So last night, my partner and I made our way to the Suzuki Foundation Meet ‘N’ Greet (though I am sure it had a swankier name). He is a Suzuki Foundation supporter and when the invite arrived in the mail several weeks ago there was no question as to whether we would be attending or not. Meeting David Suzuki is on my list of 101 Things to Do Before I Die. Technically, it was “Have lunch with David Suzuki” but they were serving appetizers and there was a cash bar, so that’s like lunch, right?
Round about last week I remembered some kind of “You Know What Would Be Fun?” blog post you made in light of capturing Obama AND Greg Kinnear with a sock. Yesterday afternoon, armed with a dual purpose, I put my SIP in my bag and headed for the function. I was pretty nervous waiting in line to speak with David Suzuki and the lady behind me who insisted on pushing and shoving did not help. Obviously, she did not know I had a bag full of 2.5mm needles or maybe she would have backed her bad self up a bit. I made the pitch and Suzuki graciously agreed to have the photo taken. As you can see, he requested a two-fer. Yarn fumes have that effect on people, I suppose.
Canadian Olympian Adam van Koeverdin was in attendance (and gave an awesome speech) and so I killed two birds with one stone. Or something like that. As I was explaining The Crazy to van Koeverdin, an onlooker mis-heard me and thought I said “Nutters Without Borders”. Knitters? Nutters? Is there that big a difference? Surely not to an innocent bystander.
I’ve just now re-read that post and see that exceptions will only be made for “other really cool people or celebrities”.
Stephanie, I offer you David Suzuki and Canadian Olympic kayaker Adam van Koeverden. It’s your call.
I think you deserve your thanks right up front for several reasons. They are:
1. You saved me from a Sailor Moon-obsessed, Cabbage Patch-toting roomate who sang Disney tunes at the very top of her lungs. Surely, many boys had first hand experience with said lungs when they swabbed far enough down her throat during Frosh Week. Nice Cabbage Patch dolls. Wanna make-out?
2. You know the pure joy of half-priced Halloween candy. Also, you are aware that St. Laurent is not too far to go for a Chocolate Chipper. And yes, I do know EXACTLY how many calories is in one of those things.
3. On a cold January day, we rode that #1 bus all. The. Way. Down. Bank. Entirely for the experience of purchasing knitting needles (which started out as finding something to do that didn’t involve alcohol).
4. Two words: Sandy Huang. You saw him take the apartment number off the door when the fire inspector came a calling and you warmed your hands by the oven. Because we could only plug in one heat-generating appliance. Send up the heat!
5. This face…
I could go on listing the awesomeness of you but I think, for interest’s sake, I’ll switch to paragraph mode.
For three years, we did nearly everything together. We ate and drank (night cap?) and stalked. We survived through 2 apartments, a few boyfriends and hauling Christmas trees in Ottawa snow storms.
You are my crafty friend. We made little beaded mice in the first years of our decade-long financial crisis and keep that tradition alive today with Purse Club and knitting around the kitchen table (which stitches wear the scarves?).
I am proud of you for making your way in a male-dominated industry and doing what you really love to do. It kills me each and every time you get back on a plane to Van City, but I know that’s where you have to be sometimes. And even now, as you push and pull, coast to coast, trying to find what you need, I know that you will always, always end up doing what you love.
You call everything like you see it, from the size of baby’s heads (HUGE!) to making sure I’m not getting stepped on. When I aspire to stand up for myself, it is your voice inside my head.
When I consider that I have known you for nearly 10 years I think two things simultaneously. The first is, that’s a pretty long time. The second is, how did I manage in the 19 years prior? We made a Rainbow Connection and you are my true Blue.
And since your biggest critic has always been you, let me take a moment to remind you why I am so proud of you. We could start with moving across the country to put the K back in Kwality at Carleton University. Had you not made that choice, I’d be writing this letter to some other English major. It’s a big deal to pick up one’s life, even when there has only been 18 years of it and haul ass across the country to get your edumacation.
Do you remember that day we sat drinking hot beverages in a coffee shop in the Glebe on Rod’s dollar bemoaning the outcome of our lives? How we couldn’t take not knowing what in the hell was going on and we were pretty sure that no post-graduate program of any kind was going to want us? Within that very week Concordia declared its love for you. You went on to slam dunk your Masters thesis and now you’re kicking ass and taking names each and every day on the Hill (or Environs).
When I feel down, you are the first call I make. I know that you’ll never laugh at me when I cry (at least not at first). You once wrote me a note, and in that note you said “the most important things in my life are my friends, but that’s only because I have such outstanding people around me”. I see your sentiment and raise you 100 Loving-You-More-Than-You’ll-Ever-Knows.
If I could have only one complaint (and let’s be realistic, you know I always have way more than one), it would be that you are often too far away. Too far for coffees and Laying Around Like Sluts. Too far for spending the kind of time like we used to.
We finally did New York this September and it was a really great time. Not too many people would have put up with Zen navigation and a multitude of yarn and fabric stores, but at the end of the day (too many noodles and locals only bars) we could still laugh as we settled in for a New York-style pedicure. And by New York-style I do not mean Fifth Avenue swanky, but rather Shared Foot Soak at the Milf (ooh… showerheads!). I don’t think I ever got to properly thank you for the awesome that was New York. So let this be your thank you card (with acknowledgement that you’re way better at sending those things in a proper space of time).
There is no amount of time or space that would allow me to put into proper words just how much you mean to me. So insteads, me thinks I’d just be better off saying to you, I says, one word: You’re the best! And when youse gets a chance, remember me what be the right proper usage of that there ellipsis… … ….
At the end of all this, the best thing I can think to say is thank you. Also, lyin’ isn’t easy, you know. I’m making this shit up – it’s all coming from my brain.
Thank you for your hospitality this weekend. I enjoyed my time at your home immensely.
The fesen joon that you made for dinner was delicious and works equally well as a curse word. Please see, “Oh, fesen joon! I have to write a blog post!”
Also, here is a link to kijiji. You should get a cat.
I would be willing to cut you some slack if you were a new employee, yet my sister tells me she sees you working at the grocery store every time you go in. That, combined with the fact that people who are new don’t usually get thrown on the Express Lane, add up to me not being very sympathetic.
When I had to go find the code for those chestnuts (for a customer in line ahead of me), it wasn’t such a huge deal, and truth be told, I’d been standing in the Express Lane for 10 minutes and really just wanted to speed things up for my own personal gain. That you didn’t seem to have the word “thank you” in your vocabulary didn’t grate on me at first.
But when you didn’t know and subsequently could not find the code for my own purchase, well, I started to recognize a pattern. That you looked up at me and in an exasperated tone said, “Don’t you remember the code?”, well, I got down right ticked off.
Perhaps it was inappropriate of me to insinuate you did not know how to do your job as I passed the half a million other people now waiting in the express line, saying, “Easy… I’ll go get the code for you”. If I did not mention to the other customers that they might as well check themselves out, I certainly should have.
When I returned with the code, you were down right angry and I knew this because of they manner in which you tossed me my change and slammed my purchases towards the conveyor belt.
I am sorry if you do not receive the kind of employee support that you should (computer code look-up). Maybe you had a long day. Maybe you hate your job and are just trying to pay tuition. I guess I just believe that if you sign up to give customers some kind of service, you try your best, even under less-than-ideal condition, to provide it.
Kim
Author’s note: A version of this letter was submitted to Sobey’s through their customer service survey website.
Re: Dear Cafe Amore
Sent: November 12th, 2008
From: Cafe Amore
To: Kim
Dear Kim,
Thanks for your interest. Sorry you’re missing the food. I feel bad, so I’ll tell you what… if you would like a complimentary Mardis Gras pasta and an order of Amore bread just give me a call at the Martindale location and I’ll make a reservation for you and you can enjoy it here.
Lake St. renovation won’t even begin until the new year. Sorry for the inconvenience.
Allan S.
Owner
Author’s note: Allan, that’s crazy! But awesome, and while I did not intend to guilt you into complimentary food, I thank you so much for the kind offer.
From the looks of the Intarweb, you might receive a letter such as this at least once a day, but humour me for just this once.
I can’t remember when I became aware of Moxy Fruvous, but I think it had something to do with a friend’s older brother. Soon, I had the Bargainville tape. And then soon after that, I had to buy that tape again because I’d worn the damn thing out.
I’d been labouring under the false impression that my very first concert was Aerosmith at the Skydome (can we still call it that?), but when I found the copy of the Bargainville CD I received for Christmas last year and popped it in, I realized the truth. My absolute first concert was a Moxy Fruvous show at a shady place called The Hideaway (could it have been anything other than shady with a name like that?) in St. Catharines, ON. It was an all ages show and my friend and I convinced our respective parental units that we could go, and we could go unsupervised. I have a very-much younger sister who is only now 14 and I doubt very much that my father and her mother would let her go to the backyard without adult supervision, but somehow we managed to get the okay.
Perhaps you remember that concert? You were wearing a tucked in plaid shirt and ankle-biter jeans. Oh, wait. That may have been everyone in the bar? It was afterall the hey-day of puffy jeans that hugged the ankle. Anyhow, we stood in the front row and it was the most awesome thing our 14-year old eyes had ever seen. Four men in perfect harmony. And later, you did and encore in your underwear. I think if I had’ve known the word “agog” back then I would have used it to describe how we felt climbing back into the minivan when show ended.
So now, the big question… what happened? Is it because I didn’t buy a t-shirt? Because I would have, if I had not been 14-years old and working for $6.45. I probably spent my HUGE paycheque on lip balm and a Diet Coke before the show. I got a sticker. Clearly, I didn’t do my part to support the band, but I didn’t know too much about indie music back then. I’ve done some digging and as far as I can see, post-2001 there is no more Fruvous. Hiatus? Really?
And I get the whole CBC thing and way to go with the National Post writing gig. A singer gots to get paid, son. But what I wouldn’t give for one crazy reunion, pants or no pants. I’d do it right this time… I’d buy the t-shirt.
Thanks.
Kim Landon
PS… In case you have been thinking about the proper venue for a reunion, I’m holding My First Annual 29th Birthday Party in February 2009. You only say good-bye to your twenties once and I am doing it in style (In so much as giant bash in a rented hall can be considered style… party favours? Would that make it more stylish?) with 100% of the proceeds going to the Niagara Peninsula Children’s Centre. I’m just putting it out there…
Author’s note: This letter was sent to Jian Ghomeshi via the Q website at cbc.ca.
