Ottawawa, Question Period & The Diefenbunker

My father was a Social Studies teacher for his entire career, which ended about five years ago. Since retiring, he spends most of his time watching news, politics, re-runs of Law & Order, and walking the dog. Unbelievably, his routine is pretty much identical to mine, except I haven't had a career to technically retire from yet. But I digress.

Despite his passion for politics and his incredible knowledge of Canadian Political History, he has never traveled to Ottawa. So, because Jeff has an annual conference in Ottawa every March, we convinced my dad and his wife Cindy to come along with us this year to celebrate my dad's birthday.

The first evening was filled with drinking and eating, and drinking some more (for me, anyway). I insisted that we walk over to the House of Commons so we could see it at night, which was bound to be more enchanting under the stars. We wandered the grounds, and then walked back to the hotel past the East Block. I was sure that I could spot Sir John A. MacDonald's original office and was loudly pointing it out to anybody that would listen. Of course, they humoured me, but no one really believed me. Fortunately, a gentleman was walking by, and I accosted him and asked if he worked in the building. He said that he did. I pointed up at a window and asked if that was in fact John A. MacDonald's office. He said that it was. I danced around in victory. He introduced himself as Senator Wilfred Moore from Nova Scotia, and proceeded to point out other historical offices in the building. As he did that, all I could think about was whether I reeked of wine, and if I said my name correctly when I introduced myself. He was a very gracious and patient stranger, and I, as usual, acted like an unpredictable lunatic.

The next day, while Jeff attended sessions on Health Care and Wait Times (cleverly called "Taming of the Queue"), Cindy, my dad and I galavanted around Ottawa. The first place we descended upon was the "Supreme Court." And unfortunately for us, the trial happened to be the Pickton Appeal. Thus, there was too many media, and no space for visitors in the actual courtroom, but all nine judges were present, and we watched from an adjacent courtroom on a television monitor. The most memorable moment was when a very well dressed and extremely attractive reporter walked by wearing Christian Laboutin shoes. Can you imagine that she makes so much she can afford to buy $1000 shoes doing a job that seemed to require checking her blackberry and making sulky faces? Mondieu!

From there we headed to Question Period, which was simultaneously exciting and horrifying. On the one hand, it was incredible to see all of "the players" gathered in one room. On the other, it was shocking to see them behave like characters from "Mean Girls." I have found it difficult to believe the reports that Question Period had become so embarrassing that field trips were no longer occurring because of bad behaviour, but now I can truly understand why. Actually, it made me feel rather devastated because I hold the House of Commons in such high esteem and believe that the Members of Parliament are pillars of the community generally. It was like going to Prada Headquarters only to find that they'd been sold to Walmart, but kept the Prada name. On a more positive note, my dad did almost knock Gilles Duceppe down the stairs without realizing it, which was funny in a really uncomfortable way.

The highlight of our trip was our excursion out to "Carp" to see the Diefenbunker. Prior to our trip, I booked the tour online, and proceeded to do some reading about Carp because I had never heard of it before. I discovered that not only did Carp have a Secret Cold War Government Bunker, it also had a notorious UFO landing in 1992. I was seriously excited.

Once we arrived, we found ourselves in a town that seemed completely abandoned. We made a lot of jokes about zombies and "The Stand," and because we were early, I was trying to convince the others that we should stop in a coffee shop or hair salon and ask about the UFO. No one was on board with that one because I don't think they believed me, or they had seen too many horror movies with a similar plot, so we proceeded to the Diefenbunker. It was in the middle of nowhere, but there happened to be a public library right beside it, and since we were early, I suggested we go inside and I would show them that I wasn't making the UFO stuff up.

At first, I was locked out of the computers because you had to be a member to access them, but once I told the Librarian that I was interested in looking up some local facts, she told me she would sign me on with a guest card. She casually asked what I was looking for, and I whispered, "I want to read about the UFO that landed here in 1992." She looked perplexed for a moment, but then said, "Oh right, the one that landed somewhere over there" and pointed behind her with her thumb. I told her that I wasn't sure where it landed, but that I was curious to know more about it, and did she know anything about it that she'd like to share? She said, "Well, there is a lot of inbreeding here, you know." And I said, "I'm sorry, did you say inbreeding?" and she said, "Oh yeah. They all marry their first cousins because they don't want to change their last names. So a lot of them are stupid and make stuff up." I looked around me to see if anyone else was listening, but she didn't seem too concerned about being overheard. I guess the inbreeding was common knowledge.

Fortunately, our tour began on time, and I thanked the Librarian and excused myself to head underground for two hours. Our tour guide was called Mike, and he had actually been a member of the Emergency Response branch of the Government, which meant if there had been a nuclear war, Mike would have been one of the 530 people living in the bunker. He also worked in the bunker up until 1994 when it closed. So, he was a pretty incredible tour guide, filled with excellent information and plenty of enthusiasm.

The tour was incredible, and I am still shocked that there exists a place that has four stories of fully functional facilities underground, and that the Canadian Government truly believed that they might live there one day, after Russia annihilated North America. In fact, the government had organized bomb shelters for over 25 million Canadians, and never released that information. The plan was the 530 specifically chosen people, including the Prime Minister, would live underground for 30 days if Nuclear War started. Once the 30 days was up, they would be out of supplies, and would "surface" through the main doors, which consisted of a long, metal tunnel, or through one of two "escape hatches." Once they surfaced, they would slowly rebuild the country. It's a pretty frightening prospect, and it raised some questions about why that plan is considered obsolete today. I tried to ask Mike if he knew anything about the current Emergency Response Plan, but he said no, and then added that his son was involved in the planning, but refused to disclose anything to him.

Throughout the tour, Mike mentioned the Petawawa base many times, as its relevance was its close proximity to the bunker, which then resulted in me calling Ottawa: Ottawawa. It seemed hysterically funny to me then, but my excuse is being underground for over two hours with limited oxygen and possible mold/asbestos particles permeating my lungs and brain. Once the tour ended, I'd hoped to get a couple of interesting souvenirs to take home (gas masks?), but they have been retrofitting the bunker, and getting rid of the aforementioned asbestos and mold, so the store was closed. I do wonder what they sold there, though.

I did not leave Ottawa empty handed. Though we didn't see aliens, space-ships or inbred children (that we are aware), I did score a gorgeous mug from the House of Commons. Happy Birthday, Dad!

The Future Halted

Australia is ruining my life. There, I said it. Honestly, planning this incredible trip has forced me to face myself in a way I wasn't completely prepared for. And the verdict? I am a COWARD.

At first, the biggest challenge was trying to find some things to do in Australia that didn't include being in the water. Then, while reading about activities on land, I stumbled across some information that alerted me to the ten thousand species of Australian spiders! And whilst researching, came across an informative video about the huntsman spider that has psychologically damaged me.

I know that the fear of spiders might seem completely ridiculous to most people. But I have an experience to legitimately back it up. Three years ago, we took our daughters to France and Italy for a long-planned vacation. We had finally saved up enough airline points to claim four tickets from Air Canada, cost-free (of course this is now impossible with the current, completely unreasonable structure of the aeroplan point system, but that is another blog-rant!).

It was mid-July when we set off to Paris. We spent a glorious week there, and then took the train to Avignon. Another week was spent touring the countryside of Provence, and then we caught the overnight train to Rome. From there, we rented a car to get us to where we would meet up with some dear friends in the Tuscan countryside.

We arrived and were greeted by captivating views of pastures and vineyards. Cows wandered freely about, with giant cowbells around their necks (and I thought this only happened in cartoons!). Ourselves and around twenty others had rented the country-house for the week. Each family had its own apartment, but there was a wonderful common area and swimming pool where we held our "happy hours" daily (http://www.borgopoggiolo.com/).

The "happening" occurred on the second last morning. Though our wonderful hosts had warned us of the poisonous snakes and scorpions, no one said anything about spiders. Long days around the pool had resulted in many wet pieces of clothing, which I lay out on our brick railing each evening. After the girls were in bed, Jeff and I would go sit on our stoop, have a glass of grappa, and chat quietly while I put out our clothes. Admittedly, there were a few times where I noticed something scrambling behind Jeff's head as he leaned against the brink wall, but I couldn't see well enough to be thoroughly convinced of its identity.

There was also a couple of occasions where we had to shake a couple of spiders out of our curtains, but that didn't really traumatize me too badly. Yet one morning, as I stepped out onto our lovely little terrace to shake out our clothes, I met my nemesis. It was a large, brown spider about the size of my palm, and it was nestled like a baby in the folds of my daughter's robe (http://www.thais.it/entomologia/ragni/schede/sc_00009.htm).

Instead of hollering or bravely shooing it away, I completely froze. Sophia came waltzing out, ready to grab her suit and begin the day swimming (she also ended the day swimming), and noticed that I was paralyzed and unable to speak. She followed my gaze and went inside, screaming for her father.

Jeff came scrambling onto our porch, and saw "the beast." He muttered a series of profanities under his breath, and I instructed him to get a broom, pronto. He complied, and proceeded to flick the spider down the stairs with the broom, in an aggressive, sweeping motion. It flew through the air and landed at the bottom of the stairs, and then proceeded to run back up towards us. Of course, this sent us into a dancing terror-frenzy that included a lot of non-sensical screaming. As it got to the top of the stairs, Jeff flicked it again, and this time, it flew further and landed on the grass. We stood motionless for a few seconds, awaiting its return. All was calm and quiet, until I realized the spider had to die. And as an aside, I never kill bugs or spiders at home. In fact, I regularly develop close relationships with the beautiful jewel spiders that spin orb webs in my garden every year. But this spider was the king-kong of spiders, and it had to die in order to preserve my mental health.

Jeff agreed, begrudgingly, and descended the stairs to find "the beast." I stood on the stoop, anxious and frightened as I watched him look for the spider. He eventually found it, and it took both feet to kill it. I had a giant shot of grappa to calm my nerves, and we carried on with our day.

Now somehow, I managed to convince myself that this was a lone, rogue spider, that had escaped a Venezuelan produce delivery truck or something, and now we would all live in arachnid-free peace. Though I didn't sleep a wink the last two nights in Italy, and I emptied and re-packed our suitcases about 100 times, I didn't see another spider. As we drove away from the Tuscan paradise, I mentioned to Jeff how strange it was that we had the misfortune to encounter that spider, as no one else had mentioned seeing any. I suggested that it was some kind of random bad luck, and Jeff just kind of agreed, and made a Jeff-grimace-face. I inhaled sharply, and asked him if he saw another one. He nodded. And told me it was BIGGER than the last one. Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

So this happy tale doesn't end here. Only months ago, I had a sleep-walking episode. As a child, I used to sleep walk a lot, particularly after my parents divorced, so I suspect it's induced by stress. And though I can't remember what I might have been stressed over, I do know that I saw that spider again, and this time, it was in my bedroom. I was sleeping, and I opened my eyes, only to see it on my the side of my wardrobe. I watched in utter terror, as it then slipped behind the wardrobe, and stayed there. I screamed for Jeff, who came running upstairs in concern, and relayed what I saw. He told me that it was impossible that the spider was here in our bedroom. But I was insistent, and made him look behind the wardrobe, under the wardrobe, and nearly everywhere else in the house. He finally convinced me that I had imagined it.

I think this experience is important because it illustrates how sincerely disturbed I am. The incident has imprinted itself into my subconscious, to the point that I can actually conjure spiders! And it is also truly at the crux of my resistance to go to Australia. I am just plain terrified.

The Future #3

As with most things I am in charge of, I have already changed my mind about the recently posted itinerary. Luckily, Jeff just nods and gives the thumbs up when I announce "our plan" because he knows I will revise it hundreds of times before it is truly finalized. So, after abusing my laminated map with a really terrible smelling erasable red pen that led to a horrible headache, which then led to me making a huge cocktail with rye to counteract the headache, I realized that I had approached the world domination thing all wrong. Tip: Rye brings clarity.

I discovered that I needed to reverse my domination route! The main consideration occurred to me when I was trying to solve the issue of logical, geographical organization: we need to chase the sun, big-time. Could we possibly manage to arrange this trip so that we live in perpetual summer for ten months? The short answer is absolutely.

Now, it took going through nearly fourteen travel books, but I have decided that our trip will look like this (and it is officially called "Wednesday, March 17's Trip" to avoid being bound by it):

1. Canada - USA

2. Australia - New Zealand

3. South Africa - Egypt - Morocco

4. Spain - France - Italy

5. Greece - Turkey

6. USA - Canada

In my mind, this is the perfect route. And while I am awake during daylight hours, I am beyond enthusiastic about it. However, I am already experiencing middle-of-the-night-anxiety. For two nights in a row, I have found myself wide awake, considering everything that could possibly go wrong.

The first fretful thought is always about leaving behind my choco-lab, Ruthie. I really love this dog. It is extremely unhealthy, but as a stay-at-home mother with no stay-at-home children, Ruthie has become the center of my universe. I have actually created our departure scene in my mind where I am kneeling down, looking her sincerely in the eye and trying to explain that our absence does not mean we don't care about her. Ruthie never makes eye contact with me and Jeff has to drag me, inconsolably, to the RV where our children are watching in obvious embarrassment.

The second fretful thought is mainly about African airline safety standards. And possibly Greek ones, too. Dying in a plane crash is good fodder for night terrors for sure, but then I also add the delicious topper, which is being torn apart by sharks after I manage to survive the crash into the ocean. One saving grace that I often internally appeal to is that I am aware that you should punch a shark in the eyes really hard if it is attacking you (I've done research, ok?), but this still does not quell my worries entirely.

The third fretful scenario is around catching horrible illnesses. Our recent trip to Mexico resulted in a bout of food-poisoning that I truly thought was going to kill me. In fact, I repeatedly begged Jeff to get a giant rock and hit me on the head with it so I could die to escape the vomiting. Because of the clear case of PTSD that I have developed because of this poisoning, I now find myself awake at night trying to calculate how many peanut-butter and honey sandwiches I would have to pack to survive ten months without eating any bought food.

Aside from these overwrought thoughts that dissipate once the sun is up, I am thrilled that we are going to do this.

The Future #2

I just purchased a map of the world. As I unrolled it, I recalled an interview I heard recently with a fellow whose parents had tacked a map of the world up in the bathroom, and because of this, geography is now his area of expertise. Sadly, my bathroom isn't big enough to include the whole world, so I will continue to educate myself by reading Calvin & Hobbes, instead. I'm sure it will come in useful someday.

However, there is a point to the purchase of the map. Jeff and I realized that we could leave on our home-schooling/travel-extravaganza a year earlier than anticipated, and now we are standing before a mapped version of the world that is our oyster.

Here is the preliminary Stephanie Agenda:

1. Buy a used RV with no bad smells

2. Stock up on Gravol

3. Travel across Canada as far as New Brunswick

4. Head south through Maine, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, DC, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia and finally, Florida.

5. Leave RV in Florida Storage Place

6. Hop a plane to Spain

7. Spend Christmas in Spain

8. Take train to Morroco - hang out in Casablanca and Marakkesh

9. Fly to Egypt - hang out in Cairo and Luxor

10. Fly to South Africa - hang out in Cape Town and Johannesburg

11. Fly to Australia - avoid dinner-plate sized spiders. Hang out in Melbourne and Brisbane? (If I am being really honest, I am not sure how I feel about Australia, other than completely not excited. Please convince me to go there, dear reader - all five of you)

12. Fly or float to New Zealand

13. Fly to Sicily

14. Fly to Venice and head down the Adriatic Coast to visit San Marino and Ortona

15. Float to Greece

16. Visit many Greek Islands and then head to the mainland

17. Train to Turkey - hang in Istanbul

18. Fly from Turkey to Florida

19. Reclaim non-smelly RV

20. Drive home via Louisiana, Texas, New Mexico and up to the Dakotas to see Mount Rushmore (and maybe Tornado chase along the way)

I also purchased some erasable markers to plot the route on my new laminated map, which has instilled a kind of deranged feeling of world domination deep within me. I think I will complement it with an evil laugh, which I should probably practice before its unveiling.

If you want to meet up with us along the way, don't hesitate to let us know. We plan to be gone from September 2010 - July 2011. Any travel tips would be gladly received, and so would a farewell party.

Merci!

Sweet Duchess

I had a extremely rare, and perfectly unique cafe experience this afternoon that has left me feeling a bit out of sorts. I visited "Duchess Bake Shop" on 124 street and I will never be the same again.

Upon entering, I was not particularly dazzled by the decor or layout. In fact, I thought it seemed a bit too stark. Then I arrived at the counter and tried to absorb the bounty that lay before me. There were sandwiches made on croissants with piles of meat and various cheeses. Cakes, cookies, tarts, meringues, scones and some divine looking madeleines peered back at me through the window. I suddenly longed to be a cow so I could max out my four stomachs.

I settled on a sandwich and tried the lemon blueberry scone for dessert. It was the most wonderful taste experience I've had in ages, and it has stoked the underlying outrage that I have worked really hard to suppress. The outrage is this: how is it we have become so conditioned and accepting of the CRAP that purports to be food at most cafes and bakeries? What is wrong with us? Are we so filled with self-loathing that we don't think we deserve better?

Granted, the food at "Duchess Bake Shop" is more expensive than most places, but the food is homemade and exquisite! And I am not ignoring the other establishments in Edmonton like Zenari's or Wild Earth that are high quality spots. But I am forced to recall the many times I have wandered through the city only to see an astonishingly long line up at Tim Horton's. Please, my dear Edmontonians, STOP eating there. Your donuts arrive half cooked to every location and then it is "finished" on site. The chicken comes in a "loaf!" And, it is despairingly bad for you (I have actually resorted to labeling physical ailments "Timmy Bum" and "Timmy Tum" in honour of the garbage food).

So, I raise my glass to "Duchess Bake Shop" and hope this kind of establishment encourages a food backlash in our beloved city.

http://duchessbakeshop.com/wp/

Politics and Functionally Crazy People

Ten Tips on How NOT to Approach a Riding President About Running in the Next Election:

1. Don't refer to Eastern European people as Polaks and Ukelele's.

2. Don't begin every sentence with, "Here's the deal..."

3. Don't reveal that you think none of the parties actually have any values, including the one you intend to run for.

4. Don't name-drop names no one recognizes.

5. Don't disclose that though you normally vote Conservative, your intention to run against them has nothing to do with revenge.

6. Don't ask if anyone wants to hear your opinion about those goddamn RCMP f-ers.

7. Don't ask if that particular opinion will impact your chances of becoming the nominated candidate.

8. Don't liken the current Prime Minister to Adolph Hitler.

9. Don't try to explain, in detail, the history of Libertarianism.

10. And finally, don't ask the President if her last name is Polak or Ukelele.

Thank-You.

CONVERSATION KILLER #1

Setting: Dinner with him and me. He is important. I am trying to be.

ME: So, you're a physician and the Leader of the Opposition! I am still so impressed at your brave stance against the government, getting fired, and then becoming a politician to work to elicit real change.

HIM: Well, it took some great sacrifices to get where I am today, but I really believe in what I'm doing. Even if I don't ever become Premiere, I hope to leave the Legislature in better shape than when I arrived. So, you said you have a BA? What did you major in?

ME: Women's Studies.

HIM: (looks over my shoulder) Is that Ben Henderson?

THE END

You, Me & Dog Poop = Community?

I live in a small community. My family & I moved here because it is near the center of the city, and allows access to the river valley. We walk everywhere: to the Sobey's on 104 St., to the Citadel for drama classes, to the AGA for art classes, to the Don Wheaton YMCA for swimming lessons. We bike to the Folk Festival every year, the Muttart Conservatory and Dragon Boat Races.

The neighbourhood attracted us not only for its splendid location, but because of its reputation as being friendly, open and eccentric. Yet the only description that has truly applied to date is the eccentric one. The "open & friendly" part is still a work in progress.

For instance, our community newsletter recently published an anonymous letter from someone complaining in detail how angry she is about the dog poop that is constantly left on her front lawn. She concluded the diatribe by threatening those out walking their dog to be careful as she might throw said dog poop at the back of someone's head.

I guess I am naive, or subscribe to some kind of polly-anna attitude, but this completely shocked me for a couple of reasons. The first reason being that I couldn't believe the editor allowed this letter in the newsletter. The second reason is because I am not sure I will ever be able to support or understand this kind of animosity-laced open-letter in any community.

No matter what your issue, this kind of unfiltered rant will never inspire anyone to sympathize, let alone change their behaviour . Worse, a letter like this breaks down any potential for building a strong community.

To help combat my outrage, I have been collecting these little ditties, and intend to write "Riverdale: The Musical" from them. "Poop on My Lawn" is in the key of A minor, and I would prefer a contralto.

Auditions will be held in spring, just in time for the great thaw (to get y'all in the mood).