Halloween Time

Halloween Time

Halloween is the best day on the planet.  As a very shy kid, it was so fun to be able to transform into something that I was not for a few hours.  Plus, it was the only time of the year when my parents actively encouraged my sister and I to go out and take free candy from strangers.

When I was growing up in Burns Lake, months of Halloween costume planning was always ruined by the first major blizzard of the year.  The two events coincided religiously.   When I hear kids in my Kitsilano neighbourhood whine about having to walk up and down stairs to get treats, I twinge with the impulse to tell stories about how, when I was young, I trudged through five foot snow drifts to get a single treat sized Snickers bar… but I digress…

Despite the blizzards in Burns Lake, the people handing out the candy were always so supportive and enthusiastic. 

“Hey! What a great costume,” they would say to the hordes of kids in identical snow boots, snowsuits, mittens and balaclavas that would parade to their door asking for treats.  We looked like a casting call for an episode of South Park, but in our minds we were so different.

My costumes were never cute or scary.  They were “creative”.  While all my comrades were pirates, princesses or zombies, I would be Muriel Applebottom – Bunny Hunter Extrodinaire, or My Dad’s Box of Tangled Christmas Lights or The Lost Panel of a Bazooka Joe Comic Strip.  Needless to say, most of my costumes were not met with an “OOOO…how cute” or an “Awwww…adorable”, they were met with an “Oh, and what are you again?”  Still I wore my costumes with conviction and people gave me candy anyway, so they rocked!

My mom’s expensive, guest use only, King sized silk pillow cases were the preferred treat bag of choice but it was often hard to sneak them out of the house before she noticed.  Although, one year, I did use my cousin’s hockey duffle bag until some judgemental lady ruined my fun when she called me “greedy”. Mostly, I just used a Hefty garbage bag.  Because rippage could be a problem it was important to come prepared with backup bags and maybe a sled.

Out on the hunt, it was amazing how quickly information spread on the kid treat network.  With no twitter, facebook, or texting, to link us, we mind-melded together with the singular purpose of getting as much sugar as possible.  By remaining connected to the kid treat network, you quickly knew which houses gave out two chocolate bars instead of one, which were making you sing, which were giving out raisins….and which were giving out CANS OF POP!!!  

I know kids in here in Kits stay out collecting candy until they get tired or bored, but in Burns Lake, we stayed out until medically ordered indoors due to frostbite or hypothermia.  Hard core does not accurately describe an 8 year old Burns Lake kid on a mission for candy.

Arriving home with our loot, my parents insisted on inspecting all treats for safety concerns.  Surprisingly, there was a high ratio of tainted Aero bars and Glosette raisins (my parents’ favourites) but we were too hyped up and inexperienced in the ways of the world to realize that our own parents were stealing from us. 

The next two days began the hierarchy of snacking.  We would eat through our treat bag like layers of an archaeological dig.  Chocolate bars were eaten first.  Then Tootsie rolls Then Glosette peanuts.   And then….ugh….because there was nothing else left, jaw breakers, Pez circles and gum.  It would take two to three days of concentrated effort to consume all the sugar in those king sized pillow case bags.  But we did it!!  Once it was all done, we crashed in a sugar coma for two weeks….and woke up just in time to start dreaming of all the treats coming for Christmas!! 

Coldus Horribleous

Coldus Horribleous

Yesterday, I woke up with a horrible cold. It started with a faint tickle in my throat and a wave of denial in my brain. By lunch, I had gone through all of Kubler-Ross’ stages of grief – denial, anger, bargaining and depression - before acceptance hit with the fact that I was indeed going to be sick. And not a normal sick. No, this was an end of the world and the start of the Apocalypse kind of sick.

When I was growing up, I loved being sick. My mom, being a rampant hypochondriac, would research every symptom my sister and I would have and come to some pretty far reaching conclusions. She never went to the doctor – no, she looked everything up in her Reader’s Digest Medical At Home Symptom Guide. The fact that it was published in 1958 really didn’t faze my mom. She felt that there were so many illnesses in the world that doctors could not possibly be trained in them all so she like to help out by doing her own diagnosing. When I was thriteen, she kept me at home because the red spots on my face were obviously a symptom of dengue fever and not acne.  My sister missed two weeks of school in grade seven because of an onset of yellow tailed monkey disease/ polio.

Still, it was fun being sick. First of all, my sister and I got to lie on the couch with our feet up smothered in quilts, hot water bottles and poultices. Secondly, we got total control of the TV remote control with viewing rights to any program that might make us feel better. Third, we got to eat Lipton’s chicken noodle soup in a tin foil package – you know, the kind that you boil in water for five minutes and it tastes like Oxo cubes with cut up bits of spaghetti in it. Finally, and this was the best, you got apple juice in a glass with a bendy straw. Even today, I still melt for a bendy straw.

Today’s sickness was very different. I went home to my house and lay in my bed. No one brought me soup. No one told me I had Asian pneumonic septicemic streptisemic flu. And worst of all, no one brought me juice. In fact, I began to realize that if I died from this cold, no one would even know until the smell hit the outside of the house. Yes, creepy thinking for sure but when you have a fever and no poultice a gal’s thoughts go to the macabre.

So here I am typing on my computer and realizing that the best cure for the common cold is a gal’s mom. And a bendy straw.

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.