Leeann Minogue

Mentos, Anyone?

When I was driving my Mom's car last week I noticed she had a tube of Mentos in her cupholder.  I don't see Mentos around that often, but when I do see them I always think of India. 

It was a long time ago - about 10 years.  It was hot.  The New Delhi traffic was crazy.  Everything from sports cars to elephants to sacred cows sharing 4 lanes of traffic; everyone with an engine driving like tomorrow wasn't coming.  And every time the taxi stopped at the lights, we felt like Michael Jackson on holiday.  We were mobbed instantly.  Beggars and scammers and people selling phone cards would swarm the car and try to get our attention - hoping we'd toss some money out the window.  "No, thank you" we said.  "No thank you."  And, to the driver "Can't you close the window?"  (It was broken).

By the end of the afternoon we were tired and sweaty.  We weren't saying "thank you" anymore.  Just "No.  No.  No." 

One young woman was even more aggressive than the rest.  We weren't even looking at the merchandise anymore, just saying "no, no, no" on auto-pilot everytime the car rolled to a stop.  But she didn't take no for an answer.  She threw a roll of Mentos right into the car.  Hit my friend in the head with it. 

We were jaded by then.  "Throw it back," I said.  "She just wants us to feel guilty and pay her."  My friend threw it back.  But she woman hurled it back into the car, just as the light changed and the driver shifted into gear.  We looked back.  The woman was wearing a "Mentos" t-shirt, and had a big sign with her.  "Promotion.  Try new Mentos.  Free."  Oh.

My friend opened the roll and passed the candies around the car.

"Thanks," I said.  Turns out I like Mentos.  But it's a bit easier to enjoy them while I'm cruising around Saskatoon.

Ups and Downs

I couldn't be happier. "Dry Streak" has finally made it out of the province! It will be part of the main stage season at the Grande Theatre in London, Ontario this fall.  The theatre is gorgeous - it looks like the theatre from The Muppet Show. There are photos on the website:   www.grandtheatre.com  And, who doesn't want to take a trip down east to see the fall colors?

Meanwhile, here in Saskatchewan, a new play, "Homecoming" will premiere at the Station Arts Centre in Rosthern in July (www.stationarts.com).  The Rosthern-ites have re-built the theatre, and the grand opening of the new stage will take place this summer.  "Homecoming" is the story of Jerry - a farmer who doesn't take to retirement quite as gracefully as he would like.  The story is a comedy set in the small town of Stoney Valley in the summer of 2005.

Coincidentally, I received both these pieces of news by e-mail while I was on vacation, having a great time.  Thank goodness... I'd been having between little and no luck with my plays this winter, and was considering throwing my laptop out the window and taking up scrapbooking as a full-time hobby.

Relative Evil

We’d just arrived in the Dominican Republic and were on the airport shuttle bus to our hotel.  The Husband was eating a muffin .  And worrying.  “I hope the ocean’s not too filthy.  Haiti’s on the west side of this island, you know.  They might be throwing all kinds of trash straight into the water.  Do you think they test it often?  I hope it’s safe to swim.”  As he was talking, half of his muffin crumbled off onto the floor.  He absentmindedly picked it up and popped it into his mouth.  Yes, he ate muffin crumbs off the floor of a Caribbean bus.

This misplaced concern reminded me of the day my mom phoned after she’d been watching a particularly scary segment on CNN.  “Are you being careful about the toys you’re buying for the baby?  A lot of Chinese imports might have lead in the paint.  And he’s at that age where he sometimes puts his toys in his mouth.”  That got my attention.  Was there lead in his painted blocks?  What about the train set?  I looked across the room at The Toddler.  He’d thrown his toys aside and was chewing on my pencil.  (This is the part where someone – there’s always someone, isn’t there?  – will point out that they don’t actually make pencils with real lead anymore.  For you,  I quote my father:  “Never let the facts get in the way of a good story.”)

So, of course I’m concerned about ocean pollution and would prefer a pristine beach.  I care about toy safety standards.  I try to take a vague interest in things like ozone, lycopine, Vitamin D, ground water minerals, sulphates, and listeria.  But when it comes to worrying – I think it’s time we all went back to the basics.

Must-See Sections of the Local Paper

Yesterday, a few seconds after I picked up the weekly newspaper, I realized I’m not exactly twenty-five anymore.  Instead of the headlines, or the photo of kids from the day care centre, my eyes bee-lined to the bottom left hand corner. 

 

When I first moved here, I mocked this feature.  The corner is squared off with an ominous black line.  The title, "Obituaries", is followed by a short list of names, then the compelling announcement (in italics):  "Details Inside".  The next few names aren't so lucky:  "Details Next Week".  If you're going to die in Weyburn, try to do it before Tuesday at noon. 

 

As a child overnighting with my grandparents, I was horrified each morning when they’d turn the radio – a bit too eagerly, I thought - to the Swift Current A.M. station in time to catch the obituary report.  “Just making sure I’m not on the list,” Grandpa always joked.  What kind of people would do this?

 

A few years ago my (much younger) brother called.  Shocked.  “I knew someone in the obituaries”, he said.  “I was just leafing through the paper, and there was someone I knew in there!”  Turned out the woman in question was older than our mother.  But still. 

 

Then an old friend who’d moved to another city phoned me at my office early one morning.  “I guess you’ve seen the paper,” he said, voice shaking.  I’d seen the headlines, but couldn’t guess what he was talking about.  I soon found out his mother had died.  His relatives had run an announcement, and he was waiting to hear from sympathetic friends.  None of us had a clue. 

 

So, now I’m reading the obituaries.  I’m pretending to myself that I’m just doing it to keep on top of the news.  But I doubt I’m fooling anyone.

 

Carnival Glass

Another post that's not a real blog. Instead, a book review. I wrote this review of a great Saskatchewan book for the Saskatchewan Publishers Group.

“Carnival Glass” By Bonnie Dunlop

Published by Thistledown Press  

Review by Leeann Minogue $16.95

ISBN: 978-1-897235-46-1

There are eleven perfectly crafted stories in “Carnival Glass”, Bonnie Dunlop’s second short story collection. “Carnival Glass” is the title of one of the strongest stories in this book, but also an apt description of several of the characters that live within its pages: colourful, lovely, but ultimately fragile. Like carnival glass, Dunlop’s stories are beautiful, and worth collecting.

Almost all of these eleven stories are set in Saskatchewan, many of them in small towns near the Great Sand Hills in the southwestern part of the province, and some in unnamed prairie cities. Some of them, like “The Road to Tofino”, take prairie characters to unfamiliar places like Victoria or Puerto Vallarta.

The heroine of ‘Ordinary Lives’, Joanie, is a fledgling writer who corresponds with an unlikely pen pal. His advice is directed specifically to writers from unique places like Saskatchewan. “…The problem for writers coming from such places is not so much in finding stories – they are plentiful – but being able to write these stories in such a way as to make them believable.” Dunlop has met this challenge.

The people in these stories feel like old friends to me - neighbours from rural Saskatchewan or people I’ve known in Regina or Weyburn. Sadie nurtures her garden while her husband turns to another woman for comfort. Nadine fantasizes about Jackie Kennedy to compensate for a lost mother. And then there are the characters who remind me of myself. These are the women who will stay with me long after I put the book back on the shelf.

Ch-ch-ch chia, and other ads

I have wanted a Chia pet since 1983.  Scooby-Doo?   Herb garden?  Or maybe the traditional Chia head sprouting green hair would look best in my kitchen.  Any of these would be fine.  Every year I toss out helpful hints to people that might feel obligated to buy me a gift.  But so far, no luck.

I thought this would be the year.  I had been hinting, as usual, when, about two weeks before Christmas, my husband came home from town with something he’d bought for himself:  a “Clapper”.  You’ll remember those from the K-tel style commercials where elderly women gleefully clap their hands to turn their TVs on and off.   (Yes, it is literally impossible to choose a gift for someone who buys a Clapper for himself on December 15.)

“Um,” I asked.  “Did we need one of those?” 

“I’m not sure,” he said.  “But I’ve always wanted one.” 

I couldn’t complain.  He must have been near the Chia pets to find a Clapper, no?  And not everyone knows the rule – ridiculous TV products can only be received as gifts. 

So he hooked it up to a light in the living room.  We have so many wires and lines and electronics hooked up to the TV that we can’t get by with one on/off switch like the great-grandmother in the commercial. 

The Clapper almost works.   The light will eventually turn off, after about nine minutes of various clapping combinations.  This takes longer than just walking over to the switch, but it’s definitely more entertaining.  One afternoon I accidentally turned the light on by blowing my nose in the next room. 

It was another year with no Chia pet for me.  I’ll be hinting again in 2009.  But, having a Clapper is so exciting that I don’t mind waiting at all.

Edna at the Pool

Not so much a blog as a monologue - a monoblog?

Edna is her sixties, dressed in sandals and a bathing suit cover up. 

We’re selling this timeshare.  Today.  George is going to try to argue about resale prices and currency exchange, but I don’t care.  This complex is ugly.  All these blocks of buildings, all the same. 

It wouldn’t be so bad if George wasn’t so stubborn.  For the third day in a row he wouldn’t come to the pool with me.  We didn’t fly all the way to Mesa to watch the Germans bomb London on the History Channel. 

So I put on my bathing suit and my new gold lame sandals and went acrost to the pool by myself.  Again.  I found a chair off in a corner, so I could take off my cover-up without everybody staring at my thighs.  None of those cellulite creams work like they say they will.

But as soon as I got comfortable I realized I forgot my book.  I wasn’t going to just sit around like a lump, so I gathered up all my things – the people here seem decent, but you can’t be too careful – and walked over to the shelf by the office to look through the basket of used paperbacks with the “take one leave one” sign.  Who would it hurt if I just borrowed one for a while?  I was rummaging through the Stephen Kings and Danielle Steeles, when a thin ratty-looking one fell open and a picture caught my eye.  The book was so old the pages were yellow, and someone had torn the cover right off.  But the picture was so surprising I couldn’t help but pick it up. 

It was called “Sixty-Nine Sexual Positions”.  And each one had pictures.  How did they get those couples to do those things?  In front of a camera? George and I wouldn’t of thought of those things even when we were newlyweds.

Well, by the time I got to the nineteenth picture, I was getting…  oh….  you know.  All flushed and sweating, and the sun wasn’t that warm yet.  I waited ‘til nobody was looking, shoved the book in my bag, and race-walked back to the condo. 

I knocked, and when George called out from the other room that the door was open I rushed right in, dropped my bag and cover-up, rolled down my one-piece and kicked it off.  Then I strutted around the corner in just my sandals, closed my eyes and threw my head back, struck a pose up against the wall, and thought of Photo 17.

Well.  George didn’t make a sound, and I was thinking I’d shocked him speechless when I realized it was too quiet.  No TV.  No George saying “What are you doing, Erna?” Then a deep-voiced chuckle that wasn’t George at all. 

I opened my eyes.

And Lord above, I was in the wrong building.  Starkers.  In front of four men playing poker and smoking.   

George can say what he wants about exchange rates.  But I’m calling the realtor. 

This piece was broadcast on CBC Saskatchewan's SoundXChange this fall, complete with a real actor and some funky Caribbean music.

To Canada's Leaders: We're Sorry.

We’re sorry.

We’re sorry about the record low voter turnout in October.  We’re sorry we chose to watch Sarah Palin debate Joe Biden instead of watching the Canadian leaders battle it out on CBC.  We’re sorry we were so enamored with Barrack Obama that we barely paid attention to the Canadian election, and that we’ve been tuning into CNBC for the riveting business news instead of watching Question Period.

We’re sorry we haven’t paid you enough attention lately, and that we’ve forced you into such drastic action.  I can just picture you, all four leaders, drinking beer and playing pool in Jack Layton’s basement: 

-          We’ve got to get people to care about Canadian politics again.

-          Oh come on Jack.  Of course they care.  Can you pass those chips?

-          Maybe is better if they do not care.  When they don’t notice, they don’t ask questions. 

-          What about a woman?  When John McCain brought in a woman, everybody sat up to look.

-          Yeah, and look how that worked for him.  Anyway, we’ve got Elizabeth May. 

-          Who? 

-          And look at us.  We’re all white.  Maybe we need someone more diverse.

-          We’ve got the Governor General for that.

-          Sure, but everybody knows the Governor General doesn’t do anything important.

-          Why don’t we threaten to have an election?

-          You don’t get it, do you?  We just had an election.  That won’t work.

-          What if we talk some more about the changing climate?

-          Good one Stephan. 

-          Hmmm…. Okay guys.  I’ve got something.  It’s kinda crazy, but it just might work….  and even if it doesn’t,  we can all take an extra long Christmas break….

Nice one.  You win.  We’re glued to the news again.  The Canadian channels.

Give me Liberty, or give me.... a Broken Oil Pan

I’m not the kind of person that drives an SUV.  Who needs to take so much stuff with them that it can’t fit into a car?  Why taunt the environment when it isn’t necessary?  Why announce to the world that you think you deserve to ride two feet higher than the peasants in cars?

But since PetroBank built a new oil battery site a mile south of my house, the heavy truck traffic on the road has been taking its toll.  Our gravel road is a disaster.   Not only is there not enough gravel, the road is poorly maintained – it’s not uncommon to see a rock bigger than your head right in the middle of the road.  Cars just don’t cut it.  They don’t have enough clearance.  You need to be driving something higher, that has at least a half a chance of making the five mile drive to the highway.

And then there was the Reconstruction Summer of 2008.  After the rains on our “under construction” grid roads, there were four days when we couldn’t get to the highway with the four-wheel drive, let alone a car.  The Husband doesn’t want to be stuck in the house like that with me again.

And so…. I am now the reluctant owner of a large SUV.    The Husband found me the smallest one possible (that would have reasonable clearance).  But it is still more expensive than a car, uses more gas than the Nissan Altima I used to love.

Thanks, oil industry, for directly increasing my transportation costs. 

Saskatchewan reporters this week have been hounding provincial  MLAs for ordering Jeep Liberty's to drive around the Province.  My MLA has explained himself by saying that he can’t possibly drive an environmentally responsible car in the roads in this riding.  His choice of an SUV is necessary.  Apparently, I’m not alone.

I see two options.  Why aren’t we dragging enough cash out of oil companies to pay for the damage they’re causing to our infrastructure, and then using the money to actually maintain our infrastructure in a reasonable way?  If this industry can’t pay its own way, do we need it?  Or…. It wasn’t long ago that Brad Wall was reduced to announcing that he had so much money, he didn’t know where to spend it all.  How about a rebate program that would provide a subsidy to people like me that have to live near this industry, and can no longer get around with a car?  I’m not asking for a free Jeep Liberty or anything.  Just some cash to cover the difference between driving a mid-size car and driving an SUV.  

 

ps.  Of course, on our way to the Creelman Dinner Theatre last Thursday, we met a semi hauling oil to Petrobank's Creelman battery site.  After the stone hit our windshield, the crack spread from one side to the other, right before our eyes.  The Husband phoned around - it will cost $1,000 to fix.  Thanks again, oil industry. 

 

post-ps.  On the weekend, our local Petrobank rep stopped by to bring us a handful of hats and a couple of fleeces.  Ahh.... my troubles are over.

Toys R Not Us

The husband and I braved the cold wind of Scarth Street to get to our parked car after the show at the Globe Theatre last month.  He was muttering something that sounded like “damn Shakespeare….  Couldn’t the Globe stage something in English?” when we got to the car and found the piece of paper wedged underneath the windshield wiper.   

Oh no, I was thinking.  We can’t get a ticket.  I told him he could park here.  And it was my big idea to drive all the way to Regina to go to the show in the first place.  Pricey enough, once you figure in gas, dinner, tickets, and our stupendously overpaid babysitter (our own fault).

But it wasn’t a parking ticket, just a flyer.  The Husband held it up to see it by streetlight as he folded himself into the car.  “Look at this,” he said, much more enthusiastic than he’d been about the play.  “A new product.  One of those home parties that you hate.  But this one might be good.”

I do hate home parties.    Going to a neighbour’s house to spend 30 minutes listening to a live infomercial in an atmosphere that discourages mocking is not my idea of a good time.  Never mind that there’s rarely any booze at these things.

But The Husband was saying “It’s for toys!  You could have one of these parties!  The Boy’s going to need Christmas presents.  And lots of the neighbours are buying things for their own kids and grandkids.

He was right about that.  We are buying a lot of toys for The Boy these days.  And it would be MUCH more relaxing having a few people over to leaf through a catalogue than trying to get a toddler out of Toys ‘R Us.

“You’re always going to their parties,” he said.  “You could have one of your own.”

And again, he was right.  I was beginning to get a picture of my living room, filled with all the community women enjoying coffee, eating homemade cookies.  Buying enough toys to ‘earn’ me enough free gifts to get us clear through Christmas and The Boy’s birthday to boot.  Well, why not?

The Husband handed me the paper.  That was why not.   Sex toys.

“Oh.” He said.  “Maybe I do need glasses after all.”

We left the flyer on the dash between us and drove home.