my gourd-centric decor a bit longer. (Bonus!) I also actually used what little fine china I packed onto our moving van six months ago. Every time I use something especially heavy or fragile that we moved here, I rejoice a little.
As we usually do on this holiday, we took time to express our gratitude. I continue to marvel at how, in six months, so much has happened and how we have met so many new people and explored new places. I am truly thankful that we have had this experience. While we certainly miss aspects of our Virginia life, I want to write down a few of the things and people that I treasure about Sherwood Park, Edmonton, and Alberta. In no particular order, these include:
A vital economy that gives Christopher the opportunity to work.
A strong cultural community that gives me the opportunity to make beautiful music with two very different groups.
A kick-tush library.
A caring school for my child to attend.
Lots of affordable recreational opportunities for all ages.
Parenting resources, completely free.
A wonderful group of new friends we have collected from many sources.
Proximity to beautiful mountains and lakes.
Great National Parks.
The Northern Lights!
Low humidity!
Beautiful, comfortable summertime. It is possible!
Polite people, as a rule.
Lots of adorable boots available for purchase.
Being just enough like home to keep me from being too homesick.
Roads in a grid system.
Curb-side composting.
Free trips to the doctor.
Delicious grass-fed beef.
Delicious poultry.
Yummy butter, even if it doesn't come in sticks.
OK, now I am getting hungry, but you get the idea. Canada, you are OK by me, and I am glad that I have had the chance to get to know you better. Thanks for making me feel at home. I am thankful for this time we have had together. I know winter is coming, and everyone asks me if I am ready. I think it's good I have made this list now, so I may consult it in January.
As we usually do on this holiday, we took time to express our gratitude. I continue to marvel at how, in six months, so much has happened and how we have met so many new people and explored new places. I am truly thankful that we have had this experience. While we certainly miss aspects of our Virginia life, I want to write down a few of the things and people that I treasure about Sherwood Park, Edmonton, and Alberta. In no particular order, these include:
A vital economy that gives Christopher the opportunity to work.
A strong cultural community that gives me the opportunity to make beautiful music with two very different groups.
A kick-tush library.
A caring school for my child to attend.
Lots of affordable recreational opportunities for all ages.
Parenting resources, completely free.
A wonderful group of new friends we have collected from many sources.
Proximity to beautiful mountains and lakes.
Great National Parks.
The Northern Lights!
Low humidity!
Beautiful, comfortable summertime. It is possible!
Polite people, as a rule.
Lots of adorable boots available for purchase.
Being just enough like home to keep me from being too homesick.
Roads in a grid system.
Curb-side composting.
Free trips to the doctor.
Delicious grass-fed beef.
Delicious poultry.
Yummy butter, even if it doesn't come in sticks.
OK, now I am getting hungry, but you get the idea. Canada, you are OK by me, and I am glad that I have had the chance to get to know you better. Thanks for making me feel at home. I am thankful for this time we have had together. I know winter is coming, and everyone asks me if I am ready. I think it's good I have made this list now, so I may consult it in January.
Wednesday, 25 September 2013
Oh, Canada Post, or The Mystery of the Moving Mailbox
We recently had a grand misadventure with the postal service, Canada Post. Now, on the surface, Canada Post is friendly with its lollipop-proffering clerks and splashy with its vibrant, multicolored postal boxes conveniently located all around town (none of which seem to be photographed and posted online so I can show you just how cheerful they look); whereas, one can barely find a USPS blue box any more. Well, I am here to tell you, it is all a magnificent distraction. The truth is, it is crap shoot up here. I blame the lack of Saturday delivery. (Gasp!) Our mail was missing for more than seven weeks, and no one could tell us why...until I finally traipsed into the post office (for the third time on this specific quest) and found a smiling, lollipop-proffering employee who happened to notice that mail for our household was now being held at the post office because our box was too full of mail to deliver any more. This, after other encounters had resulted in people telling me to be patient and that there was no mail anywhere for us. Finally, there was mail for us. They were right; we just needed to be patient and persistent. ARGH!
Our box. Box 4 on Summerland Drive, panel 2? No, that's not your box any more. Wait. What?
A prior call to the oh-so-helpful customer service line had revealed that our postal code had been changed. Without notice to us, of course. No worries, though. We later learned that they remembered to tell Entertainment Weekly back in July sometime. Bully for them. We had asked if that meant a change to our box, as well, but no one else made that connection. Where was all of our mail? We were still getting coupons addressed to no one in particular. Service hadn't been suspended all together. What gives?
On that day the mail would prevail, a postal supervisor came out and handed me new keys to our new box on a new street. I tried not to be concerned that the key envelope had a completely wrong address on it. I just took them and hoped for the best. He apologized, but he could not say what exactly happened. He admitted he had overheard questions about my mail in the prior weeks, but he did not intervene earlier. Dude.
The keys fit, once I drove around to two different possible postal bays and found the correct box. They "weren't exactly sure" which one it would be. ???
We were rewarded with many greetings for Christopher's birthday in August and Eliana's in September, two High Five magazines, seven Entertainment Weeklys, all of Eliana's school paperwork and bus pass information, labels I had ordered for Eliana's school things and had given up on seeing, and some bills that luckily are paid online. It was like Christmas. Very strange, frustrating Christmas.
I want to congratulate Canada Post on one success that they did have, lest I seem ungracious as a visitor to this great country. My mother-in-law addressed a card to Eliana without a street name on it at all, with just the number two and our city name. It arrived, a mere month after she sent it, and one week after we unlocked the mystery of the moving mailbox. We must be famous around the post office now. Go ahead, write us a letter. Your real Christmas cards should arrive if you mail them now, even if they change our box again.
Our box. Box 4 on Summerland Drive, panel 2? No, that's not your box any more. Wait. What?
A prior call to the oh-so-helpful customer service line had revealed that our postal code had been changed. Without notice to us, of course. No worries, though. We later learned that they remembered to tell Entertainment Weekly back in July sometime. Bully for them. We had asked if that meant a change to our box, as well, but no one else made that connection. Where was all of our mail? We were still getting coupons addressed to no one in particular. Service hadn't been suspended all together. What gives?
On that day the mail would prevail, a postal supervisor came out and handed me new keys to our new box on a new street. I tried not to be concerned that the key envelope had a completely wrong address on it. I just took them and hoped for the best. He apologized, but he could not say what exactly happened. He admitted he had overheard questions about my mail in the prior weeks, but he did not intervene earlier. Dude.
The keys fit, once I drove around to two different possible postal bays and found the correct box. They "weren't exactly sure" which one it would be. ???
We were rewarded with many greetings for Christopher's birthday in August and Eliana's in September, two High Five magazines, seven Entertainment Weeklys, all of Eliana's school paperwork and bus pass information, labels I had ordered for Eliana's school things and had given up on seeing, and some bills that luckily are paid online. It was like Christmas. Very strange, frustrating Christmas.
I want to congratulate Canada Post on one success that they did have, lest I seem ungracious as a visitor to this great country. My mother-in-law addressed a card to Eliana without a street name on it at all, with just the number two and our city name. It arrived, a mere month after she sent it, and one week after we unlocked the mystery of the moving mailbox. We must be famous around the post office now. Go ahead, write us a letter. Your real Christmas cards should arrive if you mail them now, even if they change our box again.
Tuesday, 10 September 2013
I was not hallucinating
Imagine traveling across the country, taking the incredibly direct route of Baltimore, MD to Houston, TX, to Edmonton, AB with your wacky four-year-old sidekick, on a minimum of rest after a whirlwind visit to see friends and family and stuff yourself with seafood. After getting a quick dinner, you return to your humble abode around 9:30 PM and bring in your luggage stuffed with about 45 pounds more cargo than you had when you left Canada. Then, you look, bleary-eyed, around the room and notice that there is a crouching feline in your living room. You haven't had a cat since 2001. Christopher and Eliana are both allergic, and there is no telling how long this animal has been hanging out, dropping fur and other...substances. Plus, our not-so-stable landlady would not take kindly to an unauthorized pet in the house. And...scene:
Kelley: Uh, Christopher, There is a CAT IN THE HOUSE!
Christopher: What?
K: A CAT. A gray cat. In the living room.
Here is where Christopher clearly thought I was hallucinating. But, sure enough, there was a skinny gray cat (with white "polka dots," as Eliana likes to tell it.)
C: Why? Get it out. OPEN THE DOOR.
I start frantically trying to open the back door, hoping to convince the cat to go out with a "here, kitty, kitty." I don't sound convincing because, in my delirium, I am kind of afraid it might be rabid, or some kind of arctic lynx instead of a stray house cat, and I think it can sense my fear. It dives under the furniture. Christopher starts to make a barricade out of furniture and luggage to force the cat out the back. He turns the ottoman onto its side. All of this just really traps me in the dining room. Christopher starts yelling at me to be more helpful and to get down and grab the cat. Like I would want to do that. It is really a cougar from the Canadian Rockies that will eat me and my child. The sleek, feral cat makes a leap like a circus animal over the ottoman and races around the main level of the house. I start screaming, "Close the doors! Close the doors!" I do not want the cat down in the lower level of the house. I yell up to Eliana, "Stay in your room! Close your door!"
We scramble to go close all of the upstairs doors, but it is too late. The athletic mountain lion has sprinted up the stairs. We fear that it has gone into the master bedroom. I start asking if we should call in some experts. We, I mean, Christopher, looks for it under the bed and in the bathroom. Nothing. Eliana has shut her door. We knock and go in. Christopher sees a pair of glowing eyes under her bed. He grabs Eliana and shuts the door again. He then tells me to make sure every door is open downstairs. I walk through the barricades to check the perimeter, now fearful that a coyote will get in as I fling open the house. (Hey, there have been some in the neighborhood.) I come back up and he tells me to lie flat on the floor. He says, "Do not let it past you. If it gets into Eliana's playroom, we will never get it out." This is true. He then says, "I don't care if you have to bludgeon it to death; just don't let it come past you." My nature being gentle and not nearly as barbaric as my husband's, I grab two pillows from the guest room and "arm" myself. There you have it. Don't mess with me. I am packing goose down, y'all.
He opens Eliana's door and chases the cat out. I am prone on the floor with my pillows, screaming, "AAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" at the cat. It looks at me as though I am deranged, which I am, and dashes down the stairs. I then collect myself and follow it down to coax it out an exit. I had remembered to leave little paths through the barricade for it, but I myself can't get through. As I see it heading toward the garage, I yell, "No, no, the front door, the front door." Apparently, I think that the cat knows our floor plan. It does head the other way as I gesture wildly at it. Christopher has now joined me downstairs and confirms that it has exited the home. We shut the door, and then I grow a conscience. Will it be all right? What if a coyote gets it? I say a prayer for the cat.
Luckily, I haven't found much evidence of the cat around the house. I like to think it is happily back where it belongs. We think that the workers who were installing trim in our five-month-overdue basement room let it in by mistake. Be well, gray mountain lion. Be safe. Just don't be here.
Kelley: Uh, Christopher, There is a CAT IN THE HOUSE!
Christopher: What?
K: A CAT. A gray cat. In the living room.
Here is where Christopher clearly thought I was hallucinating. But, sure enough, there was a skinny gray cat (with white "polka dots," as Eliana likes to tell it.)
C: Why? Get it out. OPEN THE DOOR.
I start frantically trying to open the back door, hoping to convince the cat to go out with a "here, kitty, kitty." I don't sound convincing because, in my delirium, I am kind of afraid it might be rabid, or some kind of arctic lynx instead of a stray house cat, and I think it can sense my fear. It dives under the furniture. Christopher starts to make a barricade out of furniture and luggage to force the cat out the back. He turns the ottoman onto its side. All of this just really traps me in the dining room. Christopher starts yelling at me to be more helpful and to get down and grab the cat. Like I would want to do that. It is really a cougar from the Canadian Rockies that will eat me and my child. The sleek, feral cat makes a leap like a circus animal over the ottoman and races around the main level of the house. I start screaming, "Close the doors! Close the doors!" I do not want the cat down in the lower level of the house. I yell up to Eliana, "Stay in your room! Close your door!"
We scramble to go close all of the upstairs doors, but it is too late. The athletic mountain lion has sprinted up the stairs. We fear that it has gone into the master bedroom. I start asking if we should call in some experts. We, I mean, Christopher, looks for it under the bed and in the bathroom. Nothing. Eliana has shut her door. We knock and go in. Christopher sees a pair of glowing eyes under her bed. He grabs Eliana and shuts the door again. He then tells me to make sure every door is open downstairs. I walk through the barricades to check the perimeter, now fearful that a coyote will get in as I fling open the house. (Hey, there have been some in the neighborhood.) I come back up and he tells me to lie flat on the floor. He says, "Do not let it past you. If it gets into Eliana's playroom, we will never get it out." This is true. He then says, "I don't care if you have to bludgeon it to death; just don't let it come past you." My nature being gentle and not nearly as barbaric as my husband's, I grab two pillows from the guest room and "arm" myself. There you have it. Don't mess with me. I am packing goose down, y'all.
He opens Eliana's door and chases the cat out. I am prone on the floor with my pillows, screaming, "AAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" at the cat. It looks at me as though I am deranged, which I am, and dashes down the stairs. I then collect myself and follow it down to coax it out an exit. I had remembered to leave little paths through the barricade for it, but I myself can't get through. As I see it heading toward the garage, I yell, "No, no, the front door, the front door." Apparently, I think that the cat knows our floor plan. It does head the other way as I gesture wildly at it. Christopher has now joined me downstairs and confirms that it has exited the home. We shut the door, and then I grow a conscience. Will it be all right? What if a coyote gets it? I say a prayer for the cat.
Luckily, I haven't found much evidence of the cat around the house. I like to think it is happily back where it belongs. We think that the workers who were installing trim in our five-month-overdue basement room let it in by mistake. Be well, gray mountain lion. Be safe. Just don't be here.
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