Educational games

I love playing games. I learned most of my math skills while sitting on my Dad's lap during cribbage games as a little girl. When I was old enough to remember all the rules, I got to play against him. It was my chance to prove myself to him, I had to be able to not only count my own points, but to double check his...just in case he tested me, to see if I was playing *seriously*. I am 25 now, and just last year he finally did it. I had been nervously checking his points for 15 years before the time had come. He takes his time.

Games are obviously associated with good times, but there are very special memories attached to them for me. I played different games with different people. My grandmother taught me how to play Rummy. This always seemed a little out of character for her as the pacifist, naturalist sage she was, but then again, over the years a lot about my grandmother surprised me. I enjoyed every tidbit. Scrabble was always a big event at her house. I would try my best to get as many points as possible, but being the most highly educated person in our family (both formally and informally), it was just understood that no one would ever beat her. When I started winning, it was very distressing.

My mother's side of the family is Polish and proud of it (in a very self-deprecating fashion). It was always hard for me to understand their penchant for Polish jokes, but I suppose the older third generation Canadian, I'm really quite removed from all that (except for what my family subjects me to). Most of my extended family lives a 25-hour drive from where I grew up, so when we all get together, it's a very special event. They're all very witty and cheerful and all-in-all the gatherings are refreshing reunions where alcoholism is thinly veiled under the guise of "Polish tradition". We're talking about people who'll drink Cæsers for breakfast because they're healthy. Na zdrowie!

This ubiquitous alcoholism makes for entertaining game playing. Usually we play cards for money. Any game will do really, as long as it's for money. I have fond memories of being very young and winning my first bowl full of dimes. I proudly hoarded my loot for a day or two and then lost it all playing Thirty-one. One rule that applies to all card games is: no mercy for anyone over the age of five. I think it was a valuable learning experience.

I hear that in Poland, when a guest arrives the house bottle of vodka is brought out and consecutive shots are poured for everyone present until the bottle is emptied. And then the drinking begins. That's just the toast. Again, na zdrowie!

But now that I am grown and living in a province sandwiched between my immediate and extended family, there seems to be a shortage of people willing to play card games with me. No one wants to lose their money, and no one wants to put up with the heckling involved in a rowdy game. Every now and then I can convince my boyfriend to play Shithead with me. While there is no betting involved, the amount of possible heckling makes up for it. But more often than not, I am left to play my own games. Today I developed a new one.

My home is positioned in one of those city areas where men sense a quiet corner and immediately get the urge to mark their territory. This drives my neighbor crazy and several times she's called the police to ward off the extremely common species we've come to call: The Urinators. There are different kinds: a) the high rollers who will whip down their drawers in the middle of the park because they just don't give a damn b) the elderly c) raving drunkards who've already been warned.

Today, I witnessed a "C" type approaching the quiet corner. He looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was behind him. He looked toward my neighbor's house to see if she was watching. He took the pre-pee stance (legs apart and ready to unzip)...and at precisely this moment I banged on my window really loudly. I saw him panic and try to determine where the noise was coming from. Then he ran away. He was gone for a full hour before he came back to the park to pass out.

One point for me, zero for The Urinators.
I'm in the lead.

Let's get physical, physical!

I've recently learned how to go to the gym. All my life I have avoided physical activity, going so far as to be a real pain in the ass about it in elementary school. My poor teachers must've cursed my parents for telling me not to let adults make me do anything I didn't want to do. I reinterpreted that lesson to work in my favour during Phys Ed. When forced to play soccer at the tender age of nine, I protested by running away from the ball. I'm not sure if I was upset because I was picked last for the team, or if the team picked me last because of that. In any case, I found the whole matter to be entirely unfair. Again, I pity the underpaid teachers.

I did try intramural soccer once more in high school, but I snapped my wrist during the first game and ended up in a cast, forbidden to play again by my doctor. I would have a cast for 8 weeks...and it was exactly 8 weeks until the prom. I took that as a sign from the PE powers that be. I wouldn't tempt them again.

While growing up, I was told over and over (by chubby people and chubby people's mothers) that I was "too skinny." By the time I reached junior high, I developed a complex. I started eating twice as much and most of that would be just before bedtime, partly in fear that I'd accidentally burn some calories if I stayed awake and partly to taunt my metabolically challenged friends. I was convinced that if I could just gain a little weight, my breasts would grow. I was wrong. I'm still playing for the A-Team.

I did reach a whomping 125 lbs. My all-time high. And when I got there, I realized I didn't want to be there. Now it's not that I think 125 lbs is a lot...but it looks weird when it is only on your belly and you *still* have skinny arms and legs. I didn't want to be a chicken lady. I just wanted some boobs.

In any case, at some point during university, I decided that maybe...since boobs aren't in the stars for me, I might as well get other cooler body stuff, like muscles!!! Then I realized that would involved physical activity. I thought maybe I could start slow...maybe I would join a contemporary dance class. I thought that was a great idea! It wasn't.

After the first class of "freeing my body" and "letting it speak" and "being a tree" and "walking without bones" I felt too degraded to go on. If *that* was what physical activity was all about I wanted none of it! I decided the muscle idea could get nice and comfy on the back burner.

A few *years* later a combination of things motivated me to actually commit to "training", but mostly it was instinctive competition...you know, survival of the fittest. Buying the $600 membership was the clamp on the dumbell. But after weeks of doing 50 minutes of cardio and an hour of weights...I still find that my self perception is totally screwy. It all depends on my mood. I have no idea what I *really* look like. I don't even own a scale...and after visiting someone who *does* own a scale, I'm happy not to. I learned something about myself by stepping on it several times in a 24 hour period: I weigh 115 lbs pre-buffet and 120 lbs post-buffet. I am not joking. No really.

Raight out (of character)

To say it in my native Maritime dialect, last night I "got raight out uff 'er". This translates into: ripped, wasted and trashed. Not just one of those states of being, all of them together. So, it's something like being inebriated to the power of three. It's been a long time since I've allowed this to happen. Since Halloween to be specific, when I met a fellow Maritimer at a house party in Vancouver and practiced this self-defeating ritual. While I am certain it poisons my body, it has a way of clearing my mind. It's as though all the stress is expelled in one enormous obnoxious outburst. Be warned my friends, such an outburst can last for hours and it might not be pretty.

I bought two tickets to a rock show and I was really looking forward to going. All week I had been feeling pretty serious and cynical. It was a bit of a hangover from the war that I really needed to get out of my system. I also hadn't been spending any quality time with my live-in buddy, so I thought a Saturday night on the town together might do the trick. As the sun started to go down we wandered to a restaurant that opens out onto the sidewalk so we could enjoy the last bit of the almost-as-nice-as-summer day. We opted for the moules et frites (a popular combo here) and an ostrich burger with jalapeno sauce. It was delicious, but sitting in the hot sun, the beer was better. We started out with imported beer but soon moved on to a local beer which really can hold its own anyway. The salty and spicy and exotic food made us thirsty; we needed to be refreshed. You see then, how innocently it all started.

We realized that the doors were opening for the show and we still had a fifteen minute walk ahead of us, so we paid our bill and giddily started off in pursuit of entertainment. When we arrived, however, I realized I had grossly overestimated the popularity of the bands. There wouldn't be a line up, in fact the door man joked with us that people like to be fashionably late. There we were unfashionably eager. We decided maybe instead of waiting inside the venue with the estimated 10 other Unfashionables, that we'd go grab a drink at a local watering hole known as Fouf. This is actually more of a punk venue after dark, and recently Vanilla Ice made an appearance there.

It just so happens that it was also Happy Hour, or as we say in Quebec "le 5 à 7". It wasn't my fault bottles of Boréale were only $2. We felt it was our duty to stock up before we reached the concert venue where the drinks would surely cost at least twice that! We thought this was being responsible. An hour passed and the show was supposedly starting, so we giggled our way back to Club Soda. I had forgotten it was an all ages show and upon seeing the youngsters, became nostalgic about gigs I attended while in high school. We'd sit on the floor in front of the stage and wait for the no-talent bands to emerge and scream into the microphones and eventually spit on the crowd (us) so we could feel "rock 'n' roll".

We casually sipped another drink and waited for the bands to appear. Once the first band appeared, I began hoping that each would be better than the last. Now, I understand we are all influenced and inspired by others, but for each song they played, I could name either a U2, Blind Melon or Doors version to match. It didn't help that there were only about 25 people in the audience. The next band was met with a larger crowd. People started filling the empty spaces and soon there were people dancing. The Tangiers, being young, pretty and bouncy, livened things up in such a way that made me feel bad for the previous band. It didn't help that the lead singer left to mope in the doorway to men's washroom.

By the time the Constantines took to the stage, the crowd was ready to party, dancing and screaming and pushing each other and taking their clothes off, as it should be. I really didn't think they could be topped. Well, not at a $15 show anyway. Then came Trans Am.

Now you see how I totally forgot about the drinking? And I got all excited about the music? Well that is what happened there, too. Except I was still drinking because I was thirsty. I just wasn't noticing that I was. My date, who can't handle alcohol at the best of times, was buying me the beer. He bought so much that I often had two bottles in my hand, eager to give them away to any taker. Well, it just so happens that he was pacing his intake according to the amount I was consuming. Since I seemed to be drinking it all, he figured he must be in the clear. It became apparent that I would have to chaperone him when he started buying drinks for his sworn enemy (a friend and flirt). When he is nice to this guy, I know I'm going to have my hands full.

The night went on until it exhausted itself, to the psychotic joy of the audience, and me.

While I was saying good-bye to a friend, she suggested I take my date home. "Why?" I asked, thinking the answer would be: "Because he is wasted." Instead she simply said, because he just did a cartwheel and now he's laying on the floor. "Oh..."

When I finally got him to leave, I thought maybe it would be fun to visit the transsexual bar across the street, Cafe Cléopatre. My date was a little nervous about it, but I insisted, it would be fun. We arrived just as the stage performance ended and the MC wished us all a good night. Perhaps we should have taken the hint. We didn't. Instead, the disco ball lights started up and some men-to-women who were in the show came back out to dance. I, of course, got up on stage to dance with them. Only today did I question whether or not the show was over, or if I might have made myself a part of the encore.

At some point, walking back to our neighbourhood, I started talking about how I would like to take self defense lessons. Somehow this lead to my date saying: "Punch me." Lacking any rational thought, especially forethought, I punched my date in the arm. It reminded me of living with my sisters, just a cheap jab, to hear the other person say, "Ow!" But I don't think he expected me to hit him that hard, or maybe I didn't know how hard I was jabbing. In any case, he retaliated with a jab to mine. So I retaliated. So he retaliated again. And so on. Somewhere in all the laughter and cheap shots I decided to do a sideways elbow jab. I didn't really direct it. I didn't plan it. I didn't actually think about it, but I got him good. It was at that point my date vomited.

I would have apologized, but I was pretty sure he would have vomited anyway. Right? In its truest sense, this is what "raight out uff 'er" means. The beauty of the occasional "raight out uff 'er" night in traditional Maritime style is that you can still be friends in the morning.

Trust me

My parents always told me I shouldn't trust people who can't look me in the eye. This came along with other useful tips like: "Never trust someone with a weak/cold/clammy or complicated handshake" and "Never trust someone who has to tell you you can trust them." You'd think there were trust issues when I was growing up, but we all trusted each other so much in my house, that even as a teenager I didn't bother to hide my diary. I didn't even question how my sister might know of the secret-illegal things I'd done. I thought maybe we were just really *close* and we'd developed some sort of sisterly ESP.

I've kept diaries ever since I ran out of metaphors for teen-angst poetry, so I have excellent documentation of the most embarassing period of my life. I love rereading entries describing break-ups, make-outs and substance abuse. I am appalled by my terrible handwriting. I am fascinated I survived those years and amused by every painful second of them.

I made the mistake of thinking it would amuse my friends, too. I decided to make my diary (given to me by my older, drug-using, fast driving, cigarette smoking, son-of-a-lawyer boyfriend) recounting my sweet sixteenth year, public. I placed it on the coffee table and made it known that everyone was welcome to read it. I had even returned torn out 'pages-of-shame' to their rightful place inside the book again. I couldn't wait to sit around and joke about the person I was. I thought it would be hilarious for my ex-boyfriend to read about how madly in love I claimed to be. I thought my best friend would laugh when she read how I really felt when she kissed my boyfriend during a mononucleosis outbreak in our high school. Not so.

The book was left untouched in my presence and they eventually asked me to put it away because it was making them uncomfortable. I suppose we are always tied so intimately to our past that, in other people's eyes, it's hard for them to recognize that we've undergone complete cerebral overhauls. I simply am not capable of doing or saying or thinking most of the things I'd written about almost a decade earlier. It then occurred to me that maybe when people can't look you straight in the eye, it's because they don't trust you.

This all came to mind when my ex-boyfriend, the one that provided much of the drama in the diary in question, emailed me asking if he could spend the night at my house on his way through the city. I mentioned it to my current live-in love and we supposed we wouldn't mind. I said, "Well it won't be that bad. It's not like he'd steal anything from us or anything." As the words left my mouth, I began questioning whether he really might, if only just for kicks.

We'll see if I'll be able to look him in the eye when he gets here. I might have to keep my eyes on my stuff instead.

The big thaw

At first, I was pleased to find out my new home was near a park. They are welcome outdoor meeting places after eight months of harsh Canadian winter. Being a young and fashionable city, at the first sign of thaw, we venture from our homes to splurge on a new spring outfit to show-off in these parks when the many cafe terraces are already packed. All winter we fantasize about buying beer from our local depanneur (corner store) and stylishly lounging in the sun on the baby sprouts of grass. We ignore the stench of the thawing winter collection of canine feces the dog-owners left behind because they didn't want to trudge through the snow to collect it. That is a serious lack of forethought on their part, and another reason Montrealers welcome the cleansing spring thunder showers.

Eight months is a long time, though. It is long enough to forget what else the community parks attract. Not only are we a fashionable city, we are a kind city. We love to feed the pigeons. We love pigeons so much, in fact, that we like to feed them our leftover dinners. It is through this charitable act that I have discovered pigeons will eat anything but okra. Personally I despise okra, so this is enough proof for me to claim okra is an anomaly of nature. Surely, it would be left decaying on the park grounds if the unleashed dogs wouldn't finish it off.

I like dogs because I like animals, but I don't especially like them. They are the only animal that has ever tried to bite, chase and mate with me. I had forgotten that all the local residents bring their dogs to these parks for their exercise. Now I am not a species-ist. I know they need to run and feel free, but if an owner knows the animal is inclined to attack strangers, perhaps they should take a moment from their cell phone conversation to hold the dog back before it jumps on someone. Once a stranger's dog bares its teeth at me and puts my calf in its mouth...I get a little nervous. What irks me, is that the owner of the dog then gets angry when I motion to yell and swat it. How am I supposed to know the dog wasn't just tasting me before the official sinking-in-of-the-teeth? How am I supposed to know when the owner will finally hang up and help me? Apparently the dog learned its manners from its master.

Unfortunately, the pigeons and the dogs are the easiest animals to deal with in the parks as our little part of the world thaws. We also have a healthy population of drunkards. I don't mind drunkards in the same way I don't mind strange dogs: we can live in harmony if neither tries to bite me.

On my way down the sunny street yesterday, two especially drunken drunkards began 'meowing' at me. Meowing? OK, I endured the barking and howling of Puerto Rican guys in NYC, the hissing in Italy, the marriage proposals in Cuba, the honking in rural Canada and the ass-grabbing in night clubs, but meowing? Did they make that up themselves?

I told them not to be rude and they told me not to be shy. I think we were having a miscommunication.

I arrived at my friend's house in time to witness her afternoon drunkard experience. I had encountered the same drunkard earlier on that day. He was alone on a park bench angrily screaming, "Ma mère! Ma mère!" I think his 'mère' really messed him up. In any case, my friend had just asked him not to pee on the grass next to her house and he seemed willing to defend his right to pee in public to the death. He came at her, arms raised as though he was already choking her and so she promptly retreated and called the police. They arrived in record time and ran him off down the street with a warning. He paused and stared at me, raised a finger and turned to see if the police were still watching. They were, he left, and peace was returned to the quartier. I might be nervous that he had made note of my face for future reference if he wasn't such an inebriated raving lunatic.

But, the pigeons, the dogs, the raving drunkards, they aren't the only seasonal nuisance. Exams are ending. The frat boys are celebrating. Hold onto your hats ladies, and don't walk alone at night.