The Citiots skip the GNE this year …

         

          Yes, back in 2009 I did blog about the GNE becoming an annual tradition. And we did go back in 2010 and 2011, but by 2011, due to certain circumstances, it just felt awkward. So we skipped it for 2012. And we’re skipping it for 2013, too. This year, the weather is helping our decision along. We had torrential rain overnight and into this afternoon as the remnants of Tropical Storm Manuel fed moisture into huge swaths of Ontario, Collingwood included. 

          The GNE fairgrounds are muddy at the best of times, so I can only imagine the conditions today. Sure, I have cowboy boots, blue jeans and even a check flannel shirt to keep me warm now that Manuel has passed by and the cold front has reached our area, but truth be told, I bought my boots at a trendy shoe store in Gastown, a touristy shopping area in Vancouver, BC. They're Boulets, so I guess they have some street cred in terms of being a legitimate work boot, but when I bought them, (well over a decade ago) I wanted fashion and not function. I would never dream of getting them covered up in muck and cow poop! And my shirt is Eddie Bauer, not Carhartt. They were all the rage two winters ago.

          To be honest, the GNE has lost its appeal for me. Much like the Collingwood Elvis Festival, it’s hard to attend every year and not get bored eventually. You can only look at cows, sheep, chickens, rabbits and vintage tractors so many times before exhibition fatigue sets in. I’m not into competitive baking, quilting or canning either, and since I didn’t get to taste any of the contenders, I can’t comment on the subtle differences of one jar of strawberry jam versus another. The butter tarts, maybe – some contain raisins, some not. But that’s about as far as my “expertise” extends, and it’s certainly not enough to make me want to look at the contest entries year after year. 

          There is, however, still a lot about the GNE that I would want to go back for: I love the entertainment, especially the fiddle contest. I also enjoy watching the junior and senior ambassadors give their speeches. I applaud them their courage in standing up and speaking to a crowd of strangers, albeit friendly and supportive ones, and I feel their nerves along with them. And the French fries are delicious in the food area!

          Yes, I still envy the regular attendees their connectivity to the community and its various functions. I still want to become a local. But I understand now that I’ll never be a 4-H local. And that’s okay.

One of the Citiots earns his nickname …

I’ve been in Collingwood since yesterday, and went out with my Collingwood gal pals for our monthly WoW get-together last evening. (More on the Women of Wordstock later – I promise!) As always, we had a fabulous time together.

Dave and our dog Lola McPoopie – yes, she has her own last name – are scheduled to arrive this evening. Dave and I switched cars for this trip, allowing me to enjoy Collingwood without the responsibility of taking care of the dog. No late night, middle of the night, or early morning walks for me. Yay! Since Lola is only allowed to travel in the oldest car, the switch made sense. Until last evening.

Having left my iPhone downstairs to charge, I do not hear the phone ring this morning. When I do retrieve it, I listen to a voice mail from Dave, asking me if Pam, my trusty GPS (Pam – “map” spelled backwards – clever, or cutesy? I digress …) was in my glove box. I don’t see why it wouldn’t be; it’s where she always lives. He asks me because he did not lock my car when he came home at 7:30 last evening. Oh, he locked it at 1:30AM when he went to bed, but for six hours my car sat, unsecured, in our driveway.

When Dave got into my car this morning, he noticed that there were several napkins strewn on the floor of the passenger seat. These would be the extra napkins from Subway. They always give people too many! He also noticed that his work keys were missing from the center console. Oh oh.

Now, I don’t really care about losing Pam. It is annoying and inconvenient, but Dave did invite a thief to steal it. What I do care about is the key ring. We may know that the keys are not to our house, but the thief won’t. And since we’re both away this weekend, I’m nervous. In my mind, Dave has now hung a giant neon sign on our front door that says “Open”. Come on in, thieves! We are too stupid to lock our car. Why not give the house a try? I’m sure you can find a way in! I go into survivalist mode.

I send an email to my neighbours Wendy, Janet and Sandi, who are now on high alert. I call our Toronto real estate agent Brent; our back yard was staged and photographed on Wednesday (more on that later, too!). The pool area was left unlocked today, in case the stagers were coming by to pick up their furniture. They are not. (Their pillows, towels and cushions are all under my patio umbrella, but that may not stop them from getting wet, what with this weekend’s predicted rainfall. Oh, well.)

Sandi gets conscripted by Wendy to go lock our pool gate, since Wendy was out of the house when I sent the email request. She does so in a flash. Wendy will park her car in our driveway this weekend, and her husband John will be extra vigilant of our back yard.

I email Dave about half a dozen times, with instructions on what to do to secure our home. This includes locking our screen doors, adding a padlock to the first gate into our back yard (from the inside, so you’d need to be in the yard in order to access it), and putting all of our poolside furniture into the pool area because the stagers removed almost all of it. It’s crowded by the pool now, but who cares? I also ask him to hide the key to the double deadbolt we have on the back door. Dave installed the kind of lock that requires the use of a key on either side of the door, but we usually leave the key right beside the door. Counterproductive? Perhaps, but convenient when life is good and you haven’t been ripped off.

There is a bright side to this story: I have amazing neighbours. And the thief was too stupid to notice that there was a 160GB iPod docked inside the glove box. If he had taken that, I would have been really pissed!

There is no need to be angry with Dave. I’m sure he’s far madder at himself than I could ever be. So let’s leave it at that. But I can say that he has now officially earned the nickname “citiot”. Though in fairness, this could happen anywhere idiots leave their cars unlocked. Another lesson learned.

The Citiot is back ... with a vengeance!

          Well there you have it. Time has passed, life has been lived, relationships have transitioned and lessons have been learned. But I’m back. And unapologetic for my absence. There are plenty of reasons for my “radio silence”, but in the end, do any of them matter? 

In the summer of 2012, I came the closest ever to becoming a local – by spending almost three months in Collingwood full-time, while we underwent a complete first floor renovation back in Toronto. I learned not to drive as fast as I did in the Big City, and not to mind the slower pace. I learned how to become a weekend wife. I made do with hitting the mute button during television commercial breaks, rather than pausing the TV and fast forwarding through them, like I do in Toronto with my beloved PVR. I learned how to time my dog’s walks so that she wouldn’t ask to go out in the middle of the night, or very early in the morning. In Collingwood, it’s not as simple as opening the back door. At Lighthouse Point you have to walk your dogs, on leash, to get them to do their business. But I managed.

The most important lesson I learned in the fall of 2012 was that some people would rather hang on to hurt and anger than to confront the reason they feel that way. A friendship that I had treasured for a decade and a half came to a screeching halt one fateful Friday afternoon. I won’t go into specifics. Like the Blue Rodeo song says, “After so long, nobody’s wrong. After so long, nobody’s right”. Do I miss the friendship? Yes. Of course I do. But (and this is the only time I’ll refer to the event, what led up to it, and the fallout afterwards) you don’t get to talk about and to me that way and expect to remain friends. It just doesn’t work that way. 

And with that, I take a deep breath, slowly release it, and move on. I’m sitting on my deck at Lighthouse Point, enjoying the unseasonable warmth, occasionally picking up my binoculars and watching swans and sailboats on Georgian Bay, and writing. Most importantly, I’m writing. 

The Citiot is back, baby! But with a twist. Rather than deny my ties to the Big City, I’m going to embrace them. I love Collingwood. But I also love Toronto. Many people hate T-Dot. They hate the town without ever having lived there. They hate the people who live there, without even knowing them. They’re wrong. 

Time to get moving. I want to get in a quick run before I get ready to meet my Collingwood gal pals for our monthly WoW dinner. (Women of Wordstock – I’ll have to write about that some day.) 

Oh, and happy International Talk Like a Pirate Day, everyone!