This AmeriCanadian Life

2006-11-30T09:53:00.000-05:00

So, I should be about finished my great American (/Canadian) novel by now, right?

Um ... not exactly. My days have not really been filled with feverish novel writing, though I have been writing a lot for my employer and various freelance places, I promise. (Evidence here and here and here.)

Although the little quirks of Canadian life continue to fascinate me, I've decided to put the blog on hold for a while (hence the month-long absence) to concentrate on all that real-life stuff beyond the comforting glow of the computer screen. Scary, but potentially rewarding, I hope! I'm even trying to host a holiday party, though I'm not entirely sure I know enough people to fill a room, so if you're in Canada next Saturday do stop by for some appetizers. (Seconds spent trying to spell hors d'oevres before I gave up and went with appetizers: 30. I think there's a U in there somewhere, but free Quebec or no, I just don't have time for it.)

So, thank you to the literally tens of people who read this blog, and wish me luck in the real world. Love,

Rebecca

2006-10-27T10:32:00.000-04:00

So I'm thinking about doing this ... write a novel in a month. Why not? Seems as good a way as any to get over my novel-writing block. The block doesn't seem to apply to newspaper stories, but maybe that's because of those wonderful deadlines -- they've always been a good motivator. So maybe that's exactly what this project will be good for. Anyone care to join me?

2006-10-16T10:43:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking about maternity leave lately -- and no, this is not a hint that I am in the family way. There's no little Dubelets incubating just yet. However, everyone I know seems to be either pregnant or has just had a baby -- seriously, if you're of childbearing age and reading this blog, you might want to use protection because apparently I'm emanating some sort of fertility-boosting rays.

When I lived in the U.S. I had the knowledge, as I think everyone does, that American maternity leave policies suck compared to basically everywhere else, especially Europe and Canada. But I never really thought about the specifics, or the ramification, until I moved here. Twelve weeks of unpaid leave in the U.S. versus a year of paid leave in Canada.

What I've found is the maternity leave policy radically changes the whole landscape for women in the workforce. In the U.S., it seems most of the people I know who have a baby then face some version of the Big Decision -- Do I go back to work, do I stay home with the baby, should I work part-time, what can I afford to do, what about day care, etc., etc. And these are usually pretty gut-wrenching decisions to make, or so it seems, because you're not only dealing with the life of the tiny little person you've brought into the world, you're also struggling with all these identity-charged issues about work and life and gender politics. And various pundits and authors seem to make quite a good living trying to convince women to feel very, very guilty about whatever choice they make (and conveniently forgetting that fathers have the same choices).

And in Canada, we really don't have all that. The normal course of events is, you work, you have a baby and go out on mat leave for a year or a little longer, and then you go back to work. No drama. It's apparently pretty rare to see women quit the workforce altogether when having children, simply because they're not forced to make that Big Decision. I think there must be a cumulative effect of this lack of disruption of women's lives in the workforce. Maybe in 10-20 years we'll see a huge gap in gender balance in the workforce in the U.S. versus the rest of the world? Someone might need to give me a big-ass grant so I can think deeply about this issue and come out with some brilliant book that forces the U.S. to institute humane maternity policies. Or at the very least, I might pitch this idea as an article somewhere.

2006-10-02T21:01:00.000-04:00

Sigh, sigh, sigh. My never-ending quest to find validation, a sense of identity, fame, fortune and flawless skin through my vocation really never ends. I had hoped the new job would serve the same function as a marriage in a Jane Austen novel or a Shakespeare comedy -- capping off the plot neatly with our heroine snug in the arms of her beloved. And the fact that the beloved in this case is a newspaper didn't even bother me one bit.

However, life is stubbornly unlike a Jane Austen novel and I'm struggling to find things to love in this new job, which involves not enough writing and far too much work that will one day be performed by computers or monkeys. (I'm hoping for monkeys, because I think they would really liven up most workplaces, if only we could get them to knock it off with the feces-throwing for a while. But it will probably be computers. Drat.)

Anyway, speaking of primates, here's a link to a fantabulous story by Tom French about the life and death of the king and queen of the zoo. (Fantabulous=cross between fabulous and fantastic. See, this is what happens when I don't get published often enough -- I get frustrated and start to make up words.) Tom French is an awesome writer, and apparently was in the midst of a long project on the local zoo when all this drama happened and he wrote this amazing story. The story is so amazing that I am able enjoy it whilst choking down my bitter, ugly jealousy at the fact that he was doing a long term project about ANIMALS AT THE ZOO, which is probably my No. 2 dream story right after something involving a lot of puppies, and IT SHOULD BE ME, DAMMIT. But no. So this is the first in a (hopefully not overly long) series of stories entitled, Stories I Would Have Written If Everyone Around Me Would Just Acknowledge How Totally Awesome I Am and Stop Being Jealous of My Coolness, Because You Know They Totally Are And That's The Only Thing Holding Me Back. Yeah, I know it doesn't really roll off the tongue, but it's a step up from my other imaginary series entitled Stories By People Who Are Totally Not As Good Writers As Me But Got Their Sweet Jobs Through Nepotism And Whom I Will Expose NOW.

So see, it could be worse. Enjoy the primates -- sans feces throwing.

2006-09-24T13:01:00.000-04:00

I'm back! And, unfortunately, I'm sick. My prognosis was very grim at about 2 this morning, when leading medical experts (me) predicted imminent death. I'm feeling better, but still achy and cranky and logey and I'm anticipating that tomorrow might not be my most brilliant first day at work, but oh well.

The trip was fabulous! We went to Amsterdam, Paris and Provence. My broken French actually came in handy several times. I will definitely have to say more about the trip later -- my brain is so foggy right now, all I can think of is that I liked the Louvre a lot. Really, it's nice. You should check it out. I like that Mona Lisa chick. It's cool. Also, Provence was pretty and the olive groves were nice and we ate really good food. In fact maybe this whole illness is simply my body rejecting a non-French diet, demanding more red wine and cheese.

The French were generally very nice -- I do think they appreciate an effort to speak their language, however mangled. All those hours studying the bilingual cereal boxes here really paid off. I could not believe how many Americans just blasted off into complex English sentences without so much as a "parlay voo anglay?" (North Americans, I'll say generously, although probably they were all from the U.S., since Canadians are more used to handling those touchy French speakers with care.) I will say I appreciate living in a place where customer service is an actual concept and you're not expected to apologize to the shopkeeper for disturbing her day. But I guess that just shows what a high-maintenance North American I am. C'est la vie.

One thing that was very wierd that I discovered is that I do not have an understanding with French dogs. The dogs in Canada and the U.S., if I'm walking down the street, I give them a "good dog" look, they give me a little tail wag; we have an understanding. We are sympatico, I believe, though maybe that's just the fever talking. But les chiens francais, non -- I'd go in for a little walk-by pat on the head and they'd just avoid eye contact. Maybe les chiens are just a little more reserved than our American dogs, or maybe they're not used to being fawned over in the same fashion, or maybe it was just a language barrier. I must admit it was a bit disconcerting -- I was under the impression my Dr. Doolittle skills knew no boundaries. Luckily now I am reunited with Wonder Dog, who has requested and received an alias change to La Chien Gentille, and as always we are muy sympatico.

I'm off to investigate the medicinal effects of triple-creme brie now, a bientot....

2006-09-01T22:14:00.000-04:00

In preparation for a rapidly approaching trip to Paris -- made sweeter by the aforementioned job offer and thus the knowledge of having a steady income stream when I return -- I have been reading Adam Gopnik's "Paris to the Moon," which is an excellent collection of essays on living in Paris and on being an American abroad generally. And even though I am overlakes rather than overseas, and the only language barrier I encounter is an over-reliance on the word "eh" and a predilection for inserting the letter u into words, I'm finding I relate to a lot of what he writes. It helps that he's a wonderful writer in that New Yorker style. (He and Malcolm Gladwell? Both Canadians, doncha know. Of course, both Canadians living in New York, now.)

There was a passage I particularly liked , which I'll reproduce here if I can find it, about how living in another country means not having any particularly strongly help opinions about the things most people feel strongly about. You listen to both sides of a debate and you think, well, they both have a point, which is exactly how I felt listening to all the debates during the last election here. The differences that seemed so glaring and fundamental to Canadians seemed rather slight to me, and it didn't matter much to me either way. And he writes a little about how this feels very free and refreshing, but after a while you get tired of it and it starts to feel a bit lonely, which I can see as well. As tired as I am of the whole red/blue conflict in the U.S., I could see how you would start to miss it after a while.

And reading his experiences with the bureaucracies of France, I realize we have it easy here in Canada even though I was pretty steamed that I have to pay $18 just to get my mail put on hold for three weeks. Yes, we have to pay the heavily-taxpayer-subsidized post office $18 -- plus provincial and federal sales tax, of course -- for the priviledge of them NOT delivering our mail. But still, it was a pretty simple transaction at least, so merci beaucoup for that. In a few phone calls to French restaurants to make reservations I have learned that my French is not up to French waiter standards, but I will continue trying because I took 10 years of French, dammit, and I ought to have something to show for it. Of course I dropped French immediately when I satisfied the language requirement in college, thinking, When will I ever live someplace where I'd need to know French? Little did I know, the places I'd go....

So this blog, updated at a pitiably slow pace as it is, will be on holiday for the next few weeks while I eat my way through France. If I do not exceed the weight limit on the flight back I will be back in September to report on the trip, and also my new job, which I'll start soon after I get back. Au revoir pour maintenant!

2006-08-27T23:15:00.000-04:00

Well, I have big (good) news ... I have a new job! An honest-to-goodness, permanent job with benefits and the whole shebang. So glad I can finally let my hair down at work and start being a bitch to everyone instead of being so freakin' nice all the time. ... Kidding, I actually am pretty nice, except to people who do things like walk over and stand right in front of me at a concert, as if I won't notice that I'm now looking at the back of their head instead of the stage, and if you think I'm too mature to start pulling your hair successively harder until you move away you are wrong, big head lady.

Ahem. But I haven't run into any of that at work ... no one is really jockeying to get in your way when you're about to edit a story about institutional investors versus individual investors reaction to the Fed's decision to pause rates, though honestly that was a pretty interesting story ... so I think my thin veneer of civilization will hold firmly in place.

I will even be doing some work on this Internet thing that we've all heard so much about, though I think it really might be a fad and any day now several generations will discover the joy of getting their fingers all smeared with ink and having to paw through several sections of irrelevant news before getting to the sports/comics/gossip/escort services ads they were looking for.

I am very happy, and feel a weight has been lifted from my shoulders that I didn't even notice was there until it lifted when I heard the words, "We'd like to offer you a job." Truth be told, I like the fun parts of freelancing -- working in my pajamas, frequent breaks for dog walking and kitchen-grazing and watching Ellen ("Let's have a little fun to-day!"), seeing my name in certain cool publications -- but the rest of it, the whole uncertainty and salesmanship aspect and constant striving and did I mention the lack of certainty? I didn't like that very much. I have come to understand that I really like structure, a lot. Rules and complex office hierarchies? Love them! Enigmatic authority figures from whom I can win approval and/or learn to hate with an obsessive passion? Fabulous! Count me in!

I hope to keep freelancing, so as to keep my options open in the carefree, pajama-wearing, sipping-Starbucks-in-no-hurry-at-2 p.m. kind of world, and also 'cause I like seeing my name in print in big fancy publications. Also, uh, for truth and justice and journalisticy goodness and all that good stuff too, yeah. But as I bounce on the trampoline of journalisticy daring, I feel I will soar even higher knowing the safety net of regular paychecks is guarding me from a hard tumble to the depths of financial- and identity-crises. Also, I'm hoping I won't run into this problem, described in the pages of Canada's national newspaper.

In conclusion: Opa!

2006-08-20T20:18:00.000-04:00

This weekend there was a festival in the Beaches, my neighbourhood. I couldn't really figure out the theme to the festival other than "It's been a few weeks without a festival, so here ya go!" Toronto and Seattle are very similar in that way -- the winters are quite miserable, so during the summer there's practically a festival every weekend, just to make the most of the warm, pleasant weather.

This weekend's no-reason festival was quite low key, and basically consisted of a few bands playing on the sidewalks and stores staying open late. We ended up eating at a Greek restaurant -- a local chain called Mr. Greek. We sat outside next to the band, which played all night as we enjoyed some sort of flambeed feta cheese that was sooooo good I want it again right now, and calamari.

As the night wore on there was much singing by the owner and dancing by the patrons, half of whom seemed to be related to the owner. The owner, a balding man in a orange polo shirt, did some dancing, and his wife threw paper plates at him (in a celebratory fashion, not a stop-embarrassing-me-you-fool fashion). A teenaged girl selling souvlaki out front left her post momentarily to perform some sort of traditional Greek bellydance as interpreted by Shakira music videos that the male patrons seemed to enjoy quite a bit. There was also a lot of circle dancing, all of which reminded me of the Hava Nagila. Something about being swarthy must make people want to dance in a circle. (I kid because I love.)

The showstopper, though, was a woman probably in her late 20s or early 30s who I'd noticed earlier in the evening. I must confess my first assessment of her was uncharitable, as she was absolutely gorgeous (long dark hair, slim waist, rockin' body), wearing a pretty pink and white sundress and high-heeled sandals, and parading through the restaurant with an adorable four-year-old boy. I wrote her off as one of those tiresome yummy mummys who see children as the ultimate accessory but who forego goodnight kisses on the grounds they might smudge their lipstick. Bitter much? Not me. Anyhow, this beauty took the stage and started a slow, traditional Greek dance. (At least I imagine it was traditional -- what do I know from traditional Greek dancing?) She looked down at her feet at she circled and traced patterns on the cement patio, swaying in time with the music. As it sped up, she twirled and stomped her feet, still looking more at the ground than at her growing audience, seemingly lost in her own world. Her movements had nothing to do with the orange-shirted owner's machismo showmanship, even less to do with the teenager's gyrations. As she spun to the music, I thought I could see her thinking of the girl she had been and the woman she was, and everyone stopped to look, and the band played faster and faster.

I knew I wasn't the only one who appreciated what was happening when the owner's wife appeared again with an armful of plates, real ones this time, which she hurled at the dancer's feet with cries of "Opa!" I laughed and clapped as she spun among the shards, and it was one of those moments that make you happy to be living on this earth, with such sudden and unexpected beauty.

Opa!

P.S. Joanna, move to Toronto! We have great Greek restaurants and plate-throwing, plus timely trash collection and draconian anti-smoking laws!

2006-08-11T23:15:00.000-04:00

I was wandering far and wide on the Web today, and I ran across two interesting items, and as so often happens they formed a connection in my brain.

The first is perhaps the cutest thing ever. Each time you look at it, you're just going to say to yourself, God DAMN that is cute. (Especially if you're Canadian and like to swear a lot.) Ask yourself, what could be cuter than a cute dog and a tiny money? Answer: A tiny monkey RIDING a cute dog, cowboy-style. I don't know how they got a Capuchin monkey, and how it ended up with its own custom-made Western wear riding a border collie, and I don't want to know -- I just know that it's magic. And while this sort of thing might be ripe for exploitation, it really seems that both animals are enjoying it. I don't know what sort of life a Capuchin monkey enjoys in the wild, but it's possible nasty and/or brutish and/or short, and probably does not involve custom-tailored Western wear. And as for the collie, we all know border collies love to work, and playing mighty steed to a friendly monkey certainly qualifies. I can just picture the collie talking to his dog friends: "Yeah, I know it's a little unusual, but hey -- at least I'm working."

Collies are very smart dogs, which brings me to my next item -- dumb people. According to this article, which I sadly have no reason to doubt, 39 percent of Americans (that would be U.S., not Canada) say that evolution is "absolutely false." Which is another way of saying that 39 percent of Americans are complete fucking morons. Which is kind of depressing.

So seeing these two items got me thinking about America, and sort of preparing what I might say the next time I'm talking to a Canadian who brings up the fact that 39 percent of Americans don't believe in evolution and says something like, "What a bunch of fucking morons." Because even though I might agree, I still feel the need to stick up for my homeland or at least provide some textual analysis. Thus, I say it's no coincidence that the same land gave birth to both the heartwarming, soul-gladdening news about Whiplash the Cowboy Monkey and the scary, emigration-encouraging news that 39 percent of Americans are completely ignorant of science and history and geology and anything outside of what their preacher and their talk radio tells them. There's something horrifying about a mind that can completely ignore scientific theory and decide that millions of years of fossil records were planted here by aliens ... and yet I say to you there's something in that same crazy mindset that might inspire a man to look at a small monkey and wonder if that monkey would like to wear chaps and ride a border collie.

Such a thin line between madness and genius, stupidity and cleverness. Is living with a nation of ignoramuses too steep a price to pay for the delight of monkey cowpokes? Perhaps, perhaps. Living in a country where people are more likely to accept Darwin's theory of evolution and less likely to ignore all common sense is more peaceful, perhaps, more safe and more steady. But what scares me more than closed-minded idiots is the idea of living in a world without a collie-riding Capuchin monkey. Ride on, little monkey who may or may not be a distant relative of humankind, ride on.

2006-08-03T10:45:00.000-04:00

A few news items have caught my attention recently and I feel the need to share. First of all, the New York Times ran a big story (do they run any other kind of story?) on the stereotype of the big sassy black woman gaining popularity in advertising, and whether this is OK or we should all feel liberal guilt about it unless the advertising in question is written and produced by black people. Fine premise for a story, especially in a slow news month like August. But the example they cite is this Dairy Queen commercial:

"In the spot, a man boarding an airplane sets his ice cream shake down so he can load his bag into an overhead compartment. As he reaches up, another passenger on the plane starts eating the Blizzard. Seeing this, the first man lets go of his bag so he can reclaim his Blizzard and inadvertently drops his luggage on another passenger’s head. That unlucky passenger happens to be an overweight black woman who lets out an irritated gasp that reminds all the passengers around her who not to mess with."

Now, that last sentence ends with a preposition which is a little annoying but I'll let it slide because I'm not that anal a copy editor and that's the sort of thing about which I can't get too upset. But this is the New York Times' standard for sassy, outspoken behavior -- someone drops a suticase on your head and you let out an irritated gasp?? Really?? Have New Yorkers turned into polite Canadians or something? Because "irritated gasp," while probably ranking a "red alert" on the Canadian hostility scale, seems would be a relatively mild reaction to having a suitcase dropped on one's head. But no, according to the New York Times this is evidence that black women are being stereotyped as "strong, aggressive, controlling," as one marketing professor is quoted as saying.

*Irritated sigh* at articles that don't back up their ledes. Ooh, I'm so sassy!

That concludes the media analysis portion of this post. Now, for international news: Spoon-wielding women seize Mexican TV station.
That has got to be the awesomest headline and protest ever. The story never really explains why they're wielding spoons, or how exactly their spoons of protest empowered them to seize a TV station, but I don't even mind because I'm totally willing to use my imagination on this one. Maybe I'll carry a spoon aboard my next plane flight, just in case some doofus drops his suitcase on my head, I won't even have to gasp irritatedly -- I can just hold up that spoon, and everyone will know I am someone with whom they do not want to mess.

2006-08-01T20:49:00.000-04:00

People like to ask me how the Canadian media differs from the U.S. media. My old answer was something about how people have more interest in international news here, and there are fewer 24-hour cable channels and thus fewer people who exist solely to yammer about things about which they know very little. My new answer: fuck. And, shit.

Both words are totally accepted in newspapers here, even in the venerable Globe and Mail. I was curious so I looked it up, and there have been dozens of fucks and shits in Canada's newspaper of record, and apparently not a one has led to a mass cancellation of subscriptions or an appreciable increase in moral decay. And these curse words are not just allowed in print on Big Important Occasions like when the President doesn't realize (again) that there's an open mike. A police officer who calls something a "fucking disaster" actually gets quoted like that -- imagine, newspapers acknowledging the way real people talk -- and the sun still rises on Canada every morning. (Except in the Yukon in the winter. But probably not because of the cursing.)

It's hard to imagine this casual acceptance of reality-in-language at any U.S. newspaper outside of the alternative weeklies. During my tenure at The Charlotte Observer, in the good ole Bible belt, I'm sure that if any naughty words had by some chance slipped by the eagle eyed copy editors, the top brass would have shit a fucking brick.

There are some instances when editing out an obscenity just seems wrong. I heard a report on CBC radio about a car crash where one teenage girl died and another was in a coma -- someone mixed up who was who so the family with the dead daughter mistakenly sat for a week by the girl in the coma and the family of the injured girl buried what they mistakenly thought was their daughter. One of the girl's fathers said something like, "It was fucking horrible." I think his language was completely justified and editing it out is less than honest. I'm distrustful of those who would shield the public's tender ears from four-letter words while bringing us such vivid descriptions of every sort of human misery. And I have more trust for media outlets who respect their audiences' intelligence. (The CBC ran a short warning about harsh language before the piece, which I thought was reasonable.)

The funny thing about all this is that despite this media acceptance of everyday cursing, or perhaps because of it, Canada seems a much less vulgar culture than the U.S. The one national characteristic is unflagging politeness, so clearly seeing four-letter words in their newspapers hasn't warped their fragile little minds too badly. Maybe this is another symptom of the U.S.'s puritanical hypocrisy -- it's OK to lie or be stupid or boorish on TV, but don't you dare swear, and Grand Theft Auto is cool but Janet Jackson's nip flash threatens the very foundations of our culture.

Or, maybe Canadians are just fuckin' pottymouths.

2006-07-25T11:24:00.000-04:00

I am not a domestic goddess. I am not even a domestic demi-god. In fact, if the Tribe of Martha ever wanted to sacrifice someone to an artisan, color-coordinated volcano, I would probably be first on their list.

My house is messy. And when I was working from home as a freelancer, I was often able to fight the mess to a draw, but now that I'm working full-time and freelancing, the mess is definitely winning. I always distinguish between messy and dirty -- yes, there are piles of clothes and books and mail from two weeks ago lying about, but it's not like there's rotting food or roaches or anything really gross like that. Of course the fact that I take pride that there's not rotting food in my house (well, not since I threw out those furry strawberries this morning) is probably a big old red warning flag.

At this point I'm just trying to get the house presentable enough that I can hire a maid service. Once, in Seattle, we had a maid come in once a month and it was totally worth the money, except that one month she just stopped coming and we never heard from her again. I like to think that my messy house did not prompt her to flee the city in terror and change her phone number, but I don't know for sure....

It's not like I wasn't raised better. Our house growing up was always clean, thanks to my Mom. We were never the funny-smelling house, and I don't want to be the funny-smelling house. Although I do remember one time after my parents had a dinner party, my mom telling me in a "well they won't be coming back" voice that one of the women had said to her, "This would be such a lovely house if it weren't for the dogs." At which point I think my mom would have been totally justified in kicking her in the shins. But sadly, I can't blame the state of my domestic affairs on Wonder Dog, though she does shed great blizzards of fine white hair that seem to end up everywhere. But the dog hair tumbleweeds are just a symptom of a larger problem here. (I have thought of attaching little Swiffer pads to her paws so she can clean while I'm gone, but I think then we'd just have a clear path from her bed to her food bowl [which she checks many times a day just to make sure it hasn't magically refilled].)

I was heartened to see this story in The Globe and Mail, about how men are now doing more housework. The really alarming part of the story was the accompanying chart, which showed that women on average did 2.4 hours of housework a day and men did 1.4 hours a day. Nearly four hours a day of housework?? This is the average??? When the hell do these people sleep, eat, post on their blogs and catch up on Canada's Next Top Model? I just don't understand, which is probably why I shall never, ever be a domestic goddess.

2006-07-17T10:10:00.000-04:00

I have been remiss in updating this, I know, but it has been a busy week. Since my job is temporary, I'm trying to make hay while the sun shines and write as much as possible, but last week there just seemed to be a bumper crop of hay and I was baling hay as fast as I could but the hay just kept coming, not to mention I was having some thresher difficulties and thus the hay baling was quite laborious. OK, I think I've massacred that agricultural analogy quite satisfactorily.

I was going to write a list of good things and bad things that happened in the past week, but then I realized the events I experienced were not so easily classifiable. For example, on Friday I woke up, got dressed, went to work, checked the schedule and noted that I was, in fact, scheduled to be off that day. Oops. So I abashedly said bye to everyone and left. But actually my surprise day off turned out to be lovely, partly because it was a surprise and thus I had not scheduled any boring tasks to do. It was a free day!

Then on Friday night we went to see a "circus cabaret" at the Distillery District, which as the name suggests is an old distillery district that was saved and renovated at some point and now is a very cute pedestrian area with cobblestone streets, brick buildings and cute shops. The first hint of trouble was when the show started about an hour late. The people behind us actually left before it started -- in retrospect, a very wise move. I don't know when the nightmares will stop about the performer who wore a tattered Easter Bunny head as he sang about peeing in the shower. (At which point the spousal unit leaned over and asked, "Did they have auditions for this, or do you think it was just a sign-up sheet?") The real highlight, though, were the two young men who were fire jugglers. Or, I should really say, were in training to be fire jugglers. Because they dropped the fire. A lot. At one point, a flaming stick of fire rolled off the stage and into the audience. I've never laughed so hard while simultaneously fearing for my life before. It's experiences like those that are hard to categorize: bad, certainly, for the quality of the fire-juggling, but thrilling in an oh-god-we're-all-gonna-die-at-the-hands-of-these-bumbling-shirtless-jugglers kind of way.

2006-07-07T07:26:00.000-04:00

Recent signs that I am in danger of going native:

1. Yesterday I used the word "toonie" in conversation, completely unself-consciously and without giggling even a little.
2. While writing a story, I wrote "neighbourhood" without flinching. "Practising" still looks plain wrong to me, though, and per cent as two words still freaks me out.
3. I think it's hilarious that Bush calls Prime Minister Harper "Steve." This is a man who, when dropping off his children for the first day of school, shook their hands. I'm pretty sure even his wife and parents call him Prime Minister Harper.
4. Me, on the front page of the Globe and Mail's business section. Woo-hoo!

2006-07-01T14:11:00.000-04:00

Today is a very special day in Canada ... Canada Day! July 1 is when we celebrate being Canadian. So to explain this tradition to my non-Canadian friends, I've written a little song to be sung to the tune of Adam Sandler's "Hannukah Song." ("Put on your yamulke, it's time for Hannukah...") So here's how it goes:

Put on your toque and say
It's time for Canada Day
We know Canada is special in every way
That's why we celebrate Canada Day
So when you feel like the only kid in town
From the True North Strong and Free
Here's a list of people who are Canadian
Just like you and meeeeeeeeeeeeee....

Carrie Ann Moss
Grew up in B.C.
Maybe that's where she learned to defeat the Matrix
With fellow Canadian Keanu Reeves
Pamela Anderson's from Canada but her boobs are from the States
Sandra Oh grew up in Ontario and we think she's pretty great
Neil Young and Avril Lavigne rock out in the Great White North
We all celebrate on July 1, that's three days earlier than the fourth
(we beat you!)
You may not think you know many Canadian folks
But I bet you know the guy who played the dad on the TV show Diff'rent
Strokes (whachu talkin' bout, Canada?)
Rachel McAdams-a
Comes from Canada
So does Jeopardy host Alex Trebek
And Captain Kirk and Scotty from Star Trek
You know all about Mike Myers, John Candy and Jim Carrey
But you know who else is Canadian? Puffy "Friends" actor Matthew Perry!
Phil Hartman was from Canada, but now sadly he's dead
Canadian Cory Hart is still alive, we wish it could have been him instead
It's not just famous entertainers who have made it on this list
We've also got John Kenneth Galbraith, a renowned economist

So many famous Canadians, I can hardly name them all
When you look at the size of our country you must admit the U.S. looks rather small
So drink your maple latte
Get your poutine nice and hot, eh
And have a happy, happy, happy, happy Canada Day!!!!

2006-06-27T08:50:00.000-04:00

OTTAWA (Reuters) - Foreign countries are seeking to manipulate Canada's large immigrant populations to obtain intelligence and technological secrets, according to the latest annual report by Canada's spy service.
When Karl Rove asked me to move to Canada to be a spy for the U.S., I must admit I was skeptical. "But Turd Blossom (me and W. came up with that little nickname for him, hee hee), how could our peace-loving, beaver-emblemed neighbors to the North present a threat to the good ole U.S. of A?"

How indeed. I am older now, and wiser, and the owner of more maple-related products, and I'm here to tell you the Polar Menace is real. Now that my cover is in danger of being blown (darn you, nosy Reuters reporter and your free beer!) I feel I must warn a slumbering nation. Unless you want to see neighbour spelled with a U -- do you??!!!??! -- read and learn from the chilling tales of my espionage.

July, 2005 -- Arrive in Toronto, known as "New York without the garbage, London with better teeth." As I'm meandering down a crowded sidewalk, a man in a motorized wheelchair passes me, and I ever-so-slightly brush against him. "Oh, I'm sorry," he says. Reflexive apologizing -- the ultimate Canadian weapon.

August, 2005 -- It's hot here! Canadians clearly lying about harsh, polar climate to keep Americans from invading Alberta and seizing oil reserves. Lying -- that's evil, isn't it? Sort of like the axis of evil, eh? Watch out, crafty Canucks.

September, 2005 -- Am still struggling to locate the cells of the Canadian anti-American militant movement. I fear they are located in lingerie shops, which average three to a city block. In a country where long underwear is an acceptable fashion statement nine months out of the year, who is buying all these lacy underthings? Suggest we deploy army of Victoria's Secret catalogues to neutralize the threat. Operation: Panty Raid.

October, 2005 -- Beneath their friendly exteriors, Canadians are a deeply suspicious people. Exhibit A: Every grocery store requires a 25-cent deposit on carts. And plastic bags are not free. Perhaps this is a sign of flinty Scottish roots? Yet they'll let you check out your own groceries -- go figure.

November-March, 2005 -- Too ... cold ... must ... focus ... on ... tv ... remote ... (Note: the enemy is hardy. As opposed to other cities this operative has occupied, such as Seattle and Baltimore, in Toronto four inches of snow is apparently not good reason to totally freak out, stay home from work, burn furniture to stay warm, and pray for deliverance in the form of sweet, blessed rain. I sure felt silly in the grocery store checkout line with my cart full of toilet paper and milk.)

April, 2006 -- I visit Montreal. My god, what have they done to the Colonel? KFC here is called PFK -- Poulet Frit Kentucky. Is nothing sacred, mes amis quebecois? Aieee, now they've got me doing it. I shall avenge you, my white-bearded, trans-fat-laden friend. The south shall rise again! (Actually, would not best revenge be for sleek, fashionable Quebecois youth to succumb to lure of extra-crispy recipe, thus assuming shape of their rotund southern neighbors? Ah Colonel, you know what you're doing, don't you?)

May, 2006 -- An alleged terrorism ring is broken up by the police. Muslim extremists planning to bomb CBC, behead prime minister (like a president, W., only more quaintly British). And yet I still have civil liberties. So confused by this strange land...

June, 2006 -- The Carolina Hurricanes win the Stanley Cup, defeating the Edmonton Oilers. (Note -- Several players on "Carolina" team seem suspiciously Canadian. Perhaps we are not the only ones with a clever spy plan? Recommended investigation of NHL fifth column.) A reader named "Mr. Motoc" posts the following comment on the Globe and Mail web site: "The members of the Conservative Republican Annexation Party must be VERY happy that a US team won."
Why yes, we are-- wait! COVER HAS BEEN COMPROMISED!!! Operative's secret plan for world domination in danger. Forgive me W. and T.B., I failed you. Abort the mission, I repeat, ABORT THE MISSION!!!

2006-06-23T10:27:00.000-04:00

My first Toronto byline! Woo-hoo!

I had a dream last night that I bought the paper and the story had been totally changed, and the ending had been taken out. I was quite disturbed. Luckily it was not a prophetic dream. My subconscious is not very subtle when it comes to these things. Shortly after starting my copy editing job, I had quite a vivid dream in which the slot editor (the top copy editor, fond of referring to himself as The Slotweiller) screamed at me to hurry up as I struggled to finish five stories on deadline. Luckily, that one hasn't come to pass either -- the Slotweiller has been nothing but kind to me. Of course, neither dream can compete in terms of sheer horror and persistence to my recurring wire service dreams, in which I would go to call in a story only to find that the phone was broken or had been disassembled in some way, and I would have to put it together again to call in the story.

How come I never dream about winning the Pulitzer or something nice like that?

2006-06-20T10:56:00.000-04:00

No joy in Canuckville today, as the Oilers have struck out. A sad, sad day ... of course, now that they lost, now the Canadians engage in a little nationalistic hating on the U.S. -- too little, too late, my northern friends. If you want to get my freelance love you have to work up the rabid anti-American lather before the big game, when people actually care.

But try as they might, I don't think Edmonton's loss can be blamed on Bush. (Although Edmonton is an oil town [hence the name], and Bush likes oil, and the whole Iraq war ... ok, I don't have a conspiracy theory yet, but I'll work on it.) I'm no hockey expert, but I'm pretty sure that to win games you have to occasionally take some shots on the frickin' goal. Although if there was a Stanley Cup for passing the puck like a million times, I'm sure the Oilers would have won that one. Jeez, that was a frustrating game to watch. Ah well, back to the World Cup.

2006-06-18T22:33:00.000-04:00

Toronto is totally mad for the World Cup. Everywhere you go, people have country flags flying from their car antennas. If you're driving downtown, you have to know the World Cup schedule -- because you definitely don't want to get caught in Little Italy or Little Portugal after a game. Not that there'd be any violence, you'd just be stuck in a really, really happy traffic jam with a few thousand jubilant Portuguese. Even the elderly, bedridden woman I visit with Wonder Dog at the nursing home has a Germany flag at the end of her bed -- I also saw a wheelchair sporting a flag of England in the nursing home parking lot. The CBC and other networks devote hours of coverage to it, which is pretty impressive considering Canada doesn't even have a team in the World Cup -- can you imagine a U.S. network devoting time to a championship they're not even in? But Canada, as I now know, is different.

I thought that the World Cup was stealing away some of hockey's thunder, but Saturday night convinced me otherwise. We went to a street festival in Little Italy, and ended up eating dinner on the patio of a lovely Italian restaurant. From our seats we listened to the music from the street festival (which started out as traditional Italian and then switched to covers of the hits of the '60s and '70s, for reasons that are unclear to me, but it seemed to please the crowd, especially two elderly Italian women who tangoed all night. Or maybe they were in town for Gay Pride week -- I'm not sure). Like all the other restaurants with patios, this one had a big screen TV playing Game Six of the Stanley Cup, so we were able to watch the Edmonton Oilers completely thrash the Carolina Hurricanes 4-0 while drinking red wine, eating pasta and listening to a vaguely Italian-looking woman sing "We are Family" by Sly and the Family Stone. Which is how all hockey should be experienced, in my opinion. At the end of the game, the whole patio counted down the last ten seconds like it was New Year's Eve. As I shouted "three ... two ... one!" with the rest of them and raised my glass of Sangiovese to toast the Oilers, I realized that I actually, for the first time, was starting to feel like a Canadian.

GO OILERS GO!

2006-06-13T10:27:00.000-04:00

We have figured out the difference between the media in the U.S. and Canada, and it can be summed up in one phrase: feed the goat.

In the U.S., the daily task of producing news copy to fill the gaping maw of the newspaper, the web site or the broadcast is referred to as "feeding the beast." An apt metaphor, conjuring up an image of a huge, slavering monster terrorizing the countryside with his insatiable hunger for news.

In Canada, they call it "feeding the goat." Quite a different image, isn't it? I picture a white, long-haired goat standing out in a sunny field, contentedly chewing on whatever's been given to him to eat that day. Maybe bleating a bit from time to time, chasing a few butterflies if he's in a particularly feisty mood. Yup, time to feed the goat.

On a semi-but-not-really related note, some of the 17 suspects in the Toronto terrorism case have complained (or rather their lawyers have complained) that they are being "tortured." What sort of dastardly deeds have their Canadian captors made them suffer? Well, there's this:

Mr. Kolinsky also alleges that his client has faced at least some sort of physical abuse from guards: "As he was being searched, the guard touched his ribs and he's ticklish. He giggled a bit. And the guard drilled his finger in to his cheek and said, 'Is this funny?'"

Take heed, potential terrorists -- get arrested in Toronto and we will not hesitate to TICKLE YOU MERCILESSLY! Only in Canada...

2006-06-08T09:58:00.000-04:00

I have a confession ... I think I like being a copy editor. I had my doubts going into this job, having been warned (with good intent) that a shift of straight copy editing would make the boringest state government committee hearing look as thrilling as sudden-death overtime in Game Five of the Stanley Cup Finals. (See how I slip those hockey references in all natural-like, eh?) In other words, I feared I'd be bored to tears.

But actually, I find it quite ... refreshing. It's true that I've been started out slowly, so I'm able to dedicate a bit more time to each story than is probably normal, but there's something almost meditative about scouring a story for stray commas and missing verbs. I think I appreciate it in part because I am still doing reporting. After a hectic weekend spent chasing down the terrorism arrests story, it was almost soothing to come in to work on Monday and focus all my attention on one paragraph, sentence or word at a time.

The interesting (to me) part is that not one story has crossed my desk without an error. And the stories that I'm editing are written by what I consider to be probably the top reporters in Canada, and I'm totally not being biased because I work there, they really are at the top of their game. Yet even the best-written, best-reported stories will have a misspelled word, a missing quotation mark, a mixed metaphor. And sure, it wouldn't be the end of the world if some of those mistakes got through, but for those of us who love and believe in newspapers (a group whose membership I'm keenly interested in maintaining), it does make a difference.

Of course, having learned that every story has at least some minor error leads me to the realization that it is possible, of the thousands of stories I've written over the years, that a few of them may have had errors in them too! I know, I was shocked. And so all those picky copy editor questions that I've rolled my eyes at over the years were asked by people who saved me from making an ass of myself in print on a daily basis. To my former, much-maligned copy editors, I offer you my humble thanks. There won't be any money, but when you die, on your deathbed, you will receive total consciousness. So you got that going for you, which is nice.

2006-06-05T22:59:00.000-04:00

Now that I live in Canada, I have to watch the Stanley cup finals -- it's the law -- and I must admit tonight was a particularly exciting game. The winning goal was scored in the last 30 seconds, which was great, except that the winning goal was scored by Carolina and not Edmonton. If you were wondering, Canada has totally not gotten over the fact that most hockey teams and hockey money are now in the States, and thus their precious national sport has basically been reduced to pandering to people in places where ice does not naturally occur. As a new resident of Canada and former resident of North Carolina I wholeheartedly embrace this grudge and feel it would be an abomination for Carolina to win the Stanley Cup. Go Oilers!

I'm a bit disappointed that the whole Carolina-vs-Edmonton thing hasn't stirred up more nationalistic fervor. I would love to freelance a story about how all of Canada is pinning its hopes on Edmonton to reclaim their national pride and repudiate the Bush-loving, softwood-lumber-taxing, non-ice-having, conservative red state values of North Carolina. (Apologies to my progressive N.C. friends and family out there, but I can't let facts get in the way of a good story.) Alas that storyline is just not showing any traction here, despite my hopes to incite nationalistic hockey riots. The World Cup gets all the good riots -- it's just not fair. One problem is that Edmonton is in Alberta, which is like the Texas of Canada -- hence the name the Oilers. Another problem is that most of the players on both of the teams are Canadian, so it's sort of hard to get into the whole hating on the other country's team thing when they all probably played pee-wee hockey together in Ottawa. It's just a wild guess, but I'm thinking Carolina Captain Rod Brind'Amour isn't a Tarheel. Or as they used to say to me in good ole Rock Hill, "Y'all ain't from around here, are ya?"

2006-05-29T22:09:00.000-04:00

I have discovered a new reason why Canada rocks, and it ranks right below universal health care in reasons to move here: Canadian Idol! That's right, instead of going cold turkey like all you American suckas, I have a whole new round of reality show goodness to see me through the summer. There's Canadian Idol on Mondays, and then there's Canada's Next Top Model on Wednesdays. (And if you thought Tyra liked her ribs, you should see Canada's version! She could fit BOTH Miss Jays under her muumuu in the promo I saw!)

So I watched tonight's Canadian Idol -- which is a carbon copy of American Idol, except that instead of Ryan Seacrest they have Ben Mulroney, who is the telegenic son of former Conservative Prime Minister Brian Mulroney, so it's like if Ron Reagan Jr. hosted American Idol instead of a crappy talk show. And they have no Paula equivalent, because everyone else who mixes that many pills with that much booze is dead. But those aren't the only differences. I noticed Canadian Idol lacks some of AI's coldhearted cruelty -- like if the Canadians show you a little sad backstory on some teenager with a dream in her heart who sings while taking care of her ailing granny and whose father sold his teeth to buy her plane ticket to the auditions, you don't have to worry -- she's in. Whereas on AI, they'd occasionally pull the tugging-heartstrings fakeout. "She's just a poor kid with a dream ... that's not gonna come true! Sucks to be you!" Also on CA, and to me this speaks very highly of the quality of teenagers they grow up here, there's none of that backtalk. When the judges informed contestants that they were very, very bad singers, there was none of this, "You don't know NOTHIN'! I'm gonna be a STAR and then you're gonna be sorry!" They just cried a little and left, which I found very refreshing. The sense of entitlement among really awful singers is one of the more alarming aspects of AI, and I'm tempted to blame the well-intentioned but overboard self-esteem movement in American education.

I can only guess what surprises await on Canada's Next Top Model. Perhaps the models are not functionally illiterate, as they are in the U.S. version? Perhaps when they are told that ALL they have to do in a given week is memorize three lines of text, one of which is invariably "Easy, breezy, beautiful -- Cover Girl," they actually are able to accomplish the task? Ah, the suspense of reality TV -- thank you Canada!

2006-05-25T09:40:00.000-04:00

I am not cut out for public transportation. I took the streetcar to work yesterday, and while it was nice to be able to sit and read the newspaper, what is a 20-minute car trip took an HOUR and I barely got to work on time. So I'll be investigating the parking options near the newspaper.

I am realizing the fundamental angst of copy editors is that no one will ever notice the mistakes you DO catch. Last night I changed a "bid her time" to "bide her time" and corrected the spelling of Louisville, Kentucky and made various and sundry other changes that saved the newspaper from complete humiliation (complete humiliation on page B-13, but still...). And no one will ever know. Of course, the slot editors (who are the top copy editors who check everything before it's final) noticed where I failed to put the right tag on a wire story, twice, and when I failed to lowercase chief executive officer. I'm beginning to see why most copy editors tend to be a tad grumpy.

I'm also learning why bad things happen to good wire stories. I had to cut about 75 percent of a story about a Florida lawyer being charged with fraud to fill some hole on a page. I don't feel like it was any great crime against journalism, since how much do Canadians really need to know about some Florida fraud case, but my apologies to Curt Anderson, AP writer, nevertheless. However I didn't just cut from the bottom up, and I did manage to keep in the detail that the lawyer allegedly paid his ex-wife's alimony with money that was supposed to go to asbestos victims. Doing my best to preserve wire-story integrity, one story at a time.

One thing that might tempt me back on to the streetcar is the transportation union leader's announcement, widely reported this morning, that streetcar, bus and subway operators don't have to and shouldn't confront people who don't pay their fares. This is part of some long-running union dispute about bus driver safety, but all I have to say is, God Bless Canada. Only here would it be official policy to not stop fare-skippers because it might lead to an unpleasant scene. If the price of a round-trip streetcar ride just dropped from $5.50 to zero, it might be worth my while to leave earlier for work.

2006-05-24T10:08:00.000-04:00

I took a quick trip to D.C. (the other Washington, as it's called in the Evergreen State), and the first thing greeting me when I got off the plane was a McDonald's. Then, when I got into a taxi on the passenger side dashboard was a red-white-and-blue sticker that declared, "I AM COVERED IN THE BLOOD OF JESUS." Welcome back to the USA! Appropriately enough, the taxi driver belonged to the "Jesus, take the wheel" school of driving, as his hands were often both busy taking calls on his cell phone or changing the dial on the transistor radio he carried on his lap. (I want to write a hit song called "Jesus wants you to be an attentive driver and He says to steer into a skid.")

However, I arrived in one piece and got a chance to walk around the White House, which is always a nice antidote to cynicism. Because no matter how McCrazy and Jesus-Freaky America gets, there are always people taking pictures of the White House and the different monuments, and they're speaking a dozen different languages. And even if the current administration sometimes forgets the principles of democracy that these trappings of power represent, I think the tourists speaking Russian, Farsi and Chinese never will.

Later, I started my copy editing job and did my first act of violence to an AP story ... more to come on that.