Texans in Canada, Part 2

The Medusa stare of the black squirrel. Canadian parks are littered with extremely realistic human statues.
Image via Wikipedia

Much of the appeal in moving to another country was the idea of making a fresh start. We'd get a new home, a new car, new jobs, and most importantly new credit. Essentially our lives would begin anew. What I didn't realize was that starting over would be less like a clean slate and more like reverting to a state of infancy.

I don't know where I am most times. I can't tell you what street I last came from, but I'm mostly certain it ends in Crescent and/or starts with Rue. Remembering my own address and phone number is like disassembling complex algorithms in my head. I feel like that special kid at school in the 50s who showed up to class with his vital information pinned to his vest, like dog tags. Someone asks me my name and I look down at the little scrap of paper on my chest to make sure it's right.

Going around town I'm unsure where to stop for my needs. Luckily Canadians recognize when to keep things simple, like with naming stores that carry vital household necessities. If you need beer, you go to The Beer Store. If you need shoes, go to the Shoe Company. Need stuff for the kids, there's the Children's Place.

At Canadian Tire you can purchase far more than expected, except groceries, but they introduce a new issue by circulating their own currency like some independent monetary authority. Just when I thought I understood the Loonie versus the Toonie I'm handed some alternate Monopoly money by the Canadian Tire cashier that claims to be a nickel's worth of tire. Only in Canada can I carry around a two dollar coin and a five cent bill.

Amongst other confusions sloshing around in my newborn mind, I can't tell you what the temperature is because I'm slow to convert to celsius. I can't express how far it is to anywhere because nothing is measured in miles. Driving at 100 is really not that fast anymore but it feels like I should be a feature news story, on the run with 60 cop cars behind me. Maybe I have a hostage but the helicopter reporter is unsure as of now.

Hopefully I'll be fast to mature and these problems will fade, perhaps only to be replaced with new ones. Canadian acne? Some barriers will be harder to break through than others, like this terrible habit I have of spelling things correctly. Imagine being raised by an unethical scientist and on your 13th birthday you're told that not only do you have a twin, and you were each raised in separate identical homes only a block apart but one of you was taught everything to be opposite of what it truly was, like black is white and Fords are really good cars. Now the experiment is over but you have to relearn the world. (I am the falsely educated one in this scenario.) This is how hard it will be for me to "correct" my spelling, especially while I find that vowels playing musical chairs is still so humorous, ...humourous? My favorite sign about town so far is "Centrepointe Theatre." Tee hee.

I'm sure I'll become accustomed to most of the Canadian quirkiness, but I don't forsee any level of comfort being made with one bizarre fact: The squirrels here are black. Not just dark, but BLACK. I've never heard of such a thing and I'm concerned with how at ease everyone is with the situation. Supposedly they're harmless but I don't trust them and at this point will assume they are the devil's work. Of course, if any black squirrels are reading this I was just kidding. We're cool right?

The window treatments to the soul

Image via Wikipedia

My attraction for women is not always founded on baseline physical attributes, meaning a well dressed woman or one that takes the extra time with her hair can be equally as attractive as one with well formed curves. There are many variables in play as to what might peak my interest in any given woman. Some of these variables I acknowledge and understand as obvious reasoning or perhaps having cross-related areas of pleasure.

One such example is my affinity for waitresses. There is no struggle for logic here. It is a woman who brings me food and drink upon request. She is beautiful in my eyes. The added flirtation that has worked its way into the food service industry is just a bonus element, holding parallels to well established "dance" clubs and houses of ill repute. It consists of women feigning intrigue for a man with the end goal of slimming down his wallet, a lifelong exchange of money for coquetterie. This is a condition for which both men and women are at fault and both are worse off with its perpetuation. Women monetarily win out in the short run but ultimately lose, having continuously failed relationships and finding it hard to discern why men don't take love seriously.

My less transparent attraction enhancement, in both rationale and reality, is when a woman wears sunglasses. Every woman, regardless of age or physical makeup, is slightly more of a woman behind those tinted shields. Within a world of fading mystery, there is little left untouched or beyond comprehension or examination. It is silly, but in plastic eyeware I can find a bit of wonder again.

What color are her eyes? Green? Brown? Red with tears?

Is she looking off into the distance or staring at me?

The eyes reveal so much about a person and stripping this essential insight into one's humanity causes my imagination to churn. As a character in my mind, her depth is endless, but the fantasy proves time and again to be better than the tangible truth. All good stories have a sad ending depending on when you stop reading, and eventually the glasses come off. The majority of the time, like with the bras of today, what was covered looked better before, and the thrill subsides. Every once in awhile though the mystery woman is as she was supposed to be, a reflection of projected perfection. It's then that the world seems right and my day is better for it.