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Lapel Pin

Good morning, you three people in Canada who are not with your families today eating a gigantic turkey and getting cranberry sauce stains on your new white shirts.

The photo that got away

Paul and I had just walked further down the subway platform to get away from the two women who were having a fight over the payphone, only to stop next to a group of six scary looking teenagers. Or, rather, I found them scary until I realized that they were using a combination of sign language and lip reading (moving their mouths as if they were speaking, but with no sound) to communicate. Then Paul and I were fascinated and had to drag ourselves onto the subway car when it arrived. As soon as we stepped on, Paul - who has been studying rudimentary sign language - asked if I’d understood any of what they’d said.

Paul asked for a camera for his fifth birthday. Because he already understood how to use my Olympus digital camera, we decided to upgrade and give him the Olympus. He was very excited, and spent the rest of the day taking photos. It wasn’t until six months later that he casually mentioned what he’s actually meant when he’d asked for a camera was a Polaroid.

Virgo: They bring the art of self concealment to a high pitch, hiding their apprehensiveness about themselves and their often considerable sympathy with other people under a mantle of matter-of-factness and undemonstrative, quiet reserve. They are still waters that run deep.

I said that I was sorry we’d misunderstood, but that the digital camera made much more sense, because Polaroid photos cost eighty three cents apiece, while digital photos were free. He countered with saving his allowance. I said I just wasn’t going to buy him a Polaroid, and asked what it was about that particular camera that he liked.

He said it was about being able to hold the photo. I introduced him to the wonderful world of printers, saying that if he took the photo at home, he could have it in his hand within five minutes. He was very pleased with the idea, but we both forgot about it soon afterwards. Yesterday when he brough it up again I said I had to replace the ink cartridges first, which ran $100 and couldn’t be bought for another week.

Which is to say, digital camera photos are not exactly free, but because you pay for the ink in one giant glop they feel free and add to my general misunderstanding of money. There’s a theory that your first memory of money affects how you view it for the rest of your life. My first memory? Eating a dime.

Paul and I spent Tuesday at home, working together on some long overdue learning activities. Yesterday we had to head north to renew our OHIP (Ontario Health Insurance Plan, but probably if you’re reading this on November 25th, you already know that) cards. I went through the house gathering everything we needed: our lease, birth certificates, the sheet of paper from Todd’s work saying they intend to keep him on for at least three years, our work permits.

After a bus and two subway cars, then slogging through the first snow of the year, which would have been a lot more fun if I’d realized it was going to be snowing and made sure Paul was dressed for it, we waited for twenty minutes in the overheated room, only to be told that we needed Todd’s work permit as well. I’d deliberately left it at home, reasoning that because our work permits hinge on Todd’s, there would be some sort of notation of his work permit number on ours. Not so, apparently.

My Canadian friends tell me that when they travel overseas they make sure to wear a little Canadian flag lapel pin on their jackets. Then they watch as the service people treat them with graciousness and civility while looking at the Americans like something they scraped off their shoes. Guess who was the Ugly American yesterday?

Sage WHAT? Look, I HAVE everything ELSE!

Clerk I’m sorry, but I can’t process your cards without your husband’s work permit.

Sage, loudly Listen, we can’t even have permits unless he has one! How could we be standing here with our permits?

Clerk It doesn’t say that on - wait. Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I need the number from his permit. I can’t help you.

Sage, even more loudly Goddamnit! I slogged all the way UP here and now I have to come BACK?

Clerk I’m sorry -

Sage It’s not your damn fault if the damn rules are so stupid.

Clerk, diving for his phone, and for all I know, calling Security

Sage, throwing things into her backpack and almost shouting I’m so pissed OFF! I HATE THIS PLACE! [flounces out]

Later, Paul asked why that guy hadn’t let us renew our cards.

“I behaved really badly,” I said. “I wasn’t mad at that guy, by the way. He was just doing his job. And I wasn’t mad at OHIP either. I was really just mad at myself for not bringing Daddy’s permit.”

So. My apologies, Americans who will now have to deal with this nice clerk who I scarred for life. Maybe you could wear a Canadian flag lapel pin?