Out and About

This week I had a terrible cold, and on Tuesday I had one of my infamous driving lessons. My ears were blocked, and I found it even harder than usual to hear what the instructor was saying. Considering I have a hard time understanding him on the best of days, this was a challenge to say the least. My head was so heavy, I felt like I was driving around in a cast iron helmet.

There seemed to be only a fraction of a second between words coming out of my instructor's mouth and me having to step on the gas or hit the brakes or strike a pose, or whatever it was I had to do. Net result, I was dreaming of going home, taking cold medicine and sleeping until self-driving cars were invented.

The instructor was flailing about like an angry chicken for most of the lesson. Every second he alternated between squawking an instruction and yawning. It was ‘turn here, stop the car when you go past one lane (yawn), why are you stopped? Go go go. Stop the car (yawn) You’re turning too wide. yawn’. I mean if I’m told to stop the car, I’ll stop the car. Why is he asking me why I did it?

About every ten minutes or so, he would remind me how I would fail the test miserably. Come on, surely they would let you go if you miss one stop sign? At one point I was trying to listen to him and found myself stuck at a red light—in the middle of an intersection. Why do these things only happen to me?

I was glad when the almost two hours were up. Having the instructor is like having a highly strung girlfriend: ‘you don’t listen to me, can you hear me? Why did you do that? How many times do I have to tell you?’. I came out of it with some empathy for my long suffering spouse P: )

The rest of the week was so so—I wound up coughing up a lung through most of it. It’s been hot at night and I can’t get much sleep. Of course the geniuses at the apartment, having deprived us of heat in the dead of winter, are putting the heater on in the summer. Reason number five hundred and seventy eight why we have to move.

Luckily, the weekend turned out better for me. The sun was shining and we were determined to have a good time. On Saturday we went to the Burnaby Village Museum. The village replicates life in the 1920s, and the best part is that there is a lovely carousel that dates back to those times. 


It’s huge and each horse looks like a work of art. Our three year old Lanes and her dad and a ball going on it. Although there were some folks that were far 'sturdier' than me going on the horses, out of respect for a historic 'work of art' I opted to stay on the sidelines and take pictures.

We came back early because P was going to watch a Canucks game with some of our new friends. I was sadly at home with the Lanes. I tried to do a spot of laundry before he left and found myself stuck in our cantankerous elevator. By myself. With no phone. In comes reason number five hundred seventy nine for us to move.

Apparently, ringing the alarm several times and yelling for help are of no use in this building. I decided to press the alarm first, not wanting to scream like a blonde in a horror movie, but I had no choice. I had to start shouting. No one came to my rescue. Not even our handy super dandy fire department. I had to get stuck there the one time they were not in the building.

I was swearing and was wondering how long I’d be stuck in there. I was thankful for the Canucks game because eventually P would look for me when it was time for him to leave for the game, but I couldn’t be stuck there for more than an hour.

What if he walks past the elevator the one time I am not screaming? Do I have to keep shouting nonstop? My lungs were hurting too much for that. Would I run out of air? Why didn’t I have a candy bar and some water to while away the time? Yes, only I would think of food at a time like this.

And crazily in between all that I really didn’t want P to miss the game because he had to wait with Lanes until I was rescued (or my body was found, whichever came first). I resorted to praying, and jumping (hoping my weight would make the elevator budge) and by some miracle, it went to the lobby and the doors finally sprung open.

I leaped out, giddy with relief and the lack of oxygen, and went about my business. Meanwhile, my loving spouse was yakking away on the phone, loud as ever, completely unaware that his wife was nearly lost and gone forever. I was much annoyed when he found it amusing. Needless to say, I refuse to use the elevator again. I’d rather hyperventilate lugging the laundry up and down the stairs. It was a long Saturday afternoon for me.

Fortunately, Sunday was a much better day--we went to Fort Langley. There were some farm animals in the back and Lanes and I were delighted. We actually got to get inside a pen and pet some rabbits!! Guess what I’m asking for my birthday this year? P will not be thrilled. 

I’m so glad Lanes has inherited my love of animals. She was talking adoringly to a baby sheep, calling him ‘little guy’ and then she tried to kiss a rooster and I had to take her away quickly. She was then spotted trying to hug a pig, but her father stopped her in the nick of time.

While we were there she had her first experience with fur though. She was lovingly petting the hides of what used to be raccoons, beavers, otters and what not. Strongly anti-fur, I was mortified and I was holding my breath, hoping the nice lady who was explaining the specimens to Lanes would not tell her where the fur came from. Luckily, I think in her child's mind, Lanes classified them as akin to her fake stuffed toys. 

We were happy we finally went out and about in BC this weekend, although we were pooped at the end of it. It was well worth it. I’m still not feeling 100% better, but life goes on. I have to do more driving this week. For some reason the thought of it makes my stomach churn. I wish I could be beamed up to wherever I needed to be instead. Seems the safer option for everyone concerned. 

On that bright note, I have to sign off to go and attempt to make dinner…until next time.