Sunday, September 20, 2009

Lost in Translation

Yesterday, at long last, we decided to purchase a replacement door for the spare bedroom. The old one had an unfortunate altercation with a jig-saw, and we need a door to hide all our messy crap from company.

I called around and found a place nearby who said they could sell us a primed slab door, and cut the doornob hole & hindge spots for us while we waited. The only hitch was we'd need to bring along the old door as a template.

We decided that since the shop was just a couple blocks away, it should be ok to drive over there with a door hanging out the trunk of our little car. However, when we got to the address, there was just an empty lot. The plot thickens. I guess the yellow pages had it wrong, because the shop was actually located about 20 minutes away. We resecured the door, and were on our way.

20 minutes and too many bumps & potholes later, we arrived at the door place to find the door open, but nobody in sight. After 5 minutes or so of milling about and making noise, a middle aged Sikh gentleman appeared and greeted us.

I said hello and told him that I'd called earlier regarding a slab door. He didn't reply, actually he didn't even look at me. It was an awkward moment. I was thinking that maybe he didn't speak english, and was about to rephrase when Sean asked if they had any interior doors. The man said 'yes, of course sir, we have many doors to choose from..." and went on about the types of doors available. I asked if he had any primed doors, and explained we didn't want a pre-hung door, just a slab door, since we already had the frame and fixtures from the old door. Again, no response from the man, he didn't even look in my direction to indicate he'd heard me.

I was getting a little confused at this point. Sean reiterated what I said, and the man answered all his questions as if this was the first time he'd heard them. I was starting to get the idea. I told him we'd brought the old door with us, and we would like something similar, and asked if we should bring it in. Silence. I looked at Sean, and he asked if we should bring the door in, to which the man replied that he would go out and take a look at it.

After all was said and done I tried one last time and asked if we could have the door cut while we waited. No response. I said "Sean, can you ask if we can have the door cut while we wait?". And Sean asked "Can we have the door cut while we wait?", and the man replied "Yes, of course Sir, just drive around the back, and we'll stop the project we're working on, and make your door right away. Then, you can come back when you need another door and tell all your friends about us."

Fat fucking chance Vancouver Doors Ltd.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Typical Family Dinner

Monday was my sister's birthday, so we all went over to my parent's place for dinner. It was a typical family gathering.

My grandad, after a couple of whiskeys, plunked himself down at the dinner table next to my sister. He then exclaimed to everyone at the table; "I'm feeling frisky!". My sister promptly spat out what she had in her mouth (another family tradition). To clarify, my grandad is 91 years old, and the word 'frisky' means something different to him than it did for us. Thank god.

He went on to tell us about a restaurant in his home village of Berrick on Tweed in Scotland. He described the food and said it had been in the same place for 100 years. Then he told us where to find it if we were ever to go. The street name was gaelic, and my grandad has been in Canada for the past 55 years, so I don't think it came out right. What we all heard was "You'll find in down on Sucky Whore road". I covered my face with my napkin, my brother howled, my Mom left the table to compose herself, and my sister spat out what she had in her mouth. For the rest of the evening, whenever a question was asked, my brother would answer with "Sucky Whore Road!".

Our last little tidbit of excitement happened when my mom brought out the brand new passports she, my dad, and my sister had just received in the mail. They were passed around, and we all marvelled at how bad the pictures were, and mimed posing for ones of our own. When the passports came around to my brother, he started goofing around with them and tossing them about. My mom yelled at him, which of course made him act out even more. When he started juggling them, she got really irrate, at which point one of the passports slipped from my brothers grasp and... right into the pot of spaghetti sauce! My brother gasped, my mom yelled, I laughed uncontrollably, and my sister spat out what she had in her mouth.