Monday, July 18, 2005
Is this a rut?
I have noticed lately that the updates to my once well-tended blog here have been few and far between. I see others’ journals, all updated and written-in, and am sad that I have nothing to report. And it’s not that I just don’t have time (although I don’t, really, I’m stealing time from work at this very minute), it’s that I really have nothing to elaborate on in order to stretch it into a worthy entry. Sure, my entries are long. But that’s because I care, people. Because I CARE.
The trick is that I’m slipping into a rut. I can feel it. I know from ruts, folks. I have been in long, long ruts for many a year here or there. College ruts, working-a-menial-job ruts, dating-a-jackass ruts, you name it. I can spot a rut miles away.
The problem with this particular rut is that it defies definition. It’s not a typical rut in that I get up, go to work, come home, go to bed, and then do it all over again the next day. No, this rut is different. This rut involves getting up, going to work, then various strange activities in the afternoons/evenings. Mostly boring activities, like work-related meetings, or cleaning the house, or working on something to do with either the condo or the house.
Oh, say… I do have some news. Last week, we sold the condo. Finally. I will tell you all about it after I am finished telling you about the rut.
So these afternoon/evening activities, if you can call them that, are sapping the life out of me. Oh, I complain. I complain bitterly. I also keep in mind how lucky I am to have such a life of leisure, and that my biggest worries are the work I have to do on the HOUSE I LIVE IN, the many VEHICLES WE DRIVE, caring for the GARDEN I GET TO PLAY IN, or going to the JOB THAT PAYS ME. Yes. Burdens, every last one of them, right? No. But they can cause a bit of a rut.
Like the housecleaning, for instance. We were in so much of a down-swing this past weekend that we didn’t even clean the house. We worked at one of my properties instead, cut down a few errant trees and brought the wood and debris back to the house. I am having a hard time getting my trades to do the little things. And of course, it is the little things that get noticed by the Boards… So Rob is going to start up a little business, incorporate and I can have him do these small jobs and get paid. He’s so handy!! And this way, everyone wins – the Boards’ small jobs get done, first thing, he’ll be less expensive than the contractors I tend to use for a second thing, and this way, he doesn’t have to find another job when the TELUS union goes on strike. So it’s all good. I hope.
However, it does add to our list of things we have to do. See, now instead of just doing work at home, we have to add in doing work at the condos, too.
I didn’t feel very sociable over the weekend. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m getting depressed about my hair or what. But we went to a wedding shower for Teron, and it was alright, but after about an hour, I really wanted to go home. And Rob had abandoned me to go and get another beer, but never came back. So there I was, sitting in a lawn chair, surrounded by couples and families and children, just sitting there by myself. Not that I don’t love Teron – I do. They’re great! And fun! But the situation made me feel out of place, and I’m trying to work with these issues I have with feeling out of place.
I think the hair thing is key. I notice whenever my hair starts to fade out, nothing else is right. I mean, the clothes don’t fit right, my shoes feel funny, the car feels off, I feel like I can’t talk, I know people are disrespecting me every where I turn… So one of the largest contributors to the rut is the hair. I will be trying to get a hair appointment this week sometime. I have to book something during the week because on the weekend, I have a get-together to go to in Banff, and the only day my hairdresser works on the weekend is Saturday.
Oh, and that’s ANOTHER thing: the get-together is a stagette party for Hailey, of Tony and Hailey, and at this party, we are going to the Banff Springs Spa. The girls all chose various spa treatments to have done, and if you didn’t speak right up about what sort of massage or mud bath you wanted, you ended up with having your nails done. I have never, ever, in my life, had my nails done. I am not at all sure what to expect. I’m not sure if I should cut them before I go, or if they’ll do it there. I’m not sure if they’ll put polish on them or what. I’m a little nervous. I have a strange fear and loathing of the nail clippers. I never, ever clip my nails. My toenails, sure, but not my fingernails. For my fingernails, when they get too long, I just file ‘em down. I make ‘em nice and pointy, too, so if a serial killer tries to kill me, I’ll just scratch him with my very long, pointy nails and there will be trace evidence under the nails, but the killer will also bear the mark of my scratches that the forensics people can match up. Ha!! They are also handy for opening plastic bags without having to go and get the scissors.
I also leave my nails fairly long, too. Nature’s cycle dictates that they’ll grow really nicely for a while, then I’ll catch one on a flying dog or in a gate somewhere, and it will snap, and then in sympathy, all the other nails will snap or get caught on something and I’ll start over with much shorter nails again. So I’m a little nervous about having my nails done. I’m just not that kind of girl. I can’t relax while someone works on my nails. I mean, it took me more than ten years to get to the point where I was comfortable having my hair done, and I relax now more because I know my hairdresser pretty well and I like what she does. I don’t know if I’ll ever be comfortable with someone filing my nails for me.
Especially for money.
It’s not that I’m cheap. Oh, I can pinch a penny, sure, but I can also drop a grand and just shrug “oh, well”. It’s that what I spend my money on has to be worthwhile or justified in my mind, and spending money on someone filing my nails really makes me nervous.
Ok. So lemme tell you about the sale of my condo (again). It’s sold. Yay! See how easy that was? The right person just had to see it, was all. It’s a nice little place – three bedrooms up, nice big kitchen down, living room off the kitchen, basement partially finished… you get the idea. It’s a condo, not a luxury mansion. So this woman came and saw it last week, and then came back with her realtor and her kid and her dad and her dad’s wife… and all these people traipsed through it, and her dad made such un-useful comments like “I don’t see that you put in the electrical box right – it’s gonna leak cold air all winter…” to which I had to reply “No, we wired it professionally – we use the little plastic pocket-sleeve-thingies to prevent any cool air from coming around the switches…” and he looked suitably impressed. I think she liked it, though, because her realtor then dropped an offer at my house that evening, and I countered (because the realtor wants some money for doing the deal, and I am opposed to that, so had to build it back in to the sale price), and they accepted, and that was it. It’s now sold. The realtor is a bit of a tenacious thing – when I don’t answer her call or call her back within one minute of her call, she will call continuously every minute until I either answer or call back myself. When in reality, what I feel like doing is throwing the phone into the river. Or possibly the realtor...
I have learned one thing from this entire process: I am so terribly, terribly bad at these sorts of things. I cannot sell. I have a principle: if you want it, buy it, and if you don’t want it, don’t buy it. I can’t make you want something. I don’t want to make you want something. I can show it to you, I can say “here it is, I think it’s nice…” and if you like it, you can buy it. If you don’t want it, just don’t call me. I’m cool with that. It was getting to the point where I was going to have to have Rob deal with the people because he’s so much more a people person than I am.
But it has sold, and I am glad, and providing their home inspector doesn’t discover the killer bees nesting nearby, the sale should go through just fine.
(I have killer bees, possibly, at that property, since I manage it as well. Had I forgotten to tell you all about that? Well, the exterminator thinks they’re Africanized honeybees, but the jury is still out – I am having a few dead samples sent over to the university for identification and will post a whole ‘nother story about it…)
The trick is that I’m slipping into a rut. I can feel it. I know from ruts, folks. I have been in long, long ruts for many a year here or there. College ruts, working-a-menial-job ruts, dating-a-jackass ruts, you name it. I can spot a rut miles away.
The problem with this particular rut is that it defies definition. It’s not a typical rut in that I get up, go to work, come home, go to bed, and then do it all over again the next day. No, this rut is different. This rut involves getting up, going to work, then various strange activities in the afternoons/evenings. Mostly boring activities, like work-related meetings, or cleaning the house, or working on something to do with either the condo or the house.
Oh, say… I do have some news. Last week, we sold the condo. Finally. I will tell you all about it after I am finished telling you about the rut.
So these afternoon/evening activities, if you can call them that, are sapping the life out of me. Oh, I complain. I complain bitterly. I also keep in mind how lucky I am to have such a life of leisure, and that my biggest worries are the work I have to do on the HOUSE I LIVE IN, the many VEHICLES WE DRIVE, caring for the GARDEN I GET TO PLAY IN, or going to the JOB THAT PAYS ME. Yes. Burdens, every last one of them, right? No. But they can cause a bit of a rut.
Like the housecleaning, for instance. We were in so much of a down-swing this past weekend that we didn’t even clean the house. We worked at one of my properties instead, cut down a few errant trees and brought the wood and debris back to the house. I am having a hard time getting my trades to do the little things. And of course, it is the little things that get noticed by the Boards… So Rob is going to start up a little business, incorporate and I can have him do these small jobs and get paid. He’s so handy!! And this way, everyone wins – the Boards’ small jobs get done, first thing, he’ll be less expensive than the contractors I tend to use for a second thing, and this way, he doesn’t have to find another job when the TELUS union goes on strike. So it’s all good. I hope.
However, it does add to our list of things we have to do. See, now instead of just doing work at home, we have to add in doing work at the condos, too.
I didn’t feel very sociable over the weekend. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m getting depressed about my hair or what. But we went to a wedding shower for Teron, and it was alright, but after about an hour, I really wanted to go home. And Rob had abandoned me to go and get another beer, but never came back. So there I was, sitting in a lawn chair, surrounded by couples and families and children, just sitting there by myself. Not that I don’t love Teron – I do. They’re great! And fun! But the situation made me feel out of place, and I’m trying to work with these issues I have with feeling out of place.
I think the hair thing is key. I notice whenever my hair starts to fade out, nothing else is right. I mean, the clothes don’t fit right, my shoes feel funny, the car feels off, I feel like I can’t talk, I know people are disrespecting me every where I turn… So one of the largest contributors to the rut is the hair. I will be trying to get a hair appointment this week sometime. I have to book something during the week because on the weekend, I have a get-together to go to in Banff, and the only day my hairdresser works on the weekend is Saturday.
Oh, and that’s ANOTHER thing: the get-together is a stagette party for Hailey, of Tony and Hailey, and at this party, we are going to the Banff Springs Spa. The girls all chose various spa treatments to have done, and if you didn’t speak right up about what sort of massage or mud bath you wanted, you ended up with having your nails done. I have never, ever, in my life, had my nails done. I am not at all sure what to expect. I’m not sure if I should cut them before I go, or if they’ll do it there. I’m not sure if they’ll put polish on them or what. I’m a little nervous. I have a strange fear and loathing of the nail clippers. I never, ever clip my nails. My toenails, sure, but not my fingernails. For my fingernails, when they get too long, I just file ‘em down. I make ‘em nice and pointy, too, so if a serial killer tries to kill me, I’ll just scratch him with my very long, pointy nails and there will be trace evidence under the nails, but the killer will also bear the mark of my scratches that the forensics people can match up. Ha!! They are also handy for opening plastic bags without having to go and get the scissors.
I also leave my nails fairly long, too. Nature’s cycle dictates that they’ll grow really nicely for a while, then I’ll catch one on a flying dog or in a gate somewhere, and it will snap, and then in sympathy, all the other nails will snap or get caught on something and I’ll start over with much shorter nails again. So I’m a little nervous about having my nails done. I’m just not that kind of girl. I can’t relax while someone works on my nails. I mean, it took me more than ten years to get to the point where I was comfortable having my hair done, and I relax now more because I know my hairdresser pretty well and I like what she does. I don’t know if I’ll ever be comfortable with someone filing my nails for me.
Especially for money.
It’s not that I’m cheap. Oh, I can pinch a penny, sure, but I can also drop a grand and just shrug “oh, well”. It’s that what I spend my money on has to be worthwhile or justified in my mind, and spending money on someone filing my nails really makes me nervous.
Ok. So lemme tell you about the sale of my condo (again). It’s sold. Yay! See how easy that was? The right person just had to see it, was all. It’s a nice little place – three bedrooms up, nice big kitchen down, living room off the kitchen, basement partially finished… you get the idea. It’s a condo, not a luxury mansion. So this woman came and saw it last week, and then came back with her realtor and her kid and her dad and her dad’s wife… and all these people traipsed through it, and her dad made such un-useful comments like “I don’t see that you put in the electrical box right – it’s gonna leak cold air all winter…” to which I had to reply “No, we wired it professionally – we use the little plastic pocket-sleeve-thingies to prevent any cool air from coming around the switches…” and he looked suitably impressed. I think she liked it, though, because her realtor then dropped an offer at my house that evening, and I countered (because the realtor wants some money for doing the deal, and I am opposed to that, so had to build it back in to the sale price), and they accepted, and that was it. It’s now sold. The realtor is a bit of a tenacious thing – when I don’t answer her call or call her back within one minute of her call, she will call continuously every minute until I either answer or call back myself. When in reality, what I feel like doing is throwing the phone into the river. Or possibly the realtor...
I have learned one thing from this entire process: I am so terribly, terribly bad at these sorts of things. I cannot sell. I have a principle: if you want it, buy it, and if you don’t want it, don’t buy it. I can’t make you want something. I don’t want to make you want something. I can show it to you, I can say “here it is, I think it’s nice…” and if you like it, you can buy it. If you don’t want it, just don’t call me. I’m cool with that. It was getting to the point where I was going to have to have Rob deal with the people because he’s so much more a people person than I am.
But it has sold, and I am glad, and providing their home inspector doesn’t discover the killer bees nesting nearby, the sale should go through just fine.
(I have killer bees, possibly, at that property, since I manage it as well. Had I forgotten to tell you all about that? Well, the exterminator thinks they’re Africanized honeybees, but the jury is still out – I am having a few dead samples sent over to the university for identification and will post a whole ‘nother story about it…)
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Why can't they all be long weekends?
It was a long weekend here in Canada in celebration of Canada Day (July 1). We have ours early, before the Yanks really get to celebrating down yonder. Probably just because of that, come to think about it. That way, we can be nice and recovered by the time our brethren are staggering around with the after-effects the better to make fun of them, or we can be nice and recovered so we can join in. Heh.
So it being a long weekend, what do you think I was doing? Camping? Well, you’d be nearly right. We went to the cabin this weekend. The cabin Rob’s family owns is in BC on the Shushwap lake (pronounced “shoo-shwap”), and although if you calculate up the distance, it’s really not that far, but if you have to go by the roads provided, it’s about an eight-hour drive away. So it’s far, but it gives the impression that it’s manageable, like you could leave after work and get to the cabin that night.
Which is exactly what we did last Thursday. I sneaked out (read: loudly announced I was leaving and could stand no more of this foolishment) a little early and met Rob at the house. I had not been able to pack at all the previous two evenings due to condo meetings, and we had a huge list of tasks to check off before we could leave. Pack clothes – check. Pack cooler – check. Make list of groceries to get on the way out – check. Remember that laundry is in the dryer and have to wait for it to dry – check. Organize cat area – check? No, not check.
Part of the consternation surrounding the weekend involves the preparation for leaving, which is always worse than the leaving itself. This weekend, however, the largest part of that consternation involved arranging for cat care while we were gone. Normally, I take the cats over to their grandparents’ house and they enjoy the vacation as much as we do. This weekend, though, there was a wrench in the machinery, and that wrench is my sister Lala. She is staying at my parents’ place during her breakup with her sometime-fiance long-term boyfriend (of TEN YEARS). Now, I am a bit of a fan of the almost-ex, he’s a decent enough kind of guy, but they have ten years of up and down history, and apparently, Lala has had enough and wants to enjoy her life rather than just slide through it like the rest of the world, which is a noble aspiration. Good luck to her, I say, but damn, did that put a crimp in my planning. You see, Lala is allergic to the cats, and therefore they could not go and stay with the grandparents because she would have seized up like a car running without oil. Poor things, all of ‘em.
So when I came to this realization, it was Tuesday morning, and we had approximately two days to find replacement arrangements. Most of our friends were going away for the weekend, it being a long weekend and all, so it looked like we would have to cancel the plans and stay home to look after the cats, until a friend of Rob’s called back and said she could stay at the house and care for them, except for Saturday overnight, when she was set to go camping. So my friend Bargains from work here said that since she lives so close, she could just zip over and feed the little beggars on Saturday evening and Sunday morning. “The guests are met, the feast is set, May’st hear the merry din?”
Where was I? Organize cat area – check. Pack dog bags – check. Find flashlights and extra batteries – check. Remember jackets and other exterior wear – check. Throw in extra sandals and last-minute snacks – check. Get in car – check. Leave – check. Stop for groceries – check. Battle traffic heading out of the city – check.
Now, I’ve talked about this before, but the traffic through the mountain pass is idiotic. The Trans-Canada highway, the road that connects sea to sea, is clogged like a fat man’s artery going through the mountain passes. The downhill stretches are lined with semis unable to go faster than 40 km/hr because if they do, they’ll wreck their brakes and go sailing over the cliffs. The uphill stretches are painful, and even if you’re lucky enough to get a passing lane, every single slow-moving vehicle you have been cursing for the past several miles speeds the hell up like they were injected with the spirit of Mario Andretti and they refuse to cede position. Even the motorhomes. Who are ostensibly trying to pass the semis, who are ostensibly trying to pass the motorhomes. Fuckers, every single last one of them. This detracts from your average speed, and adds to the overall driving time. I’m competitive enough that I can usually get around them, but man, did we see some ass moves on the way out. Like the one asshole in the red Sunfire (hello, you were driving a SUNFIRE, jackass) pull out on what was clearly NOT marked as a passing lane and whip by a line of traffic I had been doggedly working my way around, head right on up in the opposite lane towards a corner, where I (and no-doubt the idiot driver) could clearly see the semi coming in the other direction. The poor semi had no way of seeing this asshole because he was facing the other way, and the view was obscured by trees, but in the dusk, we could see his headlights coming. The Sunfire shithead pulled back into the lane, cutting off an innocent bystander just as the semi driver noticed him and jerked visibly. Poor semi driver. It’s morons like that who make their jobs more difficult.
Anyway, we managed to find our way to the Malaquois. I have no idea how that road is spelled, but that is how it sounds. It loosely qualifies as a road, in that there is a cut through the forest. This cut line is filled with rocks and potholes, and on the way in, we probably blew a rear strut. By that time, it was dark and Rob took over the driving (because theoretically, he knew the road). The banging at the back of the car disturbed poor Cooter so much that he crawled right up into the front and sat on my lap for a good portion of the way in. There is a fork in the road that we have to turn at, and although we did make A turn at A fork in the road, it was, sadly, not the right fork. So we traveled a good extra twenty minutes (ten minutes out and ten minutes back after Rob figured out we were headed the wrong way) over this hazardous terrain.
Finally, my brain gave up. And in spite of the rough road and ‘80s tunes, I nodded off. When I woke up, we were pulling in to the parking spot (a small patch off the side of the road that had been somewhat cleared of vegetation) and managed to hike our way in to the cabin. I didn’t even fall off the little bridge you have to cross, so I figured we were ahead of the game. That being said, however, we didn’t hang around that evening at all since it was 2a – we went straight to bed.
Friday was a great day. It was nice and sunny when we woke up, and the dogs went out to play with our friends’ dogs, and we had a nice breakfast (bacon, of course) and made our way down to the beach. The NoodleDog and Cooter were playing with Taron’s dogs (Bitchy Bailey and Daisy the Horse), and Terra (1/2 of Taron) remarked that the NoodleDog’s tail looked a little funny. And sure enough, it did. Rather than its customary salute all high and waggy and a little curled, it drooped sadly. Upon further inspection, we discovered it was a little broken down. Perhaps sprained. It didn’t seem to bother him much that day, though, because he was busy swimming in the water fetching sticks. This came from the dog who wouldn’t even get his feet wet last year. This year, he couldn’t stay out of the water. Even if you didn’t throw a stick, he’d still swim around looking for one to bring back. He loved it!
But Saturday morning, though, the NoodleDog was in pain. His tail was sore and he was sad, so we called the vet on the 3-watt phone. Rob explained we were “in the deep bush in BC” and we didn’t know what to do for him. The vet said it would be alright to give him asprin for the pain, and asprin is also a little bit of an anti-inflammatory, so it helped.
We spent the rest of the weekend relaxing with Taron and enjoying the outdoors. Rob went swimming (I did not – the water was cold and I am a wuss), I sat on the beach, the dogs frolicked, we ate very well and slept hard.
Monday morning, we left. The leaving is just a little bit easier than getting ready to go, but a lot less fun and fraught with the dread of returning to civilization. To make matters worse, the shock was banging pretty hard on the Malaquois, and sure enough, I ended up with a dog in my lap most of the way. About halfway along that road, Rob stopped the car and listened intently out the window. A faint hissing could be heard. And lo, there was a flat tire – rear passenger side. We hauled everything out of the trunk and piled it on the side of the road, jacked up the car and put on the compact spare. A lengthy discussion was had in the car as to the merits and qualities of the compact spare – was it rated for 50 km/hr or 80 km/hr? The book says that the compact spare is rated for 5000 km (3000 miles) so you can “finish your trip and have the tire repaired where you want when you get home”. Heh. That being said, however, Rob did not feel comfortable driving on the spare the whole way back, so when we got to the little gas station at the main highway, we inquired as to whether they could help us out at all, and help us they did. They were great – they found us a tire just about the same size as we needed, and put it on the rim for us and everything. I will always remember them and will always stop there for gas or whatever to try and pay them back.
We caught up to Taron at the Denny’s in Revelstoke as planned, if an hour late. We had a lunch, but the service was horrible. Abysmal, even. I won’t be stopping there ever again. We kept on trucking and actually traffic wasn’t as bad as on the way out, so we made good time getting home.
We sort of unpacked, and are recovering, but there isn’t much time. Period. No time, no time. Work is insanely busy, still, and even though the rain seems to have let up here, everything is behind schedule from the entire month of June. I have projects from May that were supposed to be scheduled that have all been deferred until the water leaks can all be addressed, so I have some unhappy Board Members out there. It makes for a stressful week. Plus meetings, meetings, meetings (two this week) and Stampede starts on Friday. Rob is away this weekend and although I will be glad to relax a little, it will probably not be all that relaxing since I will miss him.
So good and bad, I guess. I think being at the cabin just throws the fact that I dislike living in the city so much into the light. Usually, I can just subjugate those feelings or ignore them. It’s when I go on a trip to anywhere else nicer (like the cabin, or to my grandmother’s place) that I struggle with being here living this life I never expected to have to live. It’s a little bit frustrating, and it’s almost like I can feel a part of my soul dying when I have to come back and try to ignore any dreams I might have had.
That’s it, I’m going to go and buy a lottery ticket right now.
So it being a long weekend, what do you think I was doing? Camping? Well, you’d be nearly right. We went to the cabin this weekend. The cabin Rob’s family owns is in BC on the Shushwap lake (pronounced “shoo-shwap”), and although if you calculate up the distance, it’s really not that far, but if you have to go by the roads provided, it’s about an eight-hour drive away. So it’s far, but it gives the impression that it’s manageable, like you could leave after work and get to the cabin that night.
Which is exactly what we did last Thursday. I sneaked out (read: loudly announced I was leaving and could stand no more of this foolishment) a little early and met Rob at the house. I had not been able to pack at all the previous two evenings due to condo meetings, and we had a huge list of tasks to check off before we could leave. Pack clothes – check. Pack cooler – check. Make list of groceries to get on the way out – check. Remember that laundry is in the dryer and have to wait for it to dry – check. Organize cat area – check? No, not check.
Part of the consternation surrounding the weekend involves the preparation for leaving, which is always worse than the leaving itself. This weekend, however, the largest part of that consternation involved arranging for cat care while we were gone. Normally, I take the cats over to their grandparents’ house and they enjoy the vacation as much as we do. This weekend, though, there was a wrench in the machinery, and that wrench is my sister Lala. She is staying at my parents’ place during her breakup with her sometime-fiance long-term boyfriend (of TEN YEARS). Now, I am a bit of a fan of the almost-ex, he’s a decent enough kind of guy, but they have ten years of up and down history, and apparently, Lala has had enough and wants to enjoy her life rather than just slide through it like the rest of the world, which is a noble aspiration. Good luck to her, I say, but damn, did that put a crimp in my planning. You see, Lala is allergic to the cats, and therefore they could not go and stay with the grandparents because she would have seized up like a car running without oil. Poor things, all of ‘em.
So when I came to this realization, it was Tuesday morning, and we had approximately two days to find replacement arrangements. Most of our friends were going away for the weekend, it being a long weekend and all, so it looked like we would have to cancel the plans and stay home to look after the cats, until a friend of Rob’s called back and said she could stay at the house and care for them, except for Saturday overnight, when she was set to go camping. So my friend Bargains from work here said that since she lives so close, she could just zip over and feed the little beggars on Saturday evening and Sunday morning. “The guests are met, the feast is set, May’st hear the merry din?”
Where was I? Organize cat area – check. Pack dog bags – check. Find flashlights and extra batteries – check. Remember jackets and other exterior wear – check. Throw in extra sandals and last-minute snacks – check. Get in car – check. Leave – check. Stop for groceries – check. Battle traffic heading out of the city – check.
Now, I’ve talked about this before, but the traffic through the mountain pass is idiotic. The Trans-Canada highway, the road that connects sea to sea, is clogged like a fat man’s artery going through the mountain passes. The downhill stretches are lined with semis unable to go faster than 40 km/hr because if they do, they’ll wreck their brakes and go sailing over the cliffs. The uphill stretches are painful, and even if you’re lucky enough to get a passing lane, every single slow-moving vehicle you have been cursing for the past several miles speeds the hell up like they were injected with the spirit of Mario Andretti and they refuse to cede position. Even the motorhomes. Who are ostensibly trying to pass the semis, who are ostensibly trying to pass the motorhomes. Fuckers, every single last one of them. This detracts from your average speed, and adds to the overall driving time. I’m competitive enough that I can usually get around them, but man, did we see some ass moves on the way out. Like the one asshole in the red Sunfire (hello, you were driving a SUNFIRE, jackass) pull out on what was clearly NOT marked as a passing lane and whip by a line of traffic I had been doggedly working my way around, head right on up in the opposite lane towards a corner, where I (and no-doubt the idiot driver) could clearly see the semi coming in the other direction. The poor semi had no way of seeing this asshole because he was facing the other way, and the view was obscured by trees, but in the dusk, we could see his headlights coming. The Sunfire shithead pulled back into the lane, cutting off an innocent bystander just as the semi driver noticed him and jerked visibly. Poor semi driver. It’s morons like that who make their jobs more difficult.
Anyway, we managed to find our way to the Malaquois. I have no idea how that road is spelled, but that is how it sounds. It loosely qualifies as a road, in that there is a cut through the forest. This cut line is filled with rocks and potholes, and on the way in, we probably blew a rear strut. By that time, it was dark and Rob took over the driving (because theoretically, he knew the road). The banging at the back of the car disturbed poor Cooter so much that he crawled right up into the front and sat on my lap for a good portion of the way in. There is a fork in the road that we have to turn at, and although we did make A turn at A fork in the road, it was, sadly, not the right fork. So we traveled a good extra twenty minutes (ten minutes out and ten minutes back after Rob figured out we were headed the wrong way) over this hazardous terrain.
Finally, my brain gave up. And in spite of the rough road and ‘80s tunes, I nodded off. When I woke up, we were pulling in to the parking spot (a small patch off the side of the road that had been somewhat cleared of vegetation) and managed to hike our way in to the cabin. I didn’t even fall off the little bridge you have to cross, so I figured we were ahead of the game. That being said, however, we didn’t hang around that evening at all since it was 2a – we went straight to bed.
Friday was a great day. It was nice and sunny when we woke up, and the dogs went out to play with our friends’ dogs, and we had a nice breakfast (bacon, of course) and made our way down to the beach. The NoodleDog and Cooter were playing with Taron’s dogs (Bitchy Bailey and Daisy the Horse), and Terra (1/2 of Taron) remarked that the NoodleDog’s tail looked a little funny. And sure enough, it did. Rather than its customary salute all high and waggy and a little curled, it drooped sadly. Upon further inspection, we discovered it was a little broken down. Perhaps sprained. It didn’t seem to bother him much that day, though, because he was busy swimming in the water fetching sticks. This came from the dog who wouldn’t even get his feet wet last year. This year, he couldn’t stay out of the water. Even if you didn’t throw a stick, he’d still swim around looking for one to bring back. He loved it!
But Saturday morning, though, the NoodleDog was in pain. His tail was sore and he was sad, so we called the vet on the 3-watt phone. Rob explained we were “in the deep bush in BC” and we didn’t know what to do for him. The vet said it would be alright to give him asprin for the pain, and asprin is also a little bit of an anti-inflammatory, so it helped.
We spent the rest of the weekend relaxing with Taron and enjoying the outdoors. Rob went swimming (I did not – the water was cold and I am a wuss), I sat on the beach, the dogs frolicked, we ate very well and slept hard.
Monday morning, we left. The leaving is just a little bit easier than getting ready to go, but a lot less fun and fraught with the dread of returning to civilization. To make matters worse, the shock was banging pretty hard on the Malaquois, and sure enough, I ended up with a dog in my lap most of the way. About halfway along that road, Rob stopped the car and listened intently out the window. A faint hissing could be heard. And lo, there was a flat tire – rear passenger side. We hauled everything out of the trunk and piled it on the side of the road, jacked up the car and put on the compact spare. A lengthy discussion was had in the car as to the merits and qualities of the compact spare – was it rated for 50 km/hr or 80 km/hr? The book says that the compact spare is rated for 5000 km (3000 miles) so you can “finish your trip and have the tire repaired where you want when you get home”. Heh. That being said, however, Rob did not feel comfortable driving on the spare the whole way back, so when we got to the little gas station at the main highway, we inquired as to whether they could help us out at all, and help us they did. They were great – they found us a tire just about the same size as we needed, and put it on the rim for us and everything. I will always remember them and will always stop there for gas or whatever to try and pay them back.
We caught up to Taron at the Denny’s in Revelstoke as planned, if an hour late. We had a lunch, but the service was horrible. Abysmal, even. I won’t be stopping there ever again. We kept on trucking and actually traffic wasn’t as bad as on the way out, so we made good time getting home.
We sort of unpacked, and are recovering, but there isn’t much time. Period. No time, no time. Work is insanely busy, still, and even though the rain seems to have let up here, everything is behind schedule from the entire month of June. I have projects from May that were supposed to be scheduled that have all been deferred until the water leaks can all be addressed, so I have some unhappy Board Members out there. It makes for a stressful week. Plus meetings, meetings, meetings (two this week) and Stampede starts on Friday. Rob is away this weekend and although I will be glad to relax a little, it will probably not be all that relaxing since I will miss him.
So good and bad, I guess. I think being at the cabin just throws the fact that I dislike living in the city so much into the light. Usually, I can just subjugate those feelings or ignore them. It’s when I go on a trip to anywhere else nicer (like the cabin, or to my grandmother’s place) that I struggle with being here living this life I never expected to have to live. It’s a little bit frustrating, and it’s almost like I can feel a part of my soul dying when I have to come back and try to ignore any dreams I might have had.
That’s it, I’m going to go and buy a lottery ticket right now.
