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.

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!