I mute the French anti-police slogans that automatically play in my head when I hear the word “police”. Grow up, Juliette. You are no longer an angry teenager. “The police help people when they have a problem,” I reply to Mark, almost convincingly.
While the obnoxious yet-to-be-caffeinated lady is still figuring out what she really wants from life and from a Styrofoam cup, I eavesdrop on other people’s conversations.
Before Mark, I didn’t quite understand why people were using services and conveniences or paying someone to complete a task for them.
We all agree that “C” is for “car”, and “D” is for “dog”, but conventional wisdom is lost again at “E”, which isn’t for “elephant” or “ear” but “egg”.
One minute, I’m saving the world, adding commas and hyphenating compound adjectives, and next thing you know, I’m trying to remember whether the daycare centre’s door opens after typing *1234 or *4321.
This is one aspect of life in Canada I find harder and harder to deal with: everything looks exactly the same—new, in good condition—and life is so orderly that it gets absolutely infuriating.
Even though I don’t interact much with this age group in Ottawa, I have the feeling that being a Canadian teen is very different from being a French teen.
I can’t stress it enough—having people willing to act as a reference and vouch for your work skills and personal qualities is often the best job-search weapon you can have.
Until a few weeks ago, Mark only had a mild case of the famous “terrible twos”. But now, he morphed into Keith Richards at the high of his drug-fueled years.
If you think about it, Tim Hortons is just another franchised restaurant serving coffee and donuts. Yet, Canadians almost feel it’s a patriotic duty to get a double-double at Timmies rather than at McDonalds, Starbucks or—gasp—brew coffee at home.
Kids say weird things at weird times. I find it very entertaining.
There is “one of these” again in my inbox today. The “object” line reads “help me”. I can guess the content of the email, the suspense factor is minimal.
Do you think tattoo artist for toddlers could be a new part-time gig?
I can’t afford therapy. Oh, I can already picture the scene… Mark is jumping on a black leather couch, the expensive designer kind, not the latest IKEA model. The shrink, Sigmund, is sitting in a chair.
How do you guys do it? Seriously? Am I missing something here? I only have one kid and my job isn’t even that important—I mean, I’m not saving lives here, just moving commas and deleting quote marks.