on growing up as a small girl in canada

Here, my dear readers, is a little glimpse into the world of a young Canadian girl… When things get stressful, I often try to think of myself as a young Canadian girl. Lately, Ive been doing it a lot. Its something I started doing back in the 80s, when
Degrassi Junior High used to play here in the states on PBS At any rate, heres your chance to join me. (note: It is my philosophy that every middle-aged, male, American office worker, regardless of race, religion or sexual orientation, should nurture the small Canadian girl within.)

I wanted to share a story with you Mark…I know you are precisely the kind of person who can understand the way nostalgia tugs at your heartstrings (and sometimes makes you gag). I was watching a movie last night and there was a picture of Jesus — you know, the real “white bread” Jesus with rosy cheeks. Near the end of the film the picture went up in flames, but that’s not my story. It made me remember how at Christmas my brother and I would take the Nativity Scene figures, set them up at the end of the coffee table, and shoot them off it with our dart guns. You would get the most points for sending the baby Jesus flying, because he was the smallest. If you could shoot him out of the cradle, without knocking the little bed itself off of the end, you really ruled. My mom caught us at this activity one day and was appalled (and no doubt thought us blasphemers). However, not much later I saw her boiling something on the stove. When I peeked in the pot, what did my eyes behold but a bunch of Nativity Scene figures, bobbing at the top of the hot water like perogies! I tried to get her to admit that she was a hypocrite, but she informed me, frowning, that the (bad bad) dog had pissed on the Nativity “shack” as we called it, and she was sterilizing the three wise men and the Savior himself. Jesus did not fare well at our house. The shepherd boy had better luck. I miss those days of (sacrificial) wine and insults.

Id like to thank Sandra for sharing that story. (If I knew how to design, I’d illustrate this story with an image of a dog lifting its leg on a nativity “shack,” but I don’t know how to do that. So, here’s a plain old, non-urine-drenched image.)

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