Of Ambulances, Anniversaries, Acrophobia, Eye-Glasses and Other A-Economic Affairs

The Return of Young Geoffrey





I know folks, I know - I've been more than remiss, and I am grateful that only two of you have jumped ship during this, my latest absence from the LJ world.

Part of this extended break has been due to the fact that Young Geoffrey spent more than 6 weeks wandering the world without his specs. Considering his wage-slavery required that he stare at a computer monitor for 7 hours a day, his enthusiasm for social computing was less than as per normal. Worse, he had not yet entirely wearied of the siren-call of yet more half-naked babes rushing like nubile lemmings to display their sometimes dubious wares on myspace. And then there was Literati over on yahoo-games.

So yes, I've neglected you, Gentle Readers. And thus, a catch-up post, of mostly happy tidings.

It's Been Two Years and 7 Days
(More or Less)



Laura and I have managed to decide that the anniversary of our first meeting falls more or less falls on St-Patrick's Day, a "holiday" I had hitherto loathed on some mild level of loathing. But maybe the Irish are good for something after all.

(Ahem. Some of my best friends, etc etc.)

(Now, where was I?)

Ah yes. It has been 2 years since Laura and I first met (and bloody hard to believe April will make it a full year since we've been living together!) and we decided that something special was in order by way of celebration.

Despite that, Laura decided we would head up north for a ski weekend.

embarassed coughs echo through the hall ...

And so it was that the morning of Saturday the 18th found us ensconsed in a rented Echo (my fantasy car - but I digress), heading North to Horseshoe Valley and my first experience with room service - not to mention my first time on down-hill skies or those fucking terrifying gondolas what sway their way up "mountains" (relatively large hills, for those of you not from Sourthern Ontario).

I am happy to report that I not only managed to stay mostly upright while skiing down hill (and not just on the bunny-hill, thank you very much), but that I survived repeated encounters with the ski-lifts. More than survived - I found that repeat encounters actually rendered my fear of heights weaker with each time, as if I were building up an immunity.

Nevertheless, I found it amusing - when I found myself alone on one trip up the hill - to listen to myself babble a non-stop commentary as to the state of my mind during the ascents. ("Oh, this isn't so bad - wait, why is it swaying? I don't like when it bumps like that oh shit now it's stopped. Oh I don't like this, we're too hi ... You're going to be all right, Young Geoffrey, this isn't so bad ..." How she puts up with me I'll never know.)

Skiing itself was hard, but not so hard as I'd imagined. More fun than I'd expected it to be, too. Still, sliding downhill with your skis in a permanent "vee" gets to wearing on the thighs and buttocks and 3 hours was about as much as I could take, thank you very much. But we'll do it again - and more often - next winter.

Long story short, we had a wonderful day and night (and the food was mind-blowing), but Sunday proved less than idyllic.

Laura had a sore throat when we arose, which grew worse over breakfast, during our tubing experience and through the drive back to Toronto. By the time we reached home she was off to bed and so it was I went out alone to stock up on heavy groceries and some surplus shelves from the office (amazing what that magnificent Echo will hold!).

To the point, however ...

Song of the Ambulance

I returned home and lugged groceries and furniture into the apartment, then fired up the computer. After a little while, I heard Laura stumble out of our room. And presently, heard her call my name (she'd been calling for a while, but her voice was weak).

"Geoff? Geoff? Geoff, please come out here ..."

When the fact she was calling me finally registered, I left the office and found her sitting at our table, slumped in a chair, naked and sweating like an athlete in a sauna.

I asked what was wrong and she told me, with a remarkably calm matter-of-fact-ness, "I can't see."

That's right. She couldn't see. She had gotten up to puke, then found her vision pixilating to the point that she was blind.

Long story short, I called 911 and we spent the evening in the emergency ward at St-Mike's, where it was determined she had "only" a bad case of the flu and she was discharged.

And by Monday morning, I too was sick as a dog.

Since then, neither of us has had a cigarette(!), we've mostly recovered from the flu and I have begun to grow accustomed to once again wearing glasses.

Not to mention to having eyes that look more or less before they did before "Chad from Syracuse" broke my face.



I am feeling good, folks, and I remember that there not only have a bunch of economic insults to which I must reply, but much else besides.

Stay well, enjoy the renewed sunshine and wish me luck on cooking dinner. We'll talk again soon, I'm sure.