One morning, over toast and tea, about 3 weeks before my birthday, Yvette calmly asks: “You know, we ‘ave to start planning dis spit fight.”

Now, if you’ve ever met Yvette, you know that she is the quintessence of elegance. She possesses the enviable gift of knowing how to pull together an outfit for any occasion in about 15 seconds. Her hair—even on a Sunday morning!— is perfectly chic, as is, no scrunchies or hair clips required. Just a precise bob cut that falls into place like a military salute whenever she swings her head. So you can understand my confusion when this chic creature started talking about—god help us—wanting to plan a spit fight.

She went on. “There’s a lot to prepare. We need a shopping list.”

– “A list?”

– “Yes, I’d rather just make it all ourselves than rely on our friends.”

Well yes, me too. But wait, our friends too??  I took a second look at her toast. Looked normal. Same with her tea.

-“Honey, I’m not sure I understand. You want to host… a spit fight? Here? With our friends?”

“No!” She starts laughing and shaking her head.  “Not a spit fight. Ton… souper… de…fête!”

In my defense, if you say “souper de fête” (birthday dinner) very quickly, and with her Québecois accent, it sounds exactly like “spit fight.”

Every year around mid-November, Yvette brings up the subject of The Tree. “So… what’s your plan for the tree?” She likes to plan. A lot.

I rarely plan anything because I have learned that plans rarely work out. Most of them actually fall apart faster than a made-in-China espresso machine. However, she insists that this is the nature of plans and that despite their spectacular rate of failure, they are useful necessary indispensable. “Having a plan is like having a map before you embark on an adventure. You’re less likely to get lost.”

Apparently, even if it’s a lousy map. Christ on a crumpet. Remind me never to go on safari with her. She’d drive us right into a lion’s den rather than follow her intuition. Her child-like trust in man-made items like maps and street signs never fails to amaze me. (“Why are you slowing down? They have a stop sign, so they will stop.”) She is so clearly a child born in a civilized corner of the world. Continue reading The Christmas Tree Plan →

Are you a lister? My wife’s a lister. She’s the Grand Master of Listers. And not just the visible kind, like the ones you find scribbled on a piece of paper. She has invisible ones that only she can see.

It started with the grocery list. Fair enough. I can’t keep two drink orders in my head, so I definitely need a list for food supplies. But then I discovered there was another list. This one started showing up, bright and early, on Saturday mornings. Hand-written, it was ever so casually left on the dining table, right by my usual designated chair. It came with an ominous title: To Do.

I assumed it was her list, since she’d written it. No, no, no. It was our list.

Unbeknownst to me, Saturdays were for Getting Things Done. As God intended. Or some such loony theory. Continue reading To List, or Not To List. That is the Question. →

We have a rather fancy garbage can. And I take full responsibility, nay, pride,  for its presence in our otherwise nothing-special kitchen.

It was love at first sight. I was seduced in broad daylight by an in-store demo at a Bed, Bath and Beyond (Reason) store. I was in the checkout line, all set to leave with my new shower curtain, when I made the fatal mistake of glancing back towards Kitchenware.

In front of a pyramid of dazzling white garbage cans, a chubby sales guy was showing a couple of retirees the wonders of modern sanitation. What impressed me was the look on their faces. They were clearly in awe. And they weren’t alone. I could see a couple of other shoppers also observing from behind the safety of a stack of garden hoses.

Demo Dude stepped forward onto the garbage can pedal. The lid yawned open like the door to Aladdin’s cave. He tossed a clean paper napkin into the sanitized can, and paused, glancing around at the gathering crowd. Then, stepping back, hands in the air in full-drama mode, he stood silently staring at the can, waiting. Continue reading The Liquid Wrench Caper →

Last Sunday, we had news helicopters hovering overhead, creating more of a disturbance of the peace than the current political demonstration that they were so eager to cover. On top of which, Oscar is letting the whole neighbourhood know about it. So much for an afternoon siesta. I stumble out into the living room.

– “Oh for crying out loud, what is it now?”
– “Some protestants are manifesting.”

Whut? For a second, I get a mental vision of Episcopalians appearing out of nowhere like hordes of zombies. Then it clicks. She’s done a literal translation from French to English, resulting in something akin to a freaky Google translation.

– “You mean, some protesters are demonstrating.”

– “Yeah yeah, dat,” she says impatiently. 

Right. I put the kettle on.

-“What’s it about this time?”

I say this time because there’s always something being protested in Montreal. I’m surprised there isn’t an Institute for Demonstrations. You can probably Major in it at UQAM.

Of course Yvette knew what was going on. She’s always up on local news. She can tell you the name of the judge presiding over any big case, which tv or radio show host just got a new show, and how far away from an election we are on any given day. (Canadians can call an election at the drop of a hat. It seems to be something of a national pastime.) Oh, and the local weather forecast. She’s really very handy to have around.

– “You know, dat  law dat da government wants to pass. About da veil.”

I stare at her blankly. She sighs and fills me in. It’s the same debate going on in France. Only here the government made the crap-tacular mistake of insisting that their “secular bill” would not extend to include ‘traditional’ Quebec cultural symbols such as the Catholic crucifix, which is prominently displayed above the Speaker’s chair in the National Assembly, no less.

-“Christ on a crumpet. And these people are running the state? I mean, province? …whatever, you know what I mean.”

– “You better start studying for dat citizenship exam.”

I ignore this and sip my tea.

– “Well, I suppose all that fresh air and exercise won’t hurt.” Now that I live in a country with nationalized healthcare, I think about these things.

Then she shows me a photo from a news site and I almost spill my tea. It’s a couple of women wearing the Quebec flag as a hijab, and grinning from ear to ear. You have to hand it to them for this genius marketing move. What better way to deflect criticism? How can anyone get mad at them for proudly wearing the flag? Especially when they so closely resemble a crowd of revellers on St Jean Baptiste Day (Quebec’s National Holiday)? Well played.

Frankly, once the snow hits, everyone in Quebec with an ounce of sense will be wearing the equivalent of a hijab or niqab in the form of a toque (cap), scarf and coat.