About a month ago, my Dad mentioned Dale Carnegie. I’d actually read one of the Carnegie books a few years ago, when I was still a receptionist, wearing business shirts, ironed dresses and high heels. Last week, it so happened that we arrived in Saskatoon on the night of the last of the twelve class course, in which my Dad was allowed to bring a friend or family member. I’m not exactly sure how to describe the experience except that by the end of some 30 testimonials, I felt I could have been friends with any person in the room. Each one had shown a piece of their heart, shared a goal and in so many words, promised sincerely applied improvement.

Now, all of that sounds a little soppy, and pathetic, and JACINTA, WE DIDN’T COME HERE FOR SELF-HELP! By the second sentence of this post, John, my rugby-playing brother, got the heebie-jeebies, his eyes glazed over, and thoughts of the Fifa World Cup started kicking a soccer ball around his brain. (That is, of course, if he actually read the blog.)

Nonetheless, here’s a toast to self-improvement!

Anna graduated on a Saturday. She wore a beautiful purple gown, with diamond flowers along the folds of the gathered bodice. Please don’t get mad at me, but I didn’t actually take a picture of her dress, or her in her dress. You see… we went for our hair, then for lunch and came home just in time for her to change and drive to school.

But, we had a really nice lunch. Anna’s hair looked like this:

And mine like this:

“Jacinta, doesn’t your hair always look like this?”
“Um yeah… it does. But I paid a nice guy, who was once a rugby player (but who since had to have reconstructive knee surgery – JOHN, I’m lookin’ at you…) to blowdry it with a round brush.” I’m kind of shy that way. Especially with extroverted ex-rugby players who say I’m gonna be a cool mom. And that I have voluptuous hair. That last sentence made me laugh. He really did say that. I didn’t tell him that Christian had put that as a condition in our mariage contract. I cut my hair, Christian leaves.

Anyways. No matter if you’re attending a ceremony in two hours or not, there is always time to eat, and time to take pictures.

As sisters, we agree on those things.

And sometimes, that creativity is awarded.

Bravo Anna! We love you to bits!

Chianti’s is a tiny restaurant with a cosy atmosphere that surprises you when you open the door. It is part of a strip mall whose main feature is the Dollarama a few plain doors down. A server made his way over to us through tables and padded wicker chairs.
“We have a reservation under ‘Chris’”
“Sure! I’ll just go check that.”
He comes back to say there is no Chris in the reservation book. Did we reserve under another name? How about our phone number? We see him flip pages and consult a woman, and the elderly couple between the bar that holds the reservation book, and us at the entrance, is hoping we’ll have a table. Our chances are visibly disappearing. The tables are booked, the reserved card is not for us. The reservation made that morning couldn’t have been – “we’re not open that early” the waiter explains, less charmingly.

We leave. Christian wants to check the number at home. I wait in the car, listening to the radio, checking my hair with manicured hands. He reappears in the driveway and mimes tears running down his face – Marie-Hélène is crying. We cancel our plans and come up with theories to explain why she missed us. In the short 15 minutes we were gone, Grandma and Grandpa had moved her from the Exer-saucer, to the window, to the Jolly Jumper, to a duvet on the floor covered with toys. We ordered pizza for the two of us and shared a glass of water. In lieu of chocolate, we bathed our princess and let Grandma read her bedtime stories, including a book of Touch and Feel Pets that has a cat whose wiskers Marie-Hélène has learned to pull. Grandma and Grandpa left, and we opened our cards over a cup of tea, before watching Lost and going to bed. Valentine’s – the family edition – is lovely… Our princess simply insisted on being part. Next year we’ll have her to pour the wine and light the candles.

So, you understand why I admire entrepreneurs. Which brings me to my sister. I think she bought all our Christmas presents from the sales of her cards. She drew them by hand, phoned every printer in Saskatoon to find one with a reasonable printing price and converted her friends into card-sending, sentiment-noting, users of postage stamps. In this wonderful online age of poking people through Facebook, it’s not a small feat. If you want a pack, please, leave a comment.

They’re in french: Joyeux Noel, Félicitations, Merci beaucoup, Bonne fête and Guéris vite! Fifteen dollars for fifteen cards.

Helmet and goggles? Check! And boots and snow blades?

She approves. If she really wanted to steal away with him, she’d hide herself in his boot, but she worries about the smell. It could curl her hair.

This is the apple tree in our backyard that, three years after being planted, has finally produced apples. Two apples. One for me and one for Christian. Don’t steal ‘em. We think they will be the best tasting apples in the world.