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!! 

Girl Treats

Girl Treats

The following is a public service announcement for men everywhere. 

When your girl asks you to bring her home a treat because she is suffering from:

• A bad day
• Her lady time
• Manic depression

She means you should bring her any of the following:

• A Dairy Queen hot fudge sundae
• Nachos
• Pies (plural)
• Jewellery

She does not mean:

• An apple
• A low fat veggie fruit bar
• The gift of just you

Thank you.

Bell Tower

Bell Tower

Today, I woke up a hunchback. My hunch had been coming on slowly. Over the last few weeks, I began to notice a distinctive hunch developing on my right spinal area. At first, I just though…whoa….zit. But as it progressed well past zit and into something requiring its own area code, I realized that my denial was not a cure. It became so big that I actually had to…go to the doctor. Gasp. I am the worst Canadian in the country. We have a wonderful health care system and I never use it. It is sort of like my gym membership. I know it is there, and I intend on using it, but really, I prefer just to brag about it to my American friends at parties rather than actually go. You see if I go, the doctor may find something wrong with me. If I don’t go, then I can spend countless hours obsessing about the millions of strange things it could be while researching on the internet.

While researching my hunchback-ed-ness on Wikipedia, I came up with all sorts of possibilities. List of possible reasons for hunch:

• Unborn twin
• Space alien pod
• The C word – and, yes, I mean cyst
• New fat storage area for hot fudge sundae consumption since area in buttocks is completely full

The first two possibilities sounded scary, so I made an appointment immediately. My family doctor was shocked to see me. She made notice several times that the last time I saw her Y2K had not happened. She screamed when she saw my hunch and sent me immediately to a surgeon across the hall. Her reaction startled me. I began to think that maybe my hunch was serious. What if I can’t get rid of it and it continues to grow? What if I can no longer wear form fitting shirts? What if it begins to look like I have boobs on both sides? What if the only job I can get is in a…bell tower. I ran across the hall.

The surgeon’s name was Dr. Jenetles. I know. That is what I thought when I first saw it. It is pronounced differently though. I obediently took a seat and filled out the required medical questionnaire. Tick the following:

Do you (or anyone in your family) have:

• Heart disease
• Diabetes
• Lung Issues
• Hepatitis
• Syphilis
• Allergies
• Cancer
• Nearsightedness
• Ringworm

I ticked “yes” for each just to be safe. I had no idea what half of them meant but I made special note to research each thoroughly when I got home.

I handed in my form. After reading my paper, I noticed the receptionist whispering to the other staff. They put on masks and rubber gloves, spoke to me in soothing tones and kept a distance of 8 feet. Sigh.

I sat glumly in the waiting area. What is it with doctor’s offices? Do they all have the same decorator? All Canadian doctor waiting rooms must contain the following items:

• A pile of Readers’ Digest and Canadian Living (honestly, if doctors didn’t subscribe to these magazines, Darwin would have taken them out long ago)
• A box of children’s plastic toys including a wooden abacas. All are laden with enough germs to start their own plague
• Not enough chairs. Well, technically there are enough chairs for patients but given we are all scared to sit next to each other because we don’t know how germy the other one is, there are not enough chairs. There needs to be a good person – chair - person ratio.
• Ceiling tiles with holes in it for counting
• Patients who are pretending to read the Life’s Like That section of Readers Digest but you can tell that they aren’t because they haven’t turned a page for over 40 minutes.
• A guy on a cell phone who politely goes outside the office (when told to by the receptionist) and then proceeds to yell outside the door to his wife about how stupid their contractor is.
• A poster on the wall that says There Is No Excuse for Abuse. You wish you could email a copy of the poster to the wife of the guy on the cell phone.

When it was my turn to see Dr. Jenetles, I was happy to get out of the waiting room. He was a lovely older man from Europe who gave me a stern lecture for not visiting a doctor prior to Y2K. I suspect my family doctor had called to get him to reinforce the point. After examining the lump, he declared it was an infected cyst and with a snip, snip my hunch was gone. It is sore but will be better.

Today, I woke up a hunchback. Tonight, I can walk amongst humans again. Happy Days! Bong. Bong. Bong.

Kitsmom Quiz

Kitsmom Quiz

Quiz: Are You a Kitsmom?

Give yourself one point for every item that applies to you.

Your stroller is the size of a Hummer. It has off road wheels even though the roughest path you ever take is down West Broadway. You leave your stroller blocking the aisle of a store while you text on your blackberry.

You dress your baby and your dog in outfits that match, colour co-ordinate or compliment each other in some way.

You are officially a size 0 one day after giving birth. And your boobs and butt are surprisingly perky and taunt.

You have a nanny. Nothing more to it. You just have a nanny.

You spend a lot of your day in Café Artigiano breast feeding your baby, drinking lattes and wondering why your baby is awake all night.

Your baby has an androgynous hipster first name (eg. Zohar or Hollis) and a hyphenated last name (eg. Wentworth-Anderson). If your baby marries another kitsbaby they will be known as Mr and Mrs Zohar and Hollis Wentworth-Anderson-Symthe-Cooper. It will be a lot of writing to put on wedding invitations.

Your diaper bag and your purse are made by Coach.

Your baby has a social calendar that rivals the Queen. It includes amongst other things: pre-preschool prep, Sanskrit lessons and tai chi.

Your baby has his or her own You Tube channel, facebook page, twitter account, wordpress blog, and domain name.

You disinfect all playground equipment for 20 minutes prior to letting your baby play. You carry enough hand sanitizer to sterilize a medium sized hospital.

Scoring results:

If you scored 10/10, you are a full blown, real deal kitsmom. Congratulations!!

If you scored 6-9/ 10, you are on the cusp of being a kitsmom. Good work but you need to try harder. Run directly to lululemon for guidance.

If you scored 1-5/10, you are on the Westside near Kits but not quite within our boundaries. Perhaps you are more a dunbarmom or a quilchenamom? And, honestly, there is nothing wrong with that!

Leg Glare

Leg Glare

Last week, I inadvertently blinded a teacher and her kindergarten class. You see, I have uncontrollable leg glare. And so, last Thursday, when I was forced to wear a dress without enough warning to buy nylons, I took my legs out of their protective wrappers (called pants) and exposed them to the world. The teacher and her students, who were out for a nature walk, couldn’t possibly have seen it coming when I glared on by. I can still hear their screams. “Mrs. Gomez. Is that a…..AAAAAHHHHHH…..my eyes….AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!” I feel badly.

What exactly do I mean by “leg glare”?  Well, let’s just say that people staring directly at my pale legs suffer symptoms similar to snow blindness. It didn’t use to be that way. I remember when I was younger, I practically lived in the sun. If, we kids weren’t getting enough sun, my parents would yell at us to go outside. Granted, these were the same people who drove long trips with the car windows closed while chain smoking, drinking beer and ensuring we weren’t wearing our seat belts. I don’t think healthy choices were at the top of their list for us.

When I was a teenager, I remember hanging out in the back yard with the tunes cranked (sorry neighbours!) and a bottle of baby oil by my side. If I wasn’t tanning fast enough, I kept the hose close by to douse myself with water to encourage “the burn”. Pretty much the only thing I didn’t do to guarantee skin cancer was tanning on tin foil.

Then, things changed and the world began embracing sunglasses, SPF 90 and hibernation. Now, given my Swedish genetics and my Al Gore inspired fear of the sun, my legs have gotten so white that Benjamin Moore uses them as a colour sample for Colour #FFFFFFFFFFF known as You Can’t Get Any Whiter than This.

Two days ago, I vowed to change things. I went to Shopper’s Drug Mart and picked up a tube of Fake 'N Bake Self Tanning Cream. Actually, the real Fake 'N Bake cream was quite pricy, so I picked up the generic brand – it was much cheaper; I got two times the amount; and there’s a recession on for Heaven’s sake! I read the propaganda insert closely. Apparently, fake tanning is the secret that Hollywood stars like Angelina Jolie use to give them that healthy all over glow. I suspect her glow stems from the fact she is married to Brad Pitt but who am I to judge.

I began picturing myself on Kits Beach with my new found bronze-ness – of course, the cream would not only provide me with a darker glow but legs that were 8 inches longer and a butt that was 4 sizes smaller. Yes, I would be a real kitsgal golden goddess.  From this point on, people would watch me with adoration as I run in slow motion on Kits beach, my corn rows bouncing in the wind, my bikini hugging my curves without jiggling off and my Dudley Moore George Clooney waiting for me on the sand…….

I raced home, eager to start my life as Bo Derek’s body double. I tried to read the instructions but, seriously, the type was soooo tiny and hard to read. I also couldn’t find my magnifying glass.  Yes, I sometimes use a magnifying glass to read instructions. Doesn’t everybody?  Anyway, I went ahead and rubbed the cream on my legs. It wasn’t too long before I realized something had gone horribly wrong. After a standard freak out and a trip to Wikipedia, I realized I had made two fatal errors in my quest for gold. 1) I had gotten a colour too dark for my pale skin (apparently Jamaican Beauty was way out of my league) and 2) I had not put it everywhere on my legs. In fact, I missed a spot….mostly, over the entire backside of my legs.

So, at present, I have a nice healthy orangey brown glow on the front part of my legs. If you squint, it looks like I am wearing chaps. Or it looks like I have the start of leprosy. Still, even with this chemical blemish, I look so much better than the “Hey, I’m an extra on Twilight” glare I was going for earlier. It may even be okay to look in my direction when my legs are out in public.  But, just to be safe, I wouldn’t stare directly at them!