English idiosyncracies that fascinate my Canadian brain

While I was waiting for my recent travel photos and blog post to upload, I began idly sorting a pile of British coins into a tower by size.

As a North American, I'm accustomed to this coin size progression, from large to small:
Two dollar, one dollar, fifty cent piece (rarely seen), quarter or twenty-five cents, nickel or five cents, penny, and dime or ten cents. Don't ask me why the dime is smaller than the penny or the nickel, but Canadians and Americans both do it that way.

Considering that Canada and the US were once British colonies, I would have assumed that our coinage stacked up comparatively. Obviously it doesn't, since I am writing here.

My little stack of English coins, from largest to smallest, is as follows: Two pound (which looks suspiciously like a loonie, but we started minting them a year earlier, so ha!), fifty pence (an odd seven sided thing), two pence (like two pennies, only really big), ten pence (the size of a Canadian quarter), twenty pence (also seven sided), one pound (twice as thick as any of the others), and one penny.

For those of you unfamiliar with British pound, one pound is 100 pence. One British pound, in the current market, is worth about $2.20 Canadian.

But let's get back to the silly arrangement of size. How can a one pound coin, the second most valuable coin in circulation, be so small? And heavy, for that matter. If you think a handful of loonies and toonies weigh you down, try these suckers! I really don't get the two pence coin, either. Why two? Most other systems use multiples of five or ten. Makes sense to me, but the British are big on tradition.

If a certain monarch decided that something needed to happen a certain way, then I guess that is how it will go, from here unto eternity. If you want to know the exceedingly tedious details of how each coin came to be, check out the link I've included.

If you are a serious coin collector, then I suppose all this history might be interesting. For me, the most interesting part will be the destruction of my tower. I will then go to the corner store and buy beer with it, crack it open and drink it while walking down the street. Why? Because in London, I can.

It's a lake! No, it's a tailings pond!

Since the federal government is in the process of reclassifying 16 Canadian lakes as toxic tailings dumps as a favour to mining companies, I thought I'd get in on the action.

No, I don't want to be a miner. I don't particularly want to join the uproar of the environmentalists either (though I do agree with them.)

I want to use obscure laws and facts to reclassify things to suit my own immediate needs. Hell, I don't need laws. It might involve whims instead of needs, too. I just don't want to miss out on all this fun.

Let's start with...

Stephen Harper: You've been re-classified as a robot. Come on, it's not like we all don't know it anyway. Time to come out of the closet and admit you're a droid.

Jack Layton: New official title is Court Jester.

Stephane Dion: I'd re-classify him, but I don't think anyone would care. Or notice.

The Toronto Maple Leafs: I've re-classified you as an OHL team. Odds are, you'll still end up at the bottom of the league.

The saleslady in the store who helped me today: You are officially re-classified as my personal shopper. Dress or undress as you see fit.

My dog: Canada's newest Prime Minister. She may use the great outdoors as a toilet, but she certainly has more respect for it than the Conservative minority.

Mark Steyn: New head of the Canadian Human Rights Commission.

Don't agree with some of my work? Join the club. I don't know one person who would agree that using an unlined, uncontrolled natural watercourse as a toxic sludge pond is a great idea.

But hey, it's not like the government actually has to listen to the cares of the general public. That only happens in a democracy, not in a Steveocracy.

Welcome to the 21st Century

I like to think Canada is a fairly liberated country. As a woman, I can basically do whatever I please, whenever I please.

Occasionally I am reminded, however, that the capacity of the mind is sometimes related to geography.

While living in Ontario or British Columbia, I was never really questioned about the work I did or about the non-traditional hobbies I might have. If a person thought I was odd, I was never aware of it after the initial introduction.

Only three weeks in to a long-awaited Maritime homecoming and I've found myself under the microscope.

I'm twenty eight years old. I'm unmarried and childless. I am a minority in New Brunswick. What's more, I'm looked at as an oddity by many people.

No, they aren't looking down on me. Not exactly. I'm just different. It's as if they can't understand why I would choose to do things outside their realm of normal.

Case in point? On our river trip last weekend, I'd estimate there were over 50 canoes on the river. Not one of them was controlled by a woman. Most of the women didn't even have a paddle. They floated along in the front of the boat, drinking, laughing, and enjoying themselves. It's just how things are done here.

When we stopped under a bridge during a downpour, someone dug out a guitar and passed it around. I picked it up and strummed out a few songs, drawing several curious stares. One guy actually said to me, "it's nice to see a girl play a guitar for once."

For once? What kind of isolated bubble do you live in?

A world bound with its traditional roles, held fast by fear of change and poverty.

It's home, but it's a wonder I don't belong.

Whatever blows your skirt up...

As a rule, I don’t wear skirts.

A self-described rough and tumble tomboy, skirts have always been considered a nuisance since childhood. Climbing trees, building dams, riding bicycles-all these activities were much more comfortable in pants.

Adulthood finally caught up with me. Though I still have my tomboy moments, there are no real constraints that keep me from wearing a skirt or a dress on any given day. For some reason, though, I always reach for the jeans, the sweatpants, the dress trousers.

I hadn’t really considered my reasons for avoiding skirts until I returned to my hometown this spring. After some thought on the matter, I came up with a list of reasons most women wouldn’t wear skirts:

1. Ugly legs. Those knobby knees, flabby thighs, and hideously scarred shins. Swollen ankles are another. Some women don’t want to expose their varicose veins and cellulite to the world. On behalf of humanity, I thank you for this.

2. Feminism. If I looked hard enough, I’m certain I could find a woman who adamantly refuses to wear dresses or skirts because of the feminist movement. That imaginary conversation might go something like this:

“Skirts? Dresses? I’ve spent twenty years trying to prove to the world that I am every bit as intelligent as a man. I’ve worked countless hours to work my way to the top. To me, frilly skirts and dresses symbolize the stay at home wife that I am trying to escape.”

Okay, so it would be less of a conversation, more of a tirade. Even more moderate feminists and independent business women might balk at wearing a skirt for equality reasons. A woman might not wear skirts because of the implication she might be using her body (feminine attraction) to get ahead in the workplace.

3. Lifestyle restrictions. Pipefitters, welders, and Olympic runners might not wear skirts or dresses because they simply can’t perform in them. January in Siberia isn’t the time or place to be wearing a cute mini, either.

4. Dislike. Maybe some women just don’t like wearing skirts. No ulterior motives necessary.

5. Past trauma. That poodle skirt you were forced to wear, the frilly bridesmaid’s dress…we all have an outfit that we were forced to wear. Perhaps the trauma affected some of us more deeply. This also takes into account sudden gusts of wind at inopportune moments.

None of these reasons really seemed to apply to me, however. Browsing through stores and shops, I found so many cute and flattering skirts this spring. I decided I was going to buy several and start wearing them.

Upon arriving in New Brunswick, my skirts were unpacked and hung neatly in the closet. There they have stayed, untouched, for three weeks, except for a shopping excursion out of town.

Why is it I don’t want to wear a skirt here? Yesterday, I finally figured it out.

Growing up in this small town, the only people who wore skirts on a daily basis were members of the Pentecostal churches. Church protocol required these women to wear long skirts, forgo makeup, and keep their hair long. I went to school with many girls who struggled through gym class because they weren’t allowed to wear pants. Some would wear baggy shorts or pants, but most would simply sit on the sidelines.

I couldn’t understand why these women chose to put such restrictions on themselves. I still don’t, not really. It is my firm belief that everyone can believe or say what they wish, as long as they are not harming or impeding the rights of others to do the same. These women are welcome to live as they choose, but they stand in my mind as a symbol of oppression.

Most of my female friends in these churches were not encouraged into post-secondary education. The majority of them came from very poor families. They were expected to find a man, marry, and produce children. Many of my friends work, but many women are also discouraged from doing so.

This is why I have avoided skirts. The long skirt is representative, in my mind, of modern day, self-afflicted oppression that these women face. The skirt represents struggle, poverty, standing on the fringes of society. Women who don’t have the freedom to be the type of woman that I choose to be. And I’m tired of my mind behaving in this way.

To be sure, there are exceptions to this rule. Though these women may outwardly appear to be oppressed, many would not consider themselves so. They consider their lives to be full and happy. That is their choice, and they are welcome to it. It is this image, however, this childhood bias that stands in my mind whether it is truth or not.

So today, I’m going to open up my closet and pull out my cute little black skirt, a trendy t-shirt, and dispel my internal myths about what my clothing means.

Left and Leaving

When it comes to these terms, I prefer to be the latter, not the former. Not just in terms of relationships, but also simply physically.

That's not to imply that leaving isn't incredibly hard. It is. I just don't enjoy the feeling of helplessness that pervades the body as I watch someone else leave.

Yesterday I left. I changed tenses. I've been waiting to change tenses for almost a year. I'd been leaving for a year, but yesterday was the big day.

Essentials in a suitcase. Guitar housed in its new flight case. Sunglasses on to hide the traces of tears. The rest of my life crammed into a storage locker. Precious dog with the best friend in the world. My little mountain town left behind.

I guess I like being both terms, in the active sense, not the passive. I need to be the epicentre of action I suppose.

An album full of joyous pictures, created by small loving hands, kept me company on the mountainous drive east to Calgary. A red Mustang kept paced with the bus, while a blond-haired beloved girl waved furiously from the passenger seat.

Some things are too precious to leave behind forever. Know that, even though you were left behind, I did not leave for good. Wherever I am, I am always there for you.

I miss you. We will meet again.