About A Stepdad

That day always comes. Way too early.

For our doggeroo, Vegas, it took 16 years for her time to come – but her time has come.

I’ve had 3 dogs as an adult. Two Golden Retrievers and one, well, Vegas. She’s technically a Goldendoodle, but had decided long ago that she was going to be her own dog.

Me: There you go, Vegas. Get the ball.

Her: Why?

Or…

Me: Come!

Her: Hard no. It smells way better over here.

Or…

Me: Look! Water! How fun!

Her: It’s wet and it’s cold and I’m going to take a poo right on the path over there. Two poos in fact.

She had been named Vegas by her previous owners. Named Veggies by my nieces, Girlzies by The Oldest. I preferred Spazadoodle or later in her life, Barkadoodle. She’d been called Veg, Vegeroos, Vegamatic, Vegetables, Fluffy Girl, Goobers and of course, Vegas!!!!!!!!! with 9 exclamation points.

But what to do on that last day?

With Juno, our first dog, we took her around to all the people she loved, including Margot’s mom who had been terrified of dogs before she met Juno. For Freya, who barely had the energy to move, I carried her to her three favourite parks and we sat there in the sun, soaking in the smells and warmth.

For Vegas, she never had a favourite park so we had to think of something else, some way to make her last hours her happiest hours despite the pain she was in.

First, lots of cuddles, pats and ear rubbies. She loved ear rubs so much she’d groan.

Then, food. Her favourite was, well, meat. Or treats. So why not both? I went out and bought her a whole Kolbassa sausage and a whole bag of treats. Any time she caught wind of that sausage, she would drool a Lake Superior puddle on the floor, and she’d even fetch a treat, though technically she’d eat it when she found it and not bring it back.

So, good choices.

Then what? Find her arch enemy, the Orange cat, and get it to sit on the fence so Vegas could lose her shit one last time? Or maybe have a friend come over so she could follow them out the door and try to go home with them since it was so harsh where she lived? Or maybe have the pizza guy come by so she could bark at him like he meant to kill everyone in the house?

Those seem to be her favourite things.

But in the end, we simply went out to the front lawn. I held her up so she could sniff around one last time. She got to feel the warm sun on her furry, fur. She could watch the world go by with her cloudy eyes even though I honestly don’t know how much she could see anymore.

I wish I could do more. I wish I could take away her pain and make her eyes see again. I wish she didn’t have to go because her passing will tear another giant hole in my heart.

But her time has come.

When my time comes, I hope they take away my mushy peas and give me a chocolate bar. I hope they give me a chance to smell coffee one last time. And I hope someone says, I love you, I will miss you.

I love you Vegas. I will miss you.

Well, I’ve often said I’ve loved the ‘firsts’ as a stepdad. Their first day of school. Their first time on a roller-coaster. Their first crushes. Their first time eating too hot curry.

But today, I have a sad ‘first.’ The-Oldest is leaving to attend UBC.  It’ll be his first apartment. His first roommates. His first time away from home.

The-Prettiest-Girl-in-the-World is a little sad, but she’s mostly excited for him. He’ll learn from the best, laugh and have a drink with students like him who are obsessed with music, and he’ll have a chance to meet so many new people (and by ‘people,’ she means girls.)

The-Youngest said he was super excited to see his brother go. “Now you have more time to spend on me,” and by ‘time,’ he means money. However, I suspect he’s hiding a lot of his feelings (cuz, you know, he’s a teenage boy and they hate to show emotion.)

See, those two have been through a lot together. On the last trip we took, we caught The-Youngest hugging his brother more, talking to him more, and when they slept in the car while we were driving, he’d sleep against his brother.

I think deep down, he’d be writing, “Dear Diary, Today my brother left and I’m sad, but also hungry because Joe forgot to pick up chips, but mostly sad.”

For me, though, I’m profoundly sad. It’s like having your best friend move away.

Who knew it would be me wiping away the tears and not The-Prettiest-Girl-in-the-World.

Sure, everyone says it’s a good thing, that the nest must be emptied and that I’ll eventually move on to another life. Joe 3.0.

But it has been my great honor and pleasure to have The-Oldest in my life. I’ve worried about him, advised him, talked to him about why the Phantom Menace failed so terribly.

I’ve fed him soup when he was sick, given him a hug when the world had beat him up, and listened to him play for hours, though he never knew I was listening.

Together, we’ve played hours and hours of Minecraft. We’ve gone on epic walks, talking about life, the universe and everything.

He’s listened patiently to me while I explain why Napoleon should be called Napoleon the Great or which are the best swear words to use when putting an Ikea shelf together.

As a family, we’ve ridden Disney rides, sailed on sailboats, solved mysteries in downtown Vancouver, saw the rainbow at Niagara Falls, and watched the sunset on the Grand Canyon.

Good times.

Whether or not I’ve had any influence in his life, I cannot say, but he has certainly impacted mine.

He’s made me think about music in a different way. I can no longer watch a movie without listening to the music now or listen to Beethoven without his voice echoing in my head. “You hear the comedy there, right?”

And with his kind heart, his gentle nature, he’s taught me to be a better person.

In truth, he’s turned into a fine young man. Talented. Kind. Caring. Deeply thoughtful. I’ve watched him grow up, gain confidence in himself, and even remember to wear matching socks.

He’s made me laugh, many times, but today, I couldn’t find any laughter as I watched him load up the truck and drive off.

There will be a hole in my life.

I love him.

And I will miss him.

What do you do? Do you admit you were wrong? Do you hide the truth and never let her know she was right? Do you change your name, move to an island, and declare yourself a king?

Or do you steer into the skid and just accept the utter and complete humiliation?

I know, this is the worst nightmare for most husbands or partners.

Well, I may be forced to admit it.

Mostly because it’s one of those things The-Prettiest-Girl-in-the-World would notice.

See, we needed a new faucet for our laundry room, so she went out and bought one. She politely asked the knowledgeable clerk what would be best, told him what we had, and gave him a good idea of our price range.

Sounds pretty sensible, right?

In hindsight, it was.

But I found a nifty, high-end one at a massively discounted price – one that had a long spout, could power-wash the paint off a car, and doubled as a bidet.

However, like when I got an 800lb laptop that had the processing power of North Korea, I may have over-thought this one.

My first realization came when I went to install it. Sadly, someone built a mass of shelves under our laundry sink and did something funky with the drainage (and by ‘funky’ I mean not to any code ever written anywhere.)

I didn’t have a small enough head to fit into the tight space.

Worse, all that complex aqua-tech was a difficult install at the best of times, and needed some specific tools that I did not have.

That bummed me out. It meant I would have to bring in a plumber.

When I phoned for one, I asked for a plumber with a small head.

They said they don’t take those kind of requests – which is unfortunate because the more I think about it, the more I think a small-headed plumber would be in great demand.

Anyway, when the movie-star-handsome plumber arrived to install it, he said, “Hmmm, I could put the fancy one in, but it’ll take some time, and time will cost you a lot of money.”

“Like, ah, how much?” I asked.

“See that car out there?”

“The Mustang?”

He nodded. “Like that kind of money.”

“Gotcha.”

“Get a simple one,” he said.

“Like the Moen, 1228 two-hole chrome one?”

“Exactly.”

I didn’t tell him that was what my wife had chosen.

“Send that other one back to Skynet,” he said. “Or wherever you got it.”

“Ok,” I said, hanging my head low.

I went back to the store where I returned the first faucet and rebought it.

“Hey, didn’t I see you the other day?” the clerk asked. “You returned this, right?”

“Nope, not me, another chubby old guy. We’re easy to get mixed up.”

“No, you told us your wife had bought this by mistake.”

I had no answer for that. I made a sound instead. “Errrruhm.”

“Wait, your wife didn’t make a mistake, did she? She was right, wasn’t she?”

“Maybe.”

 “Oh, man, I feel for you, I really do. There’s a support group for husbands who’ve had their lives shattered.”

“Give me the number,” I said.

He shook his head, sadly, like he was about to put down his dog. “There you go, champ. I can’t say it happens to all of us, but it happens to a few. A sad few.”

I went back home.

At least we had a good, working faucet.

Kind of a win, right?

Does it really matter who was right? Especially if it wasn’t me?

Each time we have to vote, the government sends out something that tells us what we need. It’s only two things, really –  A voter card and some form of ID (and I’ve worked at the poll stations, so everyone tries very hard to find something that works).

However, there are a few things they don’t tell you.

Thatsa why I’m here.

1. You have to wear pants (or at least, something to cover your underwear or naughty bits). You might have to wear a shirt, too. Maybe shoes. Heck, it could be the whole ‘no pants, no shirt, no shoes.’ things, but I’d need a volunteer to test out that theory.

2. Unlike the blood bank, you don’t get a sticker, a cookie, or a small carton of apple juice. Personally, I think this is a mistake. Our reward for being good citizens (other than, you know, getting a government that works) is a nice feeling. Add a few donuts, a nice cup of coffee, or a Porsche, and you’d increase voting % by orders of magnitude. Heck, even the used car guys don’t have a sale without at least a big blow-up gorilla or something.

3. You have to mask up and social distance. It might say that on the voter ID card, but I forgot to check mine before handing it in. However, no vaccination ID is required.

4. Remember to take a breath mint if you’ve just had a cup of coffee or eaten pickled onions, or else you’re breathing your own horrible breath for a while.

5. You have to bring a cell phone or a book or something to do if you’re in line for a while. In the old days, you might chat with someone about the weather or if Sam was really the hero of Lord of the Rings, but now, with social distancing and masking-up, you’ll be on your own.

6. Be nice to the people behind the voting desk. Like I’ve said, I’ve been there, and it’s stressful. In other years, there were two people there to make sure everything was done right, but this year, it looks like there’s just one, and if they’re like me, they’re muttering don’t ‘f*ck up, don’t f*ck up, don’t f*ck up,’ inside their head a lot (and sweating like they’re at a job interview and first date at the same time).

7. Don’t wear squeaky shoes. You have to walk through a gym, and when there’s only you and your squeaky shoes, you sound like a window washer using no washer on a window.

8. Don’t bring your dog inside. I know this seems like a no-brainer, but why would you do that? Also, it turns out that you can’t leave your dog with the people in the front. However, adding a dog handler may also fall under the ‘how could they make the experience more rewarding?’ thingee.

9. You can’t bring snacks into the voting area. Again, it would help if you got some coming out, but I guess they don’t want crumbs on the floor, anyone slipping on spilled coffee, or people taking their masks off to eat a McMuffin.

10. Voting matters. I know it’s hard to believe sometimes. I know that the individual gets lost in the metadata that governs our world. I know you may think one vote doesn’t matter, but have you ever seen ants make a bridge? That bridge happens because a bunch of individuals get together and say, you know what, we can make a difference here. So, please, take the time to vote.

And that’s it from me. I voted and will write my MP about having coffee and cookies next time.

Vaccination

I had thought that me getting the vaccine would end the pandemic. It didn’t. So much for the world revolving around me.

But let’s ignore me for the moment and see what’s happening around the world. Dow is at 33,799!!!! (an all-time high), but gas here is $1.50 (which seems like an all-time high). There are no shortages in the grocery stores, though the cost of lumber has DOUBLED in the last year. Yes, doubled. I haven’t done a scientific check but seems like a lot more is costing a lot more.

Here in beautiful BC, we have soaring Covid numbers as the new variants take hold. Pretty much all of the Vancouver Canucks are infected, and we’ve seen a rise of 50% in the number of hospitalizations.  Restaurants have been shut down again, and we’ve been advised to avoid indoor gatherings and travel. Schools remain open, as do (much to my surprise) the massive big-box retailers like Costco who are more packed than football stadiums.

However (yes, however), over 1,000,000 vaccines have been jabbed into people, and more are on the way. On Friday, April 9^th, they were doing 60+ but suspended AstraZeneca for people under 55 due to some very, very rare blood-clot complications.

For 55-65, though, they opened up those shots for us!

I guess us tail-end boomers don’t get blood clots. I guess we’re tougher than those under 55 young punk kids. It can’t be that we’re tougher than the 65+ though, because our Baba is 97 and has survived the great depression, WW2, cancer, multiple surgeries and the loss of her husband, and she can still spend a day cooking perogies or quilting a quilt. That’s hard for my generation to beat since we had no great war, no great depression, and the worse thing to happen was the destruction of the Star Wars franchise.

So, yeah, it must be that the data for blood clots says we’re ok. Data never lies, right? Right?

Anyway, they sent out a whole ton of vaccines to the drugstores to administer. Sadly, not all pharmacies got those doses, but here in the lower mainland, we had a pretty good selection and so I signed up right away. I mean, why not? I’m not at all worried about the shot or the blood clots and this is my chance to get to a 59-86% immunity.

The-Prettiest-Girl-in-the-World passed along some good advice from friends who’d done this – Sign up on multiple pharmacy sites and when you get a reservation, cancel the other ones.

That made sense, so I booked 6 of the nearest. None had slots available, but after filling out the on-line paperwork, I got an email saying that I hadn’t buggered it up and they’d let me know when a slot became free.

Then, Tuesday, I got the notice. The-Prettiest-Girl-in-the-World was super excited, like I’d won the lottery or gotten my new book published, but me, I was just meh.

Don’t get me wrong, vaccines are a good thing, but even with the vaccine, I can still pass along the virus, so I will still be masked-up, unable to go and visit my friends and family on the Island, and apparently, not sit and write at my favourite restaurants.

No matter, on the day of my appointment, I went down to the pharmacy, stood in a properly social distanced line, and waited for my turn. As I waited, I marveled at how many types of condoms there are these days. Not something I usually shop for but it was as varied as getting a coffee at starbucks. I’ll have a double ribbed, extra large, non-latex, glow in the dark, strawberry flavour one, no whip cream, thank you.

When my name was called, I had to answer all the same questions I’d been asked on-line, then I rolled up my sleeve, looked away and clenched my sphincter. To my surprise, the needle hurt less than giving blood. I had to wait 5 min in case I had a bad reaction, but I didn’t – and that was that.

Two days later, unlike some people, I’ve had no bad reactions. No sweats, no chills, no growth of alien spider eyes. The worst I had to deal with was exhaustion. For two days, I felt like I’d worked a week on a farm. In the cold. With no food.

But by April 9^th, I was fine, and glad to help out society in some small way.