How to Get What You Really Want

Toronto had nearly worn me down. It was time for my much-earned winter vacation.

After only one hour of sleep, I woke up last Friday morning to fly to Edmonton. By 5:18 a.m. I was patiently waiting for the shuttle bus to take me to the airport.

This strange beard-less character was waiting for me when I arrived. Wired, I mumbled something incoherently about being hungry, and he obligingly started to cook me a meal, giving me the chance to inspect his new place of residence (which is more commonly known as "snooping.")

Alex Dodd is living in his aunt and uncle's basement. The whole house is normal enough, until you start to look more closely.

We braved the semi-raging snow whiting out the roads, and went to the Black Dog for libation and friends.

Much of the rest of the week followed suit, with me dragging Alex Dodd all over the city to meet my various friends and foes, and with him gazing adoringly at me throughout every social excursion. (Or, at least that's how I'd like to think things happened.)

We went home after the Black Dog, and I went to sleep in a serious Rest Cure fashion. Except without, you know, the knawing on bed legs and stuff.

Alex Dodd has never heard of Charlotte Perkins Gilman. His wallpaper will make more sense to him once he does.

I take excessive comfort in Alberta.

And now, I'm at home in Cold Lake, buried deep in a book, blankets and snow. I'm happy to be home.