Leeann Minogue

Camping Challenge

In July the Husband and I camped with friends in Ontario’s Algonquin Park.  It was beautiful – a more gentle version of the Canadian Shield than we have in northern Saskatchewan.

The park has strict policies in place.   Like only nine people per site in the wilderness sites.  And those nine people need at least three tents.  No problem:  the nine of us had six tents (we’re not very friendly).   The problematic rule?  No cans or glass bottles.

What?  No cans?  At first I was stressed about spaghetti sauce and evaporated milk.  Then it hit me.  Beer comes in cans.

I was relieved when a friend suggested “kegs”. I pictured one, floating on a rope behind our canoe.  I was about to call the park to make sure kegs are not “cans” when The Husband reminded me that our planned 0.5 km portage would make lugging a keg either unpleasant or impossible.  Also  - could the nine of us finish a keg before it went flat?  We’re well past those university days. 

But, on our last-ditch trip to the Liquor Control Board of Ontario Liquor, we found that, in Ontario, Miller Genuine Draft comes in plastic bottles.  Just like pop.  Who knew?  We were saved.  And it was nice to be able to re-cap our beer when we reached a challenging part of the paddle. 

This obscure rule and the lucky surprise of finding one kind of allowable beer leaves me to conclude that Ontario is a part-owner of Molson (who makes Miller).  But…. why don’t they put the Canadian beer in the plastic bottles, to help us feel even more patriotic as we sat by our campfire while Gord played Tragically Hip songs on his guitar?

I hope you’re also having a great summer.

(Un)Solicited Advice

“If you husband asks you to have a three-some, you should just say no.”

She goes on.  “What could come next?  A four-some?  A five-some?”

I want to know, “What do you do if he tells you he’ll leave you if you won’t go along with it?” but as I’m asking, The Husband comes down the hall to where I'm talking on the phone. 

“We have to pay for these calls!” he reminds me, giving me that incredulous, outraged look he usually saves for the times I forget to turn off the bathroom light.

We’ve been having a weird glitch with our long-distance phone plan for more than a year now.  Somehow, the 1-800 number we set up to allow The Husband’s parents to call us easily when they’re on the road gets crossed with the number for the Jerry Springer Show.  Really.  Once or twice a week we get calls from people who want to share their opinions with the poor saps who pick up the Springer show’s 1-800 comment line for a living.  Usually, we just hang up.  But if I’m bored I’ll string them along for a while.  I don’t get as many chances as you might think to talk to women with deep Southern accents about obscure (I hope) sexual problems.  Sure, we pay by the minute, but it’s a fraction of the cost of renting a movie.  And often, more entertaining.

“Is this really the Springer Show?” the woman on the other end of the phone asks, suspiciously.  “Last time I called in, I won a prize.”

“Sorry, no prize today,” I said, finally hanging up.  But only because I don't have the energy to pretend she's won a free trip to Chicago.

As I walk down the hall I hear The Husband picking up his office phone to make yet another call to our long-distance carrier, begging them to solve this problem.  I’m sure they will.  As soon as I start turning off the bathroom light.

 

Spring Anxiety

It’s that time of year again.

Some people dread Christmas.  Or birthdays with zeros in them.  For me?  It’s spring.

Sure.  Go on about crocuses in bloom and fresh calves.  I will not be drawn in.  That fresh smell in the yard?  It’s newly-thawed manure.

When the snow melts, the grass left behind is puke-brown, not storybook green.  And the snow never all melts.  Those last few flakes hang on in the ditches for weeks, holding up ugly splotches of dust and dirt until at least the bitter end of April.  And don’t get me started on the mud.  But none of this is the worst.  The worst is a toss-up.

On the one hand, there’s the clothing predicament.  It’s completely impossible to dress yourself on the prairies between March and June.  Every morning you look in the closets and wonder:  will it be minus twenty?  Or plus twenty?  You might have to shovel snow to get your car out in the morning, and then get a sunburn at lunchtime.  And don’t e-mail me to advise dressing in layers unless you can explain in detail exactly how to layer Sorrels over strappy leather sandals and a toe ring.

And then there’s the other hand.  If, like me, you accidentally married a Saskatchewan farmer, you’ll already know where I’m going.  Until at least the end of April, it’s too early for farmers to start seeding, but too warm for them to stop pacing around the kitchen, checking the internet weather forecast every eleven minutes, and making up excuses to phone and neighbours to find out who’s already started putting their crop in and how much progress they’re making. 

Today, it’s snowing for the third day in a row.  When I asked The Husband what he had planned, I didn’t understand most of his answer.  But it seems that he’s going to design and weld some sort of homemade forklift attachment.  I ran into another local farmer at the post office.  He had a trailer attached to his truck and was heading to town for pipe so he could weld up something he’d thought of himself.  Look out, patent office.  I’m sure a slew of long-spring-farmer-submissions are on their way.

Bring on summer.  Please.

Mortlach.

Mortlach.  April 17th.  "Playwrighting for Beginners Workshop", from 1:00 to 5:00.  Interested?  You can e-mail me for more info or to sign up (lminogue@sasktel.net).

Mortlach is 113 km east of Regina on the #1 Highway.

I'll mostly be talking about how I create characters, and then some tips about writing dialogue for them.  Things that could apply to other fiction, as well as plays.  I'll make you do (and share) some writing, to take the pressure off me.

In a stunning real life example of "You get what you pay for.", the Mortlachians are charging $5 for the workshop.  I hope everyone gets their money's worth. 

And, if you bother to drive all the way to Mortlach, you might as well join me for supper (location TBA), and then stay for the evening reading at 7:00 at the Mortlach Hall. 

Who could pass this up?

By the way, if you're reading this, I know I should:

• update the site to include the list of blogs I love, by theme;
• update more often, and more regularly;
• post some photos of The Boy; and
• figure out why my font size is never consistent from blog to blog.

I'll get on this just as soon as I organize "that drawer" in the kitchen.  If you have one like that, you'll know what I mean.  If you don't - I don't want to hear about it.  It will make me like you less.

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.