A Little Gene Pool Cleaning Isn't A Bad Thing

*** continued from previous post ***

We walked into the small side room and . . . OMG! No. Not OMG! ZOMG!!1 I thought to myself, 'Self, you're going to weigh the same as a walrus if you're not careful.' It didn't matter. My brain is second banana to my appetite.

There, spread before us were numerous varieties of salami and 6 different cheeses - hard and semi-soft - and crackers and smoked oysters and caviar and toast points and 5 different breads and jams and jellies and creams and veggies and torts and pastries and cake and pie and cookies galore! There were things that I had not a clue as to their contents, but looked so yummy that I had to taste them.

"Oh my. . . ." Mom said, and steadied herself on my arm. "Oh my. . ."

So this was High Tea. Did you know that High Tea is also referred to as 'Meat Tea' in some parts of the colonies? Now there is an idea I could lend my full support. I might be jumping the gun, but your mom and I might be compelled to move to a more civilized region of the world. One where 'Meat Tea' is an actual event and not a garage band formed by 14 year olds with mimicked ennui and braces.

"There's no way," Mom said as an answer to a question no one had asked.

"I know. But it would be rude not to at least sample these tasty offerings. We don't want to be rude, do we?"

"It hasn't stopped us before."

I shook my head. "This is true, but we are turning over a new leaf. A maple leaf, to be exact. It's time to embrace our considerate side, our 'inner Canadian', if you will."

Mom was still staring at the vast array of goodies splayed before us like offerings at the Temple. "And if that involves meat and pastries?"

“It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make."

"Me too," Mom said, whereupon we dove into the feast like bulimic cheerleaders at a chocolate factory.

We returned to the dining room, and to our seats, where we spent the next hour playing cribbage, nibbling and noshing our way to that time-honored American tradition - obesity. It was a grand voyage punctuated by shouts of 'fifteen-two' and 'fifteen-four' and 'stop cheating ya bastard!'. After an hour or so of this delightful diversion, I looked to your mom and said, "I have to stop eating. It's only 3 hours 'til dinner."

"I know," Mom said, cramming the last few bites of a tort into her mouth.

"I mean seriously. I feel like a beached whale." I patted my expanding girth. "I wonder if I could sue for obesity?"

"Not in Canada.” Mom managed, around the remainder of a chocolate-chip cookie. "Now if we were back home, in the US, then sure. I'd say sue away. But I don't think they have the same level of love for frilly lawsuits up here."

She could be right. Here is another thing about Canada: In THE STATES if you stop at some natural wonder, in a state or national park, the view is usually obscured by 27 signs telling you what not to do followed by a chain-link fence with barbed wire. In Canada, you can drive to a designated overlook, hundreds of feet of sheer cliff, and there will be a small fence. And that's it. No 'DON'T CROSS THE FENCE', or 'KEEP AWAY FROM EDGE, or 'DO NOT THROW STUFF OFF THE LEDGE - THERE ARE PEOPLE BELOW' or 'DON'T FEED THE BEARS CARAMELS FROM YOUR LIPS". In Canada, they treat you like an adult. You want to walk to the edge of what, by any standards is an unsafe cliff? Then be their guest. You want to dive off the ledge into the spillway of a Dam? S'okay with them. I have a feeling that the Darwinian concept is fully embraced up here. Little gene pool cleaning isn't necessarily a bad thing in the great white north.

"Are you telling me that I may have to actually bear the consequences of my actions?"
"Fraid so," she said, patting my arm.

I stared at her long and hard. "That's crazy talk."

"I know sweetie, and you can go back to your blame-less ways as soon as we cross the border."

I found this vaguely comforting.


*** the journey continues ***