Taking a Vow

My darling wife and I were doing something totally different together last week. We were having a quiet evening at home and it wasn’t due to Cupcake giving me ‘the silent treatment’; my favourite form of punishment. We were sitting on our tolerance seat (it used to be a love seat but we’re older now) enjoying a respite from our busy day. She was reading a Max Haines crime thriller (CSI was, amazingly, not on any channel on TV at the time and she needed her murder and mayhem fix) while I was surveying the inside of my eyelids hoping to catch a few winks before bed-time.
I was just sliding into the warm, comfortable arms of Morpheus when Cupcake barged into my consciousness with one of those ‘women’ questions the fairer gender favour so much. I call them ‘women’ questions because no fella worth his power tools would ever even think to make such a query.
"What are you thinking about?" she wanted to know, staring dreamily into my eyes.
This line of questioning from Cupcake always stumps me. In my view, it’s rather presumptuous of her to assume I’m actually thinking something at any given minute. Apparently she thinks thoughts constantly and unbelievably, believes I am similarly afflicted. However, I've come to learn from bitter past experiences that if I say something like "Nothing, Sweetheart," or any variation on that theme, Cupcake accuses me of evasiveness and I spend the balance of the day convincing her I'm not hiding anything.
I've also found responses like "I was just thinking how much I love you and how special you are to me," doesn't really cut the mustard, either. She feels this is an automatic response I've rehearsed just for such occasions (which, of course, it is, but it did work a couple times).
Instead I responded with another tried and true gambit; a quick response on a neutral subject and a return of the conversation ball back into her court.
"I was just thinking if I ever got nailed for a DUI while driving around with a carload of hookers and blow, I’d want to hire the same lawyer Rahim Jaffer did. Why, what are you thinking about?"
“I’d say if you get caught drunk driving with hookers and blow, the court system would be the least of your concern,” she snorted. “After I got finished with you, there wouldn’t be much left for the legal system to pursue. But that’s not what’s on my mind, frankly. I have something more important to discuss. “Uh oh”, I thought, my mental ‘red alert’ klaxon blaring. Here it comes.  “I was thinking how nice it would be if we were to renew our vows. Don't you think that would be romantic?"
I didn't answer immediately. Instead I quickly reviewed my limited range of options knowing each would have their own specific ramifications. If, for example, I shot down the idea out of hand (which was my gut reaction) I would be viewed as unloving and obstinate. If, however, I showed the slightest interest whatsoever, she would immediately begin hiring caterers and renting a hall.
Still, it had actually occurred to me recently we could use another wedding. After this many years of marital bliss, our dish cloths and bath towels are worn thin to the point of transparency and we're down to our last toaster. Plus, I rather enjoy parties where people bring me gifts.
Conversely, however, I also realized how much another wedding would set us back. It would be a ton of cash and for what? It’s not like our current marriage license had expired. Believe me, I check frequently. But “I do's" are good for a lifetime and you only need renew your vows if maybe you’ve reneged on a few during the interim. Since this isn’t the case, I couldn't see the point, other than replenishing our linen cupboard. I needed a way out.
"You know, dear, that may not be a bad idea," I began. "In fact, just the other day I was thinking of some of the vows I forgot to throw in there in the first place. This might just be the ticket!"
She sat up and eyed me warily.
"What kind of extra vows were you thinking of throwing in?" she asked suspiciously.
"Nothing major," I responded breezily. "Just stuff like vowing not to leave your underwear on the shower curtain rod to dry, keeping the ironing caught up a little better, that sort of thing. Heck, maybe I could even work in something about not having headaches at bedtime. This vow idea is sounding pretty good!"
As I explored the subject, her eyes narrowed. “I mean, that ‘love, honour and cherish’ thing is okay but it doesn’t cover replenishing my socks and undies drawer in a timely fashion,” I continued.
"Well, let's not be hasty," she interrupted. "If we do it, I want it to be just right, so it could be a little expensive. I can think of a few things we need more than renewing a piece of paper that doesn’t need renewing. Maybe we can do it for our 50th. That will give us a couple decades to save up."
We both lapsed into silence after that. I don't know what she was thinking but unlike her, I didn't want to ask. All I was thinking was that Rahim and I just got away with one.

The Goal

         My pal Randy called last week. He had a question every Canadian could answer.“So where were you when The Goal was scored?” he asked.
The Goal. I didn’t have to ask which one. It was the shot heard across North America. When Syd the Squid popped in the winner in the gold medal game against the US, 80% of our nation was watching and the rest were listening with the TV in the other room, unable to stand the tension. Even with The Goal fresh in my mind, my first reaction was to recall what was known as The Goal before Syd claimed the name for his own. It was, of course, The Goal Paul Henderson scored back in 1972. I will never forget it as long as I live.
I was in Grade Seven at the time, attending the old Calmar Junior/Senior School building. It was a creepy place with a basement that housed broken desks, old files and, intermittently, the Calmar Cadet Corps (where I rose to the lofty rank of “latrine detailer”). It was during my favourite part of the day; lunch time, and hockey was far from my thoughts. It would be long over when school finished so I focused on more scholarly pursuits, like lugging around five tons of books in a time before backpacks were cool.
As I neared the stairwell to the basement, however, I was surprised to hear noises emanating from the depths. I followed the sound down and found about twenty kids and a few teachers watching the game on an old TV someone had rigged up on a high shelf. I stood in awe at my good fortune, and the fact it was getting far too crowded to sit on the floor as more and more people jammed into the cavernous basement.The action was intense and when the bell rang to signal the end of the lunch break, no one moved including, most importantly, the teachers. A ripple of heightened excitement moved through the crowd but no one mentioned classes as not to break the spell. More teachers had joined the throng and we all watched the rest of the game with the joy of having something really terrific, added with guilty pleasure of getting out of school to do it. Being 12, it was more thrilling than girls.
When Paul Henderson scored The Goal, cheers shook the concrete pillars of the basement. Jet engines at a metal concert create less noise. Then we all sang “Oh Canada”. It amazed me it mattered so much to us all. But it did.
My experience with The Goal Syd scored was very different. I had play practise that day. They had considered cancelling rehearsal due to the game but with opening night of Devon’s talented East of 60 Players presentation of ‘Moon Over Buffalo’ less than two weeks away, a compromise was struck. Those not actively involved in rehearsing a scene could follow the action on the assistant director’s laptop. Finally the pretend curtain came down and we huddled around the 14 inch screen groaning loudly when the determined US team scored the tying goal.
“I gotta go,” I said. “I want to watch the rest at home. If I hurry, I can catch the overtime period.” My plan was to speed like mad knowing most cops would be watching The Game back at headquarters under the guise of ‘doing paperwork’. Common sense prevailed however and I kept it under 110 as I consoled myself by flicking on the radio to listen to the game.
Unfortunately, none of the buttons on my radio presets had the game on. I frantically fumbled for the ‘search’ feature on the radio but don’t ‘dial surf’ and had no idea how to figure it out and still avoid the ditch and/or oncoming traffic. As far as the game was concerned, I was in ‘radio silence’ mode and it sucked.
As I jounced up the driveway, I hoped the period hadn’t started.  I felt confidant I was in time. Slamming the car door, however, I heard a roar emanate from our neighbour’s backyard that sounded like a throng of people just matched all six numbers in Lotto 649.
“At least we won,” I sighed. “There won’t be another revolting ‘Miracle On Ice’ movie made.”
Cam and Cec next door had set up a TV on their washstand to watch the game and still be outside in the long-awaited sunshine. I spied Cupcake and the boys in the group and as I walked over to join the celebration, my buddy, Grant thrust a beer in my hand.
“We won!” he crowed.
“That’s my boy!” Cec enthused in her tell-tale Cape Breton accent. “I knew Syd would do it!” We all cheered some more and hugged and slapped each other on the back and then broke into a passionate, if not out of tune rendition of Oh Canada.
“Another precious moment for the memory bank,” I marvelled. “What is it about Canada and hockey?”

The Kenmore Obit

        Kenmore (Kenny) Dryer.  This family addition was adopted in the fall of 2001 at the age of five. From the beginning, Kenny was a great help in the laundry room. He would take anything Little Miss Moffat would throw at him. Kenny overcame a few crippling health problems; he survived a belt transplant in ’04 brought on by getting loaded too much, as well as a serious Downy habit. He managed to overcome those issues until last weekend, poor Kenny sadly, finally, shed his heating coil. He is survived by a jug of Liquid Tide and a stack of Bounce sheets.
I was sitting on the couch when I got the news. Cupcake’s mellifluous tones came blaring from our laundry room shattering my peaceful reverie like petrified wood on a band saw.
“We need a new dryer,” came the piercing report.  “Ours just crapped out... again”
Her tone was icier than nitrogen on a stick.
“Now let’s not be hasty,” I cautioned, from the couch. “Last time it stopped working it wasn’t that bad to fix. What’s it doing, anyway?”
“When you press the timer knobby to make it go, it makes this noise... ‘GNGGNGGNGGNGGNGGNGGNGG’,”
  Cupcake did her best ‘faulty dryer’ impression. It wasn’t bad!
“That was a pretty fair approximation, Hon!” I enthused.
“I was pressing the timer knobby again, you ninny,” she responded in clipped tones. “Now quit trying to change the subject. We have four baskets of wet clothes that need drying.”
I winced at the prospect. Appliance repair is, apparently, ‘men’s work’ and therefore any suggestion of using the laundromat would be tantamount to volunteering to do it. Why Cupcake would exacerbate the problem by going on a washing spree was beyond me but I suspected it was to crank up the pressure in the decision making process.
“Okay, okay,” I capitulated. “I’ll call Darcy the appliance guy.”
The phone call was brief.
“It’s making a bad noise when you press the timer knobby,” I explained. “It sounds like, ‘NGGNGGNGGNGGNGGNGGNGG’.”
“That noise is the sound of a seized motor,” he assessed. “You’re looking at around $300.00 to fix it. You can probably get a new one for four or a used one for two fifty or so...”
I thanked him for his candour and sighed mightily. New it is, I sighed. Cupcake had already stated categorically she would not accept another used machine.
Arranging delivery began badly. I had called my dear brother, Scouter Bob, who owns a truck.
“I’ll do it, but breakfast is on you on Saturday,” he advised.
“Okay,” I sighed.
“And you’ll have to bring me my coffee,” his enjoyment was obvious.
“Fine,” I said through clenched teeth.
“In bed,” he chortled.
“Forget it,” I snapped. “I’ll pay to have it delivered first.”
“I was just funnin’,” Bob guffawed. “You don’t have to buy me breakfast... unless you want to...”
  The trip to the Major Shopping Decision was tense. Cupcake was practically drooling about an energy-efficient, large capacity wonder with more bells and whistles than a pinball machine in a rail yard.
“There no such thing as a ‘fold clothing and put it away’ feature,” I pointed out.
“I can dream, can’t I?”  she said wistfully.
Personally, I was taking a wait and see approach. This involved waiting helplessly to see what Cupcake would do to my bank balance.  I’ve tried other approaches but they’ve all ended badly. ‘Happy wife, happy life’ I reminded myself.
Then we saw the prices.
After much whispered discussion (It’s amazing how heated whispering can get!) we settled on their least expensive offering. A floor model from the previous year’s stock.
“We could buy three or four of these for the price of one of their higher end ones,” I enthused.Cupcake was non-committal. Either that or she was giving me the silent treatment.
Back home I quickly hooked up our newest acquisition. After a minor mishap with the new vent hose which required a trip back to Leduc (apparently, the metal foil ones don’t bend as easily as their toxic-gas producing plastic brethren) I carefully slid the unit into place. I stuffed some damp towels into the cavity, chased it with a Bounce sheet and pressed the button. Suddenly the entire room was brilliantly illuminated from the blue light of an enormous electrical arc and the dryer emitted the dreaded  NGGNGGNGGNGGNGGNGGNGG noise.
Cupcake stood watching, her arms folded as I gingerly poked at the dryer to turn off the power. I wasn’t keen on being jolted out of my jammies but didn’t want to risk an electrical fire.
“I’ll order the one I suggested,” she said with smirk. “Better call Pete to see if he would be would be willing go to Leduc to fetch it. Bob would want our first-born.”
“The problem being?” I answered snidely.
“Chris!” came the sharp retort.
“All right, all right,” I acquiesced.  I’d forgotten Cupcake’s sense of humour was in the same shape as our expired dryer.
The following day, with Cupcake’s new dryer running non-stop, I thought life was as back to normal as it gets here. Then I heard Cupcake’s voice from the kitchen.
“I don’t think our fridge is keeping things very cold,” she announced.
P.S. Used Kenmore Dryer for sale. Cheap. Needs some work.

Put 'er There!

I recently received an interesting email outlining 24 things about to go extinct. (No, Tiger Woods’ career wasn’t mentioned, although it’s more endangered than the spotted owl.) The list of things going the way of the Carcharodontosaurus and the  Canadian dollar bill, included such familiar items as the yellow pages and classified ads, VCR’s and dialup internet (You mean they aren’t dead yet?) as well as ham radio and cameras that use film, among other things.

It seemed to me the anonymous list maker missed a biggee, however. There is one thing that I see nowadays that is getting scarcer than a respected politician. No, it’s not faith in our institutions (that’s for another rant) but the humble handshake.

There was a time everyone shook hands. It was almost as popular as smoking. It was used in greeting and when departing, as a means of relaying both convivial congratulations and shared sorrow. It was REALLY popular with drunk guys, too, along with the phrase, “I love you, man.” The handshake was as pervasive as fedoras in the ‘50’s. There was none of this fist pounding stuff or the new elbow bump. Elbow bumping? Give me a break! We may as well wave from across the street. And for what? You’re as likely to catch something from a handshake as you are from a door knob or money or any of the myriad things we touch that others have touched.

If the threat of microbial invasion is as bad as those that make money off it claim, it is amazing the human race managed to survive through their multi-millennia handshaking phase until the use of hand sanitizers became more popular than, well, smoking. We must be a healthy society, indeed! But there are those that would have us believe we are walking bundles of bacteria. Well, we are, but the bacteria aren’t all bad. We’d die without bacteria in our systems. We need them as much as we need pizza and liquorice allsorts. Maybe more.

According to that universally trusted infotainment source, Wikipedia, historians believe handshaking has been with us since at least the second century BC... apparently before bacteria were invented. It has been used as a gesture of goodwill that, even we emotionally repressed males, are allowed to engage in with each other.  This is why it is so popular to do after sporting events to demonstrate good sportsmanship, and is second only to fanny patting in communicating a hearty ‘attaboy’.

Recently, pressing the flesh has been banned in the most surprising places; kids’ soccer leagues, some churches, even at the Olympics. I was saddened by this turn of events. The handshake in church is one of my favourite parts. (I’m not a big offering fan.) And what better way to leave competitive aggression in sporting venues than with a hearty handshake? I confess I do support the ban for hockey players shaking hands, though. I mean... have you ever smelled a hockey glove? Do you really want to come in contact with that?

There’s a lot of communication in a handshake. It’s like a short, private, intense conversation. That’s why folks are selective about who they clasp with, unless of course they are politicians trying to get elected. Apparently, they will shake anyone down, especially after they win.

There is finesse to handshaking, too. It’s much more complicated than it may seem. You have to come in just so, feeling for that taut flap of skin at the base of the V created by thumb and forefinger (T&FV) on your T&FV. If you clamp earlier than full T&FV contact, you end up grasping the other person’s fingers in a squishy, unsatisfying, uncomfortable moment. If you come in too hard, you might break the other person’s thumb, which can also be socially uncomfortable. A firm, solid grip with a vigorous pump action is the goal but some carry the whole ‘firm’ thing too far. They see a handshake as a contest of strength instead of the genteel greeting it was intended to be and try to crush every carpus in your hand. Still, I’d rather have one of the ‘help, my hand’s caught in the car door’ type shakes than one that’s limper than soggy Sapporo Ichiban. Those ones are unsettling, like you feel you have accidently grabbed somebody’s prosthetic rubber arm.

I will miss the handshake.  It’s a sign we’re all retreating into our own little tidy, self-contained units of humanity, enjoying music on our personal stereos, watching movies on our personal DVD players and texting our conversations without talking.

Despite this zest for isolation, studies have proven we need to be touched or we die. (The nice kind of touching, not the icky weird Uncle Naughtypants variety.) I believe we should take no chances and never pass up an opportunity to be touched. Paris Hilton could be the poster girl. Sadly, some, and not just the homeless and the homely, never get touched by anybody. To them, even a simple handshake would make all the difference. But it’s too late. Handshaking is now looked upon as a personal space invasion. The general public recoil at the thought of clasping hands in friendship.

And we are poorer for it.

An Olympic Career

Last Friday, Cupcake and I had gotten a room at a budget motel to celebrate her birthday, Valentines and the fact that we still find each other attractive, 29 years after meeting. I am not at liberty to divulge which particular birthday but I will say, if the figure were converted to dog years, it would be over 375. Let’s listen in as there appears to be trouble brewing in la room de l’ amour. (That’s French, you know.) “But I don’t want to,” I protested. “You know I’m not into that stuff.”“Oh, come on,” Cupcake enticed.” I think you’ll like it. It would be great to do together. I don’t want to do it by myself like last time. Please? For me?”

I resisted as long as I could but, man, I love it when she begs.

“Okay, I’ll try it for a while,” I caved.

That exchange between us would explain why, amid a room filled with sensual delights; gigantic Jacuzzi tub, crackling fireplace, and a bed the size of a small country, the evening found us watching the opening celebrations of the 2010 Olympics.

Now it’s not that I hate the Olympics. I’m just not sure we get enough bang for our billions. I also question why I, via taxation, have to subsidize an over-blown track meet featuring people who, other than our birth country, have absolutely nothing in common with. These are beautiful, fit, young people with great hair, plus Kevin Martin. I mean, if the Olympics really were truly a money-making proposition as some people claim, private enterprise would have taken over years ago and instead of being every four years, would be a weekly reality show.

To me, I can’t help but see the whole thing as paying people to do jobs that don’t really need doing.What direct benefit do I get from athletes learning how to slide down hills really quickly? After all, the impact on my daily life would be negligible, even if Canada won every medal. My paycheque would remain the same, my darts would still suck; nothing would change. In fact, the only difference I can perceive between a world with Olympics as opposed to one without, is that in a world bereft of The Games, I wouldn’t have been sitting in a sumptuous motel room watching television.
I have a theory why countries fight over hosting them. I believe we are all are victims of international peer-group pressure. It’s like we’re all, as nations, still in junior high.

And what pressure there was. We had to win gold at our own Olympics since we never had before on Canadian soil... or snow... or ice... Calamitous! We better throw more money at it!

I’m old enough to remember (unfortunately) in Montreal and Calgary when we failed to finish first in any event. How truly Canadian, I thought. We are such generous hosts! No wonder the Olympic Committee chose Vancouver.

As Cupcake and I watched, I had to admit the snowboarder entrance was pretty cool.  The guy must have had kahunas the size of cantaloupes which should have made the descent even more difficult. The native dancing was enthralling, too, as was Ashley MacIsaac’s incredible fiddling performance.

“Who’s the dude with the sour face?” I asked Cupcake of the grim-looking dignitary sitting beside Governor General Michaelle Jean. “He looks like a refugee from a 1930’s horror flick.”

“Oh shush,” scolded Cupcake. “That’s Jacque Rogge, the president of the IOC.  I’ll grant you that he does look like he just ate some of your father’s tripe and onion soup.”

I must say, the speeches from Canadian celebrities praising their homeland did make me uncomfortable. I’ve always felt our undemonstrative patriotism fits nicely with our national image. I find over-zealous public displays of love of country as inappropriate as over-zealous public displays of romantic exuberance. That’s what motels are for. Besides, it’s so un-Canadian to invite someone to your home just so you can brag about it. Our way is much more subtle. We simply open our doors in welcome and let folks think what they may. We know they will love it, too.

The speechifying aside, the celebration continued to amaze. Sure there were a few glitches; a delayed dignitary here, a stubborn cauldron leg there, but it was still an inspiring spectacle. I wanted to be in BC Place so bad, if only to get one of those nifty electric candle jobbies everybody in the audience got.“See?” said Cupcake as the credits rolled. “Aren’t you glad we watched it?”

“Oh yeah,” I agreed readily. “When I pay three figures for a night away, there’s nothing I’d rather do than watch TV.”

“You know,” Cupcake giggled. “With your grumpy face on, you look just like that Rogge guy!” P.S, For those interested in my Great Treadmill Adventure, you may recall I was working out the cost/hour of treadmill ownership. I have now used it for approximately three weeks and have brought the price below $100.00/hour. I have been using it even more, lately, since I pimped it out with a cup holder and a sandwich tray.

Revenue Canada Phobia

At this time year, I begin to get irritable, preoccupied; maybe even a little crazy. It’s not Seasonal Affective Disorder but something much worse. It is my annual attack of revenuecanadaphobia whereby I’m thrust into the unaccustomed experience of having to think about my finances.

I view my paycheque as a sort of wind tunnel. The money, in twenties, gushes from the blower end, while at the far side, sucking up all my twenties, are the mortgage, the car payment, the utilities, insurance, groceries and the like, and boy do they suck! Every once in a while, I reach into the meagre flow of twenties and pluck out one or two for beer and other necessities but mostly they just fly by. I won’t say it’s a perfect system but it has got me this far. However, with tax season approaching, as unstoppable as another Simon Cowell produced TV show, everything’s changed.

Financial questions invade my mind which had previously been occupied with foraging for food in the fridge, cajoling Cupcake into connubial goings-on and....uhhhh... foraging for food in the cupboard.  Seemingly overnight I am pondering such deep issues such as, should I buy RRSP’s to offset my tax burden? How much? Which ones? How long a term should I sign up for? What is my maximum allowable contribution? Why aren’t those Triscuits still up on the top shelf, behind the spaghetti canister, where I hid them?

The problem is that I have just watched my company RRSP’s go through a phase where they were losing money faster than a rube at a pickpocket convention. My quarterly financial statements sent by the financial institution had profit and loss charts that looked suspiciously like they were borrowed from an automotive manufacturer... except I didn’t get a bail out. I was leery about pouring more money into an apparently insatiable monster but felt I had a better chance of getting something decent out of it than if I just mailed it off to Revenue Canada. My odds may be lousy with the stock market but money sent to the government is gone forever.

I decided to ask an expert. I booked an appointment with a finance fellow at the credit union. Some might say going to an RRSP salesman to see if I needed an RRSP was like going to a used car lot to see if I needed a 1974 Gremlin. Nonetheless, the credit union had treated me as fairly as I ever expected a financial institution to and felt they deserved a chance to convince me.

The financial guru, Ian, (not his real suit jacket) is a tall earnest man with an amiable disposition and a shrewd mind for money. I suspect he’d been a nerd in school.

As Ian crunched the numbers of a retirement formula on his computer screen, a line graph of my projected income after retirement based on my current investments began to appear. If it had been my electro-cardiogram readout and not my financial picture, I would be in ICU with hoses in every orifice. “Okay, let’s look at your investments,” Ian said heartily. “Maybe when we plug some of those numbers in, the graph may perk up a bit.”

“Well,” I began nervously, “there’s the 12 bags of empty beverage bottles by the shed... I donated them to the grad’s bottle drive,” Cupcake whispered. “And if you bring up the change in the sofa, I’ll smack you.”

The brief stab at levity aside, I enumerated my sources of income I could expect, based on the various pensions and RRSP’s I currently have. Although I had been with the same company for almost thirty years, along the way it changed hands a few times and new pension plans appeared with each new logo on my paycheques. One parent multinational conglomerate only owned the company I toiled for briefly, and the pension from the short fling is anticipated to be worth a whopping $29.47 per month. The company threatened me that if I retired earlier than 65, they would cut it back to $21.63. I’m working until I’m 65 now just to tick them off.

Finally, after examining the bones of my financial future, Ian came to a stunning conclusion. “Based on what’s already invested from payroll deductions, you probably don’t need more RRSP’s to maintain a reasonable tax rate,” he proclaimed. “And with help from CPP and OAP and your umpteen pensions, your retirement is more promising than you first thought, too.”

“Boy,” I blurted out, “you sure make a lousy RRSP salesman!” Cupcake kicked my leg.

“Just to be sure,” Cupcake told Ian after shushing me with her patented ‘shut the puff up while I do the talking’ look, “We’d like a five-year principal-guaranteed investment product as outlined on your website.” She stated the amount and Ian quickly tapped out the transaction on his computer.

“Apparently he’s a better RRSP salesman than I gave him credit for,” I chided Cupcake outside the credit union doors.  “Actually, I think you made an astute financial decision.”

“Not really,” confessed my child bride. “I noticed a sign saying that if you buy an RRSP, you can win a big screen TV!”

Recalling My Chevette!

Last week, Toyota’s recall of some models due to accelerators sticking made more headlines than a corduroy pillow. The panic and anger felt by the owners of the affected vehicles was substantial, but I bet it was nothing like the panic and anger felt around the Toyota chairman’s boardroom table. I can picture in my mind in exquisite detail, that first meeting after the CEO learned a massive recall had to be made. Unfortunately, it’s all in Japanese so I can’t make out what they’re saying exactly but I’d bet money that somebody was blaming somebody, though.

Having an accelerator stick is not a... ahem, foreign experience to me. Years ago I owned a Chevette (Yes, I admit it) that had more problems than a gay infidel at a Taliban training camp. Commuting in winter without freezing to death required me to wear a snow suit, two sweaters and four pair of long underwear. I looked like Marlon Brando in his later years. I would try to arrive early so I could sit in the bathroom stall at work nicknamed “the crematorium” just to defrost.

One day on the way in, I had just reached the bottom of Devon Hill and had begun to accelerate to make it up the other side. Suddenly I realized, with a stab of terror, my gas pedal wasn’t coming back up when I lifted my foot. I was indeed fortunate that it happened where it did because the climb up Devon Hill at full throttle in a Chevette doesn’t even put you at the speed limit. It gave me time to think of options, other than hammering my foot on the obstinate accelerator over and over and over and screaming like a girl.

At the top of the hill, the car began to pick up speed. I was no further ahead in planning how to deal with my little accelerator issue. I had to do something, though, as I was hurtling toward the back of a semi. Although it was entirely possible the little car may have fit under the chassis of the trailer, I didn’t want to take that chance. Braking wasn’t helping, other than to burn out my pads. I even tried taking it out of gear so I could slow it down but the engine screamed like a chain saw on full bore.... well, ¾ bore and was shaking the car so violently, I thought the tiny, 400 hamster-powered motor might leap right through the hood. I was pooping cinderblocks, let me tell you..

It finally occurred to me to simply turn the key off, and coast to a stop on the shoulder of the highway. I turned on my four-way flashers, the international symbol for “Yes, I’m having a bad day. Yes, I’m having a bad day. Yes, I’m having a bad day.” I sat there for a few minutes, willing my heart to stop pounding and resisting the urge to roll up into the foetal position.

‘Calm down,’ I thought to myself. ‘Everything’s fine, for now.’

‘CALM DOWN??’ I answered. ‘Are you nuts? I might have been killed!’
As I sat there wondering what to do about the situation and dreading the hit my wallet would take if I had to pay for a tow, suddenly, the accelerator popped back up. I was as elated as I was suspicious. I gave it a few test presses but was afraid of flooding the engine. I weighed the risks of driving back to Devon to get it fixed but having Devon Hill between me and the dealership made me nervous. I knew I would have to floor it again to get up the other side and was scared to death it might stick again in the ‘lethal missile’ position.

Gingerly I started the killer machine up and braved the perils of Devon Hill. The thought of having my throttle sticking in the city, overpowered my fear of the icy climb I’d be facing again.

Safely at the dealership, the mechanic explained the problem. Apparently, in the cold, the throttle cable would accumulate ice and freeze against some other lump of ice when the pedal was completely  depressed. Sitting on the side of the road with the warmth of the engine heating the motor cavity, it melted the ice and freed the mechanism. With some WD40, a new chunk of cardboard jammed in my grill and moving a rad hose closer to the throttle gizmo rectified the issue immediately.

“Happens all the time with these types of cars,” the mechanic assured me.

“What type of cars do you mean?” I asked.

“Crappy ones,” he responded with a wink.

There was never a recall of Chevettes, despite all their foibles. I learned a lot about what makes cars go and stop from my buddies, thanks to that car. Although the motor would never die, everything around it had to be replaced eventually.  On the other hand, it was cheap to run and mostly got me to where I wanted to go. When I traded it in for another Chevette, it had over 350,000 kilometres on it. I loved that little car, other than the day it tried to throttle me to death. All I can say to the recall victims is, “I feel your pain”.