I broke my car key on Thursday. In the car door. At Buckley Bay, the ferry terminal on Vancouver Island. The spare key was at home, on Denman. The lovely folks at the gas station at the ferry terminal lent me a pair of pliers to get the key out of the door, but I wasn’t going to put it in the ignition and risk having it get stuck in there and have Volkswagen charge me $794 for a new ignition and $156 for a new key. So I called work and told them I was going to be late and called Jer and he found the key, borrowed his mom’s car, drove to the ferry terminal, got on the ferry to give me the spare, got right back on on the other side and went back home. I drove to work, half cursing and half smiling. The next day the lock was frozen shut again, but my foresight had told me to fold down the back seats and so I climbed in through the trunk. Part of me thinks it’s awesome that I’m entering my car through my trunk – I’m rather proud of the fact that I used to have a car that was so ghetto that it used to stall whenever I turned left. Most of me, though, does not want the car I drive now to be ghetto.
I told Jer when I got home on Friday that I thought I should learn to use a chainsaw. He decided that the bluebird sunshine day we had on Saturday was as a good of an opportunity as ever. So I learned how to use a chainsaw. I like chainsaws. In the same way that I like spinning wheels. I also love the fact that we moved to a house where our neighbours are textile artists and want to have co-operative sheep. Co-operative sheep! Who ever thought I would be so lucky.