Janine the Felon

Today I discovered that there is a warrant for my arrest.

It all started back in my second week of work. It was still May, and my U of C bus pass ran out at the end of April. I didn’t want to buy a May bus pass when I’d only be using it for a week and a half of work, so I found some bus tickets around the house, and when those ran out after a day or two, I bought another book. I had exactly enough to get me through to the end of the month, when I’d buy a June bus pass. It was all organized and perfect. Then, unexpectedly, I had to use two of my bus tickets on the weekend and didn’t give it much thought. BIG MISTAKE.

On May 31, I was running to the ticket validation machine and scrambling through my pockets when I realized—I had no tickets left. Running quickly through my options left me no better off than before. Since I also had no money on me, my only choice would have been to take an extra 5 minutes to run to the bank across the street. But wait, unless I wanted to pay $20 for a single ticket worth $2.75 (the ticket machines don’t give change) I would have to find a store willing to give me change for a twenty. Did I mention that this is all taking place at 7:20 am? I’d have to walk quite a way to get change.

This all puts me in quite the dilemma. You see, I’m an honest person. I don’t like riding the train without a ticket. In fact, on the days where I’ve forgotten my ticket, I’ve been known to buy an extra ticket on the way home to pay for the morning’s free ride. One time I even got to my destination, bought a ticket, and threw it in the garbage. Today, my choice is either take half an hour to somehow get a stupid ticket and be late on my 5^th day of work, or else ride without one, get some cash at lunch, and buy two tickets for the way home. I naively picked the latter option.

Just as I passed University station, three ticket-inspectors revealed themselves and started making their way down the train. They came in from all the entrances and I was trapped. Dang. They gave me a ticket despite all my protestations.

Now, foolishly, I totally forgot about the ticket until I saw it in my wallet early this week. It was due on Tuesday. I read over the back of that smug little pink piece of paper and I saw the words “deadline”, “court appearance”, “overdue” and “warrant for arrest”. Dang, dang, dang! All I could picture was transit cops busting in to my office, looking like the characters from Flashpoint (although I wouldn’t mind Spike or Sam coming to visit…) yelling things like, “Everyone on the ground! Nobody move!” I was suddenly glad that I haven’t officially changed my address yet. If they tried to bust me at home, they’d find Mum and Dad but I’d have flown the coop to my new place. I decided that it was high time I paid my fine and so I headed over to the courthouse at lunchtime. It was surprisingly easy, they didn’t even blink when I handed them my late and unpaid ticket. Perhaps the real surprise and/or miracle, though, was that they didn’t even slap on a late fee. It was still just the original $150 (still a difficult sum to part with). Feeling a little gypped and let down (why weren’t they reading me my Miranda rights and slapping on the cuffs?) I asked about this warrant. “Oh, there’s probably one” the girl replied. “It’ll take 2-3 months for this payment to show up in the police and RCMP databases, though, so keep this proof of payment on you at all times in case you get arrested.” That’s what I’m talking about!

Then the thought occurred to me, “Wait a second… I’m leaving the country in just a few weeks. When they scan my passport, I’ll come up as a wanted fugitive.” I’ve been planning my trip to Boston and Washington DC since, well, June when I impulsively went online and bought myself a ticket on my lunch break. And NO ONE is going to take that trip away from me. So I googled “Calgary Police” on my iPhone and headed over to get things taken care of.

Ten minutes later, and thanks to the nice semi-retired cop who mans the front desk at the Police administration building (apparently where the police go to do union stuff, not issue arrest warrants) I was eventually on my way to the right spot. The kind man acting as both receptionist and security guard wrote me the information I’d need: “316 – 7^th Ave SE, 3^rd floor, Arrest Process Unit”. Yikes. They wouldn’t really arrest me, would they? I decided to chance it.

The Arrest Process Unit was decidedly less intimidating than it sounds. I showed up, talked to a lady behind glass, showed her my ID and the receipt of payment from the courthouse, and then she delivered the verdict: the warrant hasn’t even been officially issued yet! Here I was cowering in fear that the Flashpoint team would be busting into my office any second, and I’m not even officially a wanted person! Unfortunately, she tells me, the warrant is in the process of being issued, so if I don’t want to get arrested whilst returning from vacation, I’ll have to come back when the warrant actually exists to get it cancelled. Until then, she says, “Hold on to that proof of payment for dear life.” Apparently, if I don’t have it on me and I get pulled over for speeding or something, the cops can take me in.

Guess I’ll be driving carefully the next few weeks.

Overall, my brush with the law was exciting, but not everything I ever imagined. I probably watch too much Flashpoint, CSI, Law and Order, Criminal Minds, and Monk for my own good—be warned: real crime is not like tv!

Read today as the opening line in an academic paper on tacit collusion in the UK electricity market:

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that an electricity market with high prices is in want of a remedy."
- Joanne Evans, in "Why did British electricity prices fall after 1998?"

All on my own

Tonight is my first night in my new house. I started paying rent here on July 1st, but since I went away the past two weekends, I didn't have a convenient Saturday to do all my moving. Hence, I've spent the past week's worth of weeknight evenings taking one load at a time in the back of a minivan from Tuscany to Varsity. Luckily, I have a wonderful family that

a) helps me lift heavy things

b) gives me free rein over their minivan

c) has extensive experience assembling knockdown furniture

d) apparently has a great deal of patience

Daddy and I came over exactly one week ago with the major pieces of furniture. The idea was to get it all set up and in place, so that the boxes could get unpacked as they came. Unfortunately, the bed was not quite as cooperative as one might have wished, and although I'm currently laying on a comfy mattress, it's on the floor, surrounded by a mostly assembled bedframe. I feel like a baby in a crib.

The room is full of boxes, some empty, some half full, and others not even opened. I have a grand total of 2 litres of milk, a box or Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and a box of Wal-Mart brand Special K to live on until I get to the grocery store for real. This is the life!

Another Off the Bucket List

Last weekend I completed a goal that I'd had in the back of my head for almost 12 years– I biked the Jasper-Banff highway. It was something I tried when I was around 12 or 13, and that time I didn't make it. Ever since then, I've had a little inkling to try again someday, just to say that I had, and this was the year.

The first time around, my Uncle was taking his Young Men's group to do it and my family decided to join them. I had an old mountain bike that had cost $200 from Costco and all the go get 'em spunk of someone in the seventh grade. I got about 37 km the first evening, but then my cousins arrived and all I wanted to do was hang out with them. I think I ended up biking about 80 km total that weekend.

This time around, I figured I'd do a lot better. I remembered through my rosy-hued glasses of pre-teen memory that while it had been hard, it hadn't killed me, and heck, I've been riding a lot more in the past year than I ever had at my tender younger age. I also had a wonderful road-mountain hybrid bike that would make the long ride less of a chore. His name is Sibelius and I love him more than one really should love a bicycle. Anyway, I was pretty nonchalant about the whole thing.

Until I hit about 75 km on the first day. We were supposed to ride a total of 102 km, ending with a long hill up into the Columbia Ice Fields pass. Right around kilometer 75, when we passed our campground, I thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be nice to just wrap up now? There's a van at the campsite, and it would still be an impressive ride."

Then I realized that stopping at kilometer 75 would just mean that I'd have to try the whole 285-ish kilometer ride again another year in order to gratify my long-buried goal. So I pushed on.

Right around kilometer 94, as I grunted up a steep incline for kilometers on end, I decided that it would be prudent to create a will. Since I was pretty much planning on dying at the top of the hill and never moving again, someone should know who gets dibs on my many assets (in particular, my shoes and my iPhone).

As I rode into the headwind across the final flats, I started to feel sick. Only copious amounts of Gatorade sustained me until I saw the sign saying "Icefield Visitors Centre, 1 km". Then I just wanted to cry. Another whole kilometer? Who were they kidding?

Suffice it to say that when I got back on the seat the next morning, it was a great test of willpower., not to mention the part of my rear that felt like a bike seat had been branded into it, padded shorts and gel seat notwithstanding.

The next two days, although difficult, were less near-death than that perilous first day. The included a lot more downhill and much less headwind. One of the best parts was the last 40 km, riding along highway 1A through the Bow Valley Parkway. By then, songs by The Script and Uncle Kracker, and Barenaked Ladies had gotten me as far as they could, and I needed some new inspiration. It was time to bring out the big guns. My old-time radio shows came on.

It was kind of weird to ride through the beautiful woods and mountains while listening to Relic Radio's The Grove of Ashtaroth, but it did the trick. If those last three hours didn't fly by, at least they didn't drag on.

At the very end, as we rode the last few kilometers into Banff, I was suddenly hit by my 20th wind and I was able to fly into Cascade Park triumphantly, to find that my brother-in-law had been there over an hour already. But do you know what? I didn't even care. It may have felt like death while I was doing it, but now in retrospect, it's an experience that I'm glad I was able to check off while I'm alive.

So what exactly do you do?

Well, I guess it's been a while since I was on here– my wonderful job is keeping me pretty busy, but I love it. So far, whenever anyone asks me what I do and I explain, most of them give me look of sympathy that I have a boring job where I read regulatory documents all day, then I tell them how much I enjoy it and the next look I get from them is more a look of, "Stay away from the crazy person" but I figure there's got to be someone who enjoys this kind of thing.

Earlier this week, I was reading a decision issued by the Alberta Utilities Commission. I came across a little gem of random vocabulary that I though some of you might enjoy. This is all on the public record, available on the AUC website, so I can be absolutely sure I'm not in breach of any of my confidentiality agreements.

"In the view of the MSA this will help to ensure fulsome* and rigorous discussion, in furtherance of the ultimate determination by the Commission.

And later on down the page: *Although the word ‘fulsome’ could mean characterized by abundance and copious supply, this meaning of the word usually connotes a situation of excess. The word’s other meanings, and the most commonly cited ones in any dictionary, are: offensive to the tastes generally, either morally or aesthetically, and exceeding the bounds of good taste. The Commission, however, assumes that the MSA did not intend any of these meanings, but rather meant more complete or comprehensive."

I thought it was hilarious that the AUC had to clarify that the MSA was calling the rigorous consultation progress neither morally nor aesthetically offensive, but rather complete. Kudos to the MSA for using the word 'fulsome' in the first place. MSA, you rock my world.

The Regulator

Today was my first day at my new summer job. For those of you who were unaware, I got a position as a summer research assistant at an Alberta electricity company about two weeks ago. As has been every first day at a new job that i have ever had, today was the longest day of my life. From experience, however, I know that this feeling will pass and soon I'll be passing normal-length days in my spacious cubicle. That's right, spacious cubicle. It's honestly about the same size as my bedroom. I'm trying to figure out which pictures I should bring to add a slight touch of homeyness (I know I'm only there for 3 months, but who wants to look at those grey upholstered walls for 8 hours a day?)

So far, I'm loving the job. I'm assisting in the regulatory department, so already today I got to read over about 70 pages of AESO briefings and industry responses to sum up a brief for the VP. It was kind or a nerve-wracking experience, writing an e-mail brief for the higher-ups on my very first day, but my supervisor seemed to like it and I enjoyed the material I got to read (which may or may not fall under my employee confidentiality agreement, so I'll be refraining from mentioning subjects on my blog for the next few months– I don't want any of you accused of insider trading)

Keep your ears open for further news about fun work stories!

Skiing

One of the things I thought about a lot while in Finland was cross-country skiing. It seemed like my last 5 months were a continuous tempt-fest of kids hauling their skis out after school and skiing all over the woods while I tracted. I was so jealous of these lucky Finnish preteens who lived in a place where impeccable ski trails and virgin snow in the forest was halfway between their apartment and their neighbourhood school. I couldn't wait to get out to the mountains when I got home.

Of course, by the time winter rolled around this year, I had forgotten about my deep yearning for skis on my feet and was ridiculously occupied with five university courses and two part-time jobs. I didn't make it out on cross-country skis until February, when I visited Jaima in Edmonton and accompanied her to Chicks with Sticks, the local ski group. I loved it so much and was finally reminded of my love for outdoor snow sports.

It wasn't until yesterday, however, that the circle was complete. Dad and I made it up to Sunchine for an afternoon of downhill skiing, which I haven't done for over three years. He's been bugging me to go with him all season, but I've either been busy or not feeling like it. Truth be told, it's been so long since I skied that I forgot how much I love it and how much fun it is. Every time Dad suggested a ski day, I would groan inwardly and think, "Why would we drive all that way for a day of sliding down hills with sticks?"

I have repented of that great evil. Yesterday, while cruising down my favourite run at Sunshine, Bye-Bye Bowl, during a moment of bright sunshine, finding patches of soft, white snow, I was reminded of the reasons why I love skiing. Why I've been doing it since I was three years old, why I have up snowboarding after that one lesson, why I am scared of heights and fast speeds with any gear other than skis on my feet and poles in my hand. There's nothing like being in the mountains when it's cold and white and the flakes are flying in your face. Even better is when the sun is glinting off the fresh snow and there's not a cloud in sight, especially if it's -30 degrees and the resort is like a tomb.

Here's to skiing, whether heels strapped down or not.