Aunty Christ has been on a Robotussin holiday

Oh, I’m sick. Sick, I am! Speaking like Yoda suddenly am I! Oh fuck, it’s even worse than I thought.

And I had a lot of stories to tell you all—y’all, all of you—too. Stories like: The Pancake Employment Seminar, and What the Fuck Was Up with That Too-Broadly Smiling Honolulu Hilton Refugee in the Tropical Shirt? (Not to even mention that other guy, in the pressed suit, or the two teenagers in hats, or the fact that nary a pancake was to be seen in special Pancake Employment Seminar Room. Oh, and then there was the lady who was running the joint—who took an instant dislike to me, after I splashed her by accidentally turning on the water too high in my neighboring sink in the ladies’ room—as thick and broad as a water buffalo, clad in discount-rack Macy’s tweed pants and with a sour look on her face that begged to be smacked with a pancake. Well, that’s about the whole story, right there, since we sat outside the seminar, not feeling like being bored to death first thing in the morning.)

Then, there’s this: I shot my first gun. Very fun, though a bit shocking to realize that a careless move could mean death, or, more likely, injury, as I was only firing a .22-caliber. Yes, the holes it produced on the target sheet were far less satisfying than those of Rich Bachelor’s .45, which marked the sheet with an explosive tear, but still. I do not see myself ever being comfortable with the sound and kick of a .45. Then again, only days ago I was ardently against firearms, so I guess things change.

And I testified before a grand jury—another first. It was a much more relaxed experience than I expected. I arrived about ten minutes late, kind of thinking that I’d be greeted by The Law (arms folded to note unhappiness with me), stating, “Well, now another bike thief will be loose on the streets, thanks to you.” And then there was the thought that I might be directed—or at least interviewed—by the assistant D.A. pre-testimony, which is what always happens on Law & Order, anyway. Oh, not like Law & Order highlights bike thefts every week, I know. I suppose the Saskatoon D.A. office has more on its plate than me and my beautiful bicycle. Anyway, it was all very informal, and the assistant D.A. was fresh out of diaper school—pink-cheeked and optimistic, as opposed to worn-out and hardened to the realities of bicycle thievery. I answered a few questions from Mr. Diaper School, and then took questions from the crowd of my adoring fans (grand jury, I mean), and that was it. By the time Rich had parked the car and come to get me, my part in the legal process was over. Well, presumably I’ll be getting a summons to testify at the trial. That will be fun for me. Yay public speaking!

The highlight of last week, though, was to be found in Eastern Saskatchewan, where Rich and I spent the weekend. I’m sure he has more to say on the subject of the trip in its entirety, so I’ll not steal his thunder. I’ll not rustle his cattle or pinch his cap or swipe his pickle! But I do have this to add to the discussion: While Rich and his She Bear were off getting coffee our first night, I took da thug dawgs on a walk around the outside of the hotel—unleashed, since the hotel backed to a large, mowed lawn holding a duck pond, and surrounded by what I think was a wheat field. Or an empty field of some sort. After walking down to the pond, we went back toward the hotel, to a sidewalk that abutted the building, and continued down the sidewalk, past the pool, toward our room. A few steps past the pool, however, was an open door. Before I had even taken notice of this fact, Goofus was already inside, running around A ROOM OF MIDDLE-AGED WOMEN ATTENDING A SEMINAR. Not even thinking at this point—in fact, totally ignoring the fact that this situation was actually occurring—I grabbed Gallant and carried him inside the room, where some 60-odd menopausal women are oohing and ahhing and giggling over Goofus, who is skittering his way down the aisle between the folded metal chairs, and the woman with the microphone is kind of muttering her disapproval of the whole event—“Well, I suppose no one’s able to pay attention to me anyway”—and then the tiniest of bitter forced laughs. I mouth, “I am so sorry. Sorry. I’m sorry,” and try to look contrite. I scoop up Goofus and run out of the room, hunched over the 51-pounds of thug dawg in my arms, as the women cheer. Highly embarrassing, of course, but also, strangely, empowering—to be applauded by strangers for being the worst dog owner ever. Thank you, thank you.

This week has been filled with lots of lying in bed, coughing myself awake, pressing fingers to cheekbones in order to (try to) relieve pressure in the goddamn sinus cavities, cursing my existence, weeping, living in fear of the next big coughing attack, aching, Robo-tripping, drooling, farting, mumbling incoherently, etc. In the midst of all this, I eked out a single dream out of all my hours spent in bed. In it, I was told that my recent blog entries have been so bad as to be embarrassing. Embarrassing! Well, point taken, Subconscious Me. I will try harder. For now, though, this is the best my virus-weakened mind can muster.