CANADA

Dear All,

I'm blogging for you live from Ottawa where it's--you guessed it--snowing. It's cold here, kittens, so cold that, upon my arrival, I promptly fell ill with a sore throat and nasal congestion. My puny immune system has never seen the likes of an extreme Canadian winter. This winter makes the winter weather we have in the mid-Atlantic region look like spring.

However, you should be proud of me: I strapped on skis for the very first time yesterday and with icicles hanging off my eyelashes (seriously, I have the pictures to prove it), I attempted cross-country skiing for the very first time in Gatineau Park. I wore more layers than I've ever worn before: thermal leggings, fleece tights, and cross-country skiing pants on the bottom and a sports bra, thermal shirt, fleece zip-up and snow jacket on top, with a balaklava covering everything but my bejeweled (with the icicles, that is) eyes. I was doing very well for the first half hour on the trail, taking MP's instructions to heart, and gliding along, feeling so wonderful and one with nature. We saw five, maybe six people.

But then I fell.

And I couldn't get up.

And, what felt like the entire population of Canada, whizzed right past us, as I lay on my back giggling my ass off. "First time skater," I managed to say, sitting up and waving to a few of the rubberneckers. The panick set in quickly thereafter. "Oh my God, oh my God, OH MY GOD, MP, I CAN'T get up." The skis felt giant and unwieldy. What the hell was I supposed to do with them? How the hell was I to get up?

Luckily, a nice Canadian on skis who wasn't MP stopped by us and showed me how to get up after a fall on skis.

Good thing because I proceeded to fall four more times.

The funny thing about falling is that it becomes progressively easier.

I'm happy to report that I was skiing very well by the end of my cross-country skiing adventure with MP. I'd wanted to hit the trails again today but, man, Canada's still kicking my immune system's ass especially swiftly today so I figured I'd take a break (especially with the heavy snow fall out there; this is truly a winter wonderland!).

So, happy winter to all of you. Keep reading, kittens. I'll report back to you soon.

MP's Canada

MP and I recently settled into 11 months as a couple together. That we probably wouldn't have met each other had it not been for my pink-and-fabulous-yet-humble blog scares the nerdiness right out of me. I'm still pleasantly surprised by the thought of him and the fact that he is in my life. Where did you come from? I often ask him. The answer, of course, is always the same: Canada.

I've waxed poetic about Canada and Canadians in the past, dear readers, but having recently returned from a vacation in the land of ice hockey, poutine, and nice (yes, I mean the adjective), I'd like to continue waxing poetic.

Firstly, I was practically niced to death by the Canadians. MP's family, his friends, random strangers, storekeepers, waiters, waitresses, airport security, EVERYONE was so nice it hurt (but in a good way). In fact, the only rude person I encountered during the duration of my stay in Canada: the American customs official at the airport in Montreal, who was downright scary.

Canadians, secondly, are a calm and patient people (I suppose that calm and patience are essential ingredients for nice). Example: MP and I are driving up a narrow, one-way Ottowan street, lined with outdoor markets, when, suddenly, a truck in front of us stops in the middle of the street and two guys proceed to unload their market fares. These guys spend a good five minutes unloading and I stop having my "Oh-my-gaw-the-nerve-of-these-guys" moment long enough to listen to something extraordinary: silence from the long line of cars behind us. They're as quiet and as patient as MP is beside me and they seem to have no beef with these dudes holding up traffic. I am shocked.

Ottawa is beautiful. Check out the following pics:






Montreal is beautiful.





I don't think I'll ever tire of a Canadian accent (for the record, Canadian accents vary aboot as much as the American English accent does...I recently met one of MP's friends who hails from Saskatchewan and her "aboots" are "a-boats". Learn how to speak like a Canadian here. To be surrounded by polite aboots was lovely.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not planning on moving to the lovely north* and even though I'm extremely critical of the good, ol' US of A**, I do still love my country and plan on raising a famiy here.*** All that being said, I'm so glad that I've found MP and he's helped me discover Canada.

*I will be revisiting my plans if Palin/McCain dupe my not-always-bright countrymen into voting another Republican adminstration into the White House.

**as all good patriots should be

***see first asterisk

MANADA DAY, EH

Clearly, I had my head up my ass this morning because how else could I have forgotten to wish all of my readers a happy, happy, happy Manada (and by Manada, I mean Canada) Day, eh?! What is Manada Day all aboot, you ask? Well, my curious Americans (and others), you can read all aboot it right here! I haven't read the article just yet but I suspect that on Manada Day, Manadians engage in the very same revelries that we Americans do on the Four of July: they have barbeques and picnics, watch fireworks, blow up their fingers and their faces with firecrakcers and those sparklers I loved as a kid. They might also gorge themselves on alcohol and then hop into their jeeps.

Oh, patriotism, you loud, boisterous chum, we can always turn to you for a good time...even in Manada!

To all of my dear Manadians (there are certainly more of you this year than there were last year), I leave you with the gift of Robin Sparkle. Dance, shimmy, and sing your hearts out, you crazy, crazy Canucks, for this day is your day and no one can take that away from you.

SUMMER

I'm tired and cranky. I've tried for hours to come up with something funny and entertaining to post here but I've got nothing (but the most desperate need to go away on vacation) folks. I'd rather be on a beach (wearing enough sunscreen to ensure that the skin cells don't go all funky on me) or at a spa or farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere.

I'm exhausted. A creature of habit, I'm tired of routine. I need a massage. I need a change of scenery.

I've got nothing for you folks.

But, luckily, my MP does have something for you. According to Canada's most popular magazine, Canada is where it's at. If I had the energy to do so, I'd vigorously protest such biased, one-sided, and probably absolutely accurate claims. But I don't. America's on its own.

I THOUGHT I WAS OFF THE MATCHMAKING BLOCK

Apparently, I've received a proposal from a friend of a family friend, who, along with his mother, saw me at some random desi gathering. For the record, a proper Pakistani girl isn't supposed to date (especially not non Desi men), so my folks have been keeping MP on the downlow for the time being--"until things are more permanent," they say. For the time being, they've been reacting to random proposals such as this by, first asking me what they should say (secretly hoping that I either flash them a diamond on my left ring finger, announcing that MP's finally proposed, making things so permenant), then giving me a lecture about waiting too long to get engaged, and, finally, deciding that they will tell the following story: we (ie, my folks) are in talks with a family (ie, MP's folks) in Canada, who have a nice, decent lawyer son in Manhattan, and since talks have gotten so serious, it would be wrong for us (ie my folks) to look at other prospective suitors.

INTERRACIAL LOVE IN CANADA

Special prize* for anyone who finds MP's favorite (and, certainly, the most ironic for us) paragraph from this provocative article about intteracial marriages in good ol' Manada.

*And by special prize, I actually mean no prize. Sorry.

VISIT ONTARIO

CLICK HERE TO SEE THE VIDEO!

So, I loved the above Ontario tourism commercial the first five times I saw it. It features a catchy tune sung by a Canadian songstress called Molly Johnson and an assortment of lovely, airbrushed, and presumably Canadian folk of every color under the rainbow.

I won't lie. The first five times I saw the ad, it made me desperately want to go to Canada and not because MP happens to hail from Ontario. I wanted to go to Ontario because, as Molly Johnson sang, "There's no place like [Ontario]," and who doesn't want to visit a place where everyone has clear pores, good laughs, and limitless happiness (so is the brilliance of tourism ads, no?). Sure, MP declared that the ad was full of cookie-cutter wankers and that he isn't the biggest fan of his home province but, dammit, I wanted to experience Ontario anyway. I was virtually packed and ready to go to the land of Molly Johnson and open spaces. I was ready for a vacation.

But then I saw the ad a sixth time...and then a seventh. I saw it again and again and again. During the span of a single weekend, not only did I see the commercial three times on television--and I don't watch that much television, folks--I heard it on the effin' radio, not once, but twice! And then it got worse. I saw it again. And again. And again. That commercial--as lovely and selling as it once was--became such an annoyance that, honestly, I don't know if I want to visit Ontario, after all. I'm sure that wasn't the response the Ontario tourism board was hoping for, but there you have it folks. There you have it!

OH CANADA

Oh Canada, you great exporter of sweet, thoughtful, bright, kindhearted, and all-around amazing men, I now call you Manada because you, much like that great city of Menver, give all of us single-in-Manhattan-working-women hope. Thank you, Manada. Thank you.

WHAT HAPPENED IN MAINE: part I

This is what happened in Maine, Part I:

1) RR and I rented a white Chevy Malibu with Florida plates. We christened the Malibu, Barbie. Barbie was a good car.

2) Since I’m an expert reader of maps and a virtuoso turner of radio dials, I designated myself “navigator.” This left RR, an exceptional operator of automobiles-- especially on highways and freeways--in the role of “driver.”

3) I had a brief stint as “driver.” While behind the wheel, I nearly ran over a chipmunk, a close call that severely compromised my confidence in the role of "driver". My cautious driving also seemed to irritate drivers from several different states—NY, MA, NH, to name a few—and Canada (“I’m from FLORIDA, you jerks!” I often cried out to the procession of cars tailing me. "Cut me some slack!"). The cars overtaking me, one by one, gave me enough of a complex to abstain from driving again for the remainder of our holiday.

4) Number of times we parallel parked: 0 (phew—a minor miracle if you ask me, an active decision on our part if you ask RR)

5) RR and I discovered that a) the lighthouses in Rockland are optical illusions—you can walk for hours in their general direction only to discover that they’re just as far as they were two hours ago or, perhaps, b) the older gent at the lighthouse museum who told us that the bloody lighthouse was 1 mile away was a bloody liar and that c) pajamas in Rockland cost $50. RR and I hated Rockland.

6) Rockport confused us. We missed it entirely on our way up Route 1 and, although we found it on our way down, we couldn’t quite understand why a couple of folks as well as our Maine tourism guide called it one of the nicest, most quaint towns along the state’s craggy shores. Like, what? We drove in and drove right out.

7) We fell asleep before 9:45 each night and woke up no later than 6 each morning. It must’ve been the Florida plates rubbing off on us.

8) Number of times we got lost: 3 (twice in car, once on foot)

9) I wore a skirt or a dress and flipflops every single day. Hiking the trail around Jordan Pond, we came upon a family of three little girls. While the oldest and youngest were dressed hike-appropriate, the middle daughter, who was five or six years old, was wearing a denim skirt, a sparkly t-shirt, and flipflops. "I got WATER on my shoes! I DON'T want water on my shoes!" she cried out, trailing behind her family.
I loved that little girl.

10) RR and I spoke in old world Bah Habah accents for a good part of our vacation.

OH, CANADA!

Here's another reason we should've all moved to Canada upon Bush's reelection in 2004: Little Mosque on the Prairie.

The sitcom, which premiere's on Canada's CBC network next week (I hope the first episode will be available somewhere on the Web), is about Muslims living in a small Canadian prairie town and uses comedy to shed light on what remains, for many in the western world, a religion shrouded in mystery and suspicion. The show's garnering worldwide praise and attention for tackling the post-9/11 religious divide between Muslims and non-Muslims with fresh and light hearted laughs. I doubt that a US station will ever pick this show up but, with over 6 million Muslim Americans, it would be super if that does happen.

Check out the show's website here (I'll post up a hyperlink when I'm on the PC tomorrow): http://www.littlemosque.ca/