RambleMan

Wet Pussy

Cheap entertainment. Ain’t it grand. I’ve got two live-in, live entertainment sources. I’d like to introduce you to Jackson and Harrison, my two cats.

I’ve had two cats since I was 22 years old. The first two were Dave and Bailey. They’ve all been SPCA cats, so who knows their lineage…I’ve never “gotten” people who spend their hard earned money on purebred cats. They’re CATS, people!

Dave was an amazing guy. He chose me. I’m convinced of that. I originally decided to get A cat because of my stressful work life at the time. I lived at work and had very little time to do anything else but sleep. I found myself getting more and more depressed by the day, though I loved my job. A good job isn’t always enough. Anyway, I decided to visit the SPCA in Calgary, Alberta and while in the cat room, was looking at a cute kitten in a cage at about eye level when a paw reached out from a cage at knee level and touched my leg. I knelt down and felt fate smack me upside the head. I probably never would’ve gotten down to Dave’s cage if he hasn’t chosen me.

Dave was named before I even walked into the SPCA that day. A friend actually named him in a conversation years earlier when we realized that in our lives, in every circle we had – work, friends, etc. there was ALWAYS a Dave, David, Davey, or such variations, but that we had never known an animal to be named Dave…common for humans, not for animals. I decided then that when and if I got a pet, it would be Dave. Dave suited the name perfectly, being a true and loyal friend. In what was probably the most difficult three days of my life, back in 1999 (I find it interesting here that I’ve paused for quite a while to count back in my brain to verify this year and my mind has wandered instead to thinking about Dave rather than care about the accurateness of this) while living in Cranbrook, British Columbia, I took him into the vet for a checkup, found out that he had a huge cancerous tumor under his tongue and had to have him put down. This all happened in one long weekend. I cried. A lot. I’ll never forget him.

Backing up 6 years, three months after I got Dave, I realized that now HE was bored to tears being alone at home all the time because I was still working all the time. I realized that Dave needed a playmate and made another trek to the Calgary SPCA. There were very few cats in the shelter that day, but I noticed a dark blob in a cage on the floor. A mother cat had been found with her three kittens at Spruce Meadows, a horse racing facility outside of Calgary. The mother had died. There were these three, barely alive little brown things curled up together. I decided to adopt the one boy, who fit in the palm of my hand. When I brought him home I had to bathe him in the bathroom sink a few times before his fur wasn’t matted. His health wasn’t the greatest and we had many trips to vet and I was up all hours caring for him, giving him medication and watching to make sure he stayed alive. That was Bailey. He was originally a very angry kitten, I imagine from his early rough start, but he quickly became Dave’s best friend and my stalky-walking, runt-sized guy.

Last year I discovered a lump on Bailey’s back, took him to the vet and found he had cancer as well. I had the lump removed, but within a couple of months it began to grow back and then one day, he appeared to be paralyzed on one side of his body. Many, many trips to the vet and many many tests couldn’t figure out what was causing it. Bailey was clearly in pain, unable to eat, get into his litter box or walk properly. He would drag himself to the bed at night, I would lift him up and then later when he decided to leave, he would fall off the bed with a thud, rest a while and then slowly drag himself away. I cried. A lot. This lasted about a week while my vet continued to hold hope that we could figure out what was wrong, but ultimately, over a weekend I decided that Bailey’s quality of life was no longer good. I had him put down that Monday morning after an emergency call to my vet. I cried. Bailey was a true friend for 10 years. When at his prime, he used to let me use him as a pillow, not moving when I laid down with my head on him. I miss him a lot.

Wow…this isn’t turning out to be a fun ramble at all. I had this great idea, inspired by what’s happening in my apartment right now and now I sit here, crying and going in a completely different directly.

Backing up to 1999 again, after putting down Dave, I visited the SPCA in Cranbrook and found a kitten they had named Flint, because he’s grey. I brought him home and decided Flint was a stupid name that didn’t suit him. For a few days I named him RC – Replacement Cat. After getting to know him, I realized that his name was Jackson, or, as my brother said to me when I told him the kitten’s name was Jackson – “okay, Jax it is”.

Jax is a great guy. Spastic and snuggly all in one. Jax loves to lay on me, regardless of where I am or what I’m doing. When I’m in bed, although the entire bed is available for him to lay down, he’ll climb on top of the covers which are on top of me, and lay down there. Usually, as soon as I move, he jumps off and settles next to me, but he always starts off on top. What I’ll always remember Jackson for is his love of being under blankets. He often comes to the top of the bed and pushes his nose and pulls with his paws until he can get under the covers…then he goes under and rams his nose up to create a bit of a tent for a millisecond. He’ll do this until he’s found where he wants to lay down.

After Bailey was gone, I had only Jackson. Jackson was still a kid at only 3 years old. I decided that I didn’t want another cat…not right away, anyway. I waited about a month I think it was before I ventured back to the SPCA, now in Yellowknife. I had always thought that I should adopt a cat and not the kittens I kept getting. I found a pure white, 6-year-old, de-clawed, long-haired female named Sasha and decided to bring her home. That lasted a week. Sasha was the biggest psycho bitch cat that I’ve ever seen. She hated to be touched, wouldn’t come near me, hissed at Jackson non-stop and ate more food in her week here than Bailey and Jackson used to eat combined in a week. When I had adopted her the SPCA stressed – emphatically stressed to me that if it didn’t work out I could bring her back as long as it was within two weeks. I was clearly not the right home for Sasha, so brought her back. She did end up getting adopted, successfully, by someone else some time later. I wish them luck with her.

I figured Jax and I would go it alone for a while. I knew that I had to start with a kitten again and wasn’t sure if I really wanted to do that again. My commitment to my boys, when I adopt them is that I’ll keep them for life – theirs or mine. When I told that to Dave and Bailey back in the early 1990′s I never really thought about the day they would be gone.

The day I brought back psycho bitch Sasha, my vet asked if I wanted to get a kitten – born 5 days earlier there at the clinic – nobody knows they’re here yet – you can jump to the top of the waiting list for an SPCA kitten. I insisted that I was in no rush and that those ahead of me could have them. They asked again. I repeated. They asked if I wanted to at least see them. Geez. Okay. You know I was sold right there. I chose a little brown kitten with tufts of white hair on his chin and belly. Trouble was, I couldn’t take him home until he was about 7 weeks old.

For the next 7 weeks I visited twice a week, taking pictures and keeping my friends and family updated on his development. He was, of course, the smartest and cutest of the four siblings and remembered me when I would visit. Of course he could! He’s my boy!

I did a survey of friends and family for name suggestions. I took their suggestions and of course immediately ignored them all. I decided on the name Harrison and knew it was right. Nicky, from Australia, now living and working in London informed me one day that Harrison’s nickname should be Hazza. Right. How does that work? She related some soccer player’s name in Australia who’s nickname is a similar “azza” name and so, that’s just what it should be. So…should Harrison happen to grow up, move to Australia and become a soccer player, he’s got a name for himself already. I’ve told you that Nicky insists “there’s always wine”, right? I’m thinkin’ the night of that conversation that there was no more left.

SO! Why did I start writing this in the first place? Entertainment value! I decided this evening that Jackson needed a bath. Trouble is, when I bathe him, he makes noises that sound like I’m trying to drown him and he’s calling all the cats on the planet to come save him. I decided to take a different approach tonight and filled a bucket of water, put Jax in the bath tub and scooped cups of water onto him, then lathered him up, then scooped cups of water on him again to rinse. He was never immersed and could clearly see he wasn’t going to drown. He still attempted to alert other cats, but the volume this time was probably only calling those in Canadia. I think my neighbours think I kill cats for a hobby.

Anyway, so shortly before I started writing this, Harrison suddenly appeared, having been hiding from the now wet Jackson and Jackson saw him, so went to visit. Harrison decided that Jackson was evil somehow and started hissing up a storm at him. Jax is an absolutely wonderful guy, but not the brightest feline on the planet and began chasing Harrison around the apartment, wondering what was wrong with him – wanting to help, I suspect. Meanwhile, Harrison would turn around every so often, jump up on chairs, run into other rooms and hiss constantly! He didn’t want a wet Jackson near him! This went on for about 5 minutes until I think Jackson decided Harrison is just insane and finally let him be. It’s cheap entertainment for me, but I thought it was funny.

The other cheap entertainment tool for you cat lovers, or friends of cat lovers – a laser pointer. I swear to you that you’ll enjoy it more than the cats. Get a laser pointer for someone who owns cats and you’ll be entertained for hours…days…months! They chase around the little red dot like it’s going to taste like something when they catch it. Harrison follows it all over the apartment while I have it shined on the ceiling. I don’t know if he thinks he’ll catch it when it comes down or something. Jackson has spun himself dizzy a few times chasing the evil red dot in circles until he finally fell over.

Was there a point to this ramble? I probably could’ve simply said “buy a laser pointer if you have cats”, or “my wet cat is chasing my other cat”. That wouldn’t be like me to be succinct, though. I ramble, therefore I am.

G’night.

Charles

House & Home

My primary focus for the last year has been one thing – to save money in order to afford a down payment on a house. Trouble is, I’m probably one of the most impatient people on the planet. I want everything NOW!

I’ve done pretty well with this, being mellow, taking it day-by-day, establishing a plan, putting money away…being patient in general. My brother has always been a patient person and things have always come to him. I’m trying to use him as an example.

My plan, as of a month ago was pretty solid. I’ve got enough saved now for a down payment – the minimum 5% required for a first-time home owner. What remained was me to save enough for the closing costs – lawyers and such, as well as moving expenses and all the other things that come up when you buy a place. I was planning on signing another six-month lease beginning in September, and buying a place to move in in March of 2003.

The other glitches in this whole game is that because of my salary, I don’t earn enough to qualify for a mortgage because of my car payment. The good part of this is that my car lease comes to an end in October, so I figured I’d turn in the car and then be in a position to qualify for the mortgage. There are other issues abound like my job has been in reclassification hell for the last year, which, once it’s done will increase my salary by probably about $5000 to $7000, as well as provide retroactive pay for last school year…though I know that’ll be another fight, but my boss is on my side, so it’ll happen. Really, what matters here is that I’ve got a plan, it’s realistic and I think if everything ticks away the way I expect, it should all come together. A reasonable plan, I thought. You should know as well that the main reason for me to want to buy is that my psycho landlord raised my rent last year to $1000/month for a one-bedroom apartment. I’ve done the math and know that with my mortgage I would be paying about $800/month, including utilities…and be in my own place with payments going somewhere useful.

Now the good glitch that this entry is truly about. My brother claims that his patient, let things be and they’ll turn out for you is that when opportunity does knock, you have to be ready to pursue it full-force. I’ve never had such a loud knock on my door as came last week and am working to pursue the opportunity with anxiousness and fear.

The Housing Corporation branch of the Territorial Government here occasionally has assistance plans to promote home ownership. The big break my brother got years ago when the Nunavut Territory was formed was they were giving away – and I mean as a gift, no strings attached, $10,000 for new home owners. They actually were giving away I think $15,000 or more in Nunavut, and made it $10,000 in the Northwest Territories. My brother jumped on it and used that $10K for his house down payment.

This past week the Housing Corporation started a new initiative, primarily aimed at people in low-cost housing, or those on waiting lists to get into low-cost housing. Low cost housing, for those of you who don’t know are government-subsidized housing for those who fall below the poverty line. I probably could qualify, except that I’m too proud and I’m single, white, and male. I’m not their key focus.

I qualify fully for the new program – 5 years living in the Territories, the last of that in Yellowknife, I’m over 19, I don’t currently own a home, I earn less than $79,500/year and it goes on and on. I have to provide proof of income for the last three years as well as provide proof of current income, and, of course, I’m not their first priority, but I feel good about this. The only real catch to the program is that the money they’ll be giving out is in the form of a forgivable loan. I haven’t received confirmation yet, but I believe the term of the forgiveability (is that a word?) is 15 years. So, if I keep the house for 15 years, I don’t have to pay it back at all. I have no plans to leave Yellowknife. I’ve already lived her 25 years. This isn’t a great catch for me.

Alright…the deal. The maximum purchase price is $180,000. This isn’t a problem – I’m looking at $110,000 to $120,000 maximum. How much could I get? Get this…it’s a sliding scale, based presumably on salary level of 10% to 40%. That’s right, they’re willing to “give”/lend up to 40% of the purchase price towards the down payment. Because my salary is so far away from $79,500, it’s quite conceivable that I’ll qualify for the full 40%, and even if I don’t, the worst-case scenario of 10% would still be double the amount I was planning on putting down personally, plus of course I would get to keep the money I’ve saved for other house expenses. Are you seeing why I’m freaked out by this?

There is a possibility – best case scenario that I could buy a $120,000 home and immediately have 40% of that – $48,000 given to me for the down payment, leaving my mortgage to only be $72,000. Wow. As my brother says, you have to be ready for the opportunities when they knock and pursue them.

There are a few time restrictions as well. I have to have the purchase of the house complete within 60 days of being approved for this program, and my possession date be within 90 days of the closing day of the sale…so 5 months from the day I’m approved is the maximum time I have to complete the whole process.

This past week I contacted the Housing Corporation people for more information. They said that to apply for it, I must make an appointment for an interview, but that their offices are moving and they don’t want me to request an appointment until after the 20th of August. I’m going to start gathering my papers this week so I’m ready whenever my appointment is.

The other glitch of sorts is that I have to make a decision to renew the lease on my apartment by the end of August. If I don’t sign another six-month lease, my rent will go up to $1100/month and I’ll still have to give 2 months notice to move out because I’ve lived here for so long.

To add fun to the excitement, before I traveled to Ontario this summer, I drove around town looking at different neighbourhoods in the city to find a place that I’d LIKE to own and live that I figure is also in my price range. I found a nice little court that happens to have one of the places for sale – a private sale. The owners don’t seem in a huge rush to sell – all they have is a little orange & white hardware store-type sign stapled to the front of the place that says “House For Sale” and their phone number. Our city hall is quite advanced technologically, so I went to the city’s website last night and looked up the property to find out what they’ve valued it at for tax purposes, as well as see how much their taxes are and whether they’ve been paid this year. The city has it valued at $106,000 and their taxes have been paid for the year, so that wouldn’t be another expense I’d have to pay by the end of the year. I looked up my brother’s place and they have his place valued at about $10,000 less than he paid for it three years ago. This makes me think the sale price of the place I’m looking at it is likely in my $110,000 to $120,000 range.

There really is no cute story to this entry…it’s just dumping my thoughts on the page so I can stand back and look at them. If I qualify for the Housing Corporation program, what I’ll have to do is pay off the two months left in my car lease so that I can apply for a mortgage without the car lease payment being on the list of expenses and then go approach a real estate agent as well as call those people making the private sale. It freaks me out to consider that this could actually happen within a couple of months…simply because I’m listening to opportunity. I also don’t want to get my hopes up because I am quite comfortable with the plan I already have in place. The reality is that the Housing Corporation likely does HAVE to give away money and while I may not be at the top of their priority list, I likely would jump to the top pretty quickly if they don’t have any other active applications ahead of me.

I don’t want to judge those in low-cost subsidized housing, but my belief is that the majority of them likely don’t consider buying a place, mortgages and such long-term financial commitments. I know this sounds like I’m judging them as individuals; but really, I don’t think someone who has a few kids who can’t afford to pay their own rent thinks 15 years in advance. Sure, I acknowledge that they could be a family that has come upon some hard times, but I don’t think the majority of them are that pro-active with their thinking. What this means is that they likely won’t be applying for this program, increasing my chances of being approved.

Something else that entertains me with this process is that if it all does happen this quickly, I’m thinking that I won’t tell my parents about it. I’m certainly not going to tell them about the Housing Corporation program unless I qualify for it and am approved. I love them dearly, but I don’t want any more advice on this. I’ll be hiring a lawyer to do the paperwork for me and I know enough people who’ve bought houses in the last few years to find out the ups and downs and what to look out for. Ultimately, my parents can’t help me choose which house I want to buy. If I like it, and it passes the home inspection I’ll have done, and it’s in my price range, I’ll go for it. I think it would be a fun surprise to simply send my parents a change of address card along with some photos of the new place. That’s my kind of fun.

This home-buying thing will get transferred into the Obsessions section. I’m going to go out and take some photos of the place I’ve got my eye on – the outside only, of course – mainly for me to stare at, but also for you to see what $120,000 buys in Yellowknife. It’ll be a mobile home/trailer/manufactured home (whatever name you want to use for it) built in about 1984. It’s brown, has a deck (I want to be able to barbeque!!), and a small, sloping yard. It also looks as though nothing will be developed behind it with the way they city is adding new streets in the area. They’ve got a refrigerator on their deck, so that could possibly mean they’ve recently replaced theirs (or they’re hick types that has an extra fridge on the deck) and they’ve got bunches of kid play things scattered in the yard and on the deck.

As things go along in this process I’ll put updates in my rambles…good news or bad news. I’m staying cautiously optimistic. Oh…if I do qualify for the full 40% and it’s on a $120,000 home, my mortgage and utility payments will drop to about $700/month combined…$300/month less than what I’m paying now…plus my increase in salary – I’ll be doing much better financially. Patience and listening for opportunity. I’m learning.

I’ll have room for you to come and visit if this actually happens!

Charles

Dear Diary – Rubber Gloves

Life has been busy lately as I shift back into work-mode. I really am spoiled working at a school, having 5 weeks off in the summer, 2 more for Christmas and then 2 more for Spring Break…9 weeks off a year. What a rough life.

One of my projects today was to go shopping for supplies to replenish the first aid kits we have spread throughout the school. I opted to go to Wal-Mart, figuring I’d get the band-aids and rubber gloves reasonably cheap, and also it being the middle of the day, there likely wouldn’t be very many people there letting me pop in and out of the store quickly. Then, Andrea entered my life.

Let me start off by telling you that if you’re ever in the Wal-Mart in Yellowknife and see a young cashier named Andrea, run away. As fast as you can. Seriously.

My story starts as I stood in line at Andrea’s register. There were a couple of people in front of me and I was watching Andrea drag each item of theirs across the light in a staggeringly slow manner. One thing I do know is that Wal-Mart registers – the local ones, anyway, aren’t cable of doing multiple items – quantities of – you know what I mean. I found this out years ago when I saw someone buying a box of Kool-Aid crystals. I have no idea how many of those little packets are in those boxes, but that day I saw the poor cashier having to zap each individual packet. Wow. Talk about inefficiency.

In my line today, the person two people in front of me was buying yellow plastic tent pegs…I think five per package. She was buying 8 of these packages. I’m thinkin’ she owns a summer camp or something. Anyway, Andrea decided to zap each one of these packages individually, turning them around to find the bar code and waving them in front of the light a few times, then cramming them into a plastic bag facing in opposite directions so that they were poking through the bag. I knew then that I had chosen the wrong line, but there were people behind me and I figured I was committed to this adventure.

My turn arrived, and Andrea started dragging the boxes of band-aids across the light. I was buying about 20 boxes of them – all the same type, size, price, etc. Andrea decided it was most efficient to once again take them individually, finding the bar code and drag it across the light multiple times until she got it to beep. Then, the excitement began…the latex rubber gloves. I was buying two boxes of them.

Andrea dragged the first box of gloves across the light and her register gave her a negative beep – it didn’t recognize the item. Andrea started to argue with the machine – and I mean argue – “I HATE this! Aarrgh! I already pushed the cancel button!” she said repeatedly as she tried over and over to scan the box of gloves. Her argument with the register got louder and more bizarre every time she did this and her slamming the buttons down on the register got more and more violent. This was becoming entertaining to me. I was on the clock and wasn’t in a rush, so decided to ride it out.

I decided to try to help by saying “I got them in pharmacy – why don’t you call them for a price?” Now, you have to understand that not every register has it’s own telephone, so she had to go to the empty register next door – away from me – and paged for someone from pharmacy to call her. She stood there for probably about 3 minutes waiting for them to respond. While she was waiting I looked to the woman standing behind me in the line and said “I think we got a good one!”. She smiled back.

Finally, Andrea decided to come back to her register, frustrated as ever. I tried to help again by saying “do they have a phone in pharmacy that you could call them at?”. Her response was “I already paged them – they didn’t respond – they must be busy”. Now, I would expect that people counting pills that can cure/kill you probably don’t have muzak playing above them – I highly doubt that they have a public address speaker in their area…but I know they have a phone because they page customers to come back and pick up their prescriptions.

Andrea then decided that maybe the computer had changed it’s mind, so she tried dragging the gloves across the light again a few more times, getting louder and louder as she argued with it. I tried to help again by suggesting, “is there someone you can call for help?” Andrea wandered over to the register next to hers again and picked up the phone, paging a manager or customer service person to come to her register. She stood there another 3 or more minutes waiting for a reply…even though she didn’t page them to call her. Finally, she came back, frustrated as could be. I tried again – “Do the managers have names? Could you call them by name?” Andrea’s response – “we’re not allowed to call them by name and we don’t know who’s working anyway – we just have to wait for someone to show up”.

Andrea finally showed a sign of intelligence. Seemingly in an argument with herself, she blurted out that “someone will have to go and check the price of the gloves”. I smiled and said “whatever you think is best”. She then turned and took BOTH, IDENTICAL boxes with her and headed towards the pharmacy department. While she was gone, I turned to the woman, still patiently waiting behind me and said “run away now, while you still have the chance”. She smiled back.

Eventually (I’m guessing about 3 minutes later), Andrea walked back – okay, she had a bit of a jog going on and arrived at the register, the two boxes in hand. She seemed to know what to do – even I’ve seen this before and knew what to do – scan it, acknowledge the error, clear it and tell the machine you want to do it manually. She started this process – the machine asked her for a department – no problem. Then, it asked her for a description of the product. Andrea didn’t think that was a good idea and both said aloud and hit the “clear” key at the same time. For the next 30 seconds or so the machine, having not received the information it had asked for gave her, in as many messages it could muster and in as negative beeps it could create a message that, translated into English was “no – no – no – NO – no – NO”. Andrea stood there, angrier than ever, convinced we had to continue waiting for a manager of some sort to show up – from her call some 10 minutes earlier.

I had had enough, so I wandered down to the customer service booth thing and said “the girl on till 6 doesn’t know how to use her register – could someone please come and help her?” One of the girls there acknowledged and followed behind me reasonably quickly. Once there, she quickly saw what had to be done – the whole scan, clear, department, description, price, tah-dah! She quickly described the process to Andrea and was about to leave again. I stopped her and said, “could you stay and do this please?” Her response was “I’m in customer service – I have people waiting for me”. HA!

Okay…you know me well enough now to figure out what I did, right? I pointed at myself and said “customer!” and then pointed at the gloves and said “service!” in a reasonably cheerful, but slightly demeaning tone. The girl stayed and rang in the gloves. As she hit the final enter key, the woman behind me quickly said “times two!”, then she and I looked at each other and smiled.

Remember that Wal-Mart registers won’t allow quantities to be rung in? Andrea motioned that she wanted to try this on her own, so the customer service lady turned to go and I said “thank you” – I was sincere. Andrea was on her own again. She did okay – she got as far as entering the description again and then we were paused for about 2 minutes as she tried to spell “gloves” on their key pad. When she finally finished and hit enter I loudly said “Hallelujah!” which got a cheer out of the lady next to me and smiles from the rest of the line.

Total, credit card, print, sign. Uh…”can I have my card back please?” Yup…she’d not returned it, concentrating instead on ensuring she got her pen back (she actually yanked it away from one of the women in front of me earlier).

So, diary, today it took me about 20 minutes to buy some band-aids and rubber gloves. The adventure didn’t cost me anything and you know, I kind of want to go back tomorrow and buy another box of rubber gloves… but only if Andrea is there again.

Welcome to Wal-Mart!

Charles

The One About Cheerleaders…er, Football

He shoots…he scores! No…wait. We’re at the top of the ninth, the score is tied and the bases loaded. No, that’s still not right. Let’s get ready to RUMBLE! Sigh. That’s not it either. Damnit.

I’ve been in Calgary, Alberta for the last four days. I wasn’t able to quickly and easily get an internet connection, so gave up and enjoyed not being ‘wired’ for a few days. That doesn’t stop me from writing, though…not me! Not the RambleMan!

This is a true story. My apologies for the boring bits, but well, get to know me and you’ll realize they’re par for the course. Another sports reference without evening trying! I stayed with Joan, a college buddy, while in Calgary. During my stay she flexed her super power networking muscles and managed to get us free tickets to a football game – Calgary Stampeders vs. Toronto Argonauts. Without knowing anything about either team, I’m voting against the Argos simply because I had a shitty experience at the Toronto airport on my way East to visit the parents. In all likelihood the football team had nothing to do with the constant construction and horrid organization and layout of the place, but I believe in guilt by association when it’s convenient for me to use, so the Argos must burn in hell.

Oh! The free tix also came with free beer, Mike’s Hard Lemonade and a “smokies” – big honkin’ hot dogs. Have you noticed that I haven’t oozed about my excitement for the game (it’s tonight as I write this)? Have you noticed my lack of guy-esque rough & tumble excitement for the impending game? The best way to summarize my knowledge of and exposure was nicely summarized by Joan when I reminded her she would have to teach me the rules of the game by saying to me, “you’re such a girl”. I’m sure she meant it in the most manly way possible.

Remember that I grew up in a small, isolated Arctic town. Football doesn’t exist up there in any form. Hockey exists in recreational form – mainly for kids and in our very short, but always-sunny summers, softball leagues come to life. I’ve never really had exposure to the “big” sports and so (this is my defense) I know little about them and certainly don’t have favorite teams (which seems to be a necessity if you’re a man of any sort).

I did my college/university thang here in Calgary, so made a point of attending a few hockey games – I decided the Calgary Flames were my favourite team because I probably would’ve had the shit beat out of me if I hadn’t. I’ve attended a few other live sports since then and have realized that while I didn’t grow up watching sports on television, I love ALL sports live. Okay, probably not Golf, unless they serve beer and let me play on the golf carts. I think miniature golf would probably be more entertaining to watch what with the colourful windmills and other interesting hazards.

So…this entry will be the first that I write in two parts. Usually I sit down, bang out a ramble and post it without proof-reading/editing it to ensure I don’t sound like a total moron. I figure you’re getting the real Charles through these entries…why improve on perfection? Shuddup!

I’m going to finish this entry after the game tonight. Right now I’m all academic and interesting in the game in an intellectual way…understanding it, watching for the thinking that goes into it and the plan being exercised. I’m sure it’ll probably turn out like hockey where, as long as you’re whooping and hollering at appropriate times and can spot the puck when everybody stands up and makes an unhappy, disapproving tone, you’re set. See ya later tonight…but of course this won’t be posted until I get home on Saturday night and get online again.

Alright! It’s the next day. What a great experience last night. Sure, there were drunk people in front of us having loud conversations about how they were too far from the action on the field to see what was going on, but they could see better than the referee dudes when it came to disputing a call against our home team. There were also cheerleaders there. Real, live cheerleaders. This is a first for me as well (I’ve been very sheltered). First, I was disappointed that they didn’t do cheerleading like you see on TSN/ESPN with jumps and pyramids and such. After my disappointment subsided, I noticed that they were doing a damn good job of shimmying and shaking to whatever music was blaring over the stadium’s sound system. There were two sets of cheerleaders – one on either side of the stadium who moved up and down the side depending on the quarter of the game we were in. They also were on the field during half time to lead some junior cheerleader-type girls in their choreographed thing.

Right…there was a football game going on as well. At this point I can confidently say that I understand the rules of football – or Canadian football, anyway. Joan took the time to explain what “downs”, “yards” and “possession” mean. It’s really quite simple. Before this game I understood that each team was frantically trying to get “the ball” from one end to the other while the opposing team did everything in their power to stop them. What I didn’t understand was how they decided who got the ball and when their turn was over. Did I mention there were cheerleaders there too?

It was a good game – the Calgary Stampeders stomped the Toronto Argonauts 31 to 11. The stamps were great…and Toronto really did suck. The crowd was wonderful with Joan seemingly friends with about a quarter of the stadium of 30,000 people. Every time she turned around someone else was waving at her or coming up and saying hello. It was quite frightening in a cosmic-connection kind of way that these people would all end up going to the same football game and end up sitting in the same section…without pre-arranging it. I just think that Joan knows everybody in Calgary…that’s easier to rationalize than the probabilities she’d run into these people. Damn…the lottery draw for tonight is something like $17.5 Million dollars…I’ll have to get her to buy a ticket for me!

We didn’t cash in our free tickets for smokies and suds because of the trek out of the ozone-layer height of our seats all the way to the long line up for the food. I was too focused on watching the game and Joan of course had set up a living room for all of her friends to visit by this point.

In the end, we left with 9 minutes remaining in the game…which of course lasted another 20 minutes or so. It was clear that Calgary was going to win and we didn’t want to get caught up in the mass exodus of over-excited and intoxicated fans. You have to remember as well that the population of my town is about 18,000 people and that there were about 30,000 people at this game. Whoa fuck. The logistics of traffic flow in and out of this stadium make my brain melt. They did host the Olympics in 1988, though, so they must know what they’re doing.

Once in the car and on the drive home we turned on the radio to hear the end of the game. I didn’t understand any of that part because they were actually telling us WHO had the ball and what they were doing with it…like, their names! All I knew was that I was rooting for the guys in red…who gives a shit what their NAMES are! The radio also didn’t mention the cheerleaders at all…boy, have they got their priorities screwed up. I imagine myself doing the commentary. The red guys have the ball and are going in the right direction. Oh! The white guys stopped them. There they go again. The cheerleaders are doing a shimmy dance to My Sharona. There are a dozen of them dancing in unison on either side of the field. Their names are…oh, who are we kidding – who cares what their names are. Something must have happened on the field because the cheerleaders are jumping up and down…look at them jump up and down. Go Stamps!!

Other parts of the game that were memorable is that whenever the Stampeders got a touch down the sidelines helper people would throw/slingshot little foam footballs into the crowd. None came my way, unfortunately. Also, with every touchdown a blonde woman in a silver top wearing a white cowboy hat, carrying a red & white Stampeders flag would ride a white horse from one end of the field to the other at top speed. Then, after they got their one point kicking bonus thing, she’d zoom back the other way. The Stampeders emblem is a white horse…and this is cowboy country.

There was also a guy dressed in football duds with a dog head on him who, I imagine was their mascot. Joan claimed his name was Harvey the Hound. I choose to call him Darryl the Dog and in the end we found out neither of us was right – his name was Maurice, or something. Darryl would lead us in cheers and managed to get the wave going round and around and around the stadium for a few times. I was part of a wave! The cheerleaders were too! You could say that I shared a moment with them.

In summary, if you have a chance to go to a football game, go. If it’s free, like my first experience was, all the better. Choose your seats based on where the cheerleader do their dances. You won’t be disappointed. Touchdown! (finally, I remember the football phrase!)

Go Stamps, Go

Charles