The Long Game

During the Fall 2019 semester I took a chemistry course called Structure Determination. It was a course about how to determine the shape of mysterious chemical compounds via a variety of diagnostic tools. The professor who taught said course was, and still is, a staunch music lover. No era was out of bounds in his vast musical library. He would give us seemingly impossible practice questions to work on during class and would play music while we worked. Primarily to amuse himself rather than sitting at the front of the class staring at us sweating over bi-cycles or multi-ring structures. Or what we believed to be either and were usually not. It also had a calming effect on a portion of us.

            The same professor has a few children, whom I am sure he adores. They are of an age that he can play more advanced pranks on them. He shared one of the pranks with us on one fall afternoon while sidetracked from the task at hand.

            He explained that he had hatched a plot with one of the older children to swap out three of the younger child’s songs in their music library with Rick Astley’s 1987 hit Never Gonna Give You Up. Naturally he was met with blank stares from the members of Gen Z in the class, while the elderly ladies up front (myself included in that demographic) snickered. He went on to explain the concept of Rick Rolling. The genius of his diabolical plan was realized, and the class was politely amused at the antics of the ultimate dad move.

            I should stop now and explain that Structure Determination is a pre-requisite for Advanced Organic: Synthesis, offered in Winter 2020. Many of the students in the room on that day went on to take Synthesis which was taught by the very same professor.

            Fast forward to March 2020. We were motoring along. New concepts were flowing out at a blistering pace and then the unthinkable happened; the quarantine order was put in place and the university was shut down for face to face classes. The order was given three weeks before the end of the semester. We still had to cover the magic of palladium and had a late midterm exam scheduled for April 2. The exams were extremely challenging and written in pairs.

            On the last Tuesday in March we had our final Zoom class. We discussed the exam and he set a due date of April 3 at noon. We were assigned our partners and the exam was posted for us to work on over the course of a few days. Being the final week of the semester and extremely hectic, my partner and I nibbled away at the exam between our other commitments. For me, that week culminated in 11,000 words written between three other classes, plus a final exam. It was the very definition of time management under extreme pressure. I ate that elephant one bite at a time. I don’t know how, but I did.

            On April 1, he posted a link under the Exam 3 folder. “Exam Help,” it said. My partner and I were working on the exam at the exact moment the extra post went live. My partner had also been in Structure Determination and present on that fateful autumn day. Forgetting everything that we had been taught, we optimistically opened the link on our respective computers. We were desperate. It was a video which started with his concentrating face. Thinking that we were about to be imparted with hints that would crack open the mystery of question one, we waited. Then the music began. That familiar opening riff emanated from my laptop speakers. My shoulders slumped. My eyes closed. My head shook. I touched my face. I began to laugh. Then, he began to dance. My partner, who was watching on her computer howled in bemused frustration. She was hoping for the same thing I had been when I foolishly clicked on the link.

            Having had several of our lectures provided as videos on YouTube, we were comfortable with this delivery method. He tended to use his arms to explain how certain reactions happened. There he was at his house, in all of his professor glory, dancing. I began to think he was doing a complex interpretive dance. Was that what I think it was? Were we forming the ring in the question that way? I watched about half of the video and then went back to my notes.

            Two days later, while we were working on the same exam again (back to question one after completing the rest of it), it hit me. Right between the eyeballs. That link was posted on April Fool’s Day.

            April. Fool’s. Day.

            What a fool I was for not seeing it before. Then the brilliance of the prank began to seep in somewhere deep within my brain, like a spectre forming out of mist. A rapid-fire montage of the past six months crystalized in my mind. He planted the seed that autumn day. He nurtured us with his brand of shenanigans. He inoculated the class with the knowledge of the Rick Roll. We, or at least I, should have seen this coming. Then, in a twist of fate, an opportunity presented itself. Offered up on a silver platter embossed with a health order that would require us to communicate via video. We were a captive audience in our homes with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

              As it turned out, the interpretive dance was my stress reading into the situation. In the end my partner and I did fairly well on the exam, all things considered.

But he who Rick Rolls a stressed-out group of third- and fourth-year university students had the last laugh. A nuanced prank of legendary proportions such as this will probably never be repeated.

Al

                        Stampede is a great opportunity for the city kids to go and learn about farm animals. They get to experience the sights and smells of the non-zoo animals and see them at work. Our experience has always been great. No questions have been historically asked that were outside of our scope as parents of a soon to be first grader.  Until Monday.

            Our animal experience occurred in the Budweiser Heavy Hitch tent. The Clydesdales were in their pens relaxing with hay or just generally dozing. They had a space separating curious hands from the pens lest someone urk a horse and get bit. I was lamenting how much I would love to pet the horses, but was happy to just stand back and admire them.

            I should add that I was at the Stampede with my brother-from-another-mother and his wife and kids. His mom and dad (whom I regard as my own) were there too. The girls were in a chuckwagon (after an unfortunate post spinning ride vomiting incident) which offered shade and a way to not have to walk everywhere.

            There was a rope preventing little hands from touching the horses. I lamented that I would love to pet them but stood back and admired them from a respectable distance. As I was mesmerized by the big brown eyes of a gentle giant named Al, I heard "mama, what's that pink thing?" My gaze lazily drifted from the hypnotic eyes toward the abdomen and a bit further back. There, hanging down, was the largest rogue boner I have seen outside of the zoo. 

            "I think there's an attraction," my friend's mom said as she nudged me in the ribs. A grin had consumed her entire face and she was barely able to contain her mirth. I looked over at the girls who were pointing and staring at what Al had on offer. 

             "I'm not ready to have this conversation," my friend's wife laughed, uncomfortably. The questions came in rapid succession. All from her daughter, while mine giggled. "Is that a boy? What is that? Is that where his pee comes from?" My friend's wife looked like she was taking a bullet with successive question. 

             Being the science student in the group, I decided to break the charged humour of the adults and answer so no one else would have to. "Yep," I said with some authority. Then I added at low mumble "and what a boy." The stranger next to me choke coughed and walked away slowly, avoiding eye contact. My friend's wife steered our chuckwagon out of the tent and back into the chaos of the kid's midway. We managed to avoid anatomical names or any further discussion.

             I looked back at Al, he gazed back. His work here was done and he neatly stowed away the object of our attention. I could've sworn that he winked. I turned to Wade and took his hand. As we walked back out to the midway I muttered something along the lines of "and that's how unrealistic expectations are made."

             Later the Budweiser Heavy Hitch made an appearance at the evening show. "DO YOU THINK AL IS DOWN THERE?" The girls were pointing and standing. All of the "adults" laughed a little too hard while quietly reflecting on the events of the earlier afternoon. 

             After the fireworks, we were walking from the train station to the car and our little cherub piped up with, a confident authority, "was that the horse's penis?" 

              "Yep, that was it," replied Wade. I smiled and silently hoped that she didn't expect human men to be as well endowed. Nothing more has been said on the subject.

Horseradish

            I do love me some horseradish. Last night we (I) decided to go to the Keg to satisfy a red meat craving. After looking at Open Table and determining that the Stadium location was it, we were on our way. On arrival, we were promptly seated (because reservations rock) and we chose our various meals. My meal of choice: The Prime Rib Classic. It’s a perfect balance of meat and vegetables. But more importantly, horseradish.

            Some people eat lobster purely to eat the clarified butter (just me? No?). But I eat Prime Rib for the horseradish. The Keg has several locations throughout the city and not all locations are equal when it comes to their horseradish. Some are weak and I am able to heap it on like it’s a white paste of sadness in the hopes of some sort of tingle. Others, well. Let me go on.

            My Prime Rib arrived and I was delighted to see what looked like a freshly grated variety. None of that shit from a jar (I’m looking at you SaveOn). I took in the scene briefly then dug in. Since I have had past experiences that were lack luster, I opted to slather on a generous layer of the white gold. I skipped the formalities of giving it a sniff. Why delay the inevitable disappointment I fully expected?

            I chewed enthusiastically. The Prime Rib was perfection. Medium rare and juicy with a lovely red wine jus. The horseradish was the cherry on top.

            But what’s this? An entity has entered my mouth. Silently creeping up to my moderately congested sinuses. The vapour, neigh the chimera carried on its journey behind my entire face. A gentle caress turned into a rough hug followed by it moving through the entire Karma Sutra.  Internally I was suffering from the full effects. Externally. Well, I can only imagine I looked like a photo of the combination of a dog sneezing and trying to catch a handful of kibbles at the same time. Wade, being ever supportive in all of my endeavours regardless of stupidity, sat back and laughed at my suffering.

            I cried.

            I composed myself.

            I continued to eat, but with more caution.

            Near the end of his steak, he decided that I was just being overly dramatic. He reached across and procured a wad of the entity that had not just twenty minutes earlier had its way with the back of my face. His eyes never left mine as he spread it on a piece of his steak. He opened his mouth and placed the meat in. He chewed, still maintaining the eye contact of a groom on his wedding night. Beads of sweat began to bloom on his forehead. Still he did not flinch. I began to laugh as he began to crack. He suavely reached for his water.

            “It’s got a good little tingle.”

            We both laughed. But I know what the chimera was doing to his face.

Neighbourly Love

            Last Thursday I ran a last-ditch practice session on my ribs for my best friend and his wife. In the process of wanting to serve more than meat for dinner, I had to run out for some sides. While I was sitting in the parking lot at Sobey’s someone approached my front door and rang the bell. She looked unsure of herself and extremely nervous. She stood on my front step gnawing on her nails, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. I read it as suspicious, sketchy. Then she rang the bell again. Remembering that a) I wasn’t at home and b) can interact with other humans through my security system app, I opted to have a dialogue with her.

            “Can I help you?” Yep, I hadn’t actually thought this through and my customer service side emerged.

            “Hi, yeah, I live just next door and um I just wanted to let you guys know we’re having a party on Sunday because um I’m getting married. And um so we’re going to have like music and everything. And I just wanted to uh see if bothers you like if you can just call me and that way we don’t have a problem.”

            “No, that’s not a problem at all. I’m sure that we make our fair share of noise at times. So, you go ahead and celebrate. Congratulations! Enjoy!” I watched her face go from cautious, concerned with careful listening to the biggest smile I have seen on someone’s face lurking at my front door.

            “Thank you so much!” She promptly cut across the lawn to her house without providing me with a number or name to complain to.

            Now, you may be surprised that I don’t know my neighbours. I know the neighbours on the other side. We were forced to introduce ourselves because of the fence building extravaganza last summer, which involved giving the option of chipping in for their respective sides. The nice couple who lives on the side who contributed are Darren and Cindy. The other side, from which this lovely young bride-to-be lives, is known as the “slumlord house.” Their landlord rents with reckless abandon and opted not to pay for any of his side. However, this family has been living there for almost as long as we’ve lived in our house.

            Their yard isn’t usually in the most stellar shape. They have a vine climbing over the back fence which can be considered noxious by some botany circles. The fence itself is in dire need of replacement. The lawn is rarely mowed. Canada thistle has taken over the front flowerbed. Occasionally there is construction debris strewn about in the back yard. The gate has been repaired numerous times. And the skunk has been known to make their yard home.       But the residents are hardcore football fans and cheered very hard for Mexico in the last World Cup. And they’re otherwise lovely people. Whose names I have no idea. Wade might, but I don’t have to interact with them more than retrieving an errant soccer ball out of our back yard when the kids don’t climb over the fence themselves. The father greets me politely when we happen to be outside at the same time. It’s a nice coexistence.

            Fast forward to today. Sunday.

            We came home after a weekend of smoke, meat and beans. We were dirty, greasy and exhausted. The alarm system alerted us to visitors about an hour before our arrival at home, so we knew there was a vehicle encroaching on the driveway. We could see people loitering about on the front lawn. We knew what was going on.

            We thought we knew what was going on.

            I jumped out of the car and took the dog inside and came back to start unpacking. Wade was up the ladder unloading the Thule box on the roof of the car. “Our house really stinks.”

            “Shhhhhh. The wedding is about to start.”

            “Ah what now?”

            “There’s a wedding going on now.”

            “Okay, has the bride come out yet?”

            “No, I think she’s still inside.” At this, I covertly walked around the big pine tree in the front yard and peered, incognito, through the boughs, past the open shitty gate into their back yard. There was a big white tent set up. I saw a row of chairs and people, a congregation if you will, occupying the chairs.

            “Sweet mother of pearl,” I muttered to myself. Then I recalled the conversation with the bride. That they would be having a party. This was way more than a party.

            We carried on quietly with unloading our car and getting our lives put back together. However, curiosity did pull me to my guest bedroom overlooking the back yards. There was not one but four big what tents set up in the yard. I questioned where all the crap went that was usually there. Specifically, the firepit. It looked as though it had disappeared entirely. There was also a large buffet of delicious looking food on their deck. Impressed at the TLC-esc conversion of their yard from crap to glamerous, I went back to continue helping Wade.

            Once we were all done, I went upstairs and laid down on my bed to just relax before getting into the shower. That’s when the ten-piece mariachi band fired up. Their volume was akin to an orchestra playing Carnegie Hall and they were looking to blow the roof off. Adriana was alarmed. I laid there in complete mirth. Again, replaying our conversation in my mind. She had mentioned “like music and everything.” That suggestion was an epic understatement.

            I heard Wade tell Adriana to come upstairs to watch them play. I held her on my hip and together, we watched. The men were in the normal regalia of a mariachi band, without the hats. There were three guitarists, a harpist, two trumpets and a four-piece string section. One of the string gents sang too. The bride and groom shared their first dance as we looked on.

Adriana suggested we should go down and be with the celebration, mostly due to seeing two small children.

            “No sweetie, we just got home and we have things to finish here and we’re pretty tired.” She squirmed in my arm and asked to stand on the bed. Then promptly started to use it as a trampoline. I shooed her back downstairs and started toward a much-needed shower. Wade came upstairs and told me that the father of the bride had come to ensure that his daughter had cleared the party with us and to invite us over. Wade was slightly cleaner than I was but neither of us had seen the inside of a shower since Friday morning. After giving me his account of the father, he promptly budded in front of me for the shower. When I finally had my turn, I was in there a long time.

            The band was still playing when I got out. I listened for a bit and then decided to retrieve our (mine and the bride’s) interaction on the camera. There was no indication of the magnitude of the party. I went downstairs to make dinner. They eventually switched from the live music to a loud music player, which drowned out most of the conversation at our house for a few hours.

            But, like any good neighbour, they began to wind things down around nine o’clock and by ten the wedding was over. The tents were dismantled, the chairs and tables folded up. The bride and groom presumably gone to somewhere fancy to start their new life. The yard resumed its mundaneness and peace and quiet settled over our piece of the neighbourhood. I kind of hope there are more children having weddings in their yard, for the cleanliness and the mariachi band.

            Did she have to ask for our (my) blessing to make the noise involved in celebrating the beginning of her new life? No. But the enormity of her big day combined with my complete oblivious nature made for a hilarious end to my weekend, to say the least.