Canadian Wildlife

The new addition, crazy and curious.

The lady of the house, mysterious and kind.

The girl next door, gentle and giant.

A Swing And A Miss

When it comes to marital harmony, or discord, you often hear the same themes discussed by women all over the map, in different phases of marriage, with all different types of spouse. Money (ie: not spending it at Poker Night), communication (nodding along while watching the game does not constitute a conversation), hygiene (your socks smell and your eye for soap scum is shoddy) and time management (5 minutes is 300 seconds, not 2 hours). But amongst all these common, generally mundane points of conflict lies the seemingly harmless yet often contemptuous beast named Golf.

Firstly, I must say that I do not enjoy golf. I do not enjoy long-lasting, tedious, difficult activities that are sometimes done in inclement weather. Furthermore, I do not enjoy activities that I am complete crap at performing. Not even remotely or moderately good, just really, really bad. And even though some of my lady friends do enjoy golf, I know their men folk still 'need' man-only golf time. As much of it as they can squeeze out of any given summer. And while they might act like they love the competition, the communing with nature, and challenge, we all know they love the boys, the beer and that little hussy who drives the beer cart. She works at every golf course I've ever been to.

I try to be understanding about this beloved hobby of David's. I try to realize that if he plans to golf on Saturday, the entire day is a write-off. The golfing alone takes something like 4 hours, plus it seems to be required to go early to hit even MORE balls as practice, and there is a requisite meal with the guys after the actual golf is over. Apparently the 4 hours they spent wandering around together wasn't enough, and some kind of post-play wrap-up is necessary. But sometimes it's just too much.

And then there's the bi-annual experimental couple's golf outing. Every now and then, in the name of socialization and peer pressure, I become Dave's partner on the course. I'm usually exempt from all aspects of the game except putting, and occasionally chipping. I have exceptionally terrible hand eye coordination (meaning I swing and miss the ball quite often if I try to drive) and I don't have much spatial conception (because I don't like wearing my glasses unless it's an emergency), plus my attention span is unusually short. One year Dave tried to delegate me to the job of cart driving, but all that stop-and-go got in the way of reading a very interesting book. So you can see why these times of togetherness are limited.

But this week I suited up and headed for the course with David, his little sister Julie, and her beloved Glenn. The shortest of these monsters is about 6 feet of pure athleticism, so I knew I would be taking the back burner as usual. I did some pretty impressive putting, kept the score, and wandered aimlessly into the dangerous path of oncoming balls.

The sun was shining, the prairie wind was more of a breeze, and the beer cart hussy brought us refreshments. What more could one ask?

J. Larissa Bizzle, swings those long legs.


D. Arfy Bonkonia shows his form.


Glenn Dubya Steele-Dog winds up.


I put and only put. And yes, I'm wearing sequined shoes.

Back in the Mother in Law Country

Canada, being the Mother country of my husband, is what I like to call my Mother-In-Law country. Coincidentally, my actual mother-in-law also lives there. And while I've spent the last couple years living neither in my Mother country, nor my Mother-In-Law country, some relationships can never change.

My Mother country, and my mother, always feels like home, knows my secrets, keeps my favorites on hand, comforts me, makes me proud. And just as it is with my real mother, I love the Mother country, miss the Mother country, but feel uncertain as to whether we could ever peacefully co-exist within the same four walls now that we know each other so well.

My Mother-In-Law country, much like the stereotypes dictate, is something different than that. The Mother-In-Law country has different customs, traditions, and expectations of me. The Mother-In-Law country has foods I'd never tried before going there, but that I now crave when I'm away. Prairies instead of water, sisters-in-law instead of sissy, cats replacing dog, serviettes instead of napkins, tea towels instead of dish towels. The Mother-In-Law country is a land of meat and potatoes, hearty home-style cooking. My mother-in-law takes full advantage of that, and makes me chubby.

For the next two weeks my posts will be coming from the Wheat City, Manitoba, Canada...Dave's home and native land.

The Sweetest Pea

Last week, we lay to rest an extraordinarily important member of our family, Sweet Pea the Cat. She was sassy, gorgeous, affectionate, intelligent and with the tiniest bit of a mean-streak, in the most lady-like way. In other words, she fit into our family perfectly. And not only did she fit in, but we molded much of the last 2 decades of our lives around her and the throne we put her on. And though it may seem like cats are dropping at an alarming rate over here, the fact of the matter is the our younger youth just wants to keep reminding us that it is most definitely over. Bury your childhood pets, turn in the keys to your parents house, and grow up.

And while I may see phantom whisps of Pea's little tail here and there, or hear her signature squawk in the wind, I'm done shedding tears over her. Because while it's sad as hell, I have to laugh when I think of her. And what she must have thought of us. For example, what was she thinking when teenage-angst ridden me slammed the bedroom door, threw myself on the bed, and cried into her fur saying "Sweet Pea, you are the only one who really understands me!" Really, I actually said that. Out loud. To a cat. And I meant it. What was she thinking when my sister and I trapped her in the playroom with us and forced her to be the audience to our Disco Duck sing-a-long concerts? Or when my parents would put her on the phone with me after I left for Ann Arbor? She no doubt rolled her eyes, this cat had an attitude, but appeased us out of love. And out of obligation, she needed our opposable thumbs to open her cat food tins.

And while the sadness of Pea's passing dulls a bit, we are left to ask: What will become of Potato now that she's gone? Not known to be the most, ahem, intelligent of animals, this gentle 20-pound giant is now left with no mentor, no protector, no one to bitch-slap him when he gets out of line. Can't you just see the confusion in his little ginger eyes? If anyone knows a good cat therapist, I'd love that number.

Rest in peace, Swizz Pizzle, we love you still!

BYOB

One thing you simply won't find as much of in Europe is the beloved American concept of 'all-you-can-eat'. Chinese food buffet, Friday night fish fry, greasy spoon breakfast. Unlimited drink refills are taken for granted. While I don't particularly miss these smorgasbord opportunities, due to both culinary quality and gastrointestinal limitations, my bottomless pit of a husband occasionally craves an endless plate of _______ (fill in the blank).

There is, however, one over-eating promotion that gets me every time. At our local movie theater Tuesday nights are known as 'BYOB', meaning Bring Your Own BUCKET. Bring that bucket and crabby teenager at concessions will fill it with popcorn for 50 cents. One half of one dollar. And that bucket can be as big or small as you want. You see people with mixing bowls, beach buckets, drywall buckets. Butter, no butter, various flavored seasoning salts. I love popcorn. A lot. And since I lived the past 9 months sans microwave (and my two attempts at stove-top popcorn failed miserably) I am way behind on my popcorn intake quota.

So last night, my nuclear family loaded into the car and headed to BYOB night at the movies. We each had our own bucket (but please don't confuse the other buckets to my dad's special bucket, or he'll bite you) filled to the brim with piping hot popcorn. We made a scene as we shuffled into our seats, reconfigured, and finally sat down. We laughed more boisterously than the other 10 people in the theater, and my parents loudly asked 'Who is that actor?' or 'Who sings this song?' more than twice. My dad took the tile of 'Popcorn Glutton of the Night' by emptying his very special bucket before the movie was even at it's climax. My sister and I took our leftovers home, hoping that day old popcorn is as good as day old pizza or day old mac and cheese. Turns out those hopes were baseless.

Source.

Happy Mother's Day!

Brunch, family, watching trashy home improvement shows and doing whatever chores mom chooses. What a lovely way to spend my first Mother's Day home in a few years!

Taste The Rainbow

So far I've kept my feelings about many of today's most pressing issues to myself, at least within the margins of this blog. But this image on the blog The Year In Pictures said a lot to me in a very simple way, and I wanted to share. Even if you don't have the same specific leanings, I hope you can at least appreciate the broader sentiment. Crossing fingers, wearing buttons, considering carefully.

Cinco De Mayo And Grey Hair To Match

On Monday my beloved turned a dashing 26 while some Mexicans celebrated their heritage. We started they morning off celebrating both occasions by having a Corona with lunch. Ole.

And while David may have some reservations about getting older, I'm encouraging a brighter outlook. I'm hoping we have 70 more years together, and from that point of view we are only going to become more wrinkled, achey, confused, sore, tired and prone to urinating in our pants. We should ENJOY the now, because we aren't getting any younger...and thank goodness for that, really. And as my dad would say of aging "It beats the alternative."

The way we spent Dave's 26th birthday hardly seems exciting considering that it was only 5 years ago that Jess and I were making the most hilarious birthday documentary ever during his 21st extravaganza. But despite the change in details, our celebration still had to do with love, life, food and cake. So much love, in fact, that I myself touched RAW bison meat to make the bison burgers. After two phone calls to various friends to confirm that I was doing it properly, I put my hand in that bloody mass of flesh and made patties. If that's not love, I don't know what is.

So here's to Dave, 26 and counting, accumulating grey hairs just to show how far he's come! Happy Birthday!

Let Life Commence

It's official. My sister is onto adulthood and over with the relatively carefree days of college. As most of us know, this is a particularly terrifying and exhilarating phase of life, that leads from periods of euphoria to moments of extreme panic. It's a rather schizophrenic feeling, but not in a requires-hospitalization kind of way. Your mom and dad want to know what you are doing with your life, and coincidentally you are asking the same question. No one seems to have the answers, although consulting the Magic 8-Ball is tempting. Magic 8-Ball is wonderfully vague, while your parents are more specific with suggestions like 'Move out' and 'You could always work at Applebee's while you look for an entry level position.'

The point is that life doesn't end or begin as simply as we hoped it would once you move your tassel to the right and toss that dangerously pointy hat in the air. I'm still not where I thought I would be when I graduated in 2003, and I'm nowhere near the spot I'd guessed I'd be when that 2005 graduation rolled around. And where exactly, was I thinking I'd have ended up? Madagascar, Chicago, Honolulu, who knows. The point is that I never had an clue, so I couldn't have made it there no matter what kind of magic carpet ride I'm on. Point yourself generally in the direction you are hoping to get, dig in and hold on. My sister, of all people, will end up somewhere fabulous and mostly likely sunny, blowing us all out of the water. Just ask her.

Before this post rambles on the way a typical graduation speech does (the speaker at Alley's commencement got from Christopher Columbus to Jamaica to Facebook in a matter of 5 minutes, leaving me bored), I want to say CONGRATULATIONS to my baby sister. And thanks to all those friends and family who came to East Lansing to celebrate with us. As much as my inner self only screams "Go Blue", today I'm willing to say "Go Green, Go White" for my sister.