|My right, your left.|
I will tell people who ask that it's from the unicorn horn extraction.
The lesson here, folks, is don't take off your bicycle helmet at the dentist's office. Safety first, always.
I found a stolen moment this morning and used it to sit on a bench at English Bay, coffee in hand, sun on my face, and enjoy the world going by on a perfect fall day. It was bliss.
I found another moment this afternoon and tried to replicate the first one. Alas, it was ruined by Proselytizing Man, who was peddling the harshest and most judgmental Dude in the Sky version of Christianity to any solo female he could trap on a bench.
The fact that he wasn't trying to corner guys and force his religion on them says something, I'm sure, but I find it icky and don't want to examine it too closely at the moment.
My lack of personal belief in God is never going to be changed by a guy who looks like a pedophile preying on women sitting alone at the beach and telling them if they don't love God and believe in the bible that they must love wickedness and are surely going to hell.
I wanted to smite him.
If that's the kind of person He calls to spread His message, I have to call bullshit on the whole All-Knowing-All-Powerful schtick. Honestly, Big Guy, your judgment's a little questionable there.
The lesson here, folks, is don't try to recreate a perfect moment. Make a new one.
In the last three days I have seen no fewer than four young hipster dudes carrying a reproduction retro CBC Radio shoulder bag. This one.
I carried that bag three years ago. As a diaper bag, no less. (Now I want this bag.)
(The Imp is fully potty trained. I just want the bag.)
There's no lesson here, folks. Except that maybe my kid's diapers/wet wipes/bum cream were hipster before hipster was cool.
Tonight at bedtime, The Imp said, "I want fireworks."
"There are no fireworks tonight, honey. Fireworks only happen in the summer. It's not summer now, it's autumn. There won't be fireworks again until Canada Day. That's in July. That's after your next birthday, when you'll be four. There are no fireworks tonight. Now, get into your pyjamas, buddy."
And then, just as he was settling down to sleep, we heard what I thought was the nine o'clock gun. Except that it kept going off.
"Fireworks, Mom! Those are fireworks!"
I went to his window, pulled back the curtain, and yes. Fireworks by Canada Place, courtesy of the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers, who were marking the end of their convention here tonight. Thanks, guys. A heads up would have been nice.
Big fireworks, and they went on for a long time. Long enough for HWSNBN, my mother (in town visiting for the week), The Imp and I to gather in our bedroom and watch them out the window.
Long enough for us to grow weary of standing, and to sit on the bed.
Long enough for us to grow weary of sitting, and lie down on the bed.
Long enough for The Imp to turn to me several times and say smugly, "I told you there was fireworks, Mom."
And long enough for me to explain the definition of gloating, complete with etymology, in words a three year old could understand.
The lesson here, folks, is that the IBEW will make you look like a lying liar. Also, when life hands you fireworks, gather your family close and watch from a comfortable spot.
I wrote this post as part of Heather at the Extraordinary Ordinary's Just Write project. Check it out here.