I doubted Kelly when she told me Ella, our young Siamese ,was stealing her chocolate Easter eggs and hiding them. Until I found this egg, hiding by the cat food…
I am the quintessential Canadian.
It is late March, and the temperature was slated to hit 11°. I wanted a pint or two on a pub patio: that is Canadian thing #1. We head to Garage on Church St., which was the most likely of the three corner pubs to have sun and therefore have an open patio. As we approached, and this was around 4:30pm, we saw a waiter unlocking the tables and chairs. Although no one was on it, I said I was happy to see the patio was open. It was not yet open, he said, it hadn’t been cleaned but was hoping to open a couple of tables at the back.
We headed in, asked about sitting on the patio and the same guy said, “just oh God no, I can’t stomach cleaning that right now, it’s disgusting.” He made me have a sad face, but I REALLY do not want to know what he saved us from.
So we sat near one of the garage doors (you do know it’s called “Garage” for a reason, right?), which he kindly opened for us. I sat in my big wool sweater (Canadian thing #2) near the wide open wall, and we ordered a pitcher, and eventually some steak fajitas.
They arrived smoking hot on a cast iron plate (pro tip: do not touch the cast iron, it’s hurty). I apologized (Canadian thing #3) to the table that was downwind for getting a face full of our delicious sizzling fajita smoke. After I ignored the previously-mentioned pro tip and burnt my thumb, and after we were done, the waiter arrived to take away the cast iron plate. I quickly said “Be careful it’s hot! Oh, I guess you know that, sorry.” That was Canadian things #4 and #5 combined – cautioning him not to burn himself, and then apologizing for cautioning him not to burn himself, as if he was an amateur.
Tomorrow is supposed to be rain and more rain, somewhere between 10-20 inches (I have the temperature conversion from Fahrenheit to Celsius alright, but am terrible at just about everything else, which can be described as an “old” Canadian thing, so that makes it #6).
I have skipped over the guy in rubber shirt and rubber shorts, the family walking around with bunny ears, the woman who refused to pay her bill and took it out on the “krafty” drag queen promo, the police arriving about 15 minutes after she paid her bill and left, the people looking enviously from O’Grady’s over to the Garage where the sun was… ahh, there’s no place like home.
So I was going to say something about today’s 10-minute massage at the Great American Backrub. And I was going to use the phrase, “going to hell in a handbasket”, to summarize my week off work. And I thought, oh, I know, I should have a cute bunny carrying a handbasket, because that’s what I picture when I use the phrase “going to hell in a handbasket”.
So I googled “bunny carrying handbasket”. Got these images:
Cute. Then I filtered the images by usage, so I could view only those labelled for reuse. I got this. Um, what?
Kelly is still so sick we had to cancel the dinner reservations for Saturday. So, me, myself and I all headed out to the CN Tower’s Edge Walk for a mid morning thrill. I did not see any weddings while I was(n’t) there. What better way to see the city than to turn your back on it, a thousand feet up. Yep, extreme urban adventure, that’s totally me. Thanks to Arlene, who suggested my terrible vacation be called lamecation, subparcation and don’tcation. I think that fairly represents each face in the photo.
Holy crap! I mean Ho Lee Chow. Same thing. Dinner is served!
Kelly is just sitting and reading a book, waiting patiently for food to arrive. I have no idea how she does it.
Staring impatiently out the window, waiting for food delivery, for Kelly’s birthday dinner.