Dad is Parliament; Mom is RCMP
24/11/07 18:52 Filed in: slice
I never knew that a couple of my law-enforcement friends were celebrities until some women visiting from Texas clued me in.
As a Canadian, I grew up thinking our national police force – the Royal Canadian Mounted Police – were just like cops everywhere. Dressed in their regular blue uniforms with a tool belt full of weapons on their hips, they chase bad guys in their white squad cars and almost always get their man.
As a Canadian, I grew up thinking our national police force – the Royal Canadian Mounted Police – were just like cops everywhere. Dressed in their regular blue uniforms with a tool belt full of weapons on their hips, they chase bad guys in their white squad cars and almost always get their man.
Dad is Parliament; Mom is RCMP
I never knew that a couple of my law-enforcement friends were celebrities until some women visiting from Texas clued me in.
As a Canadian, I grew up thinking our national police force – the Royal Canadian Mounted Police – were just like cops everywhere. Dressed in their regular blue uniforms with a tool belt full of weapons on their hips, they chase bad guys in their white squad cars and almost always get their man.
But when those dudes pull on their red serge jackets and black jodhpurs with their wide-brimmed hats tilted at a jaunty angle and mount their brave steeds – hence the nickname, Mounties – foreign females come running, cameras at the ready!
Sadly enough, fame is a fleeting thing. Most Mounties only wear their flashy getup once a year. They spend the vast majority of their working hours mopping up society's messes.
Which brings me to my point: I don't know how things are set up at your house but at our place mom is the RCMP while dad is Parliament.
Parliament makes the law and Mounties uphold the law. Parliament's offices are on a hill overlooking the common rabble; the RCMP is nose to nose with the rabble-rousers. Parliament dines uptown while the cops can usually be found at the Donut Hole. Parliament jets all over the country dressed in Armani suits. Mounties spend half their life in a patrol car brushing donut crumbs from their shirtfront.
Not too long ago, Parliament decided our 17- and 19-year-old daughters were regarding his vehicles with an attitude of entitlement. Parliament was troubled by this turn of events since those same teenagers are hard pressed to put five bucks in the gas tank.
It was time to pass a law.
So Parliament decreed, “I am taking the Volkswagen (known as the “kid car”) to the airport with me and parking it there for the weekend while I am in Dallas . Mom has the Honda. You girls can find your own transportation this weekend. Maybe by the time I return, you'll be grateful and thankful when we give you the keys.”
Let it be written. Let it be done.
I had a bad feeling about this law right from the start. Within minutes of dad's departure, the first request came in from the younger ingrate: “Mom, I have to be at the school at dawn on Saturday to catch the bus to the Badminton tournament. Can you drive me?”
Moments later, the elder ingrate informed me: “Mom the Formal Shoppe called, my grad dress is in and I have to pick it up before closing time.” We headed into downtown Calgary at rush hour on a Friday afternoon.
And so the weekend went – the RCMP clocked a lot of miles on the patrol car shuttling two girls with valid Driver permits to baby-sitting jobs, church youth group, badminton tourneys, and social gatherings.
But Sunday morning proved the biggest challenge of all. Teaching Sunday School, singing with the worship team, nursery duty, sleepovers agreed to days earlier – in short, the need for four people to come and go at four different times on Sunday morning was a burden too great to bear. It drove the elder ingrate to a criminal act.
When church ended, people milled about and slowly left. I walked out to the parking lot and noticed my car and my daughters were missing. My son and I waited and waited, sitting in the hot sun on the steps of the church. Sunburned and hungry, we anchored a note to the steps with a small rock and walked to a nearby donut shop where we shared a donut with the 35 cents scrounged from the bottom of my purse (cops don't carry a lot of money) and waited another hour.
Apparently our note blew away just after we left and the girls chased all over town looking for us.
We were reunited at last and all the way home the sad tale poured out – “we heard you got a ride home with someone else so we went out for a hamburger and just got home and you weren't there so we went back to the church but your note must have blown away so we had no idea where you were and we've looked everywhere and we're so sorry you got sunburned and please forgive us!” We arrived home for lunch in mid afternoon.
Burning inside and out, the RCMP marched the freshly apprehended criminals to their cells only to be interrupted by the ringing telephone.
“Hey there!” It was the cheerful, familiar voice of Parliament, the lawmaker. “I'm sipping a lemonade in the Dallas airport, waiting for my flight. I'll be home in a few hours. How has your weekend been? Did the girls learn their lesson?”
*********************************************************
I never knew that a couple of my law-enforcement friends were celebrities until some women visiting from Texas clued me in.
As a Canadian, I grew up thinking our national police force – the Royal Canadian Mounted Police – were just like cops everywhere. Dressed in their regular blue uniforms with a tool belt full of weapons on their hips, they chase bad guys in their white squad cars and almost always get their man.
But when those dudes pull on their red serge jackets and black jodhpurs with their wide-brimmed hats tilted at a jaunty angle and mount their brave steeds – hence the nickname, Mounties – foreign females come running, cameras at the ready!
Sadly enough, fame is a fleeting thing. Most Mounties only wear their flashy getup once a year. They spend the vast majority of their working hours mopping up society's messes.
Which brings me to my point: I don't know how things are set up at your house but at our place mom is the RCMP while dad is Parliament.
Parliament makes the law and Mounties uphold the law. Parliament's offices are on a hill overlooking the common rabble; the RCMP is nose to nose with the rabble-rousers. Parliament dines uptown while the cops can usually be found at the Donut Hole. Parliament jets all over the country dressed in Armani suits. Mounties spend half their life in a patrol car brushing donut crumbs from their shirtfront.
Not too long ago, Parliament decided our 17- and 19-year-old daughters were regarding his vehicles with an attitude of entitlement. Parliament was troubled by this turn of events since those same teenagers are hard pressed to put five bucks in the gas tank.
It was time to pass a law.
So Parliament decreed, “I am taking the Volkswagen (known as the “kid car”) to the airport with me and parking it there for the weekend while I am in Dallas . Mom has the Honda. You girls can find your own transportation this weekend. Maybe by the time I return, you'll be grateful and thankful when we give you the keys.”
Let it be written. Let it be done.
I had a bad feeling about this law right from the start. Within minutes of dad's departure, the first request came in from the younger ingrate: “Mom, I have to be at the school at dawn on Saturday to catch the bus to the Badminton tournament. Can you drive me?”
Moments later, the elder ingrate informed me: “Mom the Formal Shoppe called, my grad dress is in and I have to pick it up before closing time.” We headed into downtown Calgary at rush hour on a Friday afternoon.
And so the weekend went – the RCMP clocked a lot of miles on the patrol car shuttling two girls with valid Driver permits to baby-sitting jobs, church youth group, badminton tourneys, and social gatherings.
But Sunday morning proved the biggest challenge of all. Teaching Sunday School, singing with the worship team, nursery duty, sleepovers agreed to days earlier – in short, the need for four people to come and go at four different times on Sunday morning was a burden too great to bear. It drove the elder ingrate to a criminal act.
When church ended, people milled about and slowly left. I walked out to the parking lot and noticed my car and my daughters were missing. My son and I waited and waited, sitting in the hot sun on the steps of the church. Sunburned and hungry, we anchored a note to the steps with a small rock and walked to a nearby donut shop where we shared a donut with the 35 cents scrounged from the bottom of my purse (cops don't carry a lot of money) and waited another hour.
Apparently our note blew away just after we left and the girls chased all over town looking for us.
We were reunited at last and all the way home the sad tale poured out – “we heard you got a ride home with someone else so we went out for a hamburger and just got home and you weren't there so we went back to the church but your note must have blown away so we had no idea where you were and we've looked everywhere and we're so sorry you got sunburned and please forgive us!” We arrived home for lunch in mid afternoon.
Burning inside and out, the RCMP marched the freshly apprehended criminals to their cells only to be interrupted by the ringing telephone.
“Hey there!” It was the cheerful, familiar voice of Parliament, the lawmaker. “I'm sipping a lemonade in the Dallas airport, waiting for my flight. I'll be home in a few hours. How has your weekend been? Did the girls learn their lesson?”
*********************************************************