Host a Canadian!
My husband collects people. I once knew someone who collected thimbles but don’t spend too much time trying to figure out why. I mean, it’s on par with collecting zippers or toaster covers, but who am I to judge? Unlike my husband, I am much more cautious and tend to keep people at arm’s length until I actually know their last names. But that’s just me.
A few months ago, my husband meets a guy at a golf tournament. He tells me all about him and how great and funny he was. I recognize this behavior. It’s the ritual dance that comes before one of his human acquisitions, the “process” as I like to call it. It goes like this: Step 1: meet the potential acquisition. Step 2: prime the pump (me) in a subtle but all too recognizable way and Step 3: seal the deal and bring home the human. The difference here is that this acquisition was the veritable mother-lode. Instead of just one human for the collection, he got 6; three men and their wives. It was the deal of a lifetime and he was determined. The good news? They were Canadians and who doesn’t like a Canadian? Ah, a grain of hope.
I would be lying if I had said I wasn’t apprehensive. I began to worry that they could be the only Canadians who weren’t nice AND carried guns. What then? The only thing I could deduce on my own was their choice of beverage: beer. Two of them were hockey players so this was a given. What I didn’t know was just how much beer (more on that later). Wine was next on the list of probable faves (more on that later, too).
So it came to pass and the Canadians arrived.
I breathed a sigh of relief. They were not armed and they were lovely. I fell in love with the wives. I discovered that the third guy was an oral surgeon. I found this quite amusing (oral surgeon – hockey players – teeth?? Is it just me??) Our connection was immediate. I likened it to refugees returning to the homeland after years abroad, or a reunion of old drinkin’ buddies all fighting for airspace to tell their most outrageous story (the hockey dudes won). We laughed until we cried, drank, laughed some more, drank. You get the picture. By weekend’s end, my recycle bin was stuffed within an inch of its life. I wrestled it to the curb but not before putting on one of those black back support things that furniture movers wear so I wouldn’t injure myself. To be safe, I slapped on a little warning note so I wouldn’t get sued by Waste Management.
And then they left. And I am lonely.
I stack wood in my patio fireplace in earnest. The silence that surrounds me is deafening and my dogs are moping around like they’ve lost their best friends. This is profound; Dogs thinking they’ve lost their best friends? Think about it.
To assuage my grief, I go to my favorite breakfast spot…alone…..by myself…and I order.
Waitress: What can I get you?
Me: I’ll have two eggs scrambled, wheat toast.
Waitress: Anything to drink?
Me: Just coffee, thanks.
The waitress starts to walk away but I stop her.
Me: I take that back. I’ll have…..a Bud.
She eyes me with suspicion, writes it down and turns away without a word. I stop her again.
Me: Actually, make it a Bud and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc.
Man, oh man, what a weekend it was!