Hot Tie.

The cost wasn’t a barrier to getting on a seaplane to Vancouver, but an expired photo ID nearly held me back. I assume one needs to update their main piece of ID every five years so they don’t age out of their photo. Although now two years past expiry, my ID is still two years newer than my passport.

Cursory online research says it’s how one stays enrolled in the Medical Services Plan. However, it was not a problem when I ended up in the hospital last June. I’ve also had several doctor’s appointments since it expired, so I can only imagine I’m still enrolled in the Medical Services Plan. I don’t want to update my ID for three good reasons: it costs money, it takes time, and my photo is weirdly gorgeous.

That may be why the Harbour Air service agent made a small fuss. I pulled out my other IDs, including my recreation centre pass, to appease her. To my relief, the neighbouring agent took my side and ushered the first agent to print my boarding ticket.

Upon touching down in Coal Harbour, my first mission was to meet Zoée at the fabric store in a quest for corduroy. Corduroy is my favourite fabric (pleasurably ribbed!), but not many clothes are made of it these days. Zoée and I did several laps of aisles 5a and 5b, rubbing our greasy meathooks on every bolt within reach.

Of all the places I’ve lived as an adult, I’ve lived in Victoria for the longest. I still tell new people I’m from Vancouver, but I’ve been away for so long that it’s now overstimulating. I probably saw more people inside the fabric store than I do on average in Victoria.

Not all is bad: I had access to fresh, affordable sushi, and I’m still far more familiar with bus routes in Vancouver. The purchase of corduroy was merely one of my side quests. The main event was a two-week late celebration of Zoée’s birthday. On Friday morning, while Zoée was making their coffee, I noticed their cat, Greta, munching on some of the starts in Zoée’s makeshift nursery. I pushed Greta back, and she meowed in offence, so I went to Zoée to tattletale.

That was when we discovered Greta might be in trouble. The starts (Ranunculus) that got nibbled on were potentially toxic to cats. Greta seemed fine, if not annoyed about losing access to the nursery/buffet. Still, Zoée recruited their sister to call the Pet Poison Helpline. The experts turned out to be amateurs and couldn’t give a definite answer as to whether Greta was in trouble.

“Keep an eye on her.”

And this is how I got my break as a personal shopper.

Zoée’s shopping list was relatively straightforward, but these snacks were meant to sustain their party guests. What if someone chokes on an olive pit because I failed to buy the pitted version? The wrong brand of aged white cheddar could make or break a party. And would girthy pickles make queers uncomfortable? More than half of the party invitees were queer… not that anything’s wrong with that!

(Zoée and I had watched episode 17 of the 4th season of Seinfeld the night before, where that was an oft-repeated quote.)

If I wanted to make this post more interesting, I would steal Phyllis’ (top left) story about getting saved by the BC Search and Rescue Association when they went hiking back in February. I am also inclined to expand on this post’s title, which was inspired by one of Zoée’s tales of yore. The only thing noteworthy I had to share with these guests was my dental situation. It’s been ten months, and that bike accident remains the most dramatic thing that’s happened to me in years.

There was an opportunity to bring on the drama near the night’s end with a game of Salad Bowl. We split up into two teams of three: Wyld Stallyns versus Tame Ponies. Each person tossed three pieces of folded-up paper on which they’d jotted down a word. My contributions were diarrhea, Blue Steel, and Pneumatic Tube. Yeah, I bent the rules by writing down more than one word on a single piece of paper. What can I say? I was on team Wyld Stallyns, and you can’t tame this wyld stallyn.

For the first round, we had to describe the words we pulled out of the salad bowl to our teammates. Each turn was a minute long. When the minute was up, we’d review the words our teammates correctly guessed and leave them out of the bowl. The round ended after the bowl was emptied. Round two saw all the exact words return to the bowl. We had to gesture the word we drew from the bowl this time. I believe Zoée was the one who ended up with “diarrhea” for that round, and I was pleased as punch with their performance.

It was a hot tie throughout the entire game. At no point did it seem as if my Wyld Stallyns were being trampled by the Tame Ponies.

For round three, we were restricted to using only facial expressions. Blue Steel wasn’t so difficult to do, nor was diarrhea. I pulled out “knee,” but a fellow Wyld Stallyn was able to guess it based on the downward movement of my eyes. “Campfire” was another word I picked out of the bowl, but at that point, Zoée had turned off the TV, so I couldn’t lead my Stallyns to the answer with my eyes.

The fourth round, Zoée decided, would involve lip reading, which isn’t as easy as it sounds despite it being all the words’ fourth time being played. Zoée was appalled–and flummoxed–by “pneumatic tube”. Ultimately, my insidious plan wasn’t enough to stampede the Tame Ponies.

It wasn’t even a hot tie. It was a regular tie. Fun was had, mini pickles were eaten, and Greta got into party mode just as everyone was leaving–a positive sign her morning snack wasn’t about to take her down.

On Saturday morning, I journeyed south to darkest Surrey, where I slipped past the open gate of my Opa’s townhouse complex and let myself inside his place. Given that Opa had suffered a heart attack two weeks prior, this was perhaps an unwise choice on my part. Fortunately, my timely appearance removed the element of surprise, and we were able to exchange family gossip over tea. I’m now up to speed on my father, sister, and brother’s lives.

As Opa was around during Hitler’s rise to power, I asked him whether he saw parallels to what’s currently happening in the US with Fanta Hitler and Space Karen. According to him, this is what fascism looks like. I assured him I had no plans on travelling to the US anytime soon and that I was doing my best to boycott US products and services.

(One of Friday night’s Salad Bowl words was “Tesla,” which Archie conveyed through a disgusted facial expression.)

After 90 minutes, Opa was ready for a nap. As exhausted as I was from the previous night’s festivities, I had one more person to visit before floating back home on the ferry: Alana. Conveniently, she happened to be dogsitting for a friend in Opa’s neighbourhood, so she blessed me with her company and a lift to the ferries.

The only thing that could’ve made my weekend on the mainland more perfect would’ve been an appointment with my hairdresser.