2007: The road to hugeness
11:01 AM |
0 comments
2007 was clearly my year of hugeness. 2008 must feel bad, like getting the spot in the talent show right after the beautiful girl who sings “The Sound of Music” with perfect falsetto, and all you have in your hand is a dinky recorder!
2007 started with seeing my man off to live in Regina for 6 months. That day, all I remember thinking was how I wasn’t going to see him for another half a year. Three days later I broke down and bought a ticket to see him in April over Easter weekend. That was the best weekend ever, but I was SO SAD to fly back home afterwards, I’ll tell ya!
I laboured through my last semester of journalism school. The end of the long haul. The process of doing things just to finish them, not for the grades or with hopes of re-activating my first-year scholarship. I lived with a fabulous new roommate who did not set things on fire, and who let me laugh at myself on a daily basis.
I ran my first 10k alongside my bestest girl friends in May(minus C who was traveling the globe!) and we all did it in time we could be proud of. Crossing the finish line was an incredible high.
A few weeks later I crossed a stage, signaling my transition from regular student to esteemed alumnus woman with bachelor of journalism, high honours, major in law, minor in history degree. Standing on the duct-tape X marker and hearing them read that out, I couldn’t find my family, or recognize any audience faces, because I just stood there and beamed and let my eyes well up. That was the single proudest moment of my whole life and I’ll never forget it.
Another graduation brought my family and I to Regina to see the dude become a full-fledged Crown copper. He looked so cute!! And of course, he was so impressive. A whirlwind next couple of days saw us fly home, oversee movers pack up and cart off all of our stuff, as we said goodbyes and got on a plane that took us early in the morning from Ottawa to Vancouver to Whitehorse. The northern adventure began!
We lived in cop’s quarters while we waited, and waited, for our stuff and our truck to arrive. My my mum and sister came up to visit, originally to help us move in but since our stuff was somewhere in the prairies, they stayed in a hotel and toured around.
I got some reprieve in August with a pre-planned family trip to Turks and Caicos where I supremely got my dive on, sometimes three times a day! Saw my first sharks, and was treated to numerous sea turtles...my favourite!
The biggest and best event of my life took me back home in October to plan Operation:Matrimony. It was actually easy and fun, because with my mum’s work beforehand and our pre-planning, lists, schedules and calendars, we had everything done in time to enjoy it all.
I was away from my dude again for a month, which was a bittersweet bummer. The next time I saw him was five days before we made it legal! The wedding was a blast, went by really fast, and I can’t wait to see pictures and videos soon so I can start recollecting what all happened.
We had our first married/first Yukon Christmas with visiting brother-in-law and cousin, which was a nice touch of family.
And that was 2007. I was away from my husband a lot, and I hope we never have to do anything as crazy as be apart 7 1/2 months out of the year. That stinks! But the way things are looking, it’ll be he and me in the Yukon until work allows us time to go away somewhere...if that actually happens! 2008 should be quieter, I mean, I don’t know what would make it bigger than 2007. And that’s something to look forward to for sure.
I think my resolution last year was to be healthy or something vague like that. This year it's to wear sunscreen everyday on my face. I don't want to regret not doing so when I'm like 40 and realize all those nuggets of wisdom people offered me in my twenties were actually worthwhile.
Labels: Journalism School, nostalgia, Whitehorse
Christmas: Home versus the Yukon
12:50 PM |
2 comments
First off, nothing will ever beat Christmas at home where the magic of preparations, dinner and stocking-filling remain the property of the parents and grandparents. Where the kids get the luxury of having a holiday largely presented to them in the form of church, turkey dinner, presents, sledding and Santa. All we ever had to do is decorate the tree, get presents for each other, and offer to clean up around the house leading up to Christmas.
Christmas on my own, 5,000 km from home, was initially a tough sell. I got directions from the home camp, husband’s side, to prepare a turkey dinner all by myself on Christmas Day, one of only two I would have off from work this week. I had to be in on the holiday magic, playing Santa, and be the last to see the tree and its under-contents before bed that night.
It was essentially graduating from the audience of the show to the backstage producers, responsible for the success of it all with little help from anyone else.
Here’s how I fared in the first home versus Yukon Christmas:
I did my turkey dinner menu prep days before, purchasing my fresh turkey and dinner dishes at the insanely busy Superstore. I pre-chopped my carrots and peeled the potatoes in advance to decrease my to-do list, at least a little bit.
I wrapped presents early and had them all ready to go under the tree and in the stockings. All were pleased.
I sent cards and presents to family and friends in Ottawa weeks ago with instructions not to open anything until Christmas, so that I could make a presence Christmas morning, at least in some shape or form.
I donned my Christmas Santa hat and visited my Dad, brother and sister via web cam as they finished up Christmas brunch, and that really made me feel at home, included and that I wasn’t missing out on things as much as I really was.
I disguised my home-missing quite well, I think, with an insistence that Christmas CDs be played on repeat, with numerous calls home, and by throwing all energy into dinner, leaving no time for nostalgia or homesickness.
I set up the dining table with all the holiday table decor I’d been slowly acquiring in the preceding months, and I must say, it was gorgeous. I prepared the bacon-wrapped turkey, the stuffing, the scalloped cheesy potatoes, the peas, the rolls, the gravy and the two pies, bumbleberry and apple. (Yes, I forgot about the carrots, cut me some slack). We ate a nice meal, drank wine and champagne (a first Yukon Christmas is certainly cause for celebration) and finished the day with a round of board games and pie a la mode.
A phone at my grama’s house was passed around with myself on the receiving end, listening to what everyone got, how the food was and how everyone missed me. I hurriedly reciprocated so my homesickness would stay quelled.
Instead of hitting the malls at Mach-ten first thing Boxing Day morning, I lazily woke up at 9:30 with the puppy snuggled into my arm pit. I started the tea kettle, woke up the boys (visiting relatives from Edmonton) and made turkey sandwiches to take sledding. We bundled up, loaded sleds, and took off to an adventure that can only be described as follows:
Boxing Day Sled Fest in the Desert.
About an hour from Whitehorse is a town called Carcross, and it has a desert, or what used to be the floor of a glacial lake. We brought the dog, water, sandwiches, snacks and sleds, and took turns being pulled up to the top of the snow-covered sand dunes by friends on Skidoos. The slopes were steep and I managed to stay on my sled most of the time. We even got the puppy to figure out how to chase us down the hill, tiring her out in the process. We made a bonfire with friends, and one of them let me drive their Skidoo, man that is fun!
I perfected the art of sand dune sledding, which involved knowing when to close my mouth so that sand would not fly in, and using my palms, not heels, as steering rudders when necessary.
I didn’t come home with bargain jeans or iPod speakers, but I did come home with a bona fide Yukon adventure under my belt and a day spent with friends and the little bit of family that is here.
Home may still win for best Christmas, but we made it work here. And given the choice, I would choose desert sledding over Boxing Day sales anytime.
Labels: Christmas, nostalgia, the north
Where's Your Head At?
8:38 AM |
2 comments
The last 3 or 4 weeks have been, in no sensical order, DJ meetings, cake tasting, Sens game watching, moving stuff to my place form my parents, packing, running, phone calls from fiancé, graduating, swimming, buying a truck like a grownup, negotiating a rent contract with people 5,000 km away, remembering to paint my toenails when they start chipping (for not to is a sin), planning my lasts (last day, last party, last dinner, last beach day…), planning futures (future visits, future trips, future wedding…) and of course catching up on Dr Phil reruns. I know its lame to say I blew off writing for Dr Phil reruns, but it felt so indulgent to turn my brain off and let a Texan and his insane guests entertain me.
I am counting down the days until I get to see my man again after being at cop-training school ½ way across the country for the last 6 months. We’re down to 18 days now, which feels so unreal considering the countdown started in the hundreds. I’m as excited to see him as I used to be when I counted down the days to vacations. Knowing that in xx amount of days, my cares will slip away, I’ll be taken somewhere new and exiting and be surrounded with all things good that I have convinced myself I am thus far missing. It won’t be a vacation this time but I am excited to see my man again and in a way we are escaping to a new place, albeit for keeps this time. The catch is, to get there and finally see him again, I have to leave my family and the only life I’ve known behind me and fly far, far away. But with him, so that’s awesome. But without my friends and family, so that’s tough. See what a catch-22 je suis dedans?
So that’s what my head’s been dancing around this last little while. It’s been tough to grab it out of the clouds and keep it down long enough to formulate written thoughts.
I am counting down the days until I get to see my man again after being at cop-training school ½ way across the country for the last 6 months. We’re down to 18 days now, which feels so unreal considering the countdown started in the hundreds. I’m as excited to see him as I used to be when I counted down the days to vacations. Knowing that in xx amount of days, my cares will slip away, I’ll be taken somewhere new and exiting and be surrounded with all things good that I have convinced myself I am thus far missing. It won’t be a vacation this time but I am excited to see my man again and in a way we are escaping to a new place, albeit for keeps this time. The catch is, to get there and finally see him again, I have to leave my family and the only life I’ve known behind me and fly far, far away. But with him, so that’s awesome. But without my friends and family, so that’s tough. See what a catch-22 je suis dedans?
So that’s what my head’s been dancing around this last little while. It’s been tough to grab it out of the clouds and keep it down long enough to formulate written thoughts.
Grownups
7:50 AM |
6 comments
I know, I've been away and lax with my postings. Its a fatal flaw, whenever it starts getting warmer I migrate to the closest deck-- all the better when its poolside. I've already slathered SPF 15 Sport all over me, but I figured while I wait for it to settle in, I'd tend to my business here. This week has been muey reflective. I had a mom fight, the kind where we both said things we didn't mean just to induce the sting. I ran away to my best friend's house and we had gelato. I snuggled with my little sister and talked about growing up. I had heart-to-hearts with little brother and realized he's more grown up than me. I cowered in a corner avoiding grownup things I have to do. I did this until I got called out.
I remembering whining to my mum when I was little about how unfair it was being little. How I couldn't eat Smarties whenever I wanted, I couldn't go watch movies by myself, I couldn't go on trips without my parents.
"Being a grownup is not as much fun as being a kid," she'd say, and already I'd stopped paying attention thinking what she was saying just wasn't true. "We have to pay bills, go to work and take care of other people."
But working sounded fun to me, and I didn't really know what bills were. I like staying up past what used to be my curfew, eating Gushers for lunch and snacking on Hot Rods and Joe Louis if I want to. But, being a grown up means getting fat from those things, and staying up late just means I'm tired the next day. Being a grownup is definitely not as much fun.
I remembering whining to my mum when I was little about how unfair it was being little. How I couldn't eat Smarties whenever I wanted, I couldn't go watch movies by myself, I couldn't go on trips without my parents.
"Being a grownup is not as much fun as being a kid," she'd say, and already I'd stopped paying attention thinking what she was saying just wasn't true. "We have to pay bills, go to work and take care of other people."
But working sounded fun to me, and I didn't really know what bills were. I like staying up past what used to be my curfew, eating Gushers for lunch and snacking on Hot Rods and Joe Louis if I want to. But, being a grown up means getting fat from those things, and staying up late just means I'm tired the next day. Being a grownup is definitely not as much fun.
Labels: growing up, nostalgia
Back to School Part 2
8:42 AM |
7 comments
The cloudless skies and breeze carrying BBQ aroma meant it was time to go home and spring-ify my mum’s house this weekend. We oiled the bike chains, put the screens on the windows and beat the rugs out under the sun. We laughed when I dyed my hands green with rust remover (oops!) and when my sister beat the Turkish rug with a frying pan.
As the tallest femme of the house, it was my job to go down to the basement and turn on the water taps at the furthest, most awkward ceiling points in the storage rooms. After tip toeing on my left foot, bracing my right on a Lego castle and holding the corner of the winter coat box for safety, I turned the faucet, and noticed a picture of me out of the corner of my eye. Me circa 1995. I was wearing a satin belly T-shirt and plaid shorts dancing with my sister, who must have been about two, in our living room. I regained my footing and rearranged my hand position to investigate, and found it was a box I’d put away after sixth grade, when I switched rooms and got my own after sharing with my sister.
I miraculously transferred the box from the shelf top to the floor without any falling, throwing or displaced ligaments. When I sat down beside it and opened up the four folds of the box top, I was faced with evidence of my overly dramatic, keen, organized and pencil crayon-loving glory years.
I found my gymnastics ribbons, my Girl Guide sashes, pictures I’d taken on my Smartie box-shaped Astral camera at the park with my friends. There were pamphlets from our family trip to Disney World, a copy of 16 magazine with JTT and Marc-Paul Gosselar (circa bleach hair) on the cover. A picture of me proudly holding up my new Walkman at Christmas 1993, one of me and my still best friends with pink icing on our faces after a cake-eating contest at my 1995 birthday, and of A and I posing by our school’s slides after our grade six carnival. The best finds of the box were my grade 5 and 6 journals.
On the first day of fifth grade, I wrote about my family, which girls I planned on hanging out with that year (many of whom I still talk to!), what music I liked (C’mon Ride It by the Quad City DJs) and what I wanted to be when I grew up. Lo and behold, in number 2 HB pencil was written, “I want to be a journalist here in Ottawa and I want to go to Carleton University, the best journalism school in the country!” I found the newspaper I started later that fifth grade year, and like a true media baron, named, earned creative control and essentially took over. I found my “cleanest desk” awards (geek!) and my progress charts, which today translate into “major keener, nerd alert!”
I found notes from my still best friends, K and A. A wrote, “I love his dimples, they are soooooo cute! It’s so awesome our boyfriends are best friends too,” about our soccer-playing boyfriends we both vowed we’d marry based on the puppy-love shared through friendship bracelets, passed notes and winks. K wrote, “My mum is the meanest, she won’t let me visit A anymore, I can only see her at school, it’s so unfair,” after K broke her collar bone visiting A’s house and her worrisome parents put our mutual best friend A in the ban book, at least for a few months. “Wanna have a sleepover? Let’s watch “Grease”, I think Danny looks like B!”
I was embarrassed by some of the stuff I wrote. Man, those teachers deserve some credit for being patient with our dramatic, telenovela playground epics:
“I thought E was my best friend, but she has been ignoring me. What do I do? She means so much to me, it makes me want to cry that she is casting me aside.”
“I saw people smoking cigarettes on the hill. Then some of our friends were talking to them. Why are they even talking to people whose lifespan is being cut short by the ridiculous decision they’ve made to inhale poison? I can’t stand idly by and watch this, perhaps its time for new friends”
“A broke up with him again. He threw rocks at her. We cried, because we were so sad for the loss of love.”
Who WRITES that in fifth grade? Hahaha. A wonderful trip back to elementary school via a moving box found in the storage room.
As the tallest femme of the house, it was my job to go down to the basement and turn on the water taps at the furthest, most awkward ceiling points in the storage rooms. After tip toeing on my left foot, bracing my right on a Lego castle and holding the corner of the winter coat box for safety, I turned the faucet, and noticed a picture of me out of the corner of my eye. Me circa 1995. I was wearing a satin belly T-shirt and plaid shorts dancing with my sister, who must have been about two, in our living room. I regained my footing and rearranged my hand position to investigate, and found it was a box I’d put away after sixth grade, when I switched rooms and got my own after sharing with my sister.
I miraculously transferred the box from the shelf top to the floor without any falling, throwing or displaced ligaments. When I sat down beside it and opened up the four folds of the box top, I was faced with evidence of my overly dramatic, keen, organized and pencil crayon-loving glory years.
I found my gymnastics ribbons, my Girl Guide sashes, pictures I’d taken on my Smartie box-shaped Astral camera at the park with my friends. There were pamphlets from our family trip to Disney World, a copy of 16 magazine with JTT and Marc-Paul Gosselar (circa bleach hair) on the cover. A picture of me proudly holding up my new Walkman at Christmas 1993, one of me and my still best friends with pink icing on our faces after a cake-eating contest at my 1995 birthday, and of A and I posing by our school’s slides after our grade six carnival. The best finds of the box were my grade 5 and 6 journals.
On the first day of fifth grade, I wrote about my family, which girls I planned on hanging out with that year (many of whom I still talk to!), what music I liked (C’mon Ride It by the Quad City DJs) and what I wanted to be when I grew up. Lo and behold, in number 2 HB pencil was written, “I want to be a journalist here in Ottawa and I want to go to Carleton University, the best journalism school in the country!” I found the newspaper I started later that fifth grade year, and like a true media baron, named, earned creative control and essentially took over. I found my “cleanest desk” awards (geek!) and my progress charts, which today translate into “major keener, nerd alert!”
I found notes from my still best friends, K and A. A wrote, “I love his dimples, they are soooooo cute! It’s so awesome our boyfriends are best friends too,” about our soccer-playing boyfriends we both vowed we’d marry based on the puppy-love shared through friendship bracelets, passed notes and winks. K wrote, “My mum is the meanest, she won’t let me visit A anymore, I can only see her at school, it’s so unfair,” after K broke her collar bone visiting A’s house and her worrisome parents put our mutual best friend A in the ban book, at least for a few months. “Wanna have a sleepover? Let’s watch “Grease”, I think Danny looks like B!”
I was embarrassed by some of the stuff I wrote. Man, those teachers deserve some credit for being patient with our dramatic, telenovela playground epics:
“I thought E was my best friend, but she has been ignoring me. What do I do? She means so much to me, it makes me want to cry that she is casting me aside.”
“I saw people smoking cigarettes on the hill. Then some of our friends were talking to them. Why are they even talking to people whose lifespan is being cut short by the ridiculous decision they’ve made to inhale poison? I can’t stand idly by and watch this, perhaps its time for new friends”
“A broke up with him again. He threw rocks at her. We cried, because we were so sad for the loss of love.”
Who WRITES that in fifth grade? Hahaha. A wonderful trip back to elementary school via a moving box found in the storage room.
Labels: Elementary School, nostalgia, spring
Back to School
10:35 AM |
1 comments
My little sister is nine years younger than I and is nearing the end of seventh grade at the school I attended for six years. My high school. The place where I started by secretly applying beige eye shadow in the third floor girls bathroom in grade seven, and where I finished off by streaking through it near-naked with my best adventurous girlfriends two weeks before grad. I made that school my bitch, and I totally won the game that is high school. PS- You win it by figuring out how to get the best grades with the minimal work possible so as to devote the necessary 12 hours of every day to drama and the “Oh my god, he didn’t! He did? Oh my God!” while still maintaining the doting eye of most teachers.
Suck up? To some. Bright-futured student who makes crappy teaching work worthwhile? Perhaps. Last night gave me a chance to step back into it with four years of university perspective. I went with my little sister to the school talent show and bumped in to some of the teachers who are still there.
One I had thought was an awesome and hilarious science teacher I have subsequently found to be a giant a-hole who invited girl students over to his house to fool around with while his own young daughters slept upstairs. The teacher who was everyone’s favourite, our moral compass in Birkenstocks and Gap collared shirts, who was married with 3 beautiful girls, had an affair with the Spanish teacher, also married with children. One teacher became the staff bicycle- everyone had a ride. She was pushing through the crowd to get backstage at the talent show and the woman looked like a worn, walking STD. Lesson learned: Wear my sunscreen and don’t become school skank at age 45. Yikes!
I saw my favourite English teacher, the one who showed me the importance of writing beyond the five-paragraph essay formula and who encouraged creativity beyond curriculum guidelines. I take her words and lessons with me everywhere I write. She offered me a smile and a frenzied hello as she rushed to a meeting, late as always.
It was as though I’d grown a full foot since leaving grade 12. In seeing the faces that once presided over detentions, lectures and assemblies, now as equals, as humans with fault lines and fractures, I felt…better. I didn’t feel better than them, because even the ones that cheated and became more scandalous in their lives than the events of after-prom parties, have once been like me. Twentysomething, wide-eyed, full of wonder at the potential of any given person in this world. I just felt better to know that those teachers who had once held my future, my grades and my lessons were now teaching me what could only be learned in returning to a talent show….the lesson that we’re all faulty, we’re all forced to keep going, and we’re all allowed to make mistakes. You’ve no idea what a relief that is as everyone keeps asking me what’s next in life, what am I going to make of myself.
Suck up? To some. Bright-futured student who makes crappy teaching work worthwhile? Perhaps. Last night gave me a chance to step back into it with four years of university perspective. I went with my little sister to the school talent show and bumped in to some of the teachers who are still there.
One I had thought was an awesome and hilarious science teacher I have subsequently found to be a giant a-hole who invited girl students over to his house to fool around with while his own young daughters slept upstairs. The teacher who was everyone’s favourite, our moral compass in Birkenstocks and Gap collared shirts, who was married with 3 beautiful girls, had an affair with the Spanish teacher, also married with children. One teacher became the staff bicycle- everyone had a ride. She was pushing through the crowd to get backstage at the talent show and the woman looked like a worn, walking STD. Lesson learned: Wear my sunscreen and don’t become school skank at age 45. Yikes!
I saw my favourite English teacher, the one who showed me the importance of writing beyond the five-paragraph essay formula and who encouraged creativity beyond curriculum guidelines. I take her words and lessons with me everywhere I write. She offered me a smile and a frenzied hello as she rushed to a meeting, late as always.
It was as though I’d grown a full foot since leaving grade 12. In seeing the faces that once presided over detentions, lectures and assemblies, now as equals, as humans with fault lines and fractures, I felt…better. I didn’t feel better than them, because even the ones that cheated and became more scandalous in their lives than the events of after-prom parties, have once been like me. Twentysomething, wide-eyed, full of wonder at the potential of any given person in this world. I just felt better to know that those teachers who had once held my future, my grades and my lessons were now teaching me what could only be learned in returning to a talent show….the lesson that we’re all faulty, we’re all forced to keep going, and we’re all allowed to make mistakes. You’ve no idea what a relief that is as everyone keeps asking me what’s next in life, what am I going to make of myself.
"You can always go, downtown."
1:59 PM |
2 comments
School's done and now work's done and all the loose Ottawa ends around me are tying up. I have 2 months and change in this awesome crazy city and I'm nostalgic. Here are some thing I'll miss:
1. Spring time lunches al fresco on Sparks Street picking out the Todd's and the MPs. (The Todd's for those of you that aren't me and my father who invented the term, are the assistant deputy ministers. You can tell a Todd by their slicked back haircut, high-end suits, Bluetooth phone ear thing and former ballet-dancer light step. Many are named Todd, we have found.)
2. Canada Day in the Capital, which equates to beer bottles and cans everywhere, flags decorating everything, random outbursts of the national anthem, wearing red-and-white clothing that on any other day would look atrocious, crammed concerts on the Hill, never getting into the club, fireworks, and cops whose cheeks I like to drunkenly pinch.
3. Sunday mornings in the market, where everyone comes out for the fresh farmers market, gelato, walks across the St. Patrick street bridge, street music, finding a spot to read gossip mags with my best friends in Majors Hill park, and wearing the minimum SPF sunscreen so I feel like I'm being responsible, but I really want a tan.
4. Getting a story assignment/idea and walking through the doors under the Peace Tower into scrums with the politicians that make the call to get the answer. And having them know my name.
5. Special sister days with my little sister that start with sleeping in, walking to Sugar Mountain for treats, eating ice cream along the way, visiting pet shops to look at weird animals, making necklaces, eat picnics by the water, feeding our bread crusts to the ducks, picking a movie and staying in with our candy treats to watch it.
I'm sure as spring really starts to come out and the calendar counts down until the day when fiance and I move, I will find many more Ottawa ingredients about which to become nostalgic. Maybe the tour boat operators on Mackenzie King and Rideau will become cute and not harassing to me as I know they will become memories. Maybe red, the homeless guy I've so named because of his red hat, will greet me one day with good news that he is happy again.
Oh, Ottawa. They say you never forget your first love.
1. Spring time lunches al fresco on Sparks Street picking out the Todd's and the MPs. (The Todd's for those of you that aren't me and my father who invented the term, are the assistant deputy ministers. You can tell a Todd by their slicked back haircut, high-end suits, Bluetooth phone ear thing and former ballet-dancer light step. Many are named Todd, we have found.)
2. Canada Day in the Capital, which equates to beer bottles and cans everywhere, flags decorating everything, random outbursts of the national anthem, wearing red-and-white clothing that on any other day would look atrocious, crammed concerts on the Hill, never getting into the club, fireworks, and cops whose cheeks I like to drunkenly pinch.
3. Sunday mornings in the market, where everyone comes out for the fresh farmers market, gelato, walks across the St. Patrick street bridge, street music, finding a spot to read gossip mags with my best friends in Majors Hill park, and wearing the minimum SPF sunscreen so I feel like I'm being responsible, but I really want a tan.
4. Getting a story assignment/idea and walking through the doors under the Peace Tower into scrums with the politicians that make the call to get the answer. And having them know my name.
5. Special sister days with my little sister that start with sleeping in, walking to Sugar Mountain for treats, eating ice cream along the way, visiting pet shops to look at weird animals, making necklaces, eat picnics by the water, feeding our bread crusts to the ducks, picking a movie and staying in with our candy treats to watch it.
I'm sure as spring really starts to come out and the calendar counts down until the day when fiance and I move, I will find many more Ottawa ingredients about which to become nostalgic. Maybe the tour boat operators on Mackenzie King and Rideau will become cute and not harassing to me as I know they will become memories. Maybe red, the homeless guy I've so named because of his red hat, will greet me one day with good news that he is happy again.
Oh, Ottawa. They say you never forget your first love.