Protest Letter

Protest Letter

I am not a political person. I really don’t know anything about politics. Pretty much the last Prime Minister I remember is Sir John A. McDonald and the only reason I know him is because I got the question “Who was the first Prime Minister of Canada?” wrong on a grade four social studies test. My teacher, Mrs. Holden, made me write the answer on the blackboard fifty times so I wouldn’t forget.

This past Christmas, I went to visit some friends in the lovely town of Sooke on Vancouver Island. I discovered a problem that unleashed my inner Norma Rae and I felt compelled to write a letter to the Mayor of Sooke and the local Sooke News. The last time I wrote a letter of protest about anything was when my box of Frosted Flakes failed to contain the super secret decoder ring and magnifying glass as promised. The CEO of Kellogg’s commented in his reply that he had never before received a letter so full of profanity and obscene suggestions. He thought my writing skills were very advanced for an 8 year old.

The fact that it has been 30+ years since my last protest letter should give you an idea of how strongly I feel about this issue.

Below please find a copy of my letter:

Dear Mayor Evans,

I am a visitor to your lovely community and I must admit, I am in awe at how beautiful it is here. The water, the trees, the wildlife, the friendly people – honestly, it is a hidden gem in this large world. I did, however, find one flaw. I am hoping that you can assist me to ensure that, upon a return visit, this flaw is rectified.

The discovery of this flaw came to light when I was attending a beautiful Christmas celebration in Sooke and to my horror I realized that we had run out of beer. Being a patriotic Canadian, I know that any good party would be ruined without a full fridge of Kokanee. As a guest, I offered to do a “beer run” and bring a nice stock of beer back for the gathering. I put on my boots and walked up to Sooke Road to go a few metres down the way to the Sooke River Hotel and the Castle Beer and Wine Store (a lovely establishment with a nice assortment of goods I must say).

I looked for the sidewalk and realized that there wasn’t one. I started to walk along the side of the highway but, given that my personal consumption was reason that there was no longer any beer in the fridge, I was scared that I would weave into traffic along the narrow shoulder. I was also worried that the on-coming traffic would weave into me.

I’m sure as a good Canadian gal, you must be able to imagine my frustration - standing on the highway, seeing the glow of the Castle Beer and Wine Store sign but being too terrified to get there. Fortunately, I ran into a local passerby who suggested I take an alternate route that didn’t entail the military bravery needed to run the gauntlet on the highway. I walked back to Bell Vista Road and proceeded to walk up Shortcut Hill.

I arrived at the top of Shortcut Hill and met six other parched fellows all staring down at their goal of Kokanee deliciousness that could only be found at the Castle below. Albert was the first brave soul to try the decent by taking the rope ladder, but his walker got tangled and he got stuck half way down the hill. Gretchen went next, but her wheelchair flag became tangled on Albert’s walker and she also found herself trapped halfway. I volunteered to go third as it was felt that I might have the best chance of success given that I once got a bronze ParticipAction badge. I assured my new friends that I would bring back enough beer for all. I began the descent. With a level of bumping and flailing that could only be seen at a grade 8 school dance, I arrived at the bottom of the hill to the loud cheers of my comrades. I made my purchases, detangled Albert and Gretchen and arrived back up at the top of the hill.

I am sure from my story you can understand the points I am making. First, it is important to buy more beer than you think you need for a party. Second, Sooke is in desperate need of sidewalks. The elderly, the kids and the beer deprived guests need a safe place to walk. Without it, Sooke will be a nice place to visit but guests will not want to live there.

Respectfully,

Maggie

Guest

Phantom Menace

Phantom Menace

Someone needs to say something. About the Phantom Menace. I am not talking about the long awaited Episode I in George Lucas’ Star Wars saga. No. (Although, I have problems with that as well.) I am talking about lazy and seemingly suicidal pedestrians.

Lately, it has been dark, wet and miserable in Vancouver. In the past month, while driving down West 4th Ave, I have almost hit four pedestrians. Was I drunk, you ask? No. Was I texting friends on my blackberry? No. Was I making a sandwich in the front seat of my car while trying to find my iPod in the back seat of my car? Perhaps.

On West 4th Ave, there are pedestrian controlled lights at the end of every block. We are not talking about a Langley sized block. We are talking about a Kitsilano sized block - where a duplex zoned house lot is only 33 feet across. Still, pedestrians of every age – the old, the young, the old carrying the young, the young carrying the old - feel compelled to jaywalk across four active lanes of traffic instead of walking a few more feet to the crosswalk. The perfect storm for a phantom menace occurs when you mix a dark, rainy night with a Kitsgal’s love of everything black – black pants, black top, black coat, black hat, black umbrella and black dog. It is terrifying as a driver to be cruising down the road only to have a disembodied face appear out of nowhere right in front of your car.

I love pedestrians. I have even been known to walk on occasion. I just don’t want to hose one off the hood of my Tercel. Please. Just go to the light – before my car’s hood sends you there.

Clothes Shopping

Clothes Shopping

Kitsgals love shopping for clothes. They know how to mix and match them. They seem to intuitively know not to put plaid, dots and stripes together in the same outfit. They know when you can and can’t wear white pants. They know how to wear a scarf so they don’t look like they are about to stage a robbery. I, however, have always failed miserably at anything connected to the acquiring and the wearing of clothes.

To me, if it is warm and most of the elastic is still there to hold the item somewhat on my body, it is fair game for wearing. Layers are good. Fleece is better. Co-ordination of colours is irrelevant. My lack of fashion sense became very apparent when I agreed to escort a friend’s fourteen year old daughter, Amber, to the mall to go shopping for clothes recently. I had promised my young friend that I would treat her to an outfit as it was her birthday and I was in a generous “I’m helping the youth of Canada” mood.

So last Saturday, we arrived at what I can only describe as nirvana for any teenager - Metrotown. This place is truly consumerism on acid. Two huge malls have been connected together to make Visa balances escalate as soon as you pull into the parking lot.

It had been a long time since I had been to the “teen stores” in a mall. Usually, their blaring music and intense graffiti signage work as a warning to anyone over the age of 17 to stay out. But today, I had an “in” – I had Amber with me which made it okay that I was in those stores. It also appeared that she was my daughter. (Although in my mind, I created a whole back story that I was a obviously a former virginal cheerleader who got knocked up at age 14 by the high school’s hot star football player. After he got the news of my pregnancy, he ran off so that he could get a football scholarship and I was raising my daughter in a trailer by myself. Somehow, this thinking made it all okay.)

This day, Amber and I hit all the hip, young, teen gal stores – Off the Wall, Mariposa, Aritzia, Le Chateau, Jacob, La Senza Girl etc etc. I must admit. I was overwhelmed by the clothes. When did they become so…so…suggestive? And expensive? And skimpy?

When I was growing up in Burns Lake, we would always get our clothes from the local Fields or SAANS stores. Tan Jay wasn’t just a brand for ladies in Phoenix over the age of 60. No, in Burns Lake it was considered designer wear and, as a teen, you wore your fully elasticized purple stretch polyester pants with pride. If we were lucky, once a year my parents would drive my sister and myself to Prince George to buy some jeans from Bootlegger. But those jeans would be our good jeans – appropriate for weddings and funerals only.

Amber begged me to buy her a pair of jeans with the word Juicy written across the butt. I said that would be false advertising as she, at the moment, had nothing juicy going on back there. Next, she saw a t-shirt with two cherries on the front in what I can only describe as unfortunate placement. Didn’t the designer consider that those cherries would land right on a young girl’s nipple area? After that, she swooned over a scrap of fabric that marketed itself as a baby T-shirt. The baby T had an adult price tag of $75.  The thought of paying that amount gave me labour pains.

By my negative comments, it soon became apparent to poor Amber that she had made a huge error in her choice of shopping benefactors. I began to feel stressed.  I didn’t want Amber returning home with a pile of clothing that made her look like either a lady of the evening or a homeless meth addict...but I did want to her to have a fun day. I tried to make things better by suggesting that we get some jeans at Costco. (I had seen a great deal at Costco the last time I was there – you could buy a three pack of jeans in blue, black and green for only $22.) Unfortunately, this suggestion made Amber cry. Apparently, in the world of teen kitsgals you can’t wear clothing from Costco.

Finally, I gave in. I didn’t want to be uncool Maggie. I wanted to be hip Maggie. And so I agreed that I wouldn’t judge the clothes any more. Whatever she saw next, I would buy. Unfortunately, for me, she saw a Coach wallet. One hundred plus dollars later we left the mall. Amber was thrilled. I was poor and in shock. Life in the teen kitsgal world is very expensive.

Wine Tasting

Wine tasting

Kitsgals love good and expensive wine. I must admit - I enjoy wine as well but, until recently, I didn't realize there was a whole underground culture devoted to the pursuit of it.

Last Monday, I was in my local wine store buying my usual bottle of Naked Grape September 2008 when the lady at the counter suggested I attend their wine tasting event happening that very evening. I must admit, I was skeptical.

"How much to attend?" I asked, thinking I could probably buy a good four to five bottles of Naked Grape for the price of admission.

"Oh no. It's free to all our loyal customers", she replied, perhaps as a hint that she had seen me too often in the store as of late and that the term "loyal customer" was code for "rampant alcoholic."

So at 8pm on a cold Monday evening, I arrived back at the store for my free wine tasting. I honestly didn't know what to expect. I suppose I expected to see a bunch of rich people speaking in faux British accents discussing the necessity of installing the right air control unit in one's wine cellar.

There were definitely such folks there, but I found myself gravitating to another group. These were people that looked vaguely uncomfortable (if not slightly guilty) about being there but were doing their best to fit in. They had the same look on their faces that I had all the way through high school. I instantly bonded with this group and they accepted me as one of their own. Within minutes I came to know all of them.

My wine tasting kindred spirits consisted of the following folks:

• Mindy: An accounting clerk, mid 40s, Enjoys wine but read in a Cosmo article that wine tastings could be a great place to meet guys.
• Steve, Todd and Bruce: Aussies. Ages 25, 21, and 28 respectively. Been in Canada for six months. Soon heading to Whistler to work as ski lift operators. Currently working in a cheese shop on Granville Island. They were responsible for bringing the cheese (and the beefcake, hello!) to the tasting.
• Ronald: A bookstore employee. Used to work at a wine shop. Mid to late 50s. Dreams of owning his own vineyard in Portland one day.
• Melissa, Christine and Brian: UBC students. Majors are teaching, teaching and teaching respectively. All just turned 19. Out to get as much booze as possible now that they are legal.

The more I chatted with my people, the more I learned that this was not a one time event for them. No. This was a group of people who had figured out that on pretty much any evening in this lovely city there was a wine tasting event where you could drink great and expensive wine for free.

We positioned ourselves very close to the cheese and snack table - the Aussies needed to add more cheese to the platters for the guests whenever it ran low. Unfortunately, what they didn't realize was that most of their cheese was going in the backpacks of the UBC students.  Ahh...student life.

The wine we were tasting tonight would be a bunch of Australian Shirazes, which got a big whoop, whoop from my corner courtesy of our cheese suppliers/ski lift operators and Mindy, who as of very recent times had vowed to take up skiing.

The wine expert instructed us on how to evaluate the wine - to check out the legs, the body, the package, the rack...really it all became quite naughty and reminiscent of a night at the Roxy when I was in my early 20s, but after a few rounds I was ready to check out anything!

The expert also gave us lots of direction so we could experience the wine correctly.

Expert: Smell the wine in your glass. You will be able to smell its history.

The Knowledgeable People in the Group: Ahhh....yes, a bee born in October pollinated the grapes. Yes. A Scorpio bee with 23 black stripes.  Ahhh....

Expert: Look at the wine as it moves in your glass. You should be able to hear it talk to you.

The Knowledgeable People in the Group: Ahhhh...Yes, it says I am a good vintage. I hear it sing to me. Yes, it is singing a Midnight Oil song.  Ahhhh....

Expert: Take a small sip. You should be able to taste the quality of the dirt the grapes were grown in.

The Knowledgeable People in the Group: Ahhh. That is a good Aussie winter topsoil. Gritty. Dirty tasting. I can still taste a twig and rocks. Ahhhh....

When it came to me, I honestly couldn't taste or smell any of the elements the expert was describing so I just started my own system.

One question. One answer. After quite a few drinks, that is really all the brain can handle.

Would I want to get hammered off this wine? If the answer was yes. It was good. If the answer was no, it was bad. So simple.

The evening went on. At first, I was a bit miffed at the small size of the samples the waiters were pouring...but after about sixteen tastings...I was getting quite a good buzz. Quite good. Yes, very good. Pretty soon, I was becoming less discriminating and would have agreed to have gotten hammered off of a bottle of vanilla. And, I also found it easier to smell the wine, taste the wine and listen to what the wine was telling me.

Before I left for the long stagger home, I gave all of my new found wine buddies a hug and vowed to see them at another wine tasting soon....perhaps tomorrow or Wednesday!

Boot Camp

Boot Camp

It was an idea borne out of utter desperation after a summer of laziness and debauchery. (Sorry I haven’t posted in a while but as I just said, it was a summer of laziness and debauchery). Stumbling back from a gossip session with a friend two nights ago, I saw it – the following words emblazoned across a yellow poster stapled crudely to a telephone pole:

“Kits Boot Camp – Give us one month and we will get you in the best shape of your life”

Wow! The best shape of my life would be an easy goal to attain given that I have worked hard to keep that bar really low. I ran home (who am I kidding – you all know I took my own sweet time getting home – stopping at McDonald’s to get a hot fudge sundae with extra hot fudge and no nuts….).

I signed up as soon as I found the website. I am not sure what caused me to think this would be a good idea. It might have been the sugar from the hot fudge sundae in my system or the three glasses of wine I had earlier in the evening but, gosh darn it, I wanted to go to boot camp. I pictured hot, ripped former marines (who still got called occasionally to go on secret missions) yelling at the other participants to watch my form when I ran. I pictured myself running in slow motion on the beach at the front of the pack like Pamela Anderson in Bay Watch. I pictured myself becoming almost bionic from these sessions. In fact, maybe the hot marines will soon ask me to go along on secret missions with them to assassinate annoying world leaders too. How sexy is that? Yippee!

When the alarm went off at 5:30 am, I thought I was going to die. And not in a pleasant, Oh, I’ve lived a nice long life and it is my time to go kind of death. No, this was an unpleasant, I’m kicking and screaming my way to the cemetery and I am taking as many of you with me along the way kind of death. Still, by some force of nature, I forced myself up, got dressed and somehow drove my car over to Kits Beach where these workout sessions happen at 6 am every morning.

It was cold, damp and dark outside. I quickly found a group of six other zombies in the beach parking lot at the designated meet up area. At least I think they were in my class – either that or I spent the next hour of my life with a bunch of energetic can guys.

Anyway, at 6 am precisely, Christiana, our fearless leader arrived. Christiana was nothing like the testosterone filled marine I envisioned in my fantasy. First of all, she was a girl. And not just any girl. Christina was your basic kitsgal nightmare. Blonde, perfect and perky. At 6 am! She wore tiny camouflage shorts, a tiny camouflage hoodie and nifty camouflage hat. I somehow doubted that she had any real military training – unless she was part of some sort of Playboy army.

And so it began. The exercise. The torture. The screaming. (just to be clear, the last element came mainly from my direction.) In case you are wondering what happens at these boot camps, essentially, you do all the exercises you absolutely hated in Gym 8. Together. One after the other. At 6am.

I began to plot as to how I could get thrown out of this faux military experiment of mine.

List of things I did to get thrown out of Boot Camp:

•  
  • Produced a negative attitude: I hate this. I hate you. I hate all of you. I am going to eat you and your tiny dog when this is all over.
  • Announced that I had a medical condition which barred me from doing exercises: I can’t do those lunges. With my leprosy, my leg might fly off.
  • Pretended to be gay: Hey Christina! You look hot in those shorts.

But nothing worked. All of my efforts were met with counters from Christina such as:

• Good for you. Get angry at the pain!
• Looking forward to our date.

It was a little creepy and frustraing.

Finally, it happened. Christina gave one direction that proved to be too much and was to be my ticket out of the Army of the People’s Republic of Kitsilano.

Put your yoga mat on the grass and then lie on it to stretch.

Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute. Put my expensive lulu lemon yoga mat on the ground? The ground? Where everyone’s little dog and the odd hobo has taken a crap and a urination in the last forty years? Where drug addicts throw their needles? Where horny couples fornicate when they are too cheap to rent a room? And do this in the dark when you can’t see exactly where you are putting your mat and see exactly what you are lying in….Harrumph. I don’t think so Missy.

And so that was it….my chronic hypochondria and my over functioning nature got me a section 8 from Kits Boot Camp.


Less limbs mean you can lunge farther.