Keys, Please
Did you know women weren’t allowed in Canadian bars until the 1960s? In other words, men weren’t having any fun in the bars until the 1960s.
Sometimes after a long work day, the only solution is meeting friends downtown to have a drink in one hand and an overpriced piece of bread in the other.
This means there are no hands left to drive home.
So, the city has this driving service called Keys Please. (This isn’t an ad for the company because this blogger has no idea how to create those partnerships BUT it is a great service and fits nicely with the theme of today’s post).
They drive your vehicle home while you’re in the passenger seat and another employee drives closely behind to pick up the driver once you and your vehicle are safely home.
It’s a designated driver without needing to designate a driver.
I’m not sure if I should brag that I’ve used this service a handful of times. So, I’ll brag that I’ve made a handful of good decisions.
It can feel a little odd sitting in the passenger seat while giving a stranger total control of your vehicle but the odd feeling quickly disappears once you and your vehicle are in the rightful spots to sleep.
And I’ve recently learned I’m better at giving my own keys than borrowing others’…
In Social Skills Need Some Work, I didn’t notice who I was talking to. Today, I didn’t notice what I was holding.
At our care facility, the residents have the option to lock the door to their suite. This has sparked ongoing debates due to safety concerns. But I think the real issue is the effort it takes to locate the floor’s one master key when needed.
I was on the third floor one morning when a resident locked herself out of her room. So I approached the nursing station to ask for the key.
They handed me a normal sized key attached to a white tube that looked like half of a martial arts nunchuck (also known as Nunchaku I found out today).
Maybe they only included half of the nunchuck because they’re illegal in Canada.
My first thought was, where did they find this? My second thought was, and why?
I exclaimed, “wow, what a keychain!”
The nurse explained, “staff keep accidentally taking the key, so we needed it to stand out and you can’t put it in your pocket!”
I said, “it’ll also come in handy if I need to fight off anyone in the hallway.”
Thankfully, the nurse laughed at my mediocre joke and I headed to the resident’s room.
It wasn’t while I was on the main floor talking to a family member. It wasn’t while I was helping a resident in the courtyard garden. It was an hour later while I was on the 4th floor when I realized I still had the “keychain” with me.
I ran back to the third floor nursing station, profusely apologizing and stated, ‘I had forgotten it was in my hand…”
Rachelle, please.
