So there are times when I do something to embarrass myself—and it’s really not necessary to tell you just how often this happens—and then there are times when I really wonder if there’s an angry, green-faced woman out there somewhere using her magic and flying monkeys to sabotage an entire day for me. It all started with the dangerous mixture of Troy Carruthers + Air Canada + circumstance.
The plan was I would fly to Toronto where Onsite Restorations technicians from across Canada would come together for a small conference. I set my alarm for 3:00 AM (Maybe that’s where things went wrong. Isn’t that the “bewitching hour”” or something?). And because I live in the Maritimes, flights have to leave in the middle of the night. And when you return, that’s in the middle of the night too. So I get out of bed at 3:15. I eat a little. I make a coffee. I kiss Joybells. I leave for Moncton. I arrive at the airport, go through security and wait patiently for my boarding time. Just as the announcement is made that the flight for Toronto is boarding shortly, I look at my ticket and see the initials YSJ. Isn’t that Saint John?… I WENT TO THE WRONG FREAKING CITY!
So I got to the ticket counter, received my fifty lashings and got back on the road. A small nap in Sussex and then it’s on to the Loyalist City to get on the next available plane heading to Toronto. When we land I have to use the bathroom. Bad. But I’m at the very back of the plane and there’s only one bathroom…at the very front of the plane. It was a full flight and everyone had to stand in the aisle and haul down their twelve carry-on suitcases—most likely for a two-day stay. Then, of course, they’d proceed to put their jackets on in a manner that suggested it was a new and complicated practice to which they were slowly adjusting. My bladder’s power of perseverance was being tested like a bowlegged rookie quarterback in August. I’m also on the window seat being blocked in by a guy with a chin-strap beard with what looked like a devil’s horn on the tip of his chin. Just a weird situation to be in.
Now fastforward to dinner out with all the technicians and their significant others. Four of us had arrived a half hour early, so we sat at the bar and waited. I spilled my drink from pouring it into my glass too fast, which happens to the best of us. So, no big deal. But then the unthinkable happened.
I could just say that I choked on my drink because it went down the wrong pipe and leave it at that. I wouldn’t be wrong, but it’d be like telling you the story of the Titanic by saying, “There was a boat that had kind of a bad day.” Yes, the liquid would try to ride the trachea instead of the required esophagus. And it’s a funny thing about our lungs. They are so intolerant. Air goes down your food-pipe and your stomach just goes, “Oh, what’s this bubble doing here? Well, I guess I’ll turn it into a funny bodily noise.” The stomach is a chill and cool buddy to have. But two droplets of water heads toward the lungs and you’d think you had just tried to shampoo a leopard . It’s like, “&#@% you man! I’m gonna &#@% kill you!!!” Geez, take it easy lungs! The body is 60% water in male adults, it’s not like I was trying to send you a package of anthrax of anything!”
Well, that little gulp was feeling adventurous, deciding to take that alternative route. I’m bored of the same ol’ red tube. Let’s try that blue airy one for a change. And I guess my lungs were more crotchety Friday night than they ever had been before. So ill-tempered, in fact, that they decided to forgo any communication at all with my brain. They saw the fruity, bubbly liquid and said, “Oh no you DON’T! That’s the last straw you bastard!”
I closed my mouth instinctively, but those deucey lungs laughed at my efforts. In a matter of one millisecond I was doing a Jack Tripper style spit take. (If you’ve never heard of the term “spit take,” take some time to throw the term into your Google machine. You’ll recognize it right away.) But it was far more animated than what Jack tripper would have given us in the late 70’s. It sounded like I was trying imitate the sound of a trumpet blast while it was raining on the bar. It wasn’t your typical embarrassing PFFFFFFFT! No, I held that note for what seemed like an eternity. Like an excited elephant who was taking his time to express his feelings. I buried my head down in front of me and tried to save face by allowing my mouth to leak the rest onto my hoodie and jeans, slowly but voluminously. Yes, that should take care of it.
Honestly everyone, I don’t know double-you-tee-eff was going on. It had to be the witch. I’m sure she was cackling somewhere. And I haven’t even worn ruby slippers in like… weeks! But the good news is, she didn’t get my little dog. Toto and my dog Lucy have a lot in common. They’re both small, black, cute and can’t speak English. They’re different, however, in that Toto made a ton of money—more than Judy Garland did—whereas Lucy usually just costs me money. Still, I’m glad to say the dog is safe. While sitting in the Toronto Pearson Airport pondering the stellar rep I just established with my fellow highly skilled Onsite Restorations technicians, I texted Joy and she assured me that Lucy was, indeed, safe and sound. In fact, she keeps flirting with my daughter’s boyfriend! I guess she made it through the witch attack much better than I did.
Congratulations WWOTW and The Wizard of Oz. This is your week.
It’s definitely not mine!
And the Oscar goes to…
Best Actor: Skandar Keynes as Edward Pevensie in The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Wouldn’t it be cool if this actor changed his last name to Akbar??
Best Quote: “Stay a child while you can be a child.” — Meryl Streep as the witch in Into the Woods.
Happy Halloween everyone!