The First Husband and I have returned from a blissful week in Florida, a break from the tedious, unrelenting slog that has been this year’s winter in Ontario. High points of the trip were meeting up with SMB of Words of Wisdom from a Smart Mouth Broad and a side trip to Key West—in that order.
I was nervous as hell about meeting “your blogging friend,” as TFH kept saying—shades of my mother and “your little friend,” generally accompanied by a snooty look. After all, what could a Smart Mouth Broad find in common with a rapidly aging relic of the 1970s? But I needn’t have worried. Not only did SMB and I get on like the proverbial house on fire, but our respective spouses (dragged along like security blankets in case it all went horribly awry!) bonded over their mutual disdain for all things blog- and Twitter-related—not to mention their inability to get a word in edgeways once we started yakking. SMB is exactly like her blog—quick-witted, impulsive, opinionated, and very, very funny—and her Harley Stud is the sweetest man alive. They were a great couple to spend an evening with, and I’m hoping they will take us up sometime soon on our invitation to visit us in Ontario. It may not be as sunny as Florida, but we do have Niagara Falls within a short driving distance!
After all that, Key West was a bit of a letdown. Okay, I exaggerate … a little. Key West was fine, but the trip there was a bit of a chore, as I did all the driving from Boca Raton—best part of 200 miles, while TFH sat huddled in the passenger seat, a cold-sodden lump of misery, hacking and sneezing in between dozes. A wee bug he’d picked up on the plane had turned into a full-blown cold and fever, and he was definitely not his usual sunny self. Sidebar here—for a man, TFH is not that bad when it comes to being sick. He doesn’t think the world is coming to an end just because he’s off his feed, unlike many of his gender, but he will insist on filling me in on the details of every symptom, which drives me nuts. On the rare occasion that I get sick, I like to crawl off to a quiet hole somewhere and just die quietly. Which means I’m not the most sympathetic of nurses, as both TFH and #1 Son will hasten to confirm. But I digress.
As fate would have it, it was biker week in Daytona and, apparently, the bikers like to make the loop down to Key West as part of their pilgrimage. So the town was packed with them and their bikes, which they tooled up and down Duvall Street, revving like crazy. Which was pretty damn’ noisy. And unlike SMB, none of the biker chicks I saw was wearing Keds and pearls. Sloppy Joe’s, the bar Hemingway frequented, was packed with bikers, so we gave that a miss.
But we did join the crowd that gathers in Mallory Square every evening to see the sun set—as SMB says, as though it was something that only happens on rare occasions rather than every day! Actually, it was pretty special … sun setting over the Keys and all that … but the crowd actually applauded when the sun disappeared under the horizon. How crazy is that? I can imagine applauding when it comes back again the next day, and from another quarter—phew, it’s back—but setting?? Fortunately, TFH kept his mind on the camera and managed to get some pretty spectacular pictures of the whole thing—including an actual “red sails in the sunset” shot.
We also managed to hunt down a Panama hat for me, which I’d been chasing all over Florida with no success. I couldn’t believe it—in a state dedicated to easing the retirement of old geezers, nobody seemed to know where I could find a Panama hat. But we finally got one, in a store called, appropriately enough, The Mad Hatter.
As you can see from the palm tree over my left shoulder, it was pretty windy on Mallory Square before the sun set, so I was hanging on to my precious Panama for dear life, bingo flap waving in the breeze.
We flew back to Canada on Saturday, leaving sunshine behind us, to be greeted by cold, rain, thunder and lightning. The airline also left behind our luggage, which did not make it here until Sunday afternoon, when a nice man delivered it to our door. But we brought home with us memories of a great week, incomparable hosts, and a terrific rendezvous with a fellow-blogger. Thanks a million, Smart Mouth Broad. You’re a peach.
Oh yes—TFH also brought that damn’ bug back with him, which he’s still not managed to shake. *Sigh*
Duchess has posted a very funny tale about her experience of waiting for the Gas company to deliver and wire up a cooker (that’s a stove for our North American friends). It brought back such memories of my eleven years working with the Dublin Gas Company—which qualify me, by the way, to confirm that every word Duchess wrote and the guys from Monty Python acted out, are gospel truth.
I started working with the Gas Company as PA to the Chief Executive, who had been brought in from outside to try and drag the company, kicking and screaming, into the 20th century. It was a condition of my appointment that I was not allowed to join one of the company’s unions, because I would skew their productivity payout or something. Nothing could have suited me more; while it meant I would not get paid for overtime, it also meant that some tinpot little dictator of shop steward could not tell me when and if I could work. Don’t get me wrong; on the whole, I think unions are a good thing, especially when a union rep is all that stands between a conscientious employee and a bullying middle manager or supervisor. But the Gas Company unions were a special case.
First of all, there were thirteen of them. Seriously, thirteen unions for one company employing around 1,200 people. There was the major union, to which about 75% of the employees belonged; another middling-sized one, which was always trying to poach members from the big guy. Then there were the other eleven, the so-called craft unions, which represented the electricians and plumbers and carpenters—anybody who was not a gas fitter or a clerical worker. Some of these unions had only five or six members, and they were the most bolshie of the lot. If anyone above the rank of assistant to the assistant of an assistant supervisor looked sideways at one of them, a picket would be thrown up and the whole place would go out on strike. I nearly caused a general strike myself when someone passed by my office and saw me standing on a chair to screw in a light bulb. Apparently that was the sacred duty of one of the craft union members. Actually that would be two members—one to hold the ladder and another to screw in the bulb. Where do you think the “how many [blanks] to screw in a lightbulb” jokes came from?
Over the course of time, I moved on from my job as PA, first to become Press Officer, and then, just to get away from the arse for whom I worked, as Consumer Service Manager. Since the Gas Company was in the throes of switching over from towns gas to natural gas at the time, it would be, our public relations consultant said as he tried to talk me out of taking the job, like working as deck-chair attendant on the Titanic. He was wrong; iceberg wrangler on the Titanic would have been a doddle compared to my new job. You would not believe the abuse I and my poor secretary had to take, day after day, week after week, as the conversion slowly wound on its way. There were sacks full of letters, screaming phone calls, and people turning up in person, foaming at the mouth with rage.
In the end, we survived, as did the Gas Company—but only just. The company ended up being nationalized and I took a rich redundancy package which eventually paid my way to Canada. But thereby hangs another tale. Out of all the sturm und drang of my brief sojourn in the trenches, I took away with me one, glorious letter that I received from an irate gas consumer—one who actually had a sense of humour. I have it still and would like to share it with you. It reads thus:
Dear Ms Ryan: It is now some time since I had a series of quite pleasant conversations with your secretary. I am the chap who originally wrote to you objecting to the literary standards of your company’s correspondence, incidentally. The upshot of this has been that I am no longer bothered by occasional letters from New Dublin Gas (In Receivership) telling me that the part(s) needed to repair my heater which was, in fact, banjaxed by the men who were attempting to convert it (book in one hand and scimitar in the other, like the muslims of old), that these parts were temporarily out of stock and every effort was being made to expedite their delivery – in short I haven’t heard from you all in a long time. Are you all right?
Was it something I said? Are you trying to find or invent a word indicating a longer time than ‘temporarily’ or a somewhat more leisurely process than ‘expedite’? Is everyone off on an adult literacy course?
My jury-rigged heater watches with apprehension as the evenings grow longer and the howling of the first timber wolves of autumn is heard on the evening air. Will it be able to cope with the coming winter? Will a kind man from New Dublin Gas (In Receivership) ever arrive, like sleeping beauty’s prince, to fill the aching hole in its entrails with a new thermostat? And what of Ms Tessa Ryan – has she been overwhelmed by the sheer weight of her responsibility (a job combining the logistics of Horatio on the Bridge with the corporate image of a herpes virus)? Do let us know! My heater and I are eagerly awaiting the next episode. It’s so much cheaper than renting a TV.
Best wishes.
You may bet your bippy that he had a brand, spanking-new heater on his doorstep in the shake of a duck’s tail! At absolutely no cost to him.
I rubbed my eyes when I read the headline, thinking I must be losing my sight. Then I thought it might be an elaborate send-up. But no, it was real – Shrub’s getting a PEACE medal, not a peace medal. Now I know I’m not losing my mind. Although I was amused to read the following:
The “International Medal of PEACE” is given for outstanding contribution toward alleviating the five global giants recognized by the Coalition, including pandemic diseases, extreme poverty, illiteracy, self-centered leadership and spiritual emptiness.
Doesn’t he exemplify at least the last two, if not the last three?
- My stomach is shrinking, thanks to some disciplined eating and a daily workout. TG for a home gym!
- Salad is what I ate the most of on Thursday – a delicious spinach, bacon and pine nuts salad at Treadwells in Port Dalhousie and a Greek salad with chicken at the Yacht Club last night.
- The yard looks like shite – not just because of this dreary November weather, but also because I hate gardening (so shoot me!) and never touch it year round. A gardening service mows during the summer and that’s it. It just sits there, making me feel guilty. I’d asphalt the whole damn’ thing if I could.
- At home is where I’d rather be at any given time, despite the lousy, guilt-inducing garden. I like to travel, but I love coming home to my own nest.
- The smell of 4711 Cologne reminds me of Christmas – probably because it was what I used to buy as my mother’s gift every year, when I was a kid.
- Inspiration to strike is what I need right now! I have three speech drafts to work on today.
- And as for the weekend, tonight I’m looking forward to Lazy Friday Night with The First Husband; tomorrow my plans include finishing those damn’ speech drafts before leaving for dinner with friends in Port Dover; and Sunday, I want to read by the fire – but I’ll probably have to get some laundry and grocery shopping out of the way too! Much as I hate shopping, I thank the gods for living in Ontario, with its Sunday shopping.
Thanks to Janet for the template. Hope your father feels better soon.
