Tradition!

I can’t even type the word “tradition” now without hearing the song from Fiddler on the Roof  and wanting to follow the first with another, louder, “Tradition!”

Last weekend I traveled to Canada for the second annual mother-daughter get-together over the Martin Luther King Jr. long weekend. This year’s entertainment highlight was an Off-Broadway production of Fiddler in Calgary.  I’ve been humming, “Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match! Find me a find!” ever since. It’s really hard to get those songs out of your head and I’m not kidding.

In the vein of traditions, Doug and I stopped at my parent’s ranch before heading north. A night at the ranch means a.) the early morning wakeup call from the rooster and chickens; b.) the real wakeup call from KSEN, the local radio station my parents listen to over breakfast. I woke up during the middle of the Swap-n-Bulletin board.

“This is Sharon, and we’d like to sell our dishwasher. It runs pretty good, but it has a little problem with the soap tray staying open — shouldn’t be too hard to fix. We’re asking $50 or your best offer.”

I put my pillow over my head. I’m not a morning person.

KSEN has always had an entertaining morning radio show, complete with a police report, a discussion with the local used car dealer, and a daily polka that my mother delighted dancing to just as the school bus pulled up in front of our picture window.  Talk about embarrassing!

Anyway, it woke me up in time for us to cross the border at a little border station manned by my least favorite border guard. This guard loves to come up with paranoid theories. Even though he has seen me a thousand times (okay, maybe not a thousand, but a lot) in past crossings he has rerouted me to a different border because he thought that my nephew wasn’t really my nephew, but a man I had married to help me declare Canadian citizenship after crossing the border (Real Story: My nephew was going home from college with a lot of stuff and I was going to a conference). He also detained Doug and I because he thought he had kidnapped me because our last names are not the same.  He took Doug inside to interrogate him and asked, “Who’s the girl?” in a threatening voice. Real Story: Doug and I were just married, without passports (no need for them yet) and on our way to a Bob Dylan concert.

Once we reached Cochrane, Alberta (our final destination) we melted off our border anxieties with a trip to the salon for a mother-daughter pedicure/manicure.

I was good and relaxed before the all-female let’s-help-our-friend-get-through-her-divorce party where we sampled (I’m not kidding) drinks called Sour Pusses. Did you know they have napkins for this kind of party? Awesome!

Canadian women are lovely, but I spent a good chunk of the party either getting attacked by the hostess’s cat (I thought the cat was purring when I petted it because I couldn’t hear over all the loud female voices, but it was actually growling at me), or trying to avoid talking to a Birther conspiracist about Barack Obama  (this was my sole contribution to MLK day).

Between the early morning chickens, KSEN, the Birther theories, and the Sour Pusses I ended up so exhausted that I had to lie down on the hostess’s couch to put my feet up, hoping that I could either fall asleep or convince the rest of my party that 10:00 wasn’t too early to go home.

On Sunday, Laura and I headed to Hot Yoga for a sweaty session of stretching (if you’re curious, hot yoga is like going to a yoga session conducted at a military boot camp in Florida in August but somehow relaxing). Then we all took quick showers before Fiddler, which was awesome (thank you Mom!), and finished the day up with a fried turkey dinner cooked up by the men in our life (and no, I’m not kidding about this either).

What else would you expect from my travels?