Home Sweet Home

 

It's nice to get out once in awhile.  Doing so, really makes one appreciate home all the more.  I enjoy being out with friends.  Family not so much, but with friends, I'm always guaranteed a few laughs, but when the night comes to a close and I'm homeward bound, I'm full of anticipation.  Excitement about walking through my front door, tossing my shoes aside and just relaxing and being at ease.  Of course, a familiar furry face greeting me at the front door with hugs and kisses, Monkey (my cat) is another reason I enjoy being home so much.

I have to leave the house, though, to truly appreciate being home.  If I wake up and remain indoors all day, I don't enjoy it as much.  It feels more like... Existing.  The house is merely the package that contains me.  I do not have to venture far, however, nor for very long.  Just shooting down to the mall for a second to grab some milk or something is all it takes.  Even just running to the bank to grab some cash.  I'm probably only gone for about fifteen minutes, but the moment I see my garage door opening for me to park, my heart actually warms itself.  The anticipation of entering the innards of my sanctuary is almost overwhelming.  I'm overjoyed, if I gotta be truthful.

As I said, the venture homeward isn't nearly as enjoyable as the moment I exit my vehicle and slowly stride to the front door.  That's when the joy begins.

I love my house.  I've lived here for over fifteen years, now, and don't see myself ever leaving, unless it's feet first, inside of a pine box.  I've dreamt of owning other houses.  I've even dreamed up a home that I plan to build, if the opportunity ever arises.🤑 Alas, 'tis but a pipe dream, but the house would have everything from an indoor pool, to an actual bar and a home theater, just to name a few features.  When I dream, I dream BIG.

For now, I love my house and I think it loves me.  I'm home and I feel safe.  I think that's the ultimate reason I love being home.  I feel safe.  Nothing can happen to me while I am here.  I love it.  It truly is my Home Sweet Home.

There's No Place Like Home

My dad told me a joke when I was young.  He asked "Why do you think it's so windy in Saskatchewan?"  I thought for a moment and shrugged my shoulders.  "Because Manitoba blows and Alberta sucks!"  He smiled then we both shared a chuckle.  I always thought it to be a play on words, as most residents of whatever city or province, always boasts there home territory to be superior to anywhere else.  It wasn't until I was older and able to visit these other provinces, where I was able to learn that this simple joke was based more in reality than jest.

I've been to Manitoba only a hand full of times.  It was winter every time and it was cold as f*ck.  The folks were friendly, as their license plate caption implies, but god damn it was cold.  It makes sense why the movie "White Out" filmed in Manitoba, doubling it for Antarctica.  Friendliness aside, though, there was entirely too many french folks for my liking too.  I'm not saying that all French folks are bad.  I have a few friends who are of the French persuasion, and their alright.  But in my past I've roomed with a French bloke and he was quite a bastard, hence my dislike for the people.  How does that old saying go?  It only takes one rotten apple to spoil the bunch?

Alberta, on the other hand...  Oy!  Where do I start?  I had the "pleasure" (and I use that term loosely) of living in Edmonton for about six months of my younger life, and I regretted ever f*cking moment of that time. I lived in squalor, making next to no money, then had the misfortune of rooming with some really skeevy thieving motherf*ckers, which made the experience all the more worse.  That was a number of years ago, but fast forward to more recent events and the province hasn't improved much at all.  People are (seemingly) angry all over.  I met a couple of decent and friendly folks, but two "good apples can't save a basket of rotten ones", I'm afraid.

As some may know I went to the wedding of two dear friends in British Columbia, a province I might add was a real pleasure to visit.  Everyone was so freakin' nice there.  If I had to choose any other province to live in, I'd seriously consider this one.  Aside from the excessively high price of gasoline and the "scary-as-f*ck" taxi cab drivers, my experience in this place was exceptional.

My original plan was to fly out to Kelowna, British Columbia, then rent myself a sporty car, like a Camaro or Dodge Challenger, once I'd gotten there.  However, I thought I'd take some time off from work and drive myself out, stopping at a couple of touristy locations along the way.  My first stop was going to be in Drumheller, Alberta, the proclaimed Dinosaur Capital of the World, on account that such a variety of dinosaur bones were discovered in it's Red River beds in the early part of the 20th century.  I got away from my home late on Wednesday, May 22nd and never got into Drumheller until about 5pm, just in time to discover that the tourist attraction in town was closing.  "What the f*ck kind of tourist attraction, closes at 5 o'clock in the afternoon?" I thought rudely to myself.

The next day I was treated poorly at the Tyrell Museum just outside Drumheller.  I was mistreated and verbally assaulted at a Tim Horton's in Calgary.  A woman flipped me the bird in Canmore, because I failed to wait forever for her to waddle her fat 400lb ass across the sidewalk.  (That may have been my fault, but show some f*cking class.)  I never was really shown any kindness in Alberta, except for the lady at the Fossil Gift Shop in Drumheller, who stayed open later for me to buy some stuff for my nephews.  (She got a kick out of my story about the guy at my work who doesn't believe dinosaurs ever existed, but that unicorns did.)  Some gay, or at least I think he was gay, kid at McDonald's who was just too happy to serve me, and a woman working at the Esso in Canmore.  Everyone else, to my recollection, were kind o' douchie.

My stay in Kelowna rocked.  The gas, I saw at one place, was as high as $1.53 per Liter, which blows, but I never filled up there.  Everyone was super-nice.  As I said, I'd live in British Columbia, if I had to live anywhere else in Canada, rather than Saskatchewan.

Sunday was the day I was to head back.  I'd researched online and found a decent hotel to stay in Calgary.  The plan was to drive to Calgary, stay the night, go to the zoo on Monday, then drive to Drumheller to use my free pass, then home.  The TraveLodge in Calgary must've cleaned one room for the internet site, because the outside of the hotel looked shabby and I barely stepped into the lobby as the stink drove me back out to the parking lot.  I checked the weather forecast for Monday, which called for thunder and lightning showers, and I said "F*ck it!", drove to Drumheller and used my free pass to the Royal Tyrell Dinosaur Museum, which I managed to check out in about an hour, and was unimpressed.  I was always lead to believe that dinosaurs were SO FREAKIN' HUGE, but this didn't seem to be the case with the ones on display in this museum.  The dinosaurs skeletons I saw there, weren't much bigger than maybe an elephant or hippo.  The Tyrannosaurus Rex they had on display, looked like a punk-ass bitch.  Big teeth, sure, but a bitch nonetheless.

I was so happy when I was able to get a hold of my mother, instructing her to bring my cat, Monkey, back to my house, as I was heading home at that moment.  Five hours later, I was stepping into my wonderful house and hugging my beautiful little boy, Monkey.  There's no place like home, indeed.

A Dream Is But A Life

In the past I've had dreams that felt real and sometimes waking up from them was a real disappointment.  Not that I was really unhappy with my life, but the dream life was really really great!

Some of the dreams I'd had, were quite adventurous.  There were even some dreams where I was deeply involved in the pro wrestling world and waking up from that to face my humdrum life, was a complete let down.

My life isn't what I'd call adventurous, nor would I say it's super-fantastic, but I am quite content in the little world that exists today.  I have a nice home, a pretty sweet job, and a beautiful little boy (aka. my cat, Monkey).  That being said, I still have, on a rare occasion, those realistic dreams, so real in my mind that it takes a few moments when I awaken, to realize that it was just a dream.  Last night / this morning, was just one of those occasions.

I'd gotten to bed really really really late.  I'd been slumbering on my sofa, as I often do after a long hard day's work.  My back was bothering me all day long, so once my ass hit the couch, it didn't take very long for my eyes to close.  So roughly around 4 or 5 am, I moved myself from downstairs to my comfy bed, where I quickly resumed a restful sleep.  It was about this time that I began dreaming the real dream.

In part, I think what makes these dreams seem so real to my subconscious, is the fact that the passage of time feels like the actual passage of time.  One minute equals one minute.  Even if I'm only asleep for a couple of hours, as in the case of this morning, shutting my eyes at around 5 am and waking up again at 8 am on the nose.  The time inside my dream felt like about a day and a half, or so.

In my dream, I recall living where I live.  Driving what I drive.  Working where I work.  Everything was exactly the same, except for the fact that I was also attending school.  It wasn't a tech college or university, but it was a grade school.  In some kind of "Billy Madison*" universe, all 6 feet of me, was going to school with children.  Either that or I was teaching.  That part of my dream wasn't very clear.

The ground was snow covered, which these days isn't a surprise (late spring), and I'd left the school for the day.  I was half way home, when I realized that I'd left something back at school, so turned to go back.  The school was located right downtown, which for anyone familiar with Saskatoon, knows that there's no public schools downtown, especially one that would allow a grown adult to attend.  But the Saskatoon, in my dream was far different from the Saskatoon that is our harsh reality.  Perhaps, like the premise of my education, the city's location was different too, despite my living in my same house and driving my same vehicle.

As I neared the school, I had one more turn to make.  A right turn which I, uncharacteristically, cut too sharply, catching a snow drift piled at the street corner, causing my beautiful Honda Ridgeline to rollover onto it's side.  I experienced the rollover from a first-person perspective and like in life, it seemed to pass in slow motion.  I recall the truck tipping.  I remember the shocked looks on people's faces, standing across the street witnessing my accident.  I could hear the metal twisting and the glass breaking.  I could, and still can, feel the sharp pain running through my back as the vehicle came to rest on it's side.  Feeling the cool breeze blow into the cabin of my truck, and being warmed by the blood trickling down my face.  Every facet that could possibly exist in those few fleeting moments, I experienced in real time.

I remember hearing the sirens of the emergency vehicles and watching the flashing red lights as they drew closer and closer.  Admittedly, I vaguely recall being admitted, checked over and stitched up; and released from the hospital.  Instead of going home, I returned to the school.  Whatever I'd left was very important, but I would forget what it was I sought, once I would arrive at the school.  Forgoing whatever it was, I now needed a ride home, and received one from my only option, which was a van filled with homeless people.  F*cking strange, huh?

Instead of taking me home for some much needed bed rest, I was instead escorted to a subterranean terminal of sorts, where I bumped into friends, friends-of-friends, and my brother-in-law, Bryan, who subsequently gave me a ride, but not to my home, but instead to his house, clear across this strange thriving metropolis that did not resemble Saskatoon, my home, in the least.  I grew more and more frustrated with not being allowed to go home and it was around this time that I woke up.

During the time it took for the cobwebs to clear in my foggy mind, I seriously thought about the toll it would take on me at the expense that replacing my truck.  The truck is five years old, and as in real life, it had less than fifty thousand kilometers on the odometer at the time of the rollover.  Insurance should give me a fair price on it, but it would still pale in comparison to the selling price of a 2013 model.  I was more than relieved when I looked around and realized that I was back in my real life.