Little Doubt on the Prarie

I once had a person from New Minas, Nova Scotia apologize to me for being from Newfoundland.
She asks where I'm from. I tell her. She says, "Oh, I'm sorry."
The irony comes into play only after you have personally visited New Minas.
People from Ontario are the ones who mispronounce Newfoundland most consistently. Even the French fuck it up less. And they speak a different language.
They say that Newfies are the simple ones. I'd elect that it's the group who hasn't learned the names of all of the provinces of their own country by the time they're 20. Call me whacky.
"Well, I've never been there," they often say.
I counter that I have never been to Sasketchewan, but I know how to say it.
And that name is far more complicated. No place name needs that many vowels.
Sasketchewan is the reject province, by the way. Even people from Sasketchewan can't say where they're from with a straight face.
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"So am I," they'd likely reply.
But people do miss the Jets.
I had a thing for a girl from Sasketchewan once, which I didn't really see coming.
Dana.
It was a pretty decent obsession I had. And to this day I'm not sure what the cause of it was.
I think I was primarily attracted to her because she had piercings that I wouldn't be willing to get myself.
Big smile. I'm into big smiles, maybe.
Matt Cooke gave me her number. He has many siblings, Matt Cooke.
I wrote it on my arm. I was drunk.
We had coffee once. I thought it went well.
But I'm not that perceptive.
Which is possibly just as well. Her taste in music was simply awful.
"Won't return my calls, will you? Well, once I start my blog you'll get it!"