so hey, yeah, woohoo, we are here. yeah baby, we are HERE. and when i say "here" i know y'all know that i mean the only "here" of any significance in alberta. when i say "here" i know y'all get the hidden nuances, the nudge-nudge, wink-winks of what i mean. because, darlings, what i mean is that We Have Arrived. as in fort mcmurray.
our spacious apartment boasts an open concept kitchen, insuite laundry, a walk-in closet off the master bedroom, heated underground parking, and a beaver pond out back. our spacious apartment boasts what no apartment of ours has boasted for nearly five years - a TV. we even have (temporary) cable. all this makes me happy because i can now watch cbc and not care about what the weather is doing to the car. i can now do laundry in my underwear. i can cook comfortably with ample counterspace. all this is lovely. all this is lonely, too, because on this here saturday, i sit bored at home and mister monkey sits bored at work. also, we are here.
philosophers will tell you that in order to be happy one must find peace within, or, as the bumper sticker gurus have so aptly pointed out: wherever you go, there you are. huh! i bet those smartasses never had to live in fort mac.
the drive here made me realise that i had forgotten how ridiculously stupid drivers here are. we were nearly driven off into oblivion at least twice (once, mr. m and i simultaneously and spontaneously stuck our extended middle fingers into the windshield - oh marital solidarity!). there were at least two people i wanted to beat into a bloody pulp and i was inspired to write a poem. so here it is, possibly the only poem ever inspired by fort mac and its drivers:
ode to fort mcmurray
oh fort mcmurray
you strip me naked
remove the sleek hypocrisy of civilisation
reveal the killer within:
i want to clean dried idiot blood
from under my fingernails
with a hunting knife
dulled from much use
oh swirling vortex of dumb
oh mass exodus of the human lemming
leaving your hell hole
for a weekend of puking off whyte avenue
painting my hometown
the colour of your cheap digested beer
oh you, with your macdonald's bags
tossed out the window of your speeding truck
with far too many wheels
and too few brain cells
oh fort mcmurray
you make me ask the question
that man has asked for countless years:
how many skidoos does one person need?
oh backward baseball capped and gold be-chained
oh toothless and uncombed
oh smelly and unwashed
your crusty pants besmirching the already oily breeze
why do you not go home?
the sea calls you
does it not leave a number?
and let me go home too
what do you think?