Can't you read the sign?

I'm settling in. Getting a feel for the local lingo. Avoiding the buffalo wings because there is an unusual amount of oil money splashing around and combine that with the very literal sense of local humour, I wouldn't put it past the R&D department at Esso to completely screw with me.

I am enjoying being screwed with in other ways, though.  Yesterday I found a local thrift store, it was easy to spot due to the giant sandwich board out on the sidewalk with an arrow declaring "THRIFT STORE!" on it. The big, welcoming and, above all, open door was another clue.  I love me some thrift store so I wandered in and was promptly told to git. 

"....?"
"We're closed."
"....?"
"Didn't you see the sign?"
"I thought I had but now I'm not so sure."
"We're closed. Read the sign."
Re-reading the giant red plastic arrow the size of the Volvo windshield, "Sooooo... you're not... a thrift store?"
"Not that sign. The other sign."
"...?"
"The other sign," sighing and pointing to a small handwritten note on the inside of the wide open door. The sign reads "Sorry. We're Closed."
"Ah, that sign. I am sorry I missed it, your arrow confused me a little."
"Well, we're closed," conveying by way of another deeply put-upon sigh that there was some considerable doubt as to the fact that it was simply the arrow which was the source of my confusion and that I was clearly insane and it was only through a certain amount of charitable prairie goodwill that I was not being lead away in handcuffs for what was rapidly turning out to be a suspected B&E by a crazy person. It really was rather eloquent.
"I think I understand. I'll just be going. Would you like me to pull this big, wide open door shut behind me?"
"No, the owner thinks it's more friendly if we keep it open."

I think I'm going to like it here.

Letters to A Shut-In

Dear Neighbour Lady,

We've been coyly dancing around this issue for a while now. I'm going to be the one brave enough to say it. 

(deep breath, I can do this)

If we're going to be best friends for life, or at least until I move away, you're going to have to leave your house some time so that I can accidentally run into you while on my way to awesome plans you could totally join me for, which won't feel contrived or weird in any fashion.

If I have knock on your door in order to meet you, it's just going to make us both feel awkward about how you are still wearing your pajamas at 2:45 in the afternoon. 

Kisses!
Remote

I'll Get You. And Your Little Dogs,Too.

According to a dear, soon to be deceased friend, Husband simply could not leave the island without a farewell gift. This came in the form of an innocent-seeming little how-to book entitled 'Absinthe and Flamethrowers: Projects and Ruminations on the Art of Living Dangerously' by William Gurstelle. It is all the proof I need to convince me beyond a doubt that Husband should not be allowed to talk to other people. Ever.

A quick glance over the chapter index will explain why I have buried it in the back yard in the hopes that Husband will forget that he owns it...

     Chapter 8: Playing with Fire

     Chapter 9: The Inner MacGyver

     .

     .

     .

     Chapter 13: Flamethrowers

Seriously? I have no idea what our dear 'friend' was thinking but   it was probably something like, "Let's see if he can figure out how to  

blow up the dishwasher, the Ozone Layer and the Space-Time Continuum all in one afternoon."

Alberta Bound and Gagged

Husband and I, as you may recall, have been posted to Cold Lake Alberta. We left last Sunday to drive to our new home. As we wound our way across the interior of BC we saw eagles, mountain goats, bear sign and Father-In-Law so I definitely feel I have encountered all the dangerous and hostile fauna the mountains have to offer. I am now braced and ready for everything Alberta can throw at me.

Road trips are always fun and this one was no different. We stopped in Penticton to watch the indie band Walk Off The Earth perform at a music festival; let peach juice drip off our chins in Princeton; had terrible coffee and excellent sandwiches at the Christian Café in Falkland; fell asleep to the rumble of thunder in Blue River; and marveled at the beauty of my lost horizon when it finally came into view.

The movers arrived a day early, which sped up our trip through Jasper and got us here a day ahead of schedule, so yay for us, more time in Alberta! We are still trying to find a spot for everything in the PMQ, which is rather on the small side. Jesse is happy now that The Sectional has been reassembled, and Fritti has decided to stop talking to us altogether and communicates her needs via Jesse. Oddly, Fritti seems to be requesting a lot more Milk Bones than usual.

Our new neighbourhood seems quiet. The jets leave before I wake up and are back while I am too busy to notice. There are not many people about, but I have a plan to befriend the lady who lives three doors down, who doesn’t know it yet but she will soon be my bestest friend in the whole wide world for ever and ever or 36 months, which ever comes first. I have her routine down already and the next time she leaves her house (in approximately 47 minutes) to throw a ball for her shepherd precisely 5 times before skittering back to her house, I will be ready and waiting with my best weapon: Jesse. Oh, Neighbour Lady, you and I shall be fast and bosom friends, if only my dog and I can catch you. I hope you aren’t a vegan and that you don’t refer to yourself as Mrs. Major Anything.

Lastly, the town of Cold Lake is not the desolate wasteland I had been lead to expect. In fact they have two separate Tim Horton’s AND a guy named Shaky Jake who will show you his moles for a dollar. That's a big neener to all you naysayers out there who told me I wouldn’t be able to stand the boredom of those long cold winter days of darkness.