etiquette

I think it’s been raining for 3 weeks straight. There was really no end in sight. In fact there continues to be no end in sight. There was a brief hiatus in sight 2 days ago. That hiatus has now come and gone. It proved to be a few, what I assume were blissful hours of sunlight and dry. Not so much that the concrete was sapped of moisture, but dry enough that I didn’t have to wear boots this morning.

This has been the first year I’ve used an umbrella. Up until now I’ve been emphatically anti-umbrella. Why? Because they are cumbersome, soggy and dangerous. Dangerous for me primarily, who insists on unavoidably thrusting herself into harms way. I get mocked relentlessly by my friend Katie-Lynne for voicing my two biggest grievances. Umbrella etiquette and bicycle etiquette. However, despite the mocking I know I’m not the only one who the malpractice of both these activities irritates to high heaven. Abuse of umbrella and bicycle privileges runs rampant. As soon as the first rains arrive the bikes go inside and the umbrella’s come out.

There’s not a season in the calendar year that doesn’t have me flinging myself out of the path of some jack-ass recklessly wielding a spoke-laden weapon.

The rules are simple.

Bikes: If you’re riding a bicycle and you’re too afraid to ride on the road, keep the thing chained to a pipe in the laundry room where it (and you) belong. Don’t . . . I repeat, don’t force me to yield tso you may continue your leisurely roll down the sidewalk. And if you’re on a motorized scooter, you sure as shit better not be within striking distance of a pedestrian. More specifically? Me. A helpful hint in minding the p’s and q’s of bicycle etiquette is in the word sidewalk. Ahem.

Umbrellas: They are pointy. They are designed cleverly to keep you dry-ish, but it’s seldom a person’s person extends to the perimeter of that protective dome. It seems common sense (and courtesy for that matter) evades 80% of the population. Don’t walk under the awning with your umbrella when someone without one is walking towards you. (this is the exception where a wally on a bike would be welcome to run Umbrella Offender into a particularly wet puddle) Think about it. Do not assume everyone is 5’4”. Umbrella’s don’t skim the top of my head, they impale me directly in the eye. I will spaz. So jack-asses the world over, be prepared to have that umbrella either torn out of your hand and pitched into the streets, or carelessly deflected with the business end of my fist.

It’s time to implement some sort of ticketing system. Lets put those screaming wastes of space the Downtown Ambassadors to good use. Finally, something feeble enough that it could be “in their jurisdiction”. Otherwise I’m more than happy to perform my brand of a citizens arrest. I’m going to need an angry ferret and some steel wool.

The End of Summer

Just your average Sunday. It began with plans to test drive various city toilet facilities after the Chili and Blues Fest here in Gastown (appropriate locale). 18 types of chili for the bargain price of $15. What goes better with chili than Blues? I don’t know sour cream, toilet paper, avocado, cheddar cheese? Plans were rearranged 45 minutes into the day when all of a sudden out of nowhere came the offer of an intimate flight for 7 up to a secluded lake in the mountains. By 3:00 we were soaring up into the wide blue yonder. It was in fact blue, and wide. Few clouds plenty of sun, and little white paper bags for yours truly to heave into should the fancy strike her.

A 25 minute flight and we were at 5000 feet altitude in a float plane landing gently on the azure waters of Phantom lake. No shit. For a couple delightful hours a group of 7 enjoyed a picnic, some swimming and some feeble attempts at fishing. It was suggested next time we fly up to this particular lake we figure out what sort of fish are calling it home ,and pack lures and bait accordingly. One of my fellow passengers idea of digging for worms was only slightly overshadowed by my idea to stab a small chunk of my roast beef sandwich onto the hook. That worked ok until the line broke. Still, a more successful try than when I tied a string to my finger and tried to lure fish to the surface with that.

I am happy to report I only felt truly nauseated once when we were landing on Phantom Lake. I am also happy to report the Chanel bag I happened to be carrying when we were hijacked to go flying survived the trip. There is photo documentation of some twit hauling a Chanel bag onto a float-plane to god knows where. As we all stood on the dock I felt like we were about to embark on what so many misguided groups do. That being a run of the mill horror movie, where by the group of us would be murdered gruesomely and indiscriminately. By the end of the day we’d (the prerequisite two of us that remained unscathed-ish) end up with at least 5 unexplained disappearances on our hands, and multiple chases through dark and branchy woods.

As it turned out this aforementioned scenario did not happen. But in keeping with my cinematic imagination, I was also reminded of the film classic Lake Placid. As I dangled my dijits in the gently lapping waters surrounding me I asked my boat-buddy over my shoulder “what was it . . . . . (pausing to adjust the string on my finger, as it dripped on my silk blouse) an enormous crocodile?” (delicately splashing the surface again, not noticing the sinister yellow eyes that had just broken the surface 15 yards away)

This also did not happen. What did happen was simply lovely. Not in the slightest dramatic or bone-chilling. We flew to a lake, we landed, we snacked, we “fished”, we left. A delightful Sunday to be sure. The perfect way to celebrate one of the last weekends of Summer.