Popular

One day I went to the gym and my shoes were missing. Some woman took them home with her because she thought they were her shoes. Although, she wasn’t totally sure, so she left a long flowery note about how she took some shoes and if she took your shoes, you should email her. She ended the letter with her email address and a drawing of a smiling flower.

I found myself standing in the locker room in my workout clothes and socks without my shoes, so I emailed in a huff and demanded she return them ASAP. They were returned the next day with a very apologetic note. Apparently this woman’s sister decided that my shoes were her sister’s shoes because they had mud on them. Huh? How is mud a factor in deciding if a pair of random shoes in a cubby hole at the local YMCA are yours or not…?

So, I promptly put my name on the inside of my shoes and made all the women in the change room were aware of the situation. Bizarre, but apparently it happens.

THEN. I was at the gym a few weeks later. One moment my shoes were there, and then moments later they were not. While I was at the gym, a woman took them right from under my nose! How the heck is a woman supposed to work out if her shoes keep going missing? As of that moment, I was officially upset and unsure about the kind of women that work out at the YMCA. While I got ready for work after not working out because my shoes were MIA once again, I devised a plan. I decided to go out and look at all the women’s feet that were working out and make a scene when I found the perpetrator.

While applying my mascara, I notice one of the women that I run with covertly motioning to me. She quietly let me know that a somewhat confused looking woman just walked in with shoes that looked like mine.

So I staged a confrontation.

I found the woman standing next to the shoe cubby holes looking bewildered. I minced no words and asked her if she was wearing my shoes, and if so, why?

Apparently she was. She couldn’t find her shoes, so she opted to use mine. They looked similar to her shoes and since she didn’t know where hers were, she used mine. WITHOUT SOCKS. The shoes were still warm when she handed them back to me.

My favorite part was the fact that my shoes appeared to be about 3 sizes too large for her. She had to batten those suckers right down to get them to stay on, which resulted in a Ronald McDonald-esque look for her.

I have one question – who are these people and how do they not know what their runners look like??!?!!?

Apparently I have the most popular shoes at the YMCA. I’ve always wanted to be popular, but if this is popularity, I think I’ll pass.

Something Every Woman Needs

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning I run with several women out of the YMCA downtown at 6 am in the morning if it’s warmer than -20 degrees Celsius.

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning my alarm goes off at 5:17 am.

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning I press snooze twice and am late for the ridiculously early morning run.

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning I get dressed in my work clothes, throw the cold weather running outfit in my gym bag, and run out the door with a granola bar in hand.

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning the in shape running women are forced to wait 3 - 8 minutes for me to quickly change into my running outfit and grab a drink of water. They are very nice. They have never said anything about my propensity towards lateness, although it must be severely annoying. I know this because I annoy myself almost every Tuesday and Thursday morning, and if you annoy yourself it’s got to be pretty bad.

So I came up with a plan to stop annoying the running women. I laid out all my running clothes and put my work outfit, shoes and accessories in a very cute green tote bag. I was NOT going to make anyone wait for me this day. Nope. I was organized.

I got up at 5:27 after only one snooze, drank a tall glass of water, had a multi-vitamin, and took some time to make toast. I was able to have such a leisurely morning because I was just SO dang organized. Everyone was pleasantly surprised at the lack of a crazed clothes changing event that took place this morning.

After surviving the early morning run, I grabbed the cute green tote bag and pulled out my work outfit to get dressed for the huge day that loomed ahead. While getting dressed and chatting with the other women I suddenly had a small moment of panic. Did I remember everything I needed for the day? What if I forgot something??!  Some days I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, which meant I had to dump out all the contents and see what was missing. To my absolute horror, something was missing, something that every girl needs, something that is non-negotiable. I forgot my bra.

There are times in my life when I can’t keep the panic to myself, and I announce my latest fiasco to everyone. This was one of those events…suddenly all of the women in the change room knew of my current crisis.

DL – “Oh. My. Gosh. I decided to be prepared and very organized last night. But I was so organized that I didn’t put my bra in my bag. How is that even possible? A girl needs a bra in her day! My gracious.”

*Huge pause in the change room*

DL – “Well, I guess I’ll just have to go home and get my bra, nothing like being late for work. What am I going to I tell them, that I forgot my bra? All the men in the office would really like that one! Can you only imagine how that conversation would go? ‘Hey there….It’s Donloree here. Yup, I am just running late, need to go home to grab my bra…hope to be in around 8:45…’”

After many unhelpful suggestions, including to just go without a bra, there was an actual solution – even if it was unexpected and strange.

Cathleen – Do you want to borrow a bra? I have an extra in here.
DL – Uh…no, that’s ok. I mean, it’s kind of weird, don’t you think?
Cathleen – No, not at all. I have a ton of extra things in here for such an occasion. The worst thing to forget is your pants. Now there’s something you absolutely can’t go without!

I took a quick look at the clock and saw that it was 7:58. I had to be in work in 2 minutes and still didn’t even have a bra to wear. The situation was getting quite dire…what’s a woman to do?

DL – Ok…only if you are sure and it’s not totally weird.
Cathleen – Nope, here you go. Just give it back on Thursday. Remember, there was that one day I forgot pants, now that was quite the day!

All the women laughed as I announced that Cathleen is the most prepared running woman in all of history. Then despite my hesitation, I put the bra on, hardly filled the thing out, and called it a morning. I did what I had to do to be at work on time.

Now I know that pants and a bra are an absolute must! This is definitely something that everyone woman should know.

Combing It Over

When I lived on the north side of Edmonton, I used to ride the same bus to and from work every single day. And every single day, the bus was filled with the exact same people that sat in the exact same seats in complete silence.

No one talks on the bus in the morning because most people haven't had coffee yet and are barely coherent. If I managed to actually do my hair and get a lunch thrown together before the bus arrived, it was a very good morning. The trip home from work was exactly the same at the trip to work. Everyone’s caffeine had long worn off and they were tired from dealing with difficult people and silence reigned over the bus...for the most part. Some people have spent years riding the bus with the same people and have formed 'bus friends'. So now and again some people talked, some people talked very loudly. Usually these people talked about things no one else ever wants to know about, but the whole bus ended up having to hear about it.

Bertha: Morning Gertrude. How are you?
Gertrude: Oh Bertha, my psoriasis is really acting up again!
Bertha: Don’t I know it?! My joints are positively aching and I barely made it to the washroom to put my teeth in this morning. If I wasn’t meeting my new boyfriend, Wally, this morning at the Southgate Seniors’ Drop in Centre I would have just stayed in bed!
Gertrude: Wally? My Wally?!??!
Bertha: Um, yeah. I thought you broke up after he moved out of your lodge…
Gertrude: Well, if we weren’t broken up before, we certainly are now!

On one particularly quiet afternoon, a man found one of his long lost bus friends and started an extremely loud conversation. His running commentary on the sad state of the public school system and 'what are they teaching those kids these days anyways?' was so loud that I couldn't get my cat nap in before I arrived home. So I came up with a plan of action. I decided to give him the no-bus-talking-glare. I've used this specific glare before and it works wonders. It's a mix of disgust and surprise at the audacity of the loud bus-talker.

As I turned abruptly in my seat to give the no-bus-talking-glare, I was unable to pull it off due to shock. I got a full, head on view of one of the biggest comb overs I have ever seen in my life. He had even dyed it a reddish blonde that only enhanced the ridiculousness of his hairdo. I was stunned. I couldn’t stop staring for quite some time. He caught my eye and smiled, mindless of the horror frozen on my face. I managed to curtly nod and look away before bursting into hilarious giggles and having to smother the laughter in my coat.

How and when do men start combing it over? At what age does the comb over start to be acceptable? Does it sneak up on men like crows feet and grey hair does for women? I mean, do men wake up one day and all of the sudden notice that they've got a comb over? Would this result in un-manly screaming?

Just for the record, there is something that is actually worse than the comb over. I am sure many people think the comb over is the worst possible hairdo for a man, but the comb forward is even worse! It lifts up like a garage door in a severe wind and has a daily requirement of half a bottle of hairspray. And how do they get level bangs? Do comb forward men have to trim their bangs every day after it gets plastered down?

If you are tempted to comb it over, STOP. Embrace your baldness and know that the comb over doesn’t fool anyone, it only shocks the general public.

I am Camerican.

In a few months, I will have lived in Canada for 10 years. 10 YEARS. When I stop and think about this, I am shocked. I came here, only planning to stay for 1 year, and suddenly 10 years have passed by.

After 10 years of living in the Great White North, I think I can officially be considered a true Camerican. What is a Camerican, you ask?

Camerican – (Kah-mare-ick-en). Noun. A Camerican is a person that has duel citizenship in both America and Canada and has spent large amounts of time in both countries. This person can also be referred to as a ‘duly’.

I am very proud to be a ‘Camerican’. There aren’t many of us out there. We bridge the divide between Canadians and Americans. We are the ambassadors that help Americans and Canadians to respect and learn about each other’s country. I help Canadians understand that America doesn’t want to conquer and take over their country and I am living proof to Americans that people do live and survive in northern Canada, don’t live in igloos, have normal jobs and homes and we travel via car, not dogsleds.

An issue that most Camericans deal with is that they are always told they have an accent. In Canada, I am ‘SO American’ in the way I speak. When I go home to America, I am told, ‘You have such a Canadian accent!’ I just can’t win.

Having gleaned so much information about Canada in the past 10 years, I think it only prudent for me to share some tips for Americans that want to visit Canada.

Pronunciation Guide for All Americans Traveling up North

• Asphalt – (Ash-fault) Apparently Canadians don’t want to appear to be swearing…even if it’s how the word is spelled…
• Project – (Pah-roe-ject) Something to get done
• Vase – (vah- zuh) At least you get to feel sophisticated while talking about your home décor items.
• Pasta – (passed-uh) It is most important to say it correctly while ordering in a loud restaurant so as not to confuse your waiter.
• Mario – (Mare-ee-oh) Just go with it.
• Decal – (deck-uhl) rhymes with freckle…
• Z – (zed) This is how Canadians pronounce the letter ‘Z’. If you have to spell something, make sure to do so correctly.
  “How do you spell your last name Mrs. Maritzo?
  “M-A-R-I-T-Zed-O”
• Measure – (meh-zure) To be honest, this may be a Donloree issue, not an American/Canadian issue. I pronounce this ‘may-zure’…but then so does my family, so I have lumped it in here for your reference. If you do pronounce it the way I do, woe to you! You will be severely mocked while in Canada!!
• Garage – (Gah-rah-juh) A place to park your car.

Words to use, so they don’t know you are American

• States – You ARE NOT from America, you are from the ‘States’.
• Eh – Put this at the end of some phrases here and there. It can be used to ask a question, agree with someone or just fill in dead conversation space.
• Hey – To be used synonymously with ‘eh’.
• Bum – This refers to your posterior, not a homeless person.
• Chesterfield – A couch. Use this word sparingly, and only around people that are older than 70. Though, when used in the correct context, people will be amazed at your knowledge of the Canadian language.
• Toque – Beanie or stocking hat

You are now fully prepared to travel up to the Great White North…and when it drops to -40 Celsius, don’t forget to wear a toque, hey?!

Whatever you do...don't ask!!

Almost every male over the age of 15 knows better than to ask a woman if she’s pregnant. So why haven’t women learned not to ask?

Every non-pregnant woman that has ever been asked this question is emotionally scarred for…well, life really. Every woman knows what a horrible question this is; you would think they would never, ever ask it of another woman.

Women should only ask their friends after they drop hints like, “So after the baby comes” or only when they are obviously pregnant. The 8 month mark is a safe time to ask, and even then it is still only marginally safe.

A few years ago I was running some errands downtown after work and I happened to see Alice, one of my over 60 year old friends. I popped over to say hello to her and a woman whom I had never met. As Alice and I were chatting away, I felt an odd sensation on my stomach. I glanced down to find a hand that was not my own rubbing my stomach in wonder. I immediately stopped talking. The strange woman noticed the pause and burst into our conversation exclaiming, “You’re pregnant!”

I froze and stared at her with my mouth open.

Alice froze and stared at her with her mouth open…and then she hit her.

Once I got my mouth snapped back into place, I calmly removed her hand and told her that I wasn’t in fact pregnant but a bit chubby around the middle. I tried to put this obviously misinformed woman at ease despite her epic faux paus. After all, if I were to make such a glaring mistake, I would hope for some grace.

Do you know what she said next?

“Well, you sure look pregnant.”

There needed to be some back pedaling or severe remorse at this point! Even blank, uncomfortable silence would have been better than her snappy comment. Appropriate responses include:
"Of course you aren’t. I am severely delusional and off my meds.”
“Oh. My. Gosh. I am SO sorry.”
“No…no you are not…have I mentioned how much I like your outfit?”

In the code of womanhood, there should be a clause about never informing a non-pregnant woman that she looks pregnant.

I went home that night and had celery for supper.

Once a strange woman rubs your chubby tummy, you’ll even give up chocolate for a day or so in an effort to make yourself look less pregnant-esque.

Ridiculous Rules

This Christmas my family decided to partake in a past time that we all grew up with and remember fondly – bowling.

In my opinion, bowling is a ridiculous sport. Fun, but ridiculous – and for several reasons.

Reason #1 You have to rent shoes! There is no other sport so stringent on attire while sporting. I could wear a down filled parka in +48 Celsius while golfing, there are no swimsuit specifications at the local swimming pool (unfortunately people can wear Speedos and bikinis despite what the mirror tells them), and I could run a marathon in flip flops if I so desired. When you go bowling you HAVE to wear shoes that 8,000 other people have worn and are still warm and a bit gooey from the disinfectant that was just sprayed in the shoe. Why? It’s not like I arrived in 4 inch stiletto heels! What are my non-marking tennis shoes going to do out there in bowling land??! Not only do you have to wear the horrible shoes, but you have to PAY the bowling alley to wear them! Somehow, it just doesn’t add up.

Reason #2 There are so many rules regarding the wooden floor area that makes up the bowling lanes. Above every lane a sign is posted that reads, “Do Not Cross White Line.” Why? If you step across the line, what’s going to happen? Is there a secret infrared light that detects even a toe that has broken the rule? Does a silent alarm go off and the bowling police come escort you out of the bowling alley? It seems a bit over the top. Nor can you have food in the bowling area. If you want a snack, you have to sit about 20 feet back from your friends. Eating people are segregated from the non-eaters. It’s not really fair. If you want to share a plate of nachos with someone you have to notify them when you’re leaving the snacking area to go bowling and that they better come supervise the snack. Usually this involves loud yelling that people 3 lanes over can hear. “Hey Frank, I am up next – do you want any of these nachos?” It’s important to notify your friends that you are leaving the snack post, lest the server come and take your nachos away!!

Reason #3 The whole point of the game is to huck a heavy rock straight down a very long strip of hard wood to knock down the 10 pins (or 5 pins, depending what country you’re in) all at once. I have a feeling that this sport was created about 300 years ago in a small village somewhere. Back then, I am sure it was quite the sport!

So, there we all were…the whole family with ridiculous clown shoes on and bowling balls in hand. We began hucking our bowling balls down the long lane with much hilarity.

When I was about 13 years old, I got over the fear of sticking my fingers in the dark, unknown bowling ball holes and began to throw the ball like most normal people. No longer was I relegated to walking up to the white line, bending over at the waist and rolling the ball down the lane with a good heave-ho! This particular day, I was bowling with confidence. I grabbed my 10 pound purple and green psychedelic colored ball, took a few confident strides and hucked the ball with flair down the lane.

My husband, sportsperson extraordinaire, is always telling me how important follow through is when playing sports. I could hear his patient voice in my head and continued my forward stride when I released the ball, after all, I wanted to get a strike! Then, unbeknownst to me, my right foot crossed that sacred white line of the bowling lane only to be followed by my left foot. Suddenly it was as though I was on ice skates! The bowling people had that lane waxed to a high sheen and my rented clown shoes were no match for it. My follow through was now pushing me forward down the bowling lane towards the pins. I was unable to get any footing and was tripping forward due to the immense amount of momentum my follow through created. I made a split second decision to lean backwards to counteract the forward motion in order to stop the crazed, head first careening down the bowling lane.

Sometimes these quick decisions you make in life, aren’t always the best ones. I was quite panicked, so I over compensated on the mid flight correction. I ended up going straight backwards onto my butt with my head cracking the bowling lane a split second later. It happened so fast that I didn’t even put out my arms! I don’t think many people noticed the deafening noise my head made on the lane, because it was so similar to the sound of the many bowling balls hitting the ground.

Once I stopped seeing stars, I opened my eyes to see my whole family peering down at me in complete horror and shock. I laid there for a moment, unable to move from pain and embarrassment. I am sure I was quite the sight all sprawled out on the bowling lane 8 feet from the white line. The craziness of the situation hit me and I laid there giggling, but unable to get up due to pain radiating from my head and the large amount of wax on the lane.

I was a quite shaky from the trauma of the whole situation, so the family decided to push me down the lane on my butt – they were able to do it with ease since the lane was so slick! As I was being delivered to my seat, I noticed that 10 lanes of people had stopped bowling to watch my latest fiasco. The lady at the front desk ran over in a tizzy to make sure I was ok while I was being slid down the lane. In between my giggles and embarrassment I assured her that I was ok. She seemed quite relieved, mostly because she realized that I wasn’t going to sue her. What would I sue for? Allowing ridiculous and clumsy people such as myself into the bowling alley?

The next day when I could barely move my neck due to the whiplash I gave myself while bowling, all could see in my mind’s eye was that sign mocking me:

“Do Not Cross White Line”

No kidding! Who knew that not following such a silly rule would cause a person to get whiplash while bowling?!

I think my new motto in life needs to be “Do what the sign says, no matter how ridiculous it seems!”

Tempting Fate

I am a fate tempter. I tempt fate on a regular basis. How, you ask? Do I jump out of airplanes, climb mountains or participate in death defying activities? No, I do none of those things.

I wear clearance shoes from Winners.

I purchased a great pair of classic black high heels for work from Winners, Anne Klein nonetheless. I loved them and wore them about 3 times a week since they went with everything. One day I noticed that the heel of the shoe was a bit wobbly, but thought nothing of it and continued on my way. A week or so later as I was getting off the elevator at work my right leg seemed quite a bit shorter than my left leg all of the sudden. I thought my heel got stuck in the crack between the elevator and the floor and continued on. Unfortunately, my right leg remained shorter, and then I realized that my shoe broke and the heel was taking a joy ride up and down in the elevator without me.

Do you have any idea how many times you have to push the ‘up’ button before the right elevator comes back? It seemed odd to all the people riding the elevators as well. I kept pushing the ‘up’ button and waiting for an elevator. Then when one arrived, I didn’t want to take it. Many nice people work in my building and they kept holding the elevator doors open for me. After explaining my situation to one of the many nice people, I realized the explanation was weirder than my not riding the elevator, so I kept silent.

Finally, the elevator that was taking part of my shoe on a joy ride arrived. I hobbled in, grabbed my heel. While trying to make a quick retreat, I ran smack into someone trying to use the elevator. I didn’t look up, I just kept going. Looking back, I should have just rode the elevator back to my office, but I was in panic mode. What was I going to do??! Then I remembered…there is a shoe repair place across the street!! In order to keep people from noticing the missing heel, I tip toed on the foot that was missing a heel. If you looked at me, it was an optical illusion – one shoe with a heel, one without! So instead of looking lopsided, I looked like I had a severe limp….you win some and you lose some….

The shoe repair guy fixed them up so they were good as new…until I was running across a busy downtown intersection in the middle of winter to make a light. At first, I thought I stepped in a hole in the street, but then I realized that there probably aren’t 4 holes in a row exactly where I am running and only on my right side. I stopped, quickly looked at my shoe and noticed I was missing quite a bit of it! That heel had fallen off once again! I turned, ran back for the heel, nearly got smooshed by a large delivery truck turning left and ended up in the intersection holding part of my shoe just as the light turned red. Just so you know, there are better ways to stop traffic!

If I weren’t a fate tempter, I would have trashed the shoes the first time they broke, but I got them cobbled together and went on wearing them as though nothing were wrong.

Aren’t we all glad that I don’t participate in death defying activities? It would just be too epic for everyone involved!! But be warned, I have been known to stir my blender while it’s blending…

*Note: I still thoroughly enjoy Winners and hold no ill regard for them…Anne Klein on the other hand, she’s got a thing or two coming from me!

Triple Grande, Non-Fat, Extra Hot Latte

If you are at work and you inadvertently spill you triple grande, non fat, extra hot latte all over your lap and chair, try not to scream. If you scream, the whole office full of men will come running over to see what is making you scream. Then you look silly while dripping with latte. If you are a more covert woman, you will stand up quickly, grab paper towels, wipe up the mess and then act as though nothing happened. After all, the dark grey skirt you were wearing won’t show much, and once it’s dry it will be like it never happened. BUT, if you are like me, you will scream because overreacting is something you do by nature and then everyone will know what happened.

After I cleaned up the latte mess, I sat in my very wet skirt shivering to death. The office is usually the temperature of a refrigerator, but when the latte isn’t extra hot any more and all over your skirt, it makes you cold...extra cold. Since I no longer had any dignity left, I opted to put on my walk to work pants rather than catch pneumonia. I am very fashionable with my red high heels, navy capri running pants and a black blouse.

Hopefully the skirt dries enough to put it back on before my meeting this afternoon!

Please Refrain...

The other morning, I got Ma’am-ed.

The college aged man handing out the free Edmonton newspaper, The Metro, decided to Ma’am me on my walk into work.

Metro Man – Morning Ma’am. Would you like a Metro?
Donloree – Uh…no. Thanks though. (I was trying to be gracious, despite the obvious Ma’am-ing)
Metro Man – Have a great day Ma’am.

Not only did he Ma’am me, but he did it twice! That morning I started out feeling peppy, but after being Ma’am-ed twice within 3 seconds, I felt old and haggard.

I don’t appreciated being Ma’am-ed. I am currently 27 years old, which is no where near the Ma’am-ing zone.

I understand that it’s hard to know what to say sometimes, but call me something other than Ma’am! Here are some options:
Hey!
Hey you!
Lady
Miss
Or, better yet, perhaps don’t address me at all if the only thing you know how to do is Ma’am me!

I do have grey hair, but I dye it back to my natural color so I don’t look silly. You can Ma’am a woman when she has jet black hair and it’s obvious that she shouldn’t. When I am at that point in my life, I will appreciate being Ma’am-ed, because “Hey!”, “Hey you!”, “Lady” and “Miss” will all be demeaning and rude. But for now, please refrain from the Ma’am-ing…it’s actually quite disturbing.

I am a woman, but that doesn’t mean I am silly!

The past few months have just been a whirlwind of chaos in my life. My husband and I purchased our very first home, a great condo in downtown Edmonton, and Jon has been in America for the past month attending the Global Village (it’s totally “The Apprentice” but no one gets fired and people are from all over the world). Needless to say, I have been a bit stressed out and ridiculously busy.

The woman that owned the condo previous to me had...interesting….taste. I had to rid myself of the pre-existing living room colors of navy, bright red, tangerine and lemon yellow. It kind of looked like the circus exploded, and that really wasn’t the look I was going for. She also thought the master bedroom would be good lime and navy and that the spare room would be lovely painted purple. It hurt my head. So I painted, and painted and then painted some more – thank goodness I have so many great friends that came to my rescue.

Once I could stand in the living room and not expect Bobo the Clown to come traipsing through, I started on other projects like replacing the plastic (yes, I said plastic) bathroom sinks. Who the heck has plastic sinks? My uncle came over and helped me replace two of the three sinks, the third sink had a huge bow in it, so back to Home Depot it went. While at Home Depot, I decided to pick up a pipe wrench and the other necessary tools so I could replace the third sink all by myself. So I went in search of a customer service person to help me pick out the best pipe wrench possible. I found a short man in the plumbing section and asked for help, it went something like this:

DL: “Hello, I am looking for a pipe wrench, can you tell me where they are?”
Short Home Depot Man: “Uh…you don’t need a pipe wrench.”
DL: “Yup, I sure do. I am replacing a sink.”
Short Home Depot Man: “You’re replacing a sink.”
DL: “YES. Where are the pipe wrenches?”
Short Home Depot Man: “What kind of a sink?”
DL: “A bathroom sink.”
Short Home Depot Man: “Oh, you need a basin wrench.”
DL: “Fine, basin wrench, pipe wrench, the tool for the job – just point me in the direction of the wrenches.”
Short Home Depot Man: “Uh…I will walk you there.”
DL: Upon arrival at the wrench section I exclaimed happily, “Yup! That’s the one I need,” pointing at a pipe wrench.
Short Home Depot Man: “Nope, you need this,” (pointing to crappy looking wrench).
DL: “Uh…no. I have to disconnect the pipe at the bottom of the sink, you can’t do that with that wrench.”
Short Home Depot Man: “I don’t know what the man that is putting this in for you told you, but you don’t need a pipe wrench.”
DL: “Well, first of all I am the one putting the sink in and I do know that I need a pipe wrench.”
Short Home Depot Man: “No, you need this.”

After arguing for quite a long time about the fact that I was indeed the person that was going to be replacing the sink, he insisted on having me draw a diagram of the sink. I then had to explain how to take out and replace the sink.

Short Home Depot Man: “So, show me what you are going to do.”
DL: “Well, after I turn off the water, I am going to remove this pipe and these clamps and take out the sink. I have to tighten the pipes, here, here and here. That ‘basin wrench’ looks like it will break if I use it for that.”
Short Home Depot Man: “So you’re taking the whole sink out?”
DL: “YES! How else the heck am I going to replace the sink? I have to take it out to replace it, don’t I?”
Short Home Depot Man: “So you aren’t just changing the taps?”
DL: “No, the whole thing – the whole kit and caboodle is coming out and everything is going in new.”
Short Home Depot Man: “Oh. So you need a pipe wrench then…”

I about had an aneurysm at this point! Just because I am a girl, it doesn’t mean that I am silly! Just let me purchase what I asked for and send me on my way! For goodness sake!

Another good reason to own your home…

If you own your home, you will never receive this call:

Landlord – Hi. How are you? How’s the house?
DL – Oh hello, how are you doing? The house and I are just fine. (Meanwhile, all I can think is why in the world are you calling?? You never call!)
**Uncomfortable pause in conversation**
Landlord – That’s good to hear….so are you free on Friday afternoon?
DL – Umm…my in-laws are visiting and I work, so not really….why, what’s up?
Landlord – Oh...you know, just wanted to do a house inspection, my sister is here from Toronto and wants to see the house….so does Friday work for you?
DL – Not the best day for me….but I guess she’s only here for a few days, so it will have to work, right?
Landlord – Yeah…so we’ll just let ourselves in and I’ll leave a detailed checklist for you.
DL – Oh…OK…thanks?

Once I hung up, a mini panic attack started. HOUSE INSPECTION??! What’s that all about? And I’m not going to be there for the inspection – that’s horrible! I am being forced to allow some woman that I barely know and her sister to go through my home. They have free reign to look through things like my underwear drawer and medicine cabinet while I am at work. I won’t be able to hide the disorganized room that acts as our basement since we don’t have one, the cluttered storage closet, the missing paint from the molding in the master bedroom or the chip in the wall from my bike – everything is just out there in plain sight for her to view! And to top it all off, just this week my husband brought home scads and scads of paper – 6 FULL BOXES – from his office to sort and go through. I won’t be able to explain why it’s reasonable that we have 17 stacks of papers and laugh about how quirky those Hoffmans are!!

So last night I spent my evening cleaning weird things, things that people don’t clean on a regular basis. I cleaned under my kitchen sink, washed some base boards, swept under the stove, cleaned the tracks of my windows in the kitchen and dining room, rinsed out the crisper drawers in my fridge – you know the unimportant stuff that most people rarely care about, unless you’re a landlord! Then I proceeded to walk into every room and pretend that I was the landlord and her sister. I desperately tried to think like they would and have the same reaction they will have once they begin to ‘inspect’ my home. There is only one good thing in all of this; at least my tub is soap scum free. Thank you Scrubbing Bubbles! They really are as good at the bottle proclaims! I may be somewhat disorganized, but at least I am soap scum free – that’s got to be good for something! Right??!

Unimpressed

This morning, it took a tow truck to get me out of bed. It just didn’t seem like it was time to get up when the alarm went off at 6:30 this morning. I was warm and cozy in my bed and there was no sun streaming through the windows. I decided that my clock must be out of sorts, turned off the alarm and went back to sleep. At 7:20, I finally dragged myself out of bed after giving myself, “just 5 more minutes” of sleep. Needless to say, when I finally got up, I was extremely groggy.

Sometimes first thing in the morning I don’t have the smartest thoughts. It must be because all of my synapses are not firing and only my body is awake. This morning, on my way to the shower, I looked out the window and wondered when my neighbors put a white roof on their house. I could have sworn that just yesterday it was black shingles, but I thought that they must have decided to do something crazy in the middle of the night. Once I started to brush my teeth and the fresh mint taste revived me, I realized that God decided to do something crazy in the middle of the night, not my neighbors! I abruptly pulled up the Venetian blinds in the bathroom and realized, to my dismay, that it was SNOWING outside. Yup, that’s right, snow on April 19. Oblivious to the date, the snow was happily coming down, making the world white and chilly once again up here in the arctic.

So far this year, spring has come about four times, each time tricking me in the believing that it is here to stay. Then it pulls some stunt like this! It’s so disheartening to go from riding your bike in the warm spring sun to frantically searching for your scarf and mittens so you don’t freeze while waiting for the bus! I think I have to keep an arctic-proof outfit handy at all times now. You just never know what’s going to happen up here!

Hilarious Comment of the Day

This morning while I was downstairs at Starbucks for my caffeine fix, I heard the most hilarious comment I’ve heard in a long time. A stylish, well-dressed man had obviously been sent to pick up coffees for the office. He put lids on all five beverages and then asked for a drink tray. Now, if the drink trays got any closer to him, they would have bit his head off! The woman who made the drinks patiently pointed out that they were about two inches away from him while giving me a knowing look. He looked at the two of us and spouted, “Well, you put them in the Y chromosome blind spot! What do you expect?” It just struck me funny, and I laughed all the way back to my desk.

Perhaps Y chromosomes do have blind spots...it would explain so much…

Crazy Event no. 412 in the Life of Donloree

One day I hope to be a decent runner. I want to pass people while racing instead of memorizing what all the people look like from behind. In order to help me on my quest to be a better runner, I joined a hardcore running club. We meet Tuesdays and Thursdays right after work just south of downtown. Our very in shape coach is great, but she has us do workouts that involve running up and down large hills – such as Connor’s hill and Grierson hill – and then we work on our speed while running up and down them. After we finish an hour of running all over the river valley, we go back to the community league to do core exercises, such as 'the plank’! If anyone is curious, I hate the plank…

Since I live in the arctic, there is ice everywhere which results in very dangerous running conditions at times – especially up and down hills! Due to the icy conditions of yesterday, our coach planned a workout that involved over 1,000 stairs, after all, the stairs weren’t icy…I managed all the stairs, and felt the very bottom of my lungs for the first time ever in my life. There was also an odd wheezing noise that came out whenever I would reach the top of the Hotel MacDonald stairs.

I usually hate doing the core exercises, but after that work out I was happy to do any exercise that involved lying on the floor! As we were finishing up with the plank, I saw Jon poke his beaming face into the room. He came to pick me up with tickets to go see Stephen and Avi Lewis at the Shaw Conference Centre – which started in 15 minutes! I quickly changed back into my work clothes and off we went to the Shaw. I was exhausted after running up and down the Hotel MacDonald stairs 3 times and the Crowne plaza stairs 5 times, but it isn’t very often that you get to see Stephen and Avi Lewis and ask them any question you want! So off we went in a hurry.

The event started at 7:00 and we didn’t leave the Riverdale Community league until 6:55, so we were obviously quite late. Once we got into the Shaw we started quickly down the escalators. The second set of escalators is ridiculously long and on my decent I somehow tripped and went flying forward and ended up sliding head first, face down on the supremely long escalator – my laptop bag leading the way. Jon noticed that I was no longer standing beside him and grabbed my ankle so I stopping sliding towards certain death. All I could think about was my hair getting sucked down the side of the escalator and ending up at the bottom of the Shaw Conference Centre with the stairs hitting me in the face. At that moment, I recalled a frightening story my grandma had told me about a little boy getting his foot sucked down the side of an escalator while she watched in horror. I sure didn’t want my whole body sucked down the side of the escalator, so I rolled awkwardly toward the middle, still going down head first. I was so tired and frightened that I all I could do was meekly say, “Help, help, help…”

Jon came to my rescue, he jumped over my body that was strewn over most of the escalator and hefted me right side up. He saved me riding the rest of the way down head first and arriving at the bottom like a beached whale in front of important people wearing nice suits. I ripped holes in my best pair of pants and have huge scrapes from the stairs up the whole right side of my body. I look like a red and cream zebra. The worst part is my shins – who knew an escalator could cause so much bruising and such deep cuts?

Once I could breathe normally and realized that I was going to live, I was just glad that we were late. If we had been on time, who knows what tragic thing would have happened? Are you familiar with the domino theory? After all of this, we continued on to the event, ripped pants and all. I am sure I looked quite disheveled. I managed to run up and down 1,000 stairs without tripping, apparently that 1,001st stair is a doozey.

Young, Poor and Stupid

Young, poor and stupid is a bad combination. If all three characteristics are present at one time, it can lead to severe and epic things happening in a person’s life! One or two of these qualities can be overcome with fortitude and help from older, wiser people in your life, BUT if you are like my husband and I were when we were first married, something crazy needs to happen to snap you out of this dangerous frame of mind.

Jon and I had been married for about 9 months when our ‘retro’ apartment complete with shag carpet, galley kitchen, paper thin walls and one tiny bedroom went up in rent from a reasonable $495 a month to $700 a month due to supposed renovations that were taking place. We found ourselves being slowly forced from our home due to our semi-impoverished state. For months we looked for a place that we could afford – we found nothing. Finally, after scouring the city, we found a TWO BEDROOM basement suite of a duplex for only $450 a month. It was larger and cheaper!! It felt as though we were moving into a castle. Although, it did resemble a mobile home since it was long and narrow and all the rooms went off to the left when you walked down the hallway...but there was no 40 year old shag carpet. I would feel free to take off my shoes while in my own home, what a treat!!

We burrowed into our little underground castle like two groundhogs, happy as ever to be beneath the crust of the earth, patiently waiting until spring to see our shadows. The windows were one of the more hilarious features of our new home. The ‘front windows’ were 1 foot from the ceiling and only about 18 inches tall, but stretched all 10 feet of the front room. I happily put up window treatments as though they were a full sized windows and hoped no one would notice. The 1 year old boy that lived upstairs loved my windows – after all they were at eye level for him when he was playing in the yard. It never ceased to amuse me when I was doing my dishes to see a set of chubby legs wander by and then bend over to reveal a beaming face that begged me to play with him. I knew he wanted me to come play whenever he would start to bang on the window and say “Duh, Duh, Duh!!” (Donloree is a hard name for small children, I decided my nickname of ‘Duh’ was given to me with love and just embraced it.)

When the spring thaw came that year, it came with gusto right into our living room, kitchen and dining room. It was as though we had a waterfall coming from under our kitchen sink. Waterfalls are a lovely and beautiful thing in nature, but not in your living room! We sopped up as much water as possible and tried to ward off the mildew that wanted to settle in. Our landlord, Howard, gave us some helpful advice, “Open up the windows and let the air blow through.” As if I didn’t think of that on my own. His lack of help should have been a sign to us, but we were young, poor and stupid.

That same summer, I hosted my in-laws at our new underground castle. It was a tight squeeze, but we put Jon’s grandma in our room and the other 5 of us found places to sleep wherever there was room. Let’s just say it was cozy… The first morning of their visit, I woke up in my living room, now bedroom and walked the 4 feet to the kitchen only to realize that my socks were suddenly soaking wet. During the night we had a heavy rainfall and the waterfall decided to reappear under the kitchen sink. After waking up the whole house with my loud announcement about the waterfall, I immediately dialed Howard. I was going to deal with him this time. Jon was obviously way too nice the last time nature decided to enter our home uninvited. This time Howard sent over someone to clean the carpet and dry it up for us – thank goodness someone dealt with him firmly! The rest of the time visiting with my in-laws involved dining with huge floor fans blowing our supper about and everyone walking around with their pant legs rolled up, but we made due.

One day, Howard decided to take some action against the waterfall that had taken up residence in our home. Apparently there was an issue with the weeping tiles in the foundation and some sort of protective webbing needed to be put down to keep the waterfall from reappearing. He approached us about taking care of the problem. All we needed to do was dig down to the bottom of the foundation of the house for about 12 feet, put down some of this protective webbing and then put all the dirt back into the massive hole. If we did that he would give us a month’s free rent - $450! So being as young, poor and stupid as we were, we agreed. After all, how hard could it be?

The next day Jon and a friend set out to find the bottom of the house while I was at work. I came home to find they had only made a few feet of progress. I was shocked at the slow progress they were making through the clay. Wouldn’t this be a one day project?! As the days and then the weeks went by, the hole slowly grew. I rather enjoyed the hole because Jon was at eye level with me while he was in the hole and I was in the kitchen. We would chat through the open kitchen window while he dug and I baked. Finally I heard a triumphant yell, “Weeping Tile!!” To the rest of the neighborhood it sounded like he had struck gold. I was so excited at the prospect of seeing the weeping tile that I pulled on my digging clothes and hopped in the hole with him. At this point the top of the hole was at my eyebrows. Jon and I dug like crazy to reveal all the weeping tiles we could find. As we neared completion, a movement on my left caught my attention. When I glanced over, I saw to my horror that the hole was starting to cave in on us. I immediately started to scream and claw my way out of the hole, which caused it to cave in even faster. I made such a huge commotion that the upstairs neighbors came running out and pulled me and Jon out just as the last bit of the hole fell in. We stood there in shock, unable to form proper sentences. It looked like a small earthquake had happened. We were mere seconds away from becoming artifacts for future generations to dig up!!

This event resulted in another terse call from Donloree to Howard. He immediately hired a professional digging company to do the job and they were finished in an afternoon. Even though we didn’t put the special webbing on the weeping tiles, we still got a month of free rent…mostly because I pointed out that we nearly died while in the hole.

Well, we were still young and poor, but not stupid – and it only took this:

to rid us of our stupidity.

What really is...

Earlier in the year, I worked for the U of A for about 6 weeks in the Faculty of Nursing. I know, I have great stamina when it comes to these new jobs. It was a decent job in many ways – I only had to work 7 hours a day, I got Christmas break off and I was close to Whyte Ave so I could fill my need to shop trendy, urban shops while on my lunch break. The biggest down side was I felt guilty for being really, really healthy…extremely healthy compared to everyone else in the hospital. I worked in a tower attached to the hospital so I had to walk past tons of sick people all day, every day. People were coughing, bleeding, sick and barely managing to push around IV poles while I jauntily went for coffee. It was enough to put a big damper on the morning Starbucks experience! Nor was I good at putting my conscience to rest. One day a woman in a wheel chair was coming back from a smoke and struggling with the front doors – so I offered to help. Well, I nearly killed her trying to push her through the doorways; it was a riotous adventure for her - she had to cling onto the wheel chair for dear life and barely managed to stay seated. Those things are really hard to push with a grande, non-fat, extra hot caramel machiatto in hand! Who knew? I think she would have rather I hadn’t helped in the end….but at least I tried, right?

During my first week there, another woman started with the Faculty of Nursing. She was about 55 years old and had moved here from Toronto with her son to help him pursue his dreams. They had previously come from the Ukraine and only had each other left for family. I met her because we both had to talk with the benefits people and sign 218 forms our first week there and ended up having the same appointment. She was lovely and genteel in so many ways. Her persona was warm and accepting, I could picture her sitting in an elegant garden sipping tea in England, but there she sat across from me while I tried not to go ADHD during the dullest 2 hour meeting of my life about all the employee benefits at the U of A. At one point during this meeting we had to choose who our benefactor would be if and when we die. These are always such uplifting moments in life. I put my husband down and she put down her son. Then the woman told us to check a box so that we could change who our benefactor may be down the road in case something in our relationship changes. I very obediently checked the box. I was half dead at that moment anyway - so who cares? She refused to check the box – why would she ever choose anyone besides her son? She was obviously shocked that someone would ever question her devotion to her son – it was given forever without condition.

She immediately latched onto me and made sure that we went for lunch together once a week and that I caught her up to date on everything that goes on in Edmonton. She asked me questions that I had no answers to – stuff about museums, cultural clubs, housing, grocery shopping, size of the city, kinds of people in the city, the many ways that Edmonton may be different than Toronto – you name it, she probably had a question about it. I found all of this to be very daunting and so I slowly found myself, “very busy” doing not that much on the days that we were supposed to go for lunch. I pulled away from her and eased my conscience by trying on $300 shoes on Whyte Ave that I would never purchase.

Then I got a new job and thought I would never see her again and that my guilt would seep away. In actuality, I’ve run into her several times and found her to be one of the most open, warm and loving people I have talked with in a long, long time. She always hugs me and kisses my cheek when she sees me. She gives her friendship freely and without restraint – just as she does her love for her son. I no longer feel guilt, just regret. I should love and be as she is, because she is as Jesus is.

Real Estate or Fake Estate?

As I continue to look for a home to purchase, I have broadened my requirements. No longer do I only want a 3 bedroom home with 1.5 bathrooms, a dining room and a decent sized living room and kitchen. I want even more! I want a home that has an actual kitchen, not a sink and 3 cupboards with a refrigerator in the living room. The bathroom has to not clash; a tub that has a cream glaze peeling away to reveal the original candy apple red color with a non-matching mustard colored toilet is over the top.

The basement must have a cement floor – basement floors that are made of dirt and have a hole in the ground that could go all the way to China only hastily covered by a piece of plywood, are not acceptable. I draw the line there. They even had the laundry down there! What woman would go do laundry down there? As soon as I went down, I came right back up – it was a very, very scary place! I also need to be able to stand up straight in the ‘den’ found in the basement. I am not an extremely tall woman, and if I have to stoop over to change the channels on the TV down there, it doesn’t qualify as a room of any sort.

Railings for open staircases have to be taller than 2 feet. There’s nothing quite like climbing a set of rickety stairs and having to bend over to hold onto the railing. My one and half foot tall niece is that only one that would find this railing useful. If the master bedroom is a ‘loft’ there must be more than one small window in the ‘loft’, the staircase going up needs have less of an incline than Mount Everest and you shouldn’t arrive in the kitchen upon decent. Although, if you can make it down the stairs without falling it would be convenient for midnight snacking!

And no longer shall I be duped by realtor mumbo jumbo! For all of you looking for a home, here’s a translation of what they are really saying so you don’t waste your time looking at horrible homes:

Investor’s Special! – Dump your hard earned money here!
First time home buyer’s special – Cheap, poorly constructed and no one has ever taken care of it. Run while you can!
Cottage – Ridiculously small.
Quaint – Old and falling apart.
Handy man’s special – Everything on the inside is broken and needs replacing.
Lovely / Gorgeous – Has multi-colored mold growing behind the tub surround and in the basement.
Character home – This home will build your character…
Great rental property – We’ve been renting it out for years! Don’t fix it up and let some poor people that can’t afford to purchase their own home live here and deal with the chaos you may or may not choose to fix.
Newly painted on the inside – The outside of the house is rotting away and you have to replace the siding and roof the day after you move in.
Excellent Opportunity – For us, that is…ahem…not you the home buyer!
Fixer Upper – At least they are being honest. I almost want to go just to see how a fixer upper is different than a “Character home”. I appreciate that they aren’t being covert about how much the house is lacking.
Ready to move into – The previous homeowners were evicted and the house was condemned, but you could move in as soon as you dump 30k into updating it so that it can pass the health inspection.
Newer wiring and hot water tank – It was updated around 1940. It’s newer than the house, so I guess technically they’re not lying….
Look no further – This listing usually doesn’t have a photo available, and after you’ve looked you won’t look any further due to the depression about the state of the homes that you’ve looked at so far.

Tag - You're It!

Why is it that clothes manufacturers are obsessive compulsive about putting at least 4 or more tags on each garment to tell you what size it is? They seem to think that you will somehow forget the size if only the tag on the inside of the shirt that is sewn in carries this crucial information. Apparently, you need a tag to tell you about the fabric of the item, two different tags that tell you the size placed in strategic locations e.g. the waist band and the pocket, a security tag usually in a most inconvenient location that you have to remove prior to wearing/washing and my most favorite – the large 6 inch by 1.5 inch clear sticker that repeatedly tells you the size in multiple languages.

One day I was happily wearing a new pair of pants and received glances from several men and women – mostly looking at my behind. I didn’t know if I should be flattered that the pants were causing such a stir, or be upset that people had become so brazen. I just shrugged and went back to work, attended meetings, went out for lunch, took the bus home and chatted happily to a fellow co-worker while waiting for the bus. All in all, it was a very good day.

When I got home, I hung up my new pants in the closet only to notice that my butt had been announcing its size in both Spanish and English all day long! Grande, Large, Grande, Large Grande, LARGE!! Oh my holy graciousness, no one told me about it all day long – no wonder I was getting so many glances! I was officially mortified! If they had at least had the decency to snicker, I might have picked up on what was happening before 5 pm that night! Unfortunately, in this context ‘Grande’ was not referring to a medium size, like at Starbucks, it was just referring to HUGE!

The sticker had actually been removed from the front of the pant leg, but it somehow affixed itself to the rear end of my new pants. Perhaps it happened when I sat down on my bed. I don’t know; it’s all unclear to me. The mental anguish of this situation has caused lapses in my memory. The one thing I do know is that no woman needs the size of her butt announced in multiple languages all day long!

I have one question for all of society: Why didn’t you tell me??!?!

If you ever, ever, ever see a woman running around with a clear sticker stuck to her butt loudly announcing its size – TELL HER ABOUT IT!! I don’t care if you don’t know her or you think she will react in a hostile manner to you pointing out her butt – just do it! Once the shock and embarrassment wears off, she will thank you profusely, even if you aren’t around to hear about it.

I'm Banking On It!

As my husband nears the completion of school in April and the stress of being closer to 30 than 20 looms, I made a decision. I decided that we should be more grown up. We should purchase a home and stop living in other people’s basements and cast off homes. With this thought in my mind, I joyfully logged onto the MLS website to see what homes were currently available in a normal person’s price range. (Although I am not normal, I operate on a normal person’s budget.) My once joy-filled heart sank as the only normal-priced homes available were one bedroom ‘condos’. I don’t know if these homes can even be considered condos. They are apartment buildings that are being renovated into condos – which means that they are going to finally rip out the shag carpet from 1963, put in a plastic tub surround in the bathroom, replace the matching olive colored stove/fridge duo and perhaps tile the mini-galley kitchen. And they are selling these one bedroom ‘condos’ for $200,000!! Somehow living in a castoff home seems better than sharing all my walls, ceilings and floors with someone else and having to save all my quarters for the shared, yet oh so convenient laundry facilities just down the hall.

Finally, I found a house that I could love. It had 10 foot ceilings, a wrap around porch, a den, a breakfast room, 3 bedrooms, a stone fireplace, lovely bathrooms with marble counter tops and it was only a mere *cough* $267,000 . Although I knew there was no possible way the Hoffmans would be able to purchase the home, I grabbed my friend and off we went to view it. Within 30 seconds of walking in the front door, I fell madly in love with it. I made the poor real estate man stay there for two hours while I ranted and raved my ecstatic feelings for the old farm house built in 1917. The basement foundation was still in great shape, but it seemed to be at odds with the rest of the house. There seemed to be a falling out of some kind – the porch was desperately trying to leave the relationship by falling off the front of the house and the rest of the house had angrily shifted a few feet to the left. I left saddened that not only I could not afford the house in the first place, but that I would have to dump another $30,000 into it to save it from toppling over and stop the leaking in the roof.

I went home dejected, yet determined to be able to purchase a home one day. Suddenly, I got the brilliant idea to go to the bank to talk to them about how to purchase a home – after all, I would eventually need them to fork out the cash, right? I dislike banks and try to avoid them. I always feel ridiculous trying to sort out finances with people that know everything about anything financial. I never know the correct answer to their questions.

Banker – So with this RRSP do you plan on trading Options and Futures?
Donloree – Umm…uh…well, what would you do?
Banker – It’s up to you, it’s your choice.
Donloree – Well, I suppose so. I didn’t know that I had an option to trade futures with other people. Is Bill Gates’ future still up for grabs?
Banker – So, that’s a no then. Ok. Next question.
Donloree – Uh, yeah, next question…

Since I had to go talk to a banker, I decided to do my best to come across as put together, professional and very smart about all things financial. I put on my demure, “yes, I am a business woman and should not be trifled with due to my high level of sophistication” look, a nice outfit and high heels and went confidently into the bank. Everyone took notice – mostly because those danged heels are so loud with the tile floors and high ceilings!! I didn’t let it faze me though - I went in, got an appointment with a banker, walked over, shook her hand while looking her straight in the eye. I was prepared and ready to face her many questions while she opened up all of my personal financial information.

After all my preparation, she turned out to be the nicest possible banker in the whole wide world. She even laughed with me, not at me – nor was she demeaning in any way to our meager beginnings at trying to scrape together a down payment and pay off all our student loans. I didn’t have to start fasting and praying that she would be nice and help us out. I went home thankful and blessed that we are on the road towards getting our own home, not having to share laundry with anyone and perhaps having an actual yard to relax in during the summer and spring. Oh yeah, and most important – no more corner lot to shovel in the winter time!

Cold, oh so very cold...

It’s ridiculously cold today. It’s a balmy -30 Celsius without a wind chill. The breath was wrenched out of my body when I stepped out of my front door this morning. I popped in a menthol cough drop on my way out this morning since I have a severe cold. On a normal day, it brings about a rush of fresh, cool air running through your lungs – on an arctic day your lungs seize and get a ‘brain freeze’ for about 30 seconds. Once my lungs thawed enough to gasp in some regular air, I ran to the bus shelter so that I didn’t end up a frozen lawn ornament. At this point in my morning I had two stunning revelations:

1. When it gets this cold outside people still go to work, kids go to school, stores are open and cars still work – society doesn’t cease to function.
2. Some people actually choose to live here – and I am one of them! What am I thinking?!??

When I first moved to Edmonton, it was summer time. It was nice, hot and the days were long and idyllic – that’s how people get sucked in! I don’t think anyone moves here in January. I recall walking through a parking lot my during my first week of living here and wondering why there were plug-ins all over the place. I merely shrugged and thought it was a Canadian oddity since I had never seen such a thing in America. Now I know it’s so that you can plug your car in because it gets so cold here that your car will turn into a block of ice if you don’t! I should have asked questions, and then turned tail and ran from the cold. This is my ninth winter here and I’m still shocked. I know, I’m a slow learner…

This morning as I walked towards my office building downtown, a well dressed man came up and asked me how well I knew Edmonton. I thought he was looking for an office building downtown or something like that. Apparently, he arrived this morning on the Grey Hound and needed to get to 149 Avenue and 97 Street. Unfortunately, his luggage got put on the wrong bus and he had to hike there without a toque (for all you Americans reading this, a toque is a stocking hat and it’s pronounced two-kuh) or scarf and only a medium weight coat. He was currently on 100 Avenue and 101 Street. It would take me about 2 hours on a summer day to make the trek; there was no way this man was going to survive. As I fished in my bag for some money to give him for a bus ride, my hand froze. I am not over stating this (as I am sometimes known to do), my hand actually had no feeling after being exposed to the elements for a mere 90 seconds! All I did was give this man $2.25, tell him to take the number 9 bus and ask the bus driver what bus to take after the number 9. Why didn’t I buy him coffee at the Starbucks we were standing in front of? Why didn’t I ask more questions and help him out more? Perhaps the cold froze my brain this morning – I wasn’t thinking straight. Now I can’t stop thinking about this man and his trek through the arctic without any of his belongings – I hope he makes it and that someone more coherent helped him out along the way.