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.
