I totally went all CSI on the Mazdabator last night.

While we were talking to the cops and checking out the damage done to our car, a question came up: was the dent made by a foot or someone’s head? It was a reasonable question; the dent was roughly head-shaped and we had been told that a fair amount of head trauma sent one of the idiots upstairs to the hospital. Feeling the most qualified to answer the question at hand (fie on you, police), I hunkered down to inspect the car for trace amounts of blood or hair.

Fortunately (or unfortunately because what a good story that would have been), I was able to detect a faint boot print on the car and an absence of DNA. The damage to the Mazdabator was caused by a boot, or perhaps someone wearing a boot as a hat (it could happen). I am very tempted to go outside and try to get a static imprint of the shoe tread, then see if I can match it to anyone. I knew all my crime-TV watching would come in handy for something other than planning the perfect murder!

So, here’s what we know about last night:

• I told the cop that everything began the same time I heard the idiots upstairs come home, and that if nothing else, they probably witnessed the incident
• He brushed me off, saying he saw no reason to wake them up to ask questions – um, what?
• Josh and Shan came out and added to what we knew; the idiots upstairs didn’t just witness the event they were actually involved and quite possibly the instigators – yelling at the other party from their balcony, throwing threats back and forth, and eventually gathering up their posse to take the fight outside
• At this point, one of the idiots upstairs was jumped and suffered a head injury
• Our car was banged up by someone in one of the two fighting groups
• Drunk Betty came out accompanied by her deaf suitor and loudly wondered at what was going on – she proceeded to tell the entire neighbourhood that she’s lived here for 13 years peacefully
• Drunk Betty called the cops
• Someone threw a large shell at the front door of our building, shattering the glass
• The idiots upstairs were “shaken up” and used the rumble as an excuse to give me lung cancer by smoking in the hallways
• I hate them so very much
• The idiot cop that brushed me off was WRONG WRONG WRONG to do so, as it turns out the idiots upstairs were actually at the police station giving statements because hey look at that they were directly involved in the whole incident (thanks to a phone call from the officer actually in charge of the case)
• Sally is just fine (I checked on her)
• Our primary suspect is Aquaman

And to think I was worried about things being too quiet!

I’d been awake for the better part of an hour listening to the rumble outside, thinking that a) it was awfully early in the year for the gang fights to be starting already; and b) it was a good thing I hadn’t deleted the Sharks! Jets! category like I was thinking about doing because of the lack of choreographed dance-offs happening lately. Since I knew there were things going on and drunk people everywhere, I didn’t think much of anything when our intercom buzzer went off:

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzz

Oh, shit. Go away, drunkos, I’m not letting you in.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzz

I really hope they’re not leaning on all the buzzers waiting for someone to open the door. Maybe I should get up and go lean out the window and tell them to fuck off.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

What the fuck?

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

*pad pad pad* Who is it?

THIS IS THE POLICE

Um, WHAT?

All the craziness I had been listening to was apparently someone’s bike being stolen and said stealee being assaulted in the head. While all this was going on, someone saw it fit to a) take a shell (?! who goes on a rampage with a SHELL?) and smash the fuck out of the front door of our building, and b) take a large boot to the rear passenger door of the Mazdabator. The police were looking for Ed, to tell him that his car had been pounded upon during the altercations out front. Well, shit. Ain’t THAT a nice way to wake up on a Friday morning! Goooooood morning North Vancouver!

Strangely enough, all the ruckus outside started the same time I heard the idiots upstairs yell their way home and loudly stumble up and down and across the stairs and floor above ..

I had a fairly solid night of sleep AND found a parking spot this morning, so my Thursday is already several thousand times better than my Wednesday. I’m actually feeling quite jolly about the whole thing, which I’m sure is helping. And look – I’m wearing a colour other than black. I’m practically brand new!

I really hope the weather holds for this weekend. We have to go to Victoria and see my mom to a) do Christmas, and b) talk about the house and what she’s going to need from us in terms of help and paperwork. Because I love a road trip almost as much as I love things involving groups, I coerced Josh and Shan into coming with us. The four of us will get up staggeringly early on Saturday morning and take the ferry from Horseshoe Bay (about 15 minutes from our place, instead of driving to Tsawwassen which is over an hour away) to Nanaimo, then make the drive down the island to Victoria. It remains to be seen which ferry route we’ll take on the way back, but it should be a fun trip. We booked a hotel room in downtown Victoria and have a list of things we want to do – and now that I have a camera that actually takes pictures, I’m very excited about the whole thing. I may even have to hop on the Flickr bandwagon!

As usual, I have some of the trepidation. When I last spoke to my mom, she mentioned that she, Ed and I shall all get into the car (she doesn’t know about Josh and Shan yet) and make our way to the graveyard to visit dad’s marble toaster in the wall.

I don’t want to.

I can’t decide if this makes me a terrible daughter or not, but I really don’t want to go to the cemetery. I don’t want to remember my dad as a series brass letters on a marble wall alongside hundreds of others. I don’t want to put on a show of grief for my mother or hold my tongue when she demands that I “ask daddy for some winning lottery numbers”. I don’t want to witness her rambling, nonsensical prayer-like statements. I don’t want to have to be appropriate at all times, damnit.

I don’t know if my mom thinks otherwise, but I think about my dad all the time. I don’t need to make an utterly depressing and melodramatic trip to the cemetery to visit his remains – that marble toaster full of ashes and bone fragments is not my dad; he was so much more than that. I do things my own way – remembering things about him that made me smile or cry or tear out my hair or laugh until I peed just a little. I visit him every time I’m in Victoria, by going home, and to his favourite places, and just by being in the city itself. I have little celebrations on significant days, both in my own head and out loud for others to enjoy. I don’t want a cameo in someone else’s show for the masses. Let me be the star of my own grief parade.

So, to recap: I’m a terrible daughter, and I should not start my mornings by listening to My Chemical Romance.

What say you, internet?

I have to mention this: as I was preparing this entry for posting, a song by my dad’s favourite artist started playing on my computer. Hi, daddy. :)