centre of the universe - the dreaming: Time to think

03/14/2003: "Time to think" The show is over; it was busy in spurts and full of much schmoozing. Teachers kill me. They really do.

I want to finish the bloody Christmas story, though. So here goes. Last instalment. No more after this.

On New Year's Eve, my mother had to go Out. We had to go Out. There was some big 'orange drop' thing in the style of the 'big apple drop' in new york on NYE. I don't usually celebrate new years. I don't like it. I think it's trite, contrived, and far too marketed. I don't believe in New Year's Resolutions. I don't believe in celebrating the beginning of a new year in the middle of winter.

Anyway, we were in Orlando in some town square thing. I didn't want to be there. Mum and Dad disappear off to the pub; some pub. Don't know where they went. I was just wandering around gawking. Some guy comes up to me. He leers a bit, but he's kind of cute in a leering jock kind of way. He comes up to me. Nods. Says, "hi."
"Hi."
"You enjoying the New Years Party?"
I say "Yes", for ease of not having to explain myself.
He nods. "You want some blow?"
"WHAT!?" (enter naiive SK high school girl. Blonde)
"You want some blow?"
"Um, no. Thanks. No blow. I should be...fine without it."
"H?"
"Huh?"
"You want some H?"
"No, thanks, really, I'm fine."
"I'll give you a hit..."
"No. I'm going away now."

Very strange. Later on, after I found my parents, I told them about the episode. Mum figured the guy was hitting on me, asking for a blow *job*. "Great," I said, "That's worse." She thought it wasn't that bad; it means he thought I was attractive. "Yeah, or a prostitute." My father nodded.

About five minutes later he says, "If it wasn't about a blow job, what was he talking about?"

The icing on the cake of the strangest real-life Christmas vacation was what happened on the way home. We get to the airport in Olrando without folding, spindling, or maiming any wildlife. We don't hurt ourselves or others. We don't drive the wrong way up the street. We don't even fight. We're going home. Home. Yes, home.

Flight from Orlando to Toronto was fine. Absolutely nothing to write home about. We got peanuts. And hardtack and swill. And coffee, and booze, and even some sleep. We get to Toronto. Yay Pearson International. We get to customs. Mum wobbles through, waits for me on the other side. I go through, make my declarations, give the man my birth certificate, answer some questions, and i join Mum on the other side of the yellow line. We are about to head off to catch our next flight when we hear:

"What the hell do you *mean*, it's not good enough!? It's my TEACHING CERTIFICATE for God's sake!"

We spin around. Dad is brandishing a green piece of paper at the customs official, who replies, "That's great, sir, you're licensed to teach in Saskatchewan. Doesn't prove you're a Canadian citizen."

"How about my driver's license?"
"Lots of people can legally drive in Saskatchewan, but they might not be citizens. Do you have a birth certificate, sir? A passport?"

My father hounded mum and I for WEEKS, making sure Mum had copies of my ID, *I* had copies of my ID, We both had copies of each others' ID...

"Isn't this it? Oh, no, that's the teaching cert...Oh, here it i...no, that isn't it. Um," he looks a little plaintively over at us. "I can't believe I left my birth certificate at home. I grabbed my teaching certificate instead; they look kind of similar. Only one is blue and the other is green?"

The customs agent glances over his glasses at my mother. "Do you have your marriage certificate?"

My mother coughs. "Ah, no. I don't carry it with me."
"It might incriminate you," I mutter. Mum smacks me in the arm. Dad proceeds to dump the contents of his wallet (which is really just a glorified purse) on the counter. His co-op card, his air miles card, his wheat pool card, his plastic cut-out Oldsmobile keys, his credit cards, his bank card, some bills (American and Canadian), some receipts, a few crumbs, some sand, a kernel of wheat, and miscellaneous other items.

The customs agent sighs. There is a large, LARGE lineup behind my father. Our flight home leaves in ten minutes. I am beginning to get concerned. Dad flips through the various items on the counter, offering a health card, a drivers' license, his teaching certificate (again), his co-op card, his health card (again), etc.

I ask in a quiet voice, "Dad, don't you have your social insurance card?" My father told me to *always* carry my social insurance card with me. And to know the number off by heart.

"No, I don't have it, but it's [insert whatever Dad's social insurance number is here]." He glances hopefully up at the customs agent, who by this time must be wishing he'd stayed in bed. All the crazies come through on his watch.

"Sir?" I pipe up. Mum punches me again. "Sir, this man is my father. He is really embarassing, and he never believes a word I say, but really, he's my Dad. See? We have the same eyebrows..."

The customs agent sighs again, waves Dad through, and tells him to be more careful next time. Dad spends the next ten minutes going through the newly reorganised purse, trying to find his birth certificate, and muttering about where it might be.

I have an immaculate sense of timing. It is quite possibly the only immaculate thing about me. I lean over to my father and say, "Hey Dad, didn't you bug us for *two weeks* about bringing the proper ID?"

Mum bursts out laughing. Dad turns purple. We get on the plane, him muttering something about 'smartass kids'. We come home.

That is it.
That's the story.
The whole story.
As God is my witness, it all happened.

"Time to think" "I can't believe it."

2 Comments

Ooblik , on Friday, 14th March:

Good Story. ;)

carrier penguin , on Monday, 17th March:

Actually... it's a horrible story. Only Jill's writing makes it good. I'm thinking she could make my tax form amusing reading...

but I refuse to believe anyone from Prince Albert wouldn't know what the drug guy meant... ^_^

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