Adventures in CADPAT

I am signed up for a first aid course next week.  I let my certification lapse last year when I discovered that BC charges over $200 to sit in a stuffy church basement filled with unsold boxes of fundraising fudge for the privilege of dressing up a total stranger like a gauze S&M fetishist.  I can get that for $15 on any Toronto street corner.

So instead I am letting the Department of National Defense re-certify my ability to hog-tie a burn victim.   This is one of the perks of being a DND civilian staff member.  I am afforded some wonderful training opportunities by highly qualified staff who's knowledge of the course material is out shadowed only by their ability to turn even the most mundane moment in time into a magical ride on pixie dusted wings.  

Case in point being the fine gentleman who handed me my advanced copy of the course manual the other day.  It was not the St John Ambulance colour, glossy, fully updated manual I was expecting.   This one weighed a metric tonne, was dated 2006, looked like a phone directory and had the words "Military First Aid" emblazoned across the front in a no-nonsense brooking font.  Tanks and guns and seriously doodled cartoon members of each branch the Canadian Forces lined the pages.  This looked serious.  I was worried I may have inadvertently signed myself up for something far out of my league.

When I asked the gentleman what I, as a civilian, will see as the biggest difference between the First Aid courses I had taken in the past and this "Military First Aid" he stopped, thought very seriously for a moment or two and replied "Everyone will be in uniform ma'am." 

You see?  MAGICAL.

And you are...?

It turns out I am either a much bigger deal than even I realise (if that's possible) or I am on Canada's Most Stalked Receptionists list. If I had a nickel for every time some complete stranger has greeted me like their long lost sister I would have... $1.35.

This scenario will usually play out in one of three ways.

Scenario 1
I will have no recollection of the person whatsoever. This will not stop them from unsuccessfully trying to jog my memory about the apparently life altering 2 minute interaction concerning local recycling pick up schedules that we had 3 years ago. Typically this results in their stunned disbelief that I have no idea who they are. I give myself extra points if the person leans in and quietly suggests that I must be a pretty forgetful and disorganized receptionist, which has actually happened, once again proving my theory that people suck.

Scenario 2
I will have no recollection of the person whatsoever until they jog my memory about the apparently life altering 2 minute interaction we had 3 years ago. I will then fake my delight about our reunion and greet them again, in exactly the same tone I used the first time, before I was reminded they were creepy, because I am a professional and even creepy people deserve good customer service.

Scenario 3
I will have an immediate recollection of the person even though I will let them spend a few minutes trying to jog my already jogged memory but I'll pretend not to know them at all because I'm having a douchey day.  Then I will do it all over again the very next time I see them.

To be honest, my job isn't that complex and I've learned to make my own fun. (See also "Will people compliment the coffee if you make it with pencil shavings?'" and "I Dare You To Steal This Pen")

Signs of Spring

I can tell when it's getting on to Spring.  The tulips peek through the soil, the geese fly in the opposite direction, the rain is more festive and refreshing, and Husband gets the itch field dress a motorcycle in the garage.


Husband owns a K-Model BMW that looks exactly like the kind of motorcycle I identify as 'not a Harley.' It has been slumbering peacefully in our garage these past winter months, untouched, waiting for the rains to cease.  Husband couldn't abide this state of affairs any longer and took it apart a few weeks ago.  For the record, the things Husband takes apart are usually all the better for it once he puts them back together. But Husband has never owned a BMW before. German engineers don't like people getting uppity and messing with their sleek, innovative over-designed anything.  Parts not meant to be touched by hands other than those of a virgin fraulein wearing velvet gloves were strewn about, cursed at, fiddled with, reassembled a dozen times in as many ways and, finally, ordered from Europe.  The folks at Greyhound promised to call when they arrived, "honestly sir, as soon as they're in, please stop calling or I'll have to get the manager."


Greyhound buses deliver from Europe?  Neat.


So began a period we refer to as "The Dark Fortnight." Every afternoon would be see Husband leaping from work to stand at the back of the Greyhound lobby and discretely make eye contact with Cheryl "Oh God, here comes that crazy guy" McClerken, only to slouch back home, hands in pockets, dejected and without parts.  


So to speak.


Soon though, the much awaited packages arrived and were handed over by a relieved depot attendant who had seriously begun to consider bringing a taser to work.  The parts were unwrapped and reverently cussed into place.  For all his care, though, it was a few days before the sound of the engine turning over filled my ears.  At 4 in the morning. 

Now, and with the best gas we could syphon out of the lawnmower, the bike actually purrs like a katzchen, proving once again that Husband is great with machines and Wikipedia is invaluable when it comes to speedy German translation.

There to Remind Me

I went to an 80s party last night.  I had a wonderful time eating retro candy, singing power ballads and being horrified by the the fashion.  It's been 20 years since I've needed that much hairspray.  

This morning, as I looked at the photos from the night before of my friends resplendent in neon and lace, I got to thinking... 

In 1980, the year I entered Kindergarten, Pac Man began munching his way to freedom and into our hearts. Over the next few years I would spend more allowance than I care to admit at the arcade chewing Squirt and trying to outrun ghosts.

In 1981 I saw a real princess get married on live tv, my mom and I toasted her with tea and crumpets. 

In 1982 my best friend Jason taught me how to Moonwalk at recess while Canada officially became a nation independent of the United Kingdom.

In 1983 I cheered along with my brother when Luke chose the light side of the Force. 

In 1985 my family purchased a microwave oven the size of a small car and our very first VCR.  We watched Annie and ate popcorn and I felt rich.  That same year I recall collecting pennies to help children my age in Ethiopia who had barley survived one of the worst famines in living memory. 

In 1986 my school had a Space Party and I remember drinking Tang as I sat with my classmates on the gym floor.  We watched in shocked silence as the space shuttle exploded into nothing on national television.   

In 1989 I got an A+ on a current history paper about the end of the Cold War, my brother got his first Nintendo Entertainment System and the Exxon Valdez hemorrhaged oil over the Alaskan coastline. 

Looking back, I feel lucky to have been witness to so much history, despite Chernobyl, the rise of AIDS, and acid wash jeans.  I am grateful for the twist of chance that allowed me and The Enemy to grow up safe and loved in a happy home.  I hope never to forget the things I've seen.  Except for this one photo of Husband dressed as Springsteen, trying to lick the ear of a guy wearing a piano neck tie.

Surf

I stood thigh deep in foamy, frothy water that pulled at my legs and counted my heart beats.  Nine beats and a wave lifted me, danced with me and moved on, sighing into creamy bubbles on the the sand.  My board beside me, I had the rhythm now.  On the seventh beat I jumped, slid up the firm board and balanced on my belly as the next wave caught me on it's green shoulder and rushed towards the beach.  Eyes wide, laughing at the ridiculous, delicious weightlessness of the moment, we charged the shore together, the wave and I, until the sand and gravity won out. With a final surge the wave set me back on earth and dissolved into nothing.  Heavy and human again, I grabbed my board and headed back out, counting heart beats...

Surfing rocks.