Tuesday, 26 February 2013


 Us city folk sometimes forget that this is the way God intended us to spend winter weekends.

I don't even know how this happened. One moment I was stopping in on a friend and his new bride and his army of dogs to check up on my enchanted lakeside cottage (you remember, I talked about it here), the cottage that will one day be mine because he totally promised it to me when he was out of his mind on peyote. Or maybe it was vodka. I can't remember because I can't listen to people who are on peyote unless I have had an entire bottle of wine. That's my translater. I run gibberish through it and intelligence comes out. It's the weirdest thing.

And the next thing you know, they're inviting me to stay for dinner.
And then a few drinks. 
And then night falls over the enchanted lake and we throw some logs on the fire and more people with more dogs stop by and the three bottles of wine and eight bottles of beer that seemed excessive an hour ago suddenly don't seem like enough, so my friend's new wife, though she has been in this country less than three months, proves she's a fast learner because she suggests a run to the Licker Store before it closes. (Even more impressively, she has learned all the key curse words and run them through her own translater, so that they come out like this: "They try to cheat me, those suckcockers!") 

This is definitely not the way 
God intended us to spend 
winter weekends. Nevertheless ...
And I don't recall anyone leaving the cottage, but something clearly happened because the next time I turn around, the kitchen counter has impregnated itself with a shiraz-filled turkey baster and given birth to a litter of Hypnotiq and Courvoisier. I decide it would just be RUDE to leave now. I am nothing if not a sensitive and well-mannered friend.

Next thing you know, our host has the music cranked up in a way only people who live in remote areas can crank it and it went on and on until it was tomorrow. Rinse. Repeat. Another tomorrow. I have now been here for three days and if I don't show up for my court-mandated gynecologist appointment tomorrow someone please have Puslinch Lake dredged because it is NOT like me to miss a gynecologist appointment.  
Unless there's a party going on at an enchanted lakeside cottage.