Leeann Minogue

Airport Insecurity

_{At the end of our visit to the North we checked our suitcases at the airline counter before my sister took us on a last-second souvenir shopping tour of Iqaluit.  The Husband browsed for a soapstone walrus while I congratulated myself for remembering to leave my shiny new ulu (Inuit knife) with my sister.  “I’ll never get that on the plane in my carry-on bag,” I joked.}

_{Running late by the time we got back to the airport, we were relieved there was no line-up at security.  Until we saw there was no staff, either.}

_{I asked an official-looking woman where we should go and she pointed to a line of people with boarding passes walking out onto a plane.}

_{Sure enough.  We got right on, no questions asked.} 

_{Of course I hate airport security.  Who wants to stand shoeless, belt undone, with their cardigan shoved in a grimy plastic tub?} 

_{There was none of this baloney for us in Iqaluit.  I could’ve taken my ulu.}

_{In the capital city of Canada’s newest territory, where unmentioned amounts are spent to build a stunning new RCMP headquarters, subsidize snowmobilers’ fuel, and label the stop signs in Inuktitut, some expense has been spared at the airport.}

_{Our Northern adventure skittered to a stop when the plane landed in Yellowknife.  “Take your belongings off the plane, go through security, and then re-board,” the flight attendant directed.}

_What?

_{We woke The Boy and packed our magazines.  “Do we have to abandon this bottle of juice?” I asked.}

_“Yes.”

_{“And we get back on this same plane?”}

_{“Yes,” she said.  “Same seats.”}

_{We trooped down the steps and across the tarmac, survived the usual “Remove your belt, sir”, commands, hiked back up the steps, and re-settled into our seats.  The flight attendant brought The Boy some fresh juice.}

_{We were almost home.}

The Vomit Plane.

The Husband, the Three-Year Old and I kicked off our WorstVacationEver by flying  WestJet from Regina to Orlando on Christmas Eve.  By the middle of the Minneapolis to Orlando flight, the Flight Attendants had dimmed the lights and the Three-Year Old was sound asleep.

Then some poor sap two rows in front of us got sick.  All over the seat.  The Flight Attendant was horrified.  Thrown completely off balance.  She passed them one lonely tissue from her pocket. 

The mother in the row in front of us started to rant.  “After I smell it, I always get sick.  Girls, you’ll probably get sick too.  We’ll get them to bring us some ice.”  The Attendant ran for ice.  I quietly passed my pack of wipes up to the unfortunate couple.

It spread.  Across from us.  Behind us.  Someone tried to make it the bathroom, but didn’t.  The Flight Attendants whooshed from one end of the plane to the other, flustered and helpless.  When someone asked for a drink an Attendant said “We don’t have time to bring drinks.  People are throwing up!”

The lowest point came when a Flight Attendant came rushing down the aisle with a large green garbage bag.  She took it just past us, laid it out on the aisle on top of a ‘mess’, then taped it down with a roll of duct tape.  (The Husband suggests:  ‘Don’t try this at home’.)

When the plane finally landed, an Attendant used the loudspeaker to tell us:  “As you de-plane, please leave used air-sick bags under the seats.  Do not hand them to the Flight Attendants. “

I described this to a friend who’s flown to Orlando often lately.  “It must be wind currents from the ocean,” she said.  “People are always sick on that flight.”

No Blog Today.

2010 has been a bad year for blogging.  Between some contract work, a cold, and coming home late from the WorstVacationEver, there hasn't been time.  So instead of a blog, you could read the article I wrote for Country Guide magazine.  http://www.agcanada.com/Article.aspx?ID=16445.  It's all about grain bins.  That's right.  Grain bins. 

Leeann

(ps.  If you get a chance to see the print version, my brother took the photos.)

Late Night Line-Ups

I went to the downtown Regina Shoppers Drug Mart late the other night (yes, a questionable choice).  While I was in line, the cashier was talking to her friend (yes, talking to her friend while customers waited.  This happens in the downtown drugstore, late at night.) 

The cashier was saying, “When Cheryl was on shift this afternoon someone returned a used pregnancy test.”  What??, I thought.  That’s disgusting.

But then I kept thinking. 

We’re overwhelmed with faulty products.  Poor value.  Store clerks that don’t care about your experience.  How often do people just throw away something that doesn’t work rather than return it, because they didn’t keep the receipt, or didn’t think the seven dollar item was worth a trip back to the store, or didn’t want to have to explain how they broke it?  If we all keep doing that, all the time, we carry on rewarding companies that provide us with faulty, cheap products.  Why would they stop?  They’re getting rich;  we’re filling up the landfill, emptying our wallets. 

We need to take action!  Everyone should be vigilant about returning faulty products.  Consumer action could change the world!  Or at least the shelves at WalMart. 

But just when I was about to start singing “Solidarity Forever” and rally the rest of the late-night line to join with me in refusing to take this anymore, the cashier went on. 

“The girl told Cheryl she couldn’t get a result.  But I’m going to take it out of the box.  I bet I can figure it out.”  Oh boy.  Hang on.  This is something someone peed on.  I hope you’re planning to wear gloves.

Next time, I’m doing my drugstore shopping in the daylight.  In the suburbs.

Reviews are In

 Seeing Dry Streak in the Grand Theatre in London Ontario was amazing.  Epecially when I was lucky enough to have family and friends to see it with me.

The reviewers at the Theatre in London site love it.  Their only complaint was that the actors weren't prepared (timing-wise) for all of the laughter.  I hadn't noticed, but if it's true, it's a great problem.  http://theatreinlondon.ca/2009/10/dry-streak-review/.

The London Free Press has a slightly less flattering, but more realistic review of the show.  The reviewer gave me a 3.5 / 5 (70%, I suppose, ouch).  I was a bit sad at first.  But then I realized I'm writing for the audience, not the critics.  And that I wouldn't want to change the flaws she mentioned if I had the opportunity (for example:  predictable jokes in the first act - I think that helps the audience settle in for the ride).  http://www.lfpress.com/entertainment/stage/2009/10/26/11530791.html. 

As always, I'm sure the truth lies somewhere in the middle.  And beauty is in the eye of the applauding-ticket-holder, and all that. 

Anyway, what with all the glamour of the theatre, the fun of seeing old friends and family, and the rush of taking The Boy up the elevator at the CN Tower, I had that "top of the world" feeling. 

Is this fair?

We're still getting misdirected calls, from people trying to reach the Jerry Springer show.  Not as many, but enough.  Most of them hang up when they realize I'm not the Jerry Springer switchboard.  But some don't.  And these people will tell you all kinds of things when you let them know you're on a Saskatchewan farm. 

Here's the question:  Is it too mean to mess with these people, tell them I AM the Jerry Springer show, and pretend their story is so interesting, I want them on the show?  I can just see them, telling their family down in Miama:  "Find the suitcase!  I'm goin' to Chicago!"

It's vaguely unrewarding, messing with strangers.  When my sister lived in Toronto, I mailed her something in a big box.  It came back to me, with a note on the box saying "She doesn't live at this address."  She lived down the street - I had the wrong address.  A few weeks later, I absent-mindedly mailed her invitation to my wedding to the same wrong address.  Again, it came back with a nice note.  And so, the next month, I sent a postcard to the wrong address.  "Miss you!  Having a great time!  Has there been any mail for me?" and signed it with my sister's name. 

When you don't know who you're messing with, and how well you got them, it's just not quite as much fun. 

1-800 What The #e%%?

I was getting a lot of hang-ups the other day.  I’d answer the phone and someone would mutter “wrong number”, or just hang up without saying anything.  And the numbers on the display were long distance, with area codes I don’t call.  I left the house for a couple of hours and when I got back in the phone was still ringing.  I finally snapped when the same number popped up on the display twice in a row. 

“Can you quit calling here?” I yelled into the phone.  The caller hung up.  Then, less than a minute later, phoned again.  Like an idiot, I picked up.

The woman on the line had a southern accent.  “I’m callin’ from Florida.  I’m tryin’ to get through to the Jerry Springer show.”

“What?”

“There was a number on the screen.  A 1-800 number.  For people to call and give their opinion.  It keeps goin’ to you.  Though you might wanna know.”

“Um… Jerry Springer?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you know you’re calling a farm in Saskatchewan?  In the middle of harvest?”   We had a short discussion about crossed phone wires and wrong numbers.  Then, again, like an idiot, I couldn't help myself.  “What were you phoning about anyway?”

“To tell them what I think about transgender dating.” 

Turns out she thinks that, if you’re transgender, you should tell your potential date before you go out, to give them full information before they make a decision.  Hard to argue with that.

In hindsight, I wish I hadn’t phoned SaskTel to have this straightened out.  They had some story about Saskatchewan and Florida having confusingly similar area codes (305, 306).  It probably would’ve been a lot more entertaining to take calls all day and mess with the people phoning in.  Clearly, these would have been people with some time to talk. 

And also, in hindsight, between talking to the woman from Florida and calling SaskTel, I shouldn’t have answered the next call by saying “No.  I don’t want to know what you think about transgender dating.”  Turns out my mother-in-law doesn’t have an opinion on that.

 

RAID.

There is a cricket somewhere in our house.  I’m either going to find it and kill it, or sell the place and move.

I’ve been trying to catch it for the last two evenings.  Every ten minutes I pick up my murder weapon (crumpled Kleenex) and tiptoe through the living room.  But as soon as I get to the basement steps, it stops.  Sometimes I wait at the top.  It might let out one more “crick”, but as soon as I turn on the basement light, it’s gone again.  How can such a small bug be so loud?  And so fast?

Tomorrow, I’m buying Raid.

This is another one of those things I said I’d never do.  Right up there with telling a toddler “Because” when he asks “Why”.   Or wiping someone’s hair with spit on a Kleenex.

When I was a teenager, I had a basement bedroom.   When I went down to go to bed in the summer, the whole basement would reek of Raid.  I’d accuse my mother of trying to gas me in my sleep.  She would deny wanting to hurt me, tell me the crickets were driving her crazy, and then say “It’s not that dangerous.  Don’t worry about it.”  Finally, more than twenty years later, I understand. 

Turns out my husband’s mother did the same thing.  One of his most powerful memories of camping is the post-Raid smell of the trailer, just before he and his brother fell asleep at night. 

So, tomorrow I’m buying Raid.  I’m sure it’s not that dangerous.  At least the noise will stop.

My only worry now is, what will I be doing next?

Homecoming - Up and Running

Homecoming is on stage at the Station Arts Centre in Rosthern for the rest of the month!

I was very pleased with opening night.  The new theatre is great (bring a sweater), and the new lobby space is just gorgeous.  I am very happy with all the cast and crew.  Working with Stephen Heatley (director) was wonderful.  He taught me a LOT about editing and cutting in the early stages of rehearsals. 

Best of all, the audience is laughing in (almost) all of the right places.

Now, I'm crashing back to earth, trying to clean up the house and the yard, and make sure The Toddler remembers who I am.

Want to see the show?  It's on Tuesday through Saturday, 8:00 pm until August 2, with matinees on Wednesday and Sunday at 2:00 pm.  I'm hoping to go back on the 21st.  Ticket information is here:  http://www.stationarts.com/. 

A Weekend With Angela

It's another "Mono-Blog".  Twice as long as my usual limit, so please feel free to skim.

Hmmm?  Oh, my seat belt.  Right, I have to put it on before take-off, don’t I.  …  I’ve been on vacation.  In Vancouver.  Just for the weekend.  By myself.  My husband wouldn’t come with me.  I tried to get him to take a break.  Just a couple of days.  We won’t be seeding for at least another month, but I still couldn’t get Frank to leave the farm.  He’s too antsy, this time of year.  Out in the yard pacing around his tractor, like that’ll make the snow melt faster so he can get in the field.  I threatened to go by myself if he wouldn’t come with me.  That worked two summers ago, when I wanted to go to my niece’s wedding, out in Moose Jaw.  So I said, “Fine.  If you won’t come with me, I’ll just go myself.  I’ll go to Vancouver.  And stay with Angela.”  I don’t know what I was thinking.  I’ve only flown once, when we went to Frank’s uncle’s funeral in Thunder Bay.  Never by myself.  I’ve never been west of Calgary before.  But damned if Frank didn’t take me up on it.  He told me to go ahead and buy a ticket.  Have myself an adventure.  I’m sure he never thought I’d do it.  He thought I’d be too afraid to go alone.  That I’d just go back to the kitchen and finish rolling out the cinnamon buns.  But not this time.

I didn’t recognize Angela when she picked me up at the airport.  I’d just pulled my old blue suitcase off the conveyor belt when a young-looking woman in sunglasses and a big red scarf grabbed me by the arm and hugged me.  I’m five years older than Angela, but I hadn’t really noticed before, when we were living just down the road from each other.  Our kids were the same age, and our husbands loved to talk about farming together.  But now – ten years and two husbands later – Angela seemed a whole generation younger than me.  I felt so…. frumpy in my Lee jeans and wrinkled white blouse. 

But spending time with Angela again was a great adventure.  We had drinks with lunch – something I’m sure Frank’s never even thought of.  Angela showed me the sights downtown – there were so many things to see.  And we went shopping.  Angela helped me pick out some new clothes.  Cropped pants.  New blouses.  Even a scarf of my own.  I’ve never been the type of woman that could really wear a scarf.  But I felt like a movie star when I watched the ends of my new pink scarf trail down over my shoulder. 

I was there two nights.  The second night, Angela and her new husband made ‘pasta’ for supper, and had a bunch of friends over to their condo.  Frank always says he’d never live in a condo, but this place was really nice.  Angela’s new husband and most of her friends looked even younger than her.  They seemed to be artists, mostly, as far as I could tell.  Talking about their poetry, or pottery. 

We sat in the living room, drinking wine.  By my third glass, I was feeling pretty good.  I don’t write, or do pottery, or anything like that, but I read when I have the time, and I’d just been admiring some pottery in that store at the airport while I was waiting for my plane.  Here I was, in Vancouver on my own.  Doing just fine.

Then Angela’s husband rummaged around in a living room cabinet, pulled out a joint, and started passing it around the room.  Listen to me – telling you about all casually, as if I knew exactly what it was right away.  As if I’m always going to parties where people smoke marijuana.  But I figured it out – I’ve seen a lot of TV. 

My heart sped up while they passed the thin cigarette around the room.  I’ve never used drugs in my life.  It’s just not something Frank and I ever thought of doing.  I haven’t even had a regular cigarette since 1973, and Frank never smoked at all.  But these people all seemed so cool about it.  What would I do when it came to me?  Would it make me sick?  What if I threw up on Angela’s carpet?  Or what if it made me high right away?  These people looked relaxed, but what if it was different the first time?  What if I ended up standing on the coffee table, twirling the ends of my new scarf and belting out some old Helen Reddy tune? 

But then it was Angela’s turn.  And when I saw how …. elegant she looked when she held it up to her mouth between her thumb and her finger, I decided this would be part of my adventure.  

The joint reached the man next to me.  I could do this.  I would do this.  I would try it.  Just this once.  Heck, if it was so dangerous, everybody else wouldn’t be doing it.  I was not too old to fly across the country, and I was not too old to try marijauana.  Heck.  I might even like it.  I might get some at home.  I imagined myself pulling a bag of dried leaves out of the sideboard in the dining room and casually rolling a joint after supper, while Frank ate his pumpkin pie.

Then the man next to me finished his turn.  He took the joint in his hand and reached out in my direction.  And I was just about to take it from him, when he….   He reached right past me and gave it to the woman on my other side.  And she took it from him, as if it was obvious that I was some old hick woman from Saskatchewan that wouldn’t do this.  Or….  As if I wasn’t there at all. 

This morning I got a cab to the airport.  Angela was still sleeping when I left.  And when the plane lands in Regina, Frank’ll be there to pick me up.   Hmmmm.  Wonder if he’ll like my new scarf.