Passport Photos

Passport Photos

Yesterday, I discovered that my passport has expired. This posed a huge stressor as I am leaving to go to the States in a few weeks. I had no idea how much of a stressor, this stressor, would become.

I have never taken the best looking government ID photos. When I applied for my Nexus pass a few years ago, the Canadian border guard said that, with my cropped blonde hair, I looked like George Washington’s crazy sister – you know, the one they would lock in a attic and never mention at holidays.

In my first driver’s licence photo, my eyes were shut so I looked drunk or stoned or both. When the police asked to see my ID, it never came as a surprise to be given a breathalyser test – even if I was walking home.

In my mind, getting your passport photo taken is a stressful thing – this is the one photo that will follow you around “officially” for the next five years. In the event you are ever kidnapped in an international incident, this is the picture the Ministry of Foreign Affairs is going to splash all over the CBC so your fellow citizens know you are missing.

Not that I have seen a lot of good looking photos of kidnap victims as of late. Ever since the Canadian government instituted a policy whereby we can no longer smile in passport photos, I have noticed that we look like a country of serial killers. Honestly, with our loud sense of humour and penchant for partying, how is this glum expression supposed to make us more recognizable? Really, if they want a more realistic picture of how Canadians look when we travel, make us pose with a beer in one hand and a Rock On hand gesture with the other while standing in front of an all inclusive resort. That is how we look when we are abroad – instant recognition.

My last passport photo was such a poor likeness of me that when I travelled to Cuba last year, the guard almost didn’t let me into the country. “This is not you,” he said, “Did you have plastic surgery since this photo was taken?” Sigh. I knew that if I was kidnapped in Cuba, my fellow citizens would most likely agree to leave me there.

But, despite the odds of a good photo stacked against me, I pledged that this passport picture would be different.

I went down to Phil’s Photography Studio early this morning. I needed to get my passport documents submitted ASAP if I am going to travel on time. Phil wasn’t in, but his assistants, Tammany and Christiana were. Tammany and Christiana were not kitsgals because they lived in Maple Ridge, but they were definitely kitsgals-in-training. It is doubtful that these gals ever had a bad hair, face or posture day. Fortunately, for me, today I was batting a thousand on all three fronts.

The cost for official passport photos was $9.99 per picture. I brought my chequebook and a blank Visa. I was determined to get a good picture even if it meant dipping into my retirement fund to do it.

I was pretty confident the first shot was a good one – until I saw it. Then the second. Then the third.

Here is the list of shots taken and their corresponding likeness:

Picture 1: Terrorist

Picture 2: Terrorist’s girlfriend

Picture 3:  Constipated lady

Picture 4:  Someone who has just been hit in the head with a two by four

Picture 5: Deer caught in headlights

Picture 6: Deer who didn’t get out of the road fast enough and was hit by headlights

Picture 7: Telemarketer

Picture 8: Someone sneezing (there was a lot of pollen in the air that day)

Picture 9: Hung over drag queen

Enough!!

Stop with the vanity already – perhaps I have been spending too much time around kitsgals and have lost sight of who I am.

After spending almost $100 on what were essentially replicas of my yearbook photos, I made an executive decision and decided that Picture 10 would be the one – good, bad, or neutral. And, so for the next 5 years, I am…

Picture 10: Frizzy Goth maniac

And, quite honestly, I can live with that!

Child Labour

Child Labour

My grandmother was an excellent gardener. When she bought her acreage years ago in the wilds of Burnaby, she had the biggest farm yields of anyone in the area. My summers were spent helping her harvest huge potatoes, apples, cherries, carrots, radishes, onions, beans and lettuce. Even when her property location turned industrial, she kept her garden going until the end. One of the saddest days of my life was seeing the rich soil, that my grandma worked so hard to cultivate, ploughed under and turned into a Mr. Lube.

I, unfortunately, did not inherit my grandmother’s green thumb. My one plastic plant melted in the window when I left it in the sun too long.

When I bought my house, I wasn’t really thinking much about the outside of it. After last year’s fiasco, when I let the grass grow so long, transients thought the place abandoned and set up camp in my backyard, I knew I had to keep things a little more under control this summer.

The gardens in my neighbourhood are gorgeous. Kitsgals go to endless lengths to ensure that their gardens are as lovely as they are. This is not to say that you will ever see a Kitsgal doing her own gardening – she will hire a gardener to do it for her.

The gardeners of Kitsilano are an interesting breed. Not any old gardener will do. No. A gardener in Kitsilano must be flamboyant or famous or preferably both. Most have their own TV show.

My neighbours hired a lovely man by the name of Francesco to do their lawn and garden. On a whim, I asked Francesco to give me an estimate on my lawn care. He came over to do his assessment and gave me this list:

• Manicuring of lawn
• Fluffing of hedges
• Chastising of weeds
• Verbal encouragement of flowers
• Mineral soak and steam for all plants
• Whisking of soil
• Feng shui-ing the rocks
• Hugging of trees

The total bill came to $800, which I thought was high but okay for a full summer’s worth of spa treatments for my lawn. I fell over when Francesco told me that it would be $800 per week. Eeek. There has got to be another way.

I know doing it myself would be the cheapest option, but I am busy and lazy. I began to look for another solution.

Soon my prayers were answered when I saw a hastily written note and phone number taped to a telephone pole. “Youth Lawn Care Services” it read. Cost is $5 per hour. I ripped the sign off the pole and ran home.

I promptly contacted the owner and operator of “Youth Lawn Care Services, Inc.” one Mr. Trenton Finch. Mr. Finch is nine years old and wants to buy a trampoline. He was very clear to me about his hours of work – he said he was unavailable Monday to Friday between 8am and 3pm. I am guessing he is either going to school during those hours or has another job in a bank.

Mr. Finch has been working for me for approximately one month now. I have paid him a total of $25 to chastise my weeds. You know, I am usually appalled when I hear that Nike or Wal-Mart have used child labour, but now I can see its benefits.

Parallel Parking

Parallel Parking

Kitsgals (and boys) have a flair for parallel parking like no one else in this world. In case you ever find yourself needing to park along West 4th, here are some tips for you.

How to Parallel Park like a Kitsgal

1) The head first: This Kitsgal drives front end first into the empty space and then realizes her car’s ass is still sticking out into the road. Backing up quickly into on-coming traffic for a do-over is a must for this move.

2) The wide swing: This Kitsgal pulls up next to the car ahead of her in good parallel parking form and, upon, backing into the space, swings her car’s front end as widely as possible into the next lane. If the cars in the next lanes have not swerved to avoid hitting you, you can swing your car wider next time.

3) The back and forth: This Kitsgal easily glides into a space but finds herself at minimum 3 feet from the curb. This then entails manoeuvring the car forward and backward to snake herself closer to the curb. Kitsgals like an audience for this type of move - it should be done in front of as big a crowd of on-lookers as possible and should take a minimum of 30 minutes to complete.

4) The bump ‘n go: This Kitsgal confidently gets into even the smallest space but, by doing so, hits either the car in front of her or the car in back of her (or preferably, both) and then takes off before anyone gets her licence plate number. By playing the “unaware” card, she can easily convince the cops that she had no idea she hit anyone when they track her down later on.

5) The “it takes two”: This Kitsgal brilliantly carries a fellow Kitsgal passenger who will get out of the car and attempt to direct her into the spot. This maneuver is also know as “The blind leading the blind.” A lot of dialogue comes with this move. See sample below:

“Keep going. You’ve got tons of room.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Back. Back more. Back. Back.”

“No. I’m going to hit the car.”

“No. You’re good. More gas.”

“I’m scared.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Don’t call me stupid. You’re stupid.”

“No. You’re stupid.”

“Stupid, stupid, stupid-pants.”

6) The slow go: This Kitsgal has a Zen approach to parking – she backs so slowly into a space that it is hard with the human eye to see that she is actually moving.

7) The whoops there’s a spot: This Kitsgal realizes the spot she wanted is about 30 feet behind her. By throwing her car into reverse to get the space regardless of how much traffic, swearing, or honking is happening behind her speaks to the determination of this eagle eye Kitsgal.

A truly advanced Kitsgal can combine any of the above moves with the following elements:

• Distractions: Adding talking with your girlfriend, programming your iPod or adjusting your boobs in your bra while parallel parking gets you extra parking points.

• As big a car as possible: The larger the car, the better. If you are a 5’6” Kitsgal, you need to do this with at least a Hummer or extended SUV. Essentially, the car you are driving should be the reason the polar ice caps are melting. Anything smaller is just too easy.

• The ability to flirt your way out of a ticket: Regardless of cop gender, age or attractiveness.

These are the driving talents of the truly amazing Kitsgal.

Easter Bunny

Easter Bunny

Kitsgals have fabulous figures. Thus, temptation in the form of calories is the natural enemy of any true kitsgal. This time of year presents temptation in an extreme form. Easter chocolate is everywhere.

Two days ago, I was in Purdy’s Chocolates on West 4th. It is chocolate heaven for anyone who believes in that form of religion. An army of brightly wrapped bunnies and eggs assault your senses as soon as you walk into the store – the smell alone adds ten pounds to your hips so it is best to breathe sparingly. While waiting in line to pay for my basket of chocolate bunnies, caramel eggs and truffle hens, I overheard a tiny kitsgal in front of me talking to her equally tiny kitsgal friend. With the hesitation and regret that is usually reserved for a discussion with a girlfriend after a drunken one night stand, she ordered one low fat mint patty. The two gals then discussed for a good three minutes whether they should each have one or they should share it. After hearing the exact calorie count, fat grams, transfat grams, sugar content, organic status and oxidant levels, they rationally decided to share it on the condition they do an extra session with their personal trainer and up their weekly Bikram’s yoga class number to sixteen. Yes, this was how they planned to celebrate the crucifixion and resurrection of our Lord and Saviour – one shared mint patty.

I felt a bit bad when they turned and saw my basket.

“You must have a lot of children,” one of the gals said to me.

“No. I didn’t have breakfast.” was my reply.

Easter is one of my favourite holidays. Essentially, I like any holiday whose main purpose is to give folks free chocolate. Here is my ranking of Maggie’s favourite holidays:

1. Halloween
2. Easter
3. Valentines’ Day (even as a single gal, you can get free candy from your coupled gal friends if you play the pathetic/ suicidal card)
4. Christmas
5. Thanksgiving
6. Canada Day

As you can see, the ratio of free chocolate to holiday traditions directly impacts my love of the occasion.

When I was growing up, Easter posed a bit of a challenge. My mom had a huge sweet tooth but she was determined to try to fight genetics and insisted that the Easter Bunny only hide non-chocolate related items in our house. This posed a bit of a problem. For all of my friends, finding brightly foil wrapped chocolate eggs meant the hunt was over in about 45 minutes or so. For my sister and me, finding the non-chocolate treats hidden in our house meant the hunt could go on for days. Eventually, we devised a strategy to help us in the search – we had to ask ourselves what things were now in the house that had not been there the day before. Over the years, the Easter Bunny left us some really odd treats.

A list of some of the really odd treats left by the Easter Bunny.

• Potato masher
• Mittens
• Protractor set
• Money
• Prescription medication
• Hamsters
• Ichiban noodles
• Scotch
• Book on how to care for your new hamster
• Vicks cough drops
• Sunflower seeds (I am guessing they were for the hamsters)
• Condoms

Thinking back on things, it is really hard to say what was left by the Easter Bunny and what we just inadvertently stole from visiting house guests. My mom put an end to the whole Easter hunt thing the day after I very proudly claimed a new set of Samsonite luggage, not thinking that it may belong to my dad’s new boss who had just arrived to stay the night.

Perhaps that is why I find the whole Easter candy hunt thing a bit lame…finding brightly wrapped chocolate eggs in a living room seems so simple; finding a new, never seen before, roasting pan hidden in a house – that takes skill.

Eye Doctors

Eye Doctors

This past Saturday, I had to go to the eye doctor. Nothing in my life causes me more stress than going to the eye doctor. I know there are other doctors that commonly cause people more anxiety than eye doctors, but, in my world, they are the most feared.

When I was a little girl living in Burns Lake, my parents came to realize that their socially awkward, extremely shy girl also had one eye that was lazy. Laziness of any kind was not tolerated in my family - only hyper productive, hard working eyes were allowed - so my parents set about to get it fixed right away. Because the town doctor was temporarily on “vacation” due to a revocation of his licence for something called “incompetence”, we made the arduous journey to the big city of Prince George. For those of you who don’t know Prince as it is called, think about mixing the smell of sulphur and rotting eggs with unemployment and red necks and you pretty much have a good idea of what that mill town is like. But Prince had an A&W, and we always got a root beer float everytime we went.   For me, this feature made a visit to PG like a visit to New York - wonderful and exciting!   

In Prince George, I met my first eye doctor, Dr. Dixon. My parents hated Dr. Dixon because he was a hippie. They knew he was a hippie because he had sideburns. Only hippies and communists had sideburns. Dr. Dixon examined my wandering left eye and said I needed to "see better”…. this I soon came to realize was code for “ You need to wear big, freakin’ ugly glasses.” Because, I also needed to have my lazy eye "corrected", I also had to wear an eye patch on my stronger eye to encourage the lazy one to get up off its ass and see straight. The rationale of having a lazy eye that was always looking off to the side work on its own, pretty much guaranteed that I would be walking in circles. Seeing the world in front of me was no longer an option.

Arriving back in Burns Lake, I came to learn the definition of the words “pirate” and "torment".

Yarrrrrrrrrr…..yarrrrrr…..yarrrrrrr….was how all sentences started whenever anyone spoke to me.

In today’s world, as an adult, I would be mortified if I had to wear a huge eye patch with a thick pair of eye goggles covering it. When I was a kid in grade two, however, I was mortified X 1000. After my forth day of coming home sobbing because the kids wanted to see my hook, my mom took matters into her own hands. Mortified X 1000 X 2, I watched as she marched down to talk with my teacher. My teacher, Mrs. Carlson, was 104 years old. Since Burns Lake could not get new young teachers to go there, anyone that started teaching was forbidden to retire. Mr. Tolbert actually died in front of his grade five class and they didn’t replace him for seven months. The administration said it gave the class a chance to catch up on their silent reading.

Anyway, after my mom’s visit, Mrs. Carlson promised to address the issue. The next day she called me to the front of the class. I stood there as she made this pronouncement to “fix” the problem.

“Children. Now, Maggie does indeed look like a pirate. But her mom says you should stop calling her a pirate. Stop asking her where her parrot is, telling her to walk the plank and asking to see her scurvy marks. You should also stop putting things in front of her.  She cannot see them and will just trip  If you want her to see something, walk over to her left side and show it to her.   Apparently, her left eye has no Protestant work ethic and is, therefore, evil.  Now, I  personally think your behaviour it is funny and clever but, she can’t take it, so try to stop if you can.”

It was a crushing day in Maggie history as I made the long walk back to my desk only to find a note waiting for me on the far left corner….”Yarrrrr” it read.

The next week or so were relatively without incident until my mom decided to up the stakes. Because the removing of the eye patch was painful to me and time-consuming for her…(think about pulling a big adhesive patch off your eyebrows and face…yep, now you’ve got it)….my mom thought of a brilliant way to alleviate my pain and make her life easier. Instead of putting the eye patch on my face, she briiliantly decided to wrap black electrical tape around the lens of my glasses. Yes, at that point, even I was calling myself Black beard Maggie.

By grade six, my lazy eye had healed and Dr. Dixon, who had moved from a hippie phase to a pronounced disco phase, said I no longer needed glasses….YIPPEEE!!!

Fast forward twenty-plus years.

I began to get hints from my family and friends that perhaps I should consider getting my eyes re-checked. Apparently, it is not common to type in Microsoft Word with font size 72.

Taking a deep breath, I made an appointment to see an eye doctor near my house. His name was Dr. Stupid. That is what I am calling him. I took a day off work and sat in his waiting room for over an hour with a promise that he was “running late” due to important eye doctor business. I envisioned him stopping to fix the eyes of orphans or giving dogs to the blind. In reality, however, he was running late because he had to place an order for some stocks. I know this because that is what he told me. He also reeked of booze and stale cigarettes.

Anyway, I saw him for two minutes when he made the diagnosis:

(Read in loud echo-y slow motion.)

“Your eyes have deteriorated.”

Tightening in my chest

“They are in horrible shape.”

Lower lip starts to quiver.

“You need GLASSES.”

A single tear trickles down my cheek.

“We have a lovely new Pirates of the Caribbean line that you might want to check out.”

WHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I began to sob uncontrollably. Dr. Stupid, who obviously learned his people skills from Stalin, ushered me out of his office and left me sobbing in the waiting room. People stared. I sobbed and dripped for a few minutes and then left. Everyone was happy to see me go. Even me.

After a month of trauma counselling, a friend recommended I see his eye doctor for a second opinion. I met Dr. Chris with a lot of hesitancy but he was young, hip and, well, SUPER gorgeous. It is amazing how a gal becomes much braver when a cute guy is involved. I told him of my experience and he listened intently, sided with me and blamed Dr. Stupid for being so lame. I was in love.

He looked at my eyes and said they looked fine. You bet they look fine! He said I might need glasses for reading but there are lots of sexy styles that would be fun to wear. Yes, what a great idea. Fun to wear sexy glasses!! Dr. Chris wanted to see me again. Yes!! In six months. Sure!! For another eye exam. Okay! I’ll take what I can get!!

I do have glasses now but just for reading. I’m okay with it. I can even make the odd pirate reference without sobbing…Yaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…..