I've been travelling.
Well, that's not quite true. I've been attending a learned conference in downtown Ottawa with horrible consequences. Usually when I go to such things, I stay at the hotel so there's always a place to put my extra shit. But this conference was different. It was in my town of origin which meant that I had to pack my tennis satchel with a camera, a tape recorder, my iPhone, my Kindle, copies of the magazine I edit, notepads, pens, lipstick and identification.
Damned those magazines are heavy! Note to self: must rethink the stock.
I got through the first day alright, but then I had to hurry to catch a bus -- something I haven't done for many, many months -- to get home and make it to the Liquor Barn on time. I was stressed. I was sweaty.
Oh yes, and the nice conference people gave me a SWAG bag full of cool stuff -- really just pens and a clip board -- in which I put my hard covered notebook and my Kindle.
And promptly forgot them in the bathroom.
More on that later.
I got on a crowded bus and a nice lady nattered on in my ear about how lucky she was that she didn't get an "affected letter" from her government job, the one with the great benefits and pensions and stellar paycheque. She told me this, me who is accepting minimum wage, even less, working for foreigners.
I smiled, but this is what I wanted to say.
Like a give a shit lady!
I got to the Liquor Barn with six minutes to spare, picked up a lovely Australian shiraz, squeezed it into my tennis satchel where the tennis racquet used to sit before I ruined my feet with high heels and had to give up the sport. I walked out of the shopping mall and down the street a few blocks, and suddenly, I heard a crash behind me.
It seems the ruby red bevvy I had been craving fell out of the liquor bag onto the pavement spraying droplets of red wine like a Dexter Morgan splatter sample all over the grey pants the brand new ones I bought just for this learned conference.
I lumbered home, depressed, crawled out of the pants and nursed my throbbing feet still hurting from the heels I had bought just for this learned conference.
The dog punched me in the vagina, angry that I had left him for hours, so I punched him back.
I then felt guilty and fed him a mound of food and poured myself a nice stiff glass of apple juice.
It was then I realized I had lost my Kindle.
I called the hotel -- over-priced one with all the escalators next to the Conference Centre and the Concierge nearly wet himself when I asked if the hotel had recovered my Kindle. I'm sure he was imagining it winging its way to some Third World nation where someone, right this very minute, is reading the last six months of the Ottawa Citizen.
Perhaps it's being enjoyed by some fallen despot.
The Concierge's tone sounded like "it's your fault you stupid bitch for leaving it in this hotel. Tip, please!"
You know what was funny? I spent a couple of decades going to political conventions, getting shitfaced to the point of unconsciousness, and I never once lost anything except part of my ear which is probably under a couch somewhere in this very same hotel. That's what I got for drinking with Eugene Whelan back then.
And this what I get now for becoming a stone cold sober conventioneer.
How was your week?