Comedic portion

I couldn’t help but laugh. Actually, I had to stifle my laugh since our server was still within earshot.

My husband and I were out for our bi-weekly dinner date night at a local restaurant (which shall remain nameless to avoid trouble), and our meals had just arrived. I had ordered the special of the night, spaghetti and meatballs made with fresh, local ingredients (and a hint of mint, if I’m not mistaken). My husband, however, ordered steak, though I must note that there appeared to be more plate than meal.

Now, my husband has a rather large frame. He has broad shoulders, thick, muscular legs, and is 6-foot-3. His meal, on the other hand, consisted of two small, peeled carrots, one long-stemmed broccoli floret, and a handful of baby potatoes that were roasted (quite nicely, since he offered me to try one) along with his steak that was a little smaller than the size of my palm, not his. For my husband, this meal was comparable to dropping a Saskatoon berry into a large bucket.

I felt bad. Not just because I could finally laugh fully, but because my meal was considerably larger. It was placed inside a bowl with sides that were higher on two opposite ends, with a generous portion of noodles and sauce along with three or four meatballs.

“Would you like some of my spaghetti?” I asked, just as he was finishing his famine.

“No, it’s okay.” he replied.

“What else have you eaten today?”

“Aside from this?” He stared off for a second, thoughtfully. “A can of Coke, I think. That’s it.”

I rolled my eyes internally. I would have been on his case for not eating enough, but I too tend to not eat a lot throughout the day since I find myself so busy taking care of our daughter. Food slips my mind, and in turn, he scolds me.

“Well, you should eat something when we get home.”

“No doubt, I will.” He replied.

Though I had finished my entire bowl of pasta and was feeling rather full, I checked the restaurant’s display case of desserts and decided to order a slice of cinnamon bun cheesecake to share in an effort to sneak some more calories into my husband’s stomach.

We both agreed that our next date night dinner will be at restaurant that we knew served bigger portions.

(Weekly Writing Challenge: Lunch Posts)

Little boys and plastic toys

It was 3:50 p.m. on a Sunday, and I had just finished texting my husband, with my shopping cart pulled up next to a rack of discounted baked goods at the south side Safeway. I asked him if there was anything else he needed me to pick up before I made my way to the tills.

“nopex”, he replied. He must have been holding our three-and-a-half-month-old daughter as he typed. She had been quite squirmy lately, what with her teeth possibly trying to make an appearance and all. My husband had turned off the auto correct feature on his phone long ago, so the typo didn’t really faze me.

I stashed my phone back into the front zipper pocket of my purse and started to push my cart towards the tills. I was met with some resistance, so I checked to see what the shopping cart may have been caught on. The rear left wheel had caught the bottom shelf of the discount pastry rack, adding another scuff to the collection that had already accumulated.

‘At least I’m not the only one’, I thought to myself. I unhinged the cart from the clutches of the rack, and slowly made my way to the tills.

Late Sunday afternoons at the grocery store are always killer. You either have churchgoers, still dressed in their Sunday best, picking up a few odds and ends, clogging up the self check-out line, or the procrastinators who waited until the last minute to pick up their week’s worth of groceries. Thankfully, I had more than what I would normally scan when using the self check-out, so I weaved past the make-shift line that always formed for the terminals, and surveyed the lines for the regular tills.

Choosing the checkout line that will whisk you out of the store the fastest is tough. I could have gone down to the far end line near the produce section where everyone seems to believe it’s an express lane, when really it’s not. (The express lane is actually next to the self checkout lanes, but it is rarely open on Sundays.) Or I could have gone to the line that had a fairly new cashier working the lane. It was a socially awkward fellow by the name of Alex, or something like that. I remembered him because he rang my groceries through the previous week, tripping over his end-of-transaction script as he handed me my receipt. I wasn’t interested in a repeat performance, so I pushed past his line.

I finally decided on a line that had a mother with her two young boys at the end of it. She was looking a bit frazzled as she started placing her items on to the conveyer belt. One of her boys sat in the child’s seat of the shopping cart, his little legs swinging back and forth as they dangled. He was playing with a snowboarder figurine, dressed in dark green like large, plastic army man, but it stood aboard a neon orange snowboard. The boy ran the figurine along the handlebar of the shopping cart, manoeuvring it back and forth as if it were a trick railing.

The boy’s brother, who looked to be about four years old, stood behind his mother as she unloaded the cart’s groceries. He was all over the place as he walked in front of his mother in line, next to her, and behind her again, until she told him to stop and wait for her to finish. He looked down at the floor, dejected. But it didn’t last long as he saw his brother slide the snowboarder figurine back and forth across the handlebar, over and over again. The older brother put his hands up on the handlebar, making more obstacles for his brother to run over, until one pass when the older brother swatted at the figurine, forcing the figurine to the floor. The older brother bent down in front of the front left end of my shopping cart to look for the figurine, but I found that it had landed near the rear right wheel of my shopping cart. I bent down, picked up the figurine, and gave it to the older brother.

“Here you go”, I said to the older brother. He just looked up at me, then quickly turned to his little brother and handed him the toy. It was at this moment that the little boy finally made eye contact with me. He had been so enthralled with his toy that he didn’t notice me the entire time I had been standing behind him with my cart (not that I expected him to). He was maybe two years old. Toys are important at that age, y’see.

“Thanks!” I heard their mother hastily reply, then went back to unloading the groceries. When she was done, she came to the rear of her cart and pushed it on through. Between paying attention to the cashier, her rambunctious older son, and her younger son still sitting in the cart, I could tell her day had been a rough one. Her younger son dropped his figurine a second time, and his brother went to pick it up, but played keep away with it until his brother squealed and his mother scolded him, telling him to give the toy back. Dejected once again, the boy did as he was told, and rounded to the front of their shopping cart, shoved his hands in his pockets, and waited for his mother to complete her transaction.

Having payed for her groceries and obtaining her receipt, she guided her cart off to the north-east entrance, disappearing from my cognizance.

“Sounds like they’ve had a long day” the cashier chimed in, interrupting my thoughts.

“Hmm?” I faltered, then quickly realized what she said. In order to keep up with the social conventions of small talk, I replied “Oh, yeah. Hopefully they’re heading home”.

I was never that great at small talk.

(Weekly Writing Challenge: Three Ways to Go Gonzo)

A ride to remember (cont’d)

(Part 1)

Just as I was calculating the amount of trouble I would be in for trespassing, I heard a man’s voice call the dog’s name. Years and several repressed memories later, I cannot remember what the dog’s name was, but it immediately ceased it’s snarly stare down and retreated to the man’s side. My heart finally stopped trying to escape my body through my throat, and we slowly approached the man. We told him what had happened, and he led us inside so we could use a phone. I called my mother to come pick us up while the man told Christina the dog’s name as she hesitantly petted it. My mother arrived 10 minutes later, loaded both of our bikes into the trunk, and we drove Christina home. It was definitely one of the scary moments of my life, and it sure made for a memorable bike ride.

(Weekly Writing Challenge: Cliffhanger!)

A ride to remember

As a kid growing up on the north side, I loved going on bike rides so I could explore every nook and cranny. It felt like there was no limit as to where my bike could take me, and as long as I was home by curfew, my folks didn’t seem to care where I ended up.

One fall evening after supper, I met up with my friend, Christina, and we decided to take our bikes down into the coulees. We began our ride from the red-shale bike path that used to be at the end of Stafford Drive North. From there, we took the gravel road that lead to the entrance of Peenaquim Park, past the tall, buzzing power lines, and pedaled down the roadway into the coulee. The steep slope forced us to ride our brakes most of the way. We also had to be mindful of other cars since there wasn’t a bike path at the time. The best part of our descent was when you had a straight stretch of road you could coast down until you were forced to brake for another curve.

It took some time, but we finally made it to the bottom. Suddenly, it was as though the skies had opened up, and instead of seeing coulee hills to our immediate left and right, we saw large fields of prairie grass stretch out in front of us. The road stretched out even further, disappearing into a fine line in the distance with the high level bridge as it’s backdrop. Crickets chirped in the grass around us, and a soft breeze grazed our faces. We continued on at a slower pace, taking in the scenery as we pedaled along.

The paved portion of the road ended just after we passed the shooting range and softball fields. We were feeling adventurous, so we decided to keep going. Suddenly, the air began to sour with the smell of sewage. That’s when I realized that the plant up ahead was the sewage treatment plant. We continued until we reached a fork in the road, where if we went to the right, we would end up inside the chain-link fence of the plant, or to the left where we would start heading up the coulee again. By this time, it was getting dark, so we decided to go left and head back up the coulee. But just as we started to make it up the steep incline, the chain on Christina’s bike fell off. She said it had been happening a lot recently, but she thought she had finally fixed it. She got off her bike, put down the kickstand, and tried to put it back on in the quickly fading light. Unfortunately, she just couldn’t get it back on. The thought of walking up the hill in the dark did not appeal to us at all for the fear of the snakes in the grass around us, so we decided to walk our bikes to the plant to see if we could use their phone.

We parked our bikes in front of the main door to the plant and tested the door, which opened without a problem. We were worried that it might have been locked. We slowly made our way inside. We could hear the whirring of machines and smell the ever-present odour of sewage, but saw no one. As we cautiously made our way further into the hallways of the plant, I called out ‘Hello?’ a few times, hoping that whoever was in the plant that night would hear us. We made our way past another hallway and continued on. The one hallway we were in led to a door that had was propped open, leading outside to service trucks in a fenced-in parking lot. I didn’t think we would find anyone outside, so I turned around with Christina following close behind me.

Suddenly, I heard the clicking of paws on the hallway floor, the jingle of a dog chain, and the deafening sound of barking echoing off the walls. My eyes widened in horror as I saw an angry rottweiler start to chase after us. We both screamed in horror, quickly turned in the other direction, and ran outside again. We were in the open air, surrounded by the service trucks, forced back further and further out of fear as the plant’s guard dog continued to ferociously bark at us. I can remember yelping and crying out in fear, but I cannot remember what Christina was doing since my brain was running a mile a minute. My eyes darted from the door to the plant, the barking guard dog, the service trucks, the flood lights, the coulees, and back again. My legs trembled, and I cried out for help. I feared that we were stuck this way until morning.

To be continued…

(Weekly Writing Challenge: Cliffhanger!)