Speak to me

As Canadians, we never think about our accents, in fact, us Prairie folk don't believe we have one. I have gone on my hazy way for years enjoying Scottish, Irish and British accents when I heard one, always trying to imitate them, quite unsuccessfully. We all love to speak to people from Eastern Canada and delight in their Maritime brogue but as Flatlanders we think our accents are as plain as the plaines from which we hail.

My oblivious attitude has been shattered since moving from country to country. In Asia, I was regularly asked where I was from, however, I put that down to Asian curiosity about expats and me towering above them. You would think in America, I could fool them into thinking I belong; not the case.

If I had a Loonie for every time I am asked, "Hon, where are y'all from?" I would have enough to buy a grande, toffee nut, caramel, white mocha frappucchino, double blended with no whip, and extra chocolate drizzle from that ubiquitous coffee shop on every corner, a couple times a week.

"I am from down the road, I live in North Dallas," is usually my dry answer because I don't want to get into the discussion for the 4,000th time in any given week. "Nope, I am sure I detect an unusual accent," they insist on pursuing this line of questioning.  "Imma gunna say you are from that land down under, ya know, in Australia."

She is not from OZ, but we are.

It isn't as though I walk around throwing shrimp on the barbie and saying, "G'day mate," with a bad Crocodile Dundee cadence. I have no idea why they assume I speak with an Aussie accent but Canada is always the last place they guess; in reality, they never guess Canada because I tire long before the answer has a chance to arrive. It is as if the people in the South have not heard of The Great White North.

It never occurred to me that we say things differently being the only give away. There are several words that always have a response of, "Oh, Canadian, eh?" We say "pop" and they ask you if you want a supersized, four gallon soda with your breakfast. Canadians say PRO-ject and PRO-gress; Americans insist on PRAW-gress and PRAW-ject along with their CRAW-dads and mudbugs, instead of shrimps and lobsters.

Once they figure out my nationality, the jokes surrounding "oot and aboot," start to fly. I am pretty sure, I have never said, "I am just oot and aboot so I'll be dere da rackley," with my apologies to Newfoundland. I now make it my mission to exaggerate saying these words because it seems to delight the Y'Alls. When I take in my first Texas Rangers ball game, I am going to sing, "Take me OOT to the ballgame," as boisterously as possible.

How can you not love NOLA?

I had the great fortune to take a quick trip to New Orleans, recently. It was one of the most interesting places I have been, but even more so, were the people. I was completely charmed by their Yat, Southern and Cajun drawls all rolled into one. They seem to take even more pleasure in how I spoke. We could have stood there all day telling the other how delightful we sounded to the other.

"I love the way you speak."

"No, I love the way you speak." It was a love-in.

.

I have been instructed by Daughter #1 when I return to Canada, I had better not pick up south-of-the-border speak. I have to admit I have said, "Y'all" a few times, and I know I say it in my head even more. I am picking up the local colloquialisms, also known as Souther'isms such as, "Grinning like a possum eating a sweet potato," and my all time favorite, "I am busier than a moth in a mitten."

Where do you come from?

When Son #1 visited, I sent him on a mission in a large department store. "Lookie, go find some men's gitch, gotch, gonch, gitchies, gotchies or gonchies for me to buy you." If you aren't from the Prairies, you may not know these slangs commonly known as boxers but they are near and dear to our hearts. I have no clue what Luc really asked for when he hit the men's department because I was too busy hauling my girl's parcels to worry about his shopping excursion.

Luc returned empty handed and when questioned, he told me the sales associate said, "Well bless your heart Sugar, but what I think you are looking for is in the men's under essential area. I took that to mean a polite southern way to say, "tightie whities," or "undies."

You would think with us all speaking English, it would be simple to understand one another, but I find myself saying, "Excuse me, pardon me, sorry," more often lately. I guess that is a sign of old age, but until I pick up on the lingo, I will continue to baffle them when I say "zee," as "zed."

No excuse me, I have a Zed Zed Top concert to take in.

The long awaited sleep-in of the weekends

(Thank you to special guest blogger Arturo Velez, also known as R2; no babies were injured in the making of this blog)

For the past few weeks, I have been waking up extra early, driving more than an hour to work and even longer returning home. I know this is natural for many people, but not for me. 

I can start my morning before dawn, fly to a distant city, be half asleep during the flight and arrive fresh and ready for work, but how does one sleep while driving?  

After careful observation, it appears sleeping while driving is commonplace for some people too; and let’s not forget the ones that text and drive or check their Facebook while speeding more than 70 miles an hour. Inevitably, this causes accidents, which in turn blocks the efficient flow of traffic making my commute more irritating each day. 

It appears this pilgrimage might be my life for several months so for now, I look forward to the long awaited sleep-in of the weekends.

One of my recurrent dreams during my much needed sleep is flying above cities or mountains however today, I was dreaming about a novel from Douglas Adams where the gods of Norse mythology joined forces with an I Ching calculator and other strambotic ideas. I can only speculate I was thinking about this because it was Adams’ birthday earlier this month. In the dream, I was flying with Odin and Thor in search of Loki because Loki stole the banana bread I was baking using the secret powers of a magical white box my wife calls the bread machine; she guards it in a secret compartment near the pantry, which I can never find. I can never find anything she hides on me, but that is a horse of a different color.

After my 14 hours of sleep, I am suddenly awake and disoriented. I can hear a strange sound, a tiny

Mighty-O and his Super-Mama

creature’s voice, something completely out of the ordinary. It could be the TV, or the radio, but we don’t have television at home and we rarely listen to radio. So, what could it possibly be? Intrigued I roll out of bed and begin the search for the source of such a heavenly sound. It giggles, it gasps, it makes noises similar to what a baby sounds like but there is no way a little person can be in our house; we don't hang out with babies.

I retreat from the bedroom into the living room and there he is; little Odin, who came flying from my dreams, materialized in a adorable form, ready to wreak havoc around the world. And as much as we know it, there is no way this handsome soul is capable of any kind of welter or chaos, he is too charming; full of dimpled smiles and bright blue eyes.

Whilst enjoying my Belgian waffles Layna pretends she loves to prepare, little Odin explodes in a frenzied cry after a magnificent fart and, most likely, a brown sluggish matter that now occupies his Huggies. "Atta boy,”  I say, while Layna tosses the diaper bag to find a clean nappy, and all the doo-dads that come with the procedure of changing and cleaning one’s soiled bum.

Odin was happy again, or at least for 25 seconds after the nappy change, when he began sniffling again. Aha! He must be hungry, so Layna bolts to the kitchen and scrambles to prepare a bottle, barely understanding what she is doing. She passes him back to me like a Quarterback and I take the little ball without knowing the play.

I lift him in the way Rafiki hoists Simba high up, summoning the animals for his presentation to the jungle kingdom. Holy Mother of God! If the little man was not agitated before, he is now absolutely and utterly unimpressed with my rendition of the Lion King’s famous song, and he is not making it a secret. With all the might of his lungs he tells me, "Bring me down, right now or I will kick your ass so hard you wouldn’t even know what hit you," give or take.

By now, Layna is ready with the bottle so I pass

Reminiscent of Baby O's pukefest

the butterball back to the Quarterback and she starts feeding mighty Odin. Magically, the screaming baby becomes content again; at least for a few more gulps of formula. Taking a break from being fed, he pushes the bottle away from her, gazes at her with a Vulcan mind stare and, just like a volcano, he showers her with all the formula that she forced fed him, whether he was hungry or not. Gushes of curdled goo come out of his mouth in all possible directions. “Good thing I haven’t showered yet,” Layna says, always looking for the bright side of things.

Odie is now steamed and it is not because of my substandard vocal chords; he, like me from my highway drive, is merely exhausted. Layna sits down with him and she shows him her version of the Vulcan Mind Meld. "Look at me baby, look at me." She does the universal two finger eyes to eyes with her hand, trying to transfix him. Odin is pondering the situation, proving that he is wise, albeit young, and decides to cave in and goes to sleep. Voila!  Just like that, Layna - 1- Odin - 0.

I  watch my hyperactive wife while she is leaving the apartment to take Odin for either an excursion in his new-age stroller or a spin in her yellow convertible. Either way, the fresh air will fumigate her recently acquired acrid smell. She doesn't seem to mind because she is enchanted with her roly-poly homey.

Our sweet homeboy

Maybe we should get a puppy to amuse her, methinks; or maybe not.

(This blog was written by R2, my tired, waffle-crazy esposo). I love his writing, he makes me laugh more than anyone - especially when he was teaching Baby O to code in Java!

Blood, Sweat and Tears

What started out as civic duty on a bleak, dreary morning in Dallas, ended up with a trout pout; and not in the Melanie Griffith, botox-injected way, and a bruised, bandaged arm and ego for my troubles.

Our condo organizes several charity initiatives throughout the year so the residents can contribute in little ways to help the community. This past weekend, it was a Blood Drive, being hosted in a bus that looked something the Partridge Family would roll up to a gig at the local Eagles Club, circa 1975. 

The Hippie Bus

In the past, I gave blood but the Canadian Red Cross deemed me a huge risk with my vagabond lifestyle so I have not been able to give for eight years. I know in the USA, they will take anything with a pulse, and skin somewhat free of track marks so I thought it would be a cinch to donate.

I braved the brisk Texas winds and made a dash for the bus. Inside was not much warmer, even with several people in various stages of blood donating. I sat shivering, waiting my turn.

I asked the coughing, wheezing nurse if I would qualify; I saw her eyes glaze over when I explained I had been doing significant travel in the last few years.  When I told her I was in Cambodia recently, she asked, "Is that in North or South Carolina?" I went on to explain I had lived in three countries in nine months which didn't seem to concern her in the least, and she assured me that Canada was probably safe. "Well, thank god for that because it was Canada I was so concerned with a Malaria outbreak," was the sarcastic voice ping-ponging around my head.

I managed to pass the hemoglobin test, the blood pressure squeeze, and assure them I haven't used dirty needles, or been a prostitute in the last three years. I have not been in the military, nor pregnant, or sold my blood recently. Then she asked me about travel; didn't we just have this conversation 55 seconds ago when I asked her if I was a candidate?

She whipped out an extensive sheet, with every state in Mexico, banned cities abroad, and over two dozen countries that are not suitable for donating. This process took over two hours, partly because of all of the places we have traveled, and partly because my tequila infused brain could not remember the unique names of the Asian cities and islands we visited. Was that Butuk Katong, or Patong Bukak?  I could not remember them all, no matter how much I squeezed my eyes closed and pictured the tranquil islands in my mind.  She said, "No worries Sugar, we will take you, you look healthy," as she blew her nose for the 15th time.

I was told to lie down while they strapped me into the reclining school bus seat.  Soon a huge, dude nurse named Tracy came at me with what looked like a horse needle. Why does the name Tracy on a man always confuse me?  I wasn't about to question him on his name, when I saw the size of the harpoon he was about to jab into my vein. I didn't look because the bus started to spin; when he shoved that needle into my arm, I started swearing in Spanish, Thai, French and any other language I could conjure up under my breath. "Y'all doing okay, Doll?” was his Southern way of asking me if I was going to pass out. 

To make matters worse, my damaged arm was immobilized and sticking out in the aisle, so every time Tracy or one of the other enormous nurses tried to squeeze by, my arm was whacked, sending a thrilling sensation of pain rippling down my pasty, white limb.  

After only two short minutes of him poking and squeezing, he got annoyed and announced, "Okay, Doll, you're done. Your veins are too small and we can't do this anymore. Don't come back for two months." He unceremoniously yanked out the tube for one final pain sensation.

All of the time I have tried to maintain a size 6, with the

Exercise? No. Vein Pump? Yes

exception in Singapore where I was a size 66, I didn't know I was supposed to be enlarging my veins so the spear-sized needle would draw blood. Is there an exercise regime that pumps up the veins to Lou Ferrigno proportions so your blood flows freely?

Tracy wasn't finished with me yet; you could see the disgust on his face as he bandaged my wound with more blue tape than  used in the entire Falkland War. How dare I waste his precious time, use a blood collection bag that was going to be tossed away, and fritter away the monstrous needle. He told next time, drink, drink, drink so the blood flows freely. Had I known this, I would have brought a bottle of Pinot Grigio with me.

Yes, it hurts...

I sulked up to our condo, wincing in pain from my arm but more from my pride. So much for community spirit, so much for helping my fellow man; all I got for my trouble was my personal info punched into yet another American website for the spam to overtake my email, and a swelling, the size of Kentucky in the Rand McNally Atlas.

I think my days of giving blood are over until I return to Canada; they may not like my excursions, but at least the needles are compatible with my wimpy veins. Perhaps I can volunteer in a soup kitchen instead.