We live outide of the bucolic village of Craven, Saskatchewan.
Where we have somewhere around 200? permanent full time residents. We have a restaurant (which I have been in exactly once), a bar (which I have been in exactly nonce), a post office (where I can be found daily) and a gas station (weekly).
Every July, the population of Craven increases from, like I said, 200 - to around 30,000.
Did you get that???
THIRTY THOUSAND.
That's because Craven hosts the Craven Country Jamboree. 30,000 strangers converge on our little town to eat, drink, drink, drink, drink, drink, party, perhaps take part in some non responsible sexual behaviours, and listen to the best country music festival this side of the Mason Dixie Line. Or this side of the 48th Parallel. Whatever.
This year, J.'s company did not buy a VIP tent, we did not buy tickets early, and generally did not want to go.
So we're off to California instead. We leave tomorrow (at 2am... fun!) and arrive in LA JUST when Michael Jackson's Funeral lets out...
Wish me luck, will you???!?!
Today was busy. All the last minute things had to be procured, lists made, unmade, checked, unchecked, phone calls made, speeding to and from the city, and in the middle of all of this chaos is The Boy. Who hardly ever gets rattled and is never, ever, under any circumstances, ever in a hurry.
After I checked his suitcase against the list - there were several items missing.
Sunglasses?
I'm wearing them tomorrow.
Hat?
I'm wearing it tomorrow.
1 pair jeans?
I'm wearing them tomorrow.
Runners?
I'm wearing them tomorrow...
"Boy!" I said, while verging on the brink of meltdown... "If you forget ANY of these things tomorrow - I. Will. Have. Something. To. Say. About. It. And. It. Won't. Be. Good. Why don't you lay everything out that you're going to wear tomorrow so I can see...k?"
"K" Boy responds.
J. called me to The Boy's room several minutes later. This is what we saw:
No comments:
Post a Comment