In my city when you’re standing on a darkened street corner in the rain and using a reciprocating saw to cut through the U lock on a bicycle secured to a parking meter… people smile at you as they walk by.

Maybe they found the saw intimidating?

Maybe they thought I would be comfortable riding a girl’s bike?

Here’s something you can not fall for like I did and then leave me a comment about how you didn’t fall for it like I did. Then you can check out the site of the guy who posted it and get all zut alors, adorable! and shit.

Everyone knows (and so you’ll resent me telling you) that the only good thing a web page can do is provide a hyper-accurate countdown.

At the start of March way back in 2007 I finally gave into the tired archetype of family dysfunction that is a son’s desire for his father’s love and respect. (Oh and by the way my father already loves and respects me.) This unfortunately involved running, because each March my father makes the five hour trip down here to visit with us and run a 30km marathon called the Around the Bay Road Race which, shockingly, goes around the bay.

After many evasions and empty promises I somehow found myself signed up for the 5km run, the “wimpy brother” of the traditional 30km, hilariously named To The Bay and Back. I then had a few weeks of denial followed by two weeks of trying to get into some kind of shape to actually run the thing, having lived a blissfully sedentary life since just before birth.

As I was huffing and puffing my way to the finish line that cold day at the end of March, I was thinking about how much easier it was going to be in 2008 when I’d had 12 months of solid endurance training under my belt.

Oops.

I am going there.

For two weeks.

Everyone says it will be great.

Even the people not going.

Everyone is excited for me to go on vacation.

I am excited about the in-room liquor dispensers.

But give me 45 minutes at Home Depot and I’m pretty sure I could have that here at home.

Picture me wearing a sassy t-shirt that says “I don’t do, I schedule“. (While you’re at it, picture me with time in which to execute a social life, with a spiritually fulfilling relationship with a trophy hottie, and with well defined abdominal muscles.)*

I have reached a point (which I’m sure has a clever name that I don’t know, coined by a well-paid consultant that produces nothing) where I spend 100% of my time planning, scheduling and meeting — leaving, of course, zero time to do the tasks that are planned, scheduled and met about.

My phone has voice-activated dialing:

Simon: (presses voice dial button)
Phone: (pleasant robot voice) Say a command!
Simon: Call bus check
Phone: (pleasant robot voice) Did you say (scary robot voice) call dentist?
Simon: No.
Phone: (pleasant robot voice) Calling! (dials dentist’s number)

(”Dentist’s office.” “Can you tell me when the next number 5 will be coming by?”)

In the whole “two damaged cars in one 24 hour period” saga, one notable element is the pleasantness and profound competency of nearly everyone (4 insurance reps, 2 adjusters, 2 clerks at the collision reporting centre, 3 police officers, 1 tow truck driver, 1 rental rep, 2 autobody attendants, 1 property manager, 1 receptionist for a snow clearing contractor) involved in the various stages of fun. The only exception, so far, is one totally useless insurance CSR who booked me into the wrong rental car at the wrong rental company at a location that didn’t actually exist. But everyone else was great. (Not counting, of course, the jackass pickup truck and snow plough drivers.)

Sadly the saga continues. Because it was (apparently) a big weekend for “smashin’ up yo ride”, the autobody shop (slash rental place) only had one vehicle left. When they pulled out with that red minivan, I was all “WTF?” and “NFW!”, because a guy who’s got two cars all smashed up should not be trading up to a boat that’s double the size of either.

I did end up getting to work and, though carless, was promised that by the end of the day a non-boatlike car would be delivered to me out of the stock of vehicles expected to arrive later in the day. Though as I was writing this I thought to call the place and confirm that… and have been told that all they have is a minivan.

Maybe when I smash that one up they’ll give me a transport truck.

Here’s a funny story: I got into a car accident yesterday morning.

OK, it’s not that funny.

Jackass pulled an illegal left turn from the THIRD lane from the left on a one way street, right into my path. He then tried to blame me. That’s not the funny part.

I had been on my way to work. At 8am on a Saturday. I called 911 inappropriately, we exchanged insurance information, and I went back on my merry way to the office.

The insurance reps I spoke with were surprisingly pleasant and competent, but getting the claim sorted took time, as did getting the car to the collision reporting centre at the police station downtown. I drove from there to a body shop that the insurance rep had called ahead to, and they provided me with a rental car.

I drove my shiny new 2007 Toyota Matrix to the grocery store for grocery store sushi, then finally arrived back at work. Since the start of my day was delayed by six hours it wasn’t surprising that I didn’t get out of the office until 1am. That was when I notice how much it had snowed. And that someone had gone over the office parking lot with a snow plough.

And that the plough had torn the front bumper entirely off the rental car.

I guess that’s not that funny either.