You will NOT believe what's happening in Canada. An election has been called and it's going to be a super-long campaign... a whole eight weeks!!!

Yes, eight weeks is considered a horribly long campaign in Canada -- 35 days is the norm here. I knew there was something refreshingly civilized about this place... And of course everyone expects the candidates to take a week-long break for Christmas and New Year's. Given the kvetching about this election campaign dragging on for 56 whole days, I can only imagine the shock and horror of Canadians who relocate to the U.S. and realize our presidential campaigns basically last two years nowadays.

Of course, Canadians make up for their blessedly brief elections by having many more of them. The last election was in June 2004; this week the Liberal minority government once again lost the confidence of Parliament (I totally should be drinking tea and eating scones as I write this) and so we're having another election. Given that all the smart money is on another minority government (meaning a ruling party that has a plurality but a majority of votes in Parliament, and thus has to suck up constantly to various other parties to stay alive) and given that the average life span of minority governments is 18 months, election fatigue could become a chronic condition for Canadians.

I'll be interested to see what this campaign is like. Everyone's predicting some fierce mudslinging. (Reliable sources say it'll be a bitter vote.) But how dirty can Canadians get? I'm thinking this calls for a compare-and-contrast chart of dirty politics, U.S.- and Canada-style. For example:

Negative campaigning, U.S.-style: Spread rumors in a key Southern state that your opponent fathered an illegitimate black baby.
Negative campaigning, Canada-style: Suggest that, in your opinion, you think your opponent may not have always behaved completely honorably and might be misguided on some of the issues.

The gloves are off now, eh!

Last night I caught a few minutes of the Grey Cup, Canada's equivalent of the Super Bowl. It's not so much a Super!!! Bowl as a "we're fine, thanks for asking" bowl. It's actually named after Earl Grey, who along with drinking lots of tea also served as governor general of Canada back in the day. Football, tea, governor generalling ... he was like a triple-threat earl.

The Edmonton Eskimos beat the Montreal Alouettes, which seems only right considering that "alouette" means "lark" -- not sure which marketing genius thought that would make an intimidating football team name.

Canadian football is basically the same as American football, with some changes -- there are three downs instead of four, blah blah blah. Honestly, I barely care about or understand the rules of American football so I don't think the CFL has much chance of breaking through my wall of sports-related apathy.

So I'll go straight to the important stuff: the half-time show. They had the Black Eyed Peas (I guess Ontario's own Shania Twain was booked), and I do like the Black Eyed Peas. Or I did, until they unleashed the horror known as "My Humps" on my poor unsuspecting eardrums.

Sample lyrics (and if you are lucky enough to have not heard this song you might want to save yourself and look away now before these lyrics burn their stupidity into your retinas):

What you gonna do with all that junk? All that junk inside your trunk?
I’ma get, get, get, get, you drunk, Get you love drunk off my hump.
My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump,
My hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely little lumps.

But wait, there's more! In case the junk/trunk reference was a bit too subtle:

What you gonna do with all that ass? All that ass inside them jeans?
I’m a make, make, make, make you scream

Oh, you make me scream all right ... because my ears are BLEEDING. Now I'm no expert on the "rap music" that the kids like to listen to these days, but can I just point out that ass and jeans DO NOT RHYME! Call me old school, but I just don't think that should be allowed. Seriously, if I had to choose between the mindless thuggery of gangsta rap versus the mindless sexploitation of "My Humps," I'd choose 50 Cent and his multiple bullet wounds any day. Unless deaf is an option, in which case that might be the winner.

Shania, a lost and confused Canada awaits your glorious return!

When I moved here, several Canadians assured me not to worry about the winters, that Toronto doesn't get much snow. Well, I suspected then and I know now that they are dirty dirty LIARS! Or to be more charitable, I think the unspoken part of that sentence was "doesn't get much snow compared to the Arctic Circle."

There is snow. And it is sticking. And I realized that the sidewalk in front of my house does not get sun during any part of the day, which means lots of shoveling/salting in my future. This really should have been addressed during house-hunting. Why did I worry about silly things like number of bedrooms when this sun exposure issue went unnoticed?

I don't even know snow-shoveling etiquette. City law says you have to clear the sidewalk in front of your house within 24 hours of a snowfall, but no one else on my block has done it. I don't want to be a goody-two-snowshoes. Plus I tried shoveling the sidewalk a little bit and it's really hard! So I bought some salt, which I know is bad for the environment, BUT -- if I throw out my back shoveling snow, then I won't be able to walk to the grocery store or the drugstore, then I'd have to drive everywhere, thus burning fossil fuels and contributing to global warming, and that is really much worse than a little salt going into Lake Ontario, which is wicked polluted anyway.

I was feeling very ex-pat as we celebrated our American Thanksgiving a month after the Canadian Thanksgiving. As far as I can tell the two holidays basically have the same idea: be thankful and eat a lot. For a while Canadian Thanksgiving was linked to Armistice Day -- again with the war fixation! -- but it got changed to the second Monday in October. My new theory on why they're on different dates is that right now, most of Canada is covered in a thickening layer of snow and ice, so holiday travel might be a bit harder. (Not that these people are daunted by snow, ice, or temperatures so low they freeze my eyeballs on contact. Canadians are a hardy lot; sleet is like rose petals to them.)

So of course, while thawing out my eyeballs and the turkey (now there's a pleasant visual!) I thought about what makes me thankful these days. Good health, the love of family and friends, yadda yadda yadda. But what I really want to give thanks for is Canada's delightfully dysfunctional government. Parliament is voting on a "no confidence" motion on Monday, which will dissolve the government and force a new election early next year. This follows many weeks and months of scandal and political intrigue. The best part about parliamentary democracy is that they have this thing called "question period," during which any member of the House of Commons can question the prime minister. Yesterday most of the questions translated to, "Why are you such an evil, lying bastard?" And then the prime minister or one of his cronies gets up and responds, "Nah-uh, YOU'RE the evil lying bastard. Also you're ugly, and I hate you." It's fabulous!

What I'm hoping this means for yours truly is many opportunities to write about wacky Canadian politics for U.S. publications. Already there are predictions that this is going to be a dirty campaign -- sadly, I'm sure the Canadian idea of mudslinging will look positively quaint compared to the 2004 U.S. presidential election.

And for the record, the first recorded North American thanksgiving ceremony took place in 1578 in what is now NEWFOUNDLAND. So Canadians totally invented Thanksgiving and then the Americans stole it from them! Kind of like hockey. In any case, go Canada!

I take it back, karma's a bitch.
My wonderful and amazing dog has a urinary tract infection. I noticed the symptoms of this ailment on my basement carpet roughly 20 minutes after posting yesterday's musings about the universe. And apparently I can't just feed her cranberry juice (although I did buy some -- you never know, it could help).
Cost of vet's visit and antibiotics: $144.86.
Cost to my dignity of having to collect a doggie urine sample for testing: Priceless.
Lesson learned about not tempting fate by smugly pontificating on my cute little karmic theories: Totally.

I believe in karma, albeit a totally uneducated view of karma. I'm sure a full understanding of karma would involve years of religious study and meditation and achieving a higher consciousness, and I just don't have time for all that. So my version of karma is more like a basic, no-fee checking account. Put in stuff, take out stuff, and it's all good.

For example, my car karma -- carma -- may not help me on the path to enlightenment, but it definitely helped me on the path to work when I commuted 120 miles daily from Seattle to Olympia. Mostly due to wretched 8 a.m. committee hearings, I often felt the need to speed on my way to work. As is my habit, I would also drive rather assertively (as opposed to aggressively, which has gotten a bad rap lately). So I would speed and hope not to get caught by the many evil traps laid by the State Patrol. Now here's the carma part -- on my way home after speeding to work, I would take care to drive extra-mellow and totally obey the speed limit, thus restoring balance and order to the interstate universe. And I never got a speeding ticket in five years of consistent speed-limit-breaking, so carma totally works!

I'm sure somewhere the Buddha is weeping, but whatever, it works for me.

So this brings me to my current karmic project, which involves my wonderful and amazing dog Lily. She came into my life totally by chance -- I thought I was going to adopt another dog, but something didn't feel right (the Universe telling me to wait for Lily!) and then lo and behold the next week I met Lily. She had me the first time she pushed her head under my hand to be petted. She is totally well-trained and sweet and is equally happy sleeping in her dog bed or taking long walks. Her breed is known to bark, howl, dig and wander and she does none of those things. She is the perfect dog. I know everyone thinks they have the perfect dog, but sorry, you're wrong, I actually do.

So what did I do to deserve this perfect dog? Absolutely nothing. I didn't train her, teach her not to howl or do anything to make her cuter other than a darling collar and the occasional bath. I've always been a dog person but I've never, say, rescued a litter of puppies from a burning building or anything like that. In fact, I worked one summer at a vet's office where I helped put many dogs to sleep (and not surprisingly decided I didn't want to be a vet), so if anything the Universe should have a score to settle with me in terms of dog karma. (Dogma?) But instead I get Lily the wonderful and amazing dog.

So Lily and I are going to give back to the generous Universe. We're going to be a therapy dog! Well, she is, and I'm going to facilitate. Lily passed the obedience and temperament test this weekend, and all that's left is some training for me and then we'll be spreading joy to the elderly and infirm of the Greater Toronto Area. Lily will get to be petted, which she loves; people get to pet Lily, which has obvious therapeutic benefits; and I get to do a little something good for the world.

Karma totally rocks.

Now that I'm freed from the shackles of office-based employment, I marvel at how quickly I've shed my fashionista image. As I sit here typing in yoga pants* and a dog hair-covered sweatshirt, dressing up for work is just a dim memory.

Of course my fashionista cred was always relative. "Formal" in Seattle means you wear a nice fleece. And the state officials I covered in Olympia were even worse: think senior PGA tour for the men, shoulder pads and Home Shopping Network for the women. So it's not I had much competition, and sadly only a few discerning lobbyists with impeccable taste noticed my keen fashion sense.

Still, I feel a bit nostalgic as I reach for the jeans in my closet yet again and see the blue Ann Taylor suit that fit like a glove, the red spike-heeled boots that I got on sale for $20 (down from $80!), the tweedy black a-line skirt that is soooo this season, the purple pumps with cut-out peekaboo toes... Hello, my old friends. How I've missed you.

Most of all I think I miss bargain shopping. Though a clothes-hound, I was never one to blow my paycheck on a Prada handbag, no matter how loudly it called to me through the display window. I shopped sales and discount stores. (One of Toronto's few major flaws is the lack of Target here ... it's like a little piece of my soul is missing.)

There's not much point in dressing to impress nowadays, although I did make a fab purchase on Queen Street this week. Fleece jacket with light blue stripes for just $10, and the best part is the color. It's white -- same as my dog.

Now that's what I call fashionable.

* (Yoga pants not actually used to perform yoga.)

It just started snowing. God I miss the rain.

A friend recently got a short haircut, and she noted how the new 'do was a sign of confidence -- no more long hair to hide behind. I think she's right, for most women short hair implies a very confident outlook on life.

My hair, on the other hand, is getting steadily longer and blonder. But I'm sure that's not significant at all. Aren't we supposed to have more fun or something?

I've discovered Antonia Zerbisias' entertaining (sometimes intentionally, sometimes not) media blog on the Toronto Star's web site. I'm still catching up on her musings but I had to share this gem giving praise (or "props" in her mad street lingo) to Hollywood gazillionaires who took a brave stand against the Iraq war and chiding those who didn't:

"Props to Reiner, George Clooney, Barbra Streisand, Michael Moore, Janeane Garofalo, Steve Earle, the Dixie Chicks and the other brave ones who took on the 'You're either with us or the terrorists' media mob.
"But most celebs kept their heads down to keep their multimillion-dollar contracts up. And so Hollywoodies did not do enough. Not nearly enough, considering their reach and influence. If they had, perhaps the U.S. and Iraq would not be in the mess it is now."

*Smacks forehead* D'oh! All this time I've been blaming the Bush administration for the carnage in Iraq, turns out I should have been blaming Julia Roberts and Ben Stiller!
Can we blame the Olsen twins? Because I'd like to. They can run as fast as their emaciated little legs can carry them, but they can't hide from responsibility for the Iraq war behind their comically oversized sunglasses.
"Hey hey, Mary K., how many babies did you kill today?"
I'm off to find a bullhorn and a video store that carries "New York Minute" (the twins' sucktacular movie debut, sadly costarring Canadian comedy genius Eugene Levy). Thanks, Antonia!

One thing I learned during my six years in Seattle was that Pacific Northwesterners have many, many words for rain. Growing up in the mid-Atlantic, it was a simpler time: it was sunny or raining, perhaps raining heavily, but that was the end of the weather choices.

Not so in Seattle, where I learned about rain, light rain, heavy rain, showers, light showers, heavy showers, patchy sprinkles, drizzle, rain with sunbreaks (that's what they call it in Seattle when the mysterious ball of fire appears in the sky), mist, sun with clouds and clouds with sun. All of which describe a condition known as "wet," but each signifying a distinct meteorological condition. You'll actually hear forecasts like, "Well, we expect light rain the morning, changing to showers in the afternoon and then some patchy sprinkles tonight."

So I am surprised to be surprised by the quality of rain here in Toronto. It just rains so HARD here. Seattle offers more of a continual cool mist, so you were almost always damp but never really soaked. Here, it's like the heavens open and you run for cover. I find this rain to be angry, perhaps even peevish and spiteful. And it's hard not to take personally -- couldn't this have waited until I installed the gutter extender on the front porch?

The angry, angry rain got me a little down today. But then two things happened that cheered me up. First, I put my hair in pigtail braids. I think everyone should try this -- it's hard to mope when you appear to be channeling Pippi Longstocking.

Second, as I was driving through town today the radio (thank you CBC1) played Depeche Mode's "Just Can't Get Enough." So I serenaded my dog, because it's true that I just cannot get enough of her. I think she really appreciated it, because she's a big fan of early-80s British synth-pop.

Sample lyrics (I'll admit I didn't know these words until I looked them up, I just mumbled this part and then sang the "just can't get enough" refrain):

And when it rains, you're shining down for me
And I just can't get enough, I just can't get enough
Just like a rainbow you know you set me free
And I just can't get enough, I just can't get enough

Depeche Mode, chronicler of my soul. I totally thought they were deep back in the 7th grade, and I was so right! And while it may just be coincidence, I like to think it's the Universe's way of giving me a big wet kiss.

MEMORANDUM
To: My fellow shoppers and liner-uppers
Date: Nov. 14, 2005
Category: Urgent

My dear anonymous friends, I have so enjoyed conducting my daily errands and/or waiting in line with you. How we've merrily whiled away the minutes at the grocery store and the licensing office! And I do understand your compulsion to get close to me -- what is that enchanting perfume, you may wonder, or perhaps you like so many others want to know what delightful snacks I have in my shopping cart this time? Despite your endearing interest in me, my grocery cart, or simply my cotton-clad ass, I must request:

BACK THE HELL UP!!!

Whatever happened to the notion of personal space? Seriously, this is Canada, there's like 20 square miles per person in this country. Let's spread out, people! There's no need to spoon me at the Shoppers Drug Mart. (Unless I ask. Sometimes that new Antonio Banderas cologne just makes me want to be held.)

Here's a hint, people: if I shift my weight backward an inch and hit you, you are standing TOO DAMN CLOSE! What do you think is going to happen? Are you guarding your spot in the 10-items-or-less checkout lane in case someone tries to cut in? Or are you merely drawn by the gravitational power of my ass? Regardless, the tailgating needs to stop. No more tailing my gate (or gating my tail?).

I'm not going to blame this on the Torontonians, because really this is a situation that must be addressed by all humanity. But to my local shadows, be warned: I have a pocketbook stuffed with Canadian change, a cell phone, a wallet, a hairbrush, some makeup, maybe a granola bar or two, and assorted receipts dating back to 1997. This mother is heavy. Should you stand too close and should this weighty pocketbook "accidentally" swing back to hit you in your eye, solar plexus or sensitive bits, you shall have no one but yourself to blame.

Yours truly within a two-foot radius,
Rebecca

Difference between U.S. Veterans' Day and Canadian Remembrance Day, exhibits A and B:

Bush uses Veterans Day speech to attack Iraq war critics
Tearful mother personifies grief at Remembrance Day ceremonies

For a nation known for its peacekeeping, Canadians are sort of obsessed with war.

Today is Remembrance Day, which is like Veterans Day in the U.S., except that in Canada it's less about department store sales and more about actually remembering veterans. They really get into it. Everyone wears poppies on their lapels, which is the Remembrance Day symbol -- it's popular in Britain and Australia too. I do mean EVERYONE -- about two weeks ago the red paper poppies sprouted on everyone's lapels like, well, poppies.

It's not just the poppies, either. The country made a huge fuss (like Rosa Parks death-level fuss) at the death of World War Two vet Ernest "Smokey" Smith last summer. He was the last surviving Canadian recipient of the Victoria Cross, which is the highest military honor in the British Commonwealth, doncha know.

Maybe the scarcity of war veterans is one reason why Canadians pay more attention to them. After all, it's not like the U.S., where they're churning out new vets by the thousands. The motto for Remembrance Day is "lest we forget." Whereas I think the comparable U.S. motto would be something like, "We saved all your asses in WW2, so shut up about Iraq already."

Or perhaps they make a bigger deal out of it because the two World Wars were crucial turning points in the formation of this still-young nation. Without a war of independence, the first World War especially helped forge Canada's national identity. Nothing like sending your sons off to die under a national flag to bring a country together, I guess. The country that fights together, stays together (*mileage may vary in Quebec).

But back to the poppies. Their inspiration comes from a poem written by Canadian WWI medic John McCrae, "In Flanders Field." The ambivalent tone of the poem -- a call to duty tinged with sorrow for the lives wasted in war -- perfectly expresses what's so different about Canada's Remembrance Day. There's a sadness to it that I've not seen in the U.S., neither in the hooray-for-our-side nationalism of the hawks nor in the use-the-crosses-for-cheap-symbolism bitterness of the anti-war movement. In Canada you're never far from an acknowledgement of the sacrifice of war. I guess that's what paying attention to vets gets you -- however they feel politically, veterans don't let you get away with this guts-and-glory Rambo crap.

Maybe I've got it all backward, looking at Canada's military past for reasons why they make such a big deal of Remembrance Day. Maybe the cause-and-effect runs the other way -- they're peacemakers BECAUSE they remember. They shun war, even when it means pissing off their most important ally, because they more keenly remember the sacrifices it demands.

IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Lt. Col. John McCrae died on January 28, 1917, of pneumonia and meningitis. He was buried at Wimereux, France, with full military honors.

Lest we forget.

"Wow, you moved here from Seattle? Everything must be sooooo different!" my new friend exclaimed.

Well, yes and no. In terms of culture shock, moving from Seattle to Toronto ranked way below moving from Connecticut to South Carolina. (Y'all ain't from around here, are ya?) Though this is my first time living overseas -- or rather, overlake -- it's quite easy to forget that I'm in a different country and to imagine that Toronto is simply an uncommonly pleasant, clean and safe U.S. city.

And yet.

Differences do pop up in the most unexpected times and places, and it is in the vive la difference spirit that I offer these observations:

1. Politics. This is a gimme, of course. I knew politics were different here, but it wasn't until I settled in that I appreciated how the political spectrum shifts to the left once you cross the 49th parallel. For example, what's considered Conservative here would be Moderate in the U.S. And what the U.S. calls Right-Wing would in Canada be considered Certifiably Bat-Shit Crazy. How refreshing.

1a. Political campaigns. From the Toronto Sun this week: "Triggering an election call this month would mean one of two miseries -- either a vote during the Christmas holidays, or a painfully long campaign lasting well into January."
How much do I love that they consider any campaign lasting more than a month to be painfully long? Answer: Very much. Bless your hearts, impatient Canadians.

2. Timbits. An acquaintance was aghast when we failed to recognize this word. "You don't know Timbits? You don't have Timbits in America??" AA asked, her heart welling with pity.
They're called Donut Holes, people! Duh, obviously, they're made from the dough that would go in the middle of the donut. It's just logical. Or, they're called Munchkins if you're from the Northeast and grew up with Dunkin Donuts.
In conclusion: Mmmmmmmmmm. Timbits. Call 'em what you want, I can't argue with fried bits of dough coated in sugar. Hungry now.

3. Lingerie. For a people who spend a good 6-9 months ensconced in long underwear and layers of wool and down, Canadians sure demand a lot of lingerie. There's a fancy panty-bra shop on practically every block in this town. Who is buying all this lingerie, and are they burning it to stay warm in the winter or something? Perhaps these shops thrive in the absence of a Victoria's Secret-type chain with an underpants monopoly. Or maybe they're money-laundering operations for the Canadian mafia, like the corner stores in New York with three sticks of gum and a can of soup from 1987 on their shelves.
I'm on to you now, Canadian underwear mafia!