Cucumbers have Ears, the Mayor Drinks Miller Genuine Draft, and Other Random Tales

TIME

Time is a sneaky character. He gives the illusion of being slow, but when your back is turned, he runs. I feel like he has stolen the month of May from me. But until now, I was too busy to notice. Either he stole my blogging time too or I was just lazy, but in either case, I haven’t updated y’all for almost a month. However this time, I have not received any nasty emails or comments. So if anyone is reading this, the entry may be long. Your eyes may need a few breaks.

THE GREENHOUSE

After being unemployed (and having a hedonistic good time) for nearly a year, I began work at the golf course. Finding that I still had time on my hands and fearing the financial pressures that studenthood brings, I felt it necessary to get another job. Totem was no longer hiring so I took a job at a greenhouse in Redcliff, Greenhouse capital of the Prairies, just outside the Medicine Hat city limits.

If you take a serious drive through town, you’ll agree with the “Greenhouse Capital” moniker. I get up BEFORE 6 am and am melting as the sun makes its way higher into the sky. The people are nice, and I feel like I’m getting to know the cucumber plant quite well. (The ears are the bottom two leaves.) I started the job in time for a new planting and soon the plants will be littered with the green vegetables. Too bad I’m not fond of cukes . . .

The crew I work with mainly consists of women – mainly moms and students. But there are two guys and they are low German speaking Mennonites. They are not the kind of Mennonites who are from Manitoba or Pennsylvania. These are the Mennonites who come up from Mexico. The current two boys are named Jake and Corny. Apparently, the last two Mennonite boys were also named Jake and Corny.

THE GOLF COURSE

Maybe it’s because I know it’s only short term, but right now I really enjoy being a waitress. It’s social and not physically demanding. It can also be downright funny. A few weeks ago, one of the Managers misspelled the name of the course on a sign which he had placed in the clubhouse.

A drunk couple offered to adopt me the other night.

For some reason, my name tag also includes the name of my home town. Everyone can see that I’m “Jennifer from Frontier”. I have had to listen to every stupid joke about the word “Frontier” and every connection anyone has ever had to Frontier. Also I have the pleasure of explaining where it is. And can someone tell me why the word “Frontier” makes everyone think of Vegas?

Another act of crime at the golf course: someone broke into the pro shop. Instead of stealing thousands of dollars worth of gear and clubs, they merely took the cash out of the register. They were arrested the next day when they tried to use a credit card that had been left in the till. I guess that makes them dumber than the kids who burned down the carts.

As I serve in the clubhouse, I am meeting a few Medicine Hat celebrities. Not being from Medicine Hat and not having been in North America much lately, I usually don’t know who they are. The mayor was in the other week. When he told me he wanted to charge his tab to his account, I asked him for his name. I had no idea he was the mayor. Now I hear his name every time I listen to the radio. Oh, I also know a local radio announcer. Now if only I could meet a celebrity that I’d actually heard of . . .

THE BEETLE

If you’ve known me in my North American life post-high school, you know that I drive a pink 1974 Volkswagen Super Beetle. To say it is flashy is putting it mild. Every day, I see someone punch their friend and shout, “Pink Punch Buggy!” When people walk or drive down my street, I see them stare at the bug.

My bug has found another way of attracting attention to itself. I’m used to stares – I mean, I was a white girl in Asia. Yet, I could do without the attention my beetle gets when it backfires, which it has made a nasty habit of doing. As I drive down the street, it farts and I see pedestrians jump straight up in the air.

Okay, a part of me thinks it’s funny.

STUPID SAFEWAY

A year ago, Gregg and I were sitting on the beaches of south east Asia, eating pineapple and avoiding jellyfish. (If we were fighting, sometimes we were avoiding each other. We spent an entire day on Koh Phangyan fifteen feet apart on the beach, ignoring the existence of the other. It was nice to have a day when people didn’t think he was my boyfriend.) Sometimes in the heat of the greenhouse or in the freezing cold of the restaurant’s AC, I pine for the beach. I think of white sand and a dark tan and tropical fish. I think to myself, “A year ago, I was in paradise.” Basking in the sun in the backyard full of dandelions just doesn’t compare to the seashore of the Pacific or the Indian. Man, I wish I was in Thailand, reeking of Hawaiian Tropic and sipping on a banana milkshake.

Right now, Safeway has a promotion. With every purchase, you receive a card with four little doors. Under each door are three symbols. If the three symbols under one door match, you receive the prize the symbol stands for. One of the prizes is a trip to Thailand. Every card Safeway gives me makes me feel like Charlie Bucket looking for the golden ticket and the opportunity to tour Wonka’s factory. I always save it until I get to my pink punch buggy. I take a deep breath, recite the mantra “Thailand . . . Thailand . . . Thailand” and slowly open the doors.

Invariably, I win nothing. I hate Safeway for getting my hopes up.

CODA

My allotted blogging time for today has expired. You’ve been briefly updated on my life with its events and non-events. Someday, I plan to read your blog as well.

If you ever want to come visit, I would serve you some cucumber.