The Christmas List

The following is a list of things which Husband has thrown forcibly off the back deck after declaring (and I'm paraphrasing here) that the airborne item in question was useless.

1. A sewing machine
2. The toaster (on fire)
3. The cooling fan from the fridge-freezer
4. Dog beds
5. A sledge hammer
6. The microwave (also on fire)
7. A canoe
8. Kawasaki KLX-250 motorcycle carburetor
9. A mitre saw
10. Monopoly
11. A pool pump
12.  Our Kirby Upright vacuum (not on fire but close)
13. The cordless phone ('It was beeping')
14. Cell phone ('I can't get it to beep')
15. A Christmas tree
16. His iPhone     

She's Right Behind Me, Isn't She?

Things Mother-in-Law Has Said To Me

 That Make Me Think 

She Might Be Messing With My Head

1. Reflecting on Husbands' tendency to utterly obliterate inanimate objects, trees, small outbuildings and bedrock when frustrated:  "He gets his temper from me."
2. After reading the rules for my 'Zombies!!!' game ("...be the first player to reach the center square of the helipad tile, kill the zombie there and escape the advancing zombie horde.") : "Sounds like Checkers."
3. "Welcome to the family."

Mother-in-Law is a lovely woman and I am not just saying that because she is standing right behind me with a frying pan.

You Can Really Taste The Spite

December 23, 2011.  4:00 PM.  ETA For The Big C: 32 hours and counting.

Pausing at the front entrance to the biggest grocery store in the valley, I took in the scene.  Every shelf had 'SALE!' blazoned across it.  Aggressively cheerful Christmas 'Muzak' was barely audible over the din of voices as crowds of people bustled about pushing shopping carts overflowing with Brussels sprouts, bags of chips and screaming children.  Ah, Christmas.

Normally I wouldn't dream of being anywhere near a shopping centre this close to a major food holiday but I had left it to the last minute to purchase my Christmas dinner supplies, namely the turkey.  I was expecting guests for dinner and they would likely expect to be fed.  So I gradually made my way to the poultry section at back of the store, only occasionally forced to employ my cart as battering ram when the crowds closed in around me.  

Staring into the bin of fresh birds, their naked little backs all goose-pimply (turkey-pimply?) and exposed, I was briefly struck with the urge to be a vegetarian again, if only to avoid having to touch turkey neck, the grossest part of the whole business.  Turkey neck is disgusting and only dads who like to trick their children out of choicer scraps while carving enjoy making a reversely psychological fuss about gristle and stringy tendons.

'...six, maybe eight people for dinner at 1/2 pound of uncooked bird per person plus extra for leftovers and soup...' I did turkey math in my head as I dug down through the embarrassingly naked pile of 'young, fresh turkeys.'  I wouldn't need a very big one so I rummaged for the best deal.  At the very bottom of the cooler I came across two of the biggest birds I had ever seen.  Think prehistoric.  Think ostrich.  Think too large for my small needs, unless I invited the rest of my street.  I turned the biggest of the pair around in my hands, it was very nearly the size of my oven.

It was a that point that the unnoticed woman next to me spoke up.

'Oh, you don't want that one.  That's too big.  You'd be better off with one or two of the smaller ones,' she said as she actually began reaching for the bird under my hands.

Our eyes met and narrowed as we each took in our enemy.  She was small, with perfect hair cut short in the no-nonsense style of a busy mom who is organized and on schedule and here I was, in her way and sipping a latte, while I was shopping.  And I was touching her  perfect Christmas dinner.

With a big cheery smile and a bit of a grunt I heaved that 24 pound dead carcass into my cart and wheeled it away as she seethed.  Over my shoulder I laughingly remarked that since there was only my hubby and I for dinner, we were sure going to get a lot of soup out of  it.  I like to think I made her swear but I couldn't hear her over the sound of my heartbeat ringing in my ears as I struggled to nonchalantly push my now ridiculously heavy cart.

I have never bought a turkey out of spite before.  It was wonderful and the five people I fed for dinner agreed.  We each ate about 1/2 pound of delicious, spiteful turkey.  That leaves 21 pounds of leftovers.  I am open to new recipe ideas and, incidentally, also looking to rent some freezer space if anyone has any to spare.

The Road To Hell

With the best of intentions... I went back to Costco.  I went there to purchase a specific item for a friend who needed to smile and this item could only be found.... at Costco.  I realise how ridiculous that sounds; that an item would only be available at Costco. Don't forget that I live on a tiny island on the edge of Canada so when it comes to huge box stores selling large quantities of mass-produced consumer goods, I only have one option.

I was in the store to buy one gift and get out as I wanted no repeats of The Muffin Incident.  I maintained a careful distance from all of the shiny Things and Stuff and went straight to the stack I needed.  Then, on the way out via the rest of the entire store, the friend upon who's card I was piggy-backing took me through the wretched cheese aisle and I felt my resolve begin to weaken.  Surely any corporation who understands how expensive dairy is here in BC, and can give it away for free to customers with no demand for purchase after sampling, surely such a corporation must have merit.  Must have a soul.  Maybe I was wrong.  Maybe I should give them another chance and truck loads of my money?

Wonderful items sang their beckoning songs from the mile-high shelves.  Magic Bullets and Android phones and cheap books.  Televisions and socks and speakers, oh my. I felt like Julie Andrews on a Swiss hilltop, twirling with joyous abandon through aisle upon aisle of natty Christmas ornaments and bulk bags of cotton balls.

Until once again I found myself at the check-out line, this time under the intense scrutiny of the Captain of the Costco Schutzstaffel,  Herr Creepy Von Floor Manager.


'No, you may not see my ID. No, I am not a member.  I am here with my very good friend who was simply dying to buy this small gift item but who seems to have forgotten her wallet which is a plausible explanation for why she seems to be paying with my bank card.  And may I just say thank you, Herr,  for helping me to reach a decision about a great moral dilemma with which I had been struggling.'

Snowshoes and The Sound Of Screams

I loved to snowshoe as a child, using the big round beaver tail shoes made of wood and sinew.  I remember tromping along behind Dad as he broke trail ahead, my little shoes leaving perfect waffle iron miniatures inside his larger prints, our tracks stretching out behind us over bright rolling fields sparkling in the winter sun.  Still, I wasn't very coordinated as a child, and our treks were never without a certain amount of time spent, on Dad's part, hiking back to where I was laying face down in the snow, unable to stand up or even flip over.  Dad likely recalls those trips very differently, probably with more whining and less idealism.


Husband and I went snowshoeing yesterday. It has changed quite a bit since I was a girl.  The snowshoes Husband brought with us were high-tech fabrications of polycarbonate and plastic, shaped more like an otter's tail than that of a beaver.   I had tried them out the year before and my disdain for their new-fangledness had faded the moment I took a step and did not immediately tread on my own feet, forcing a face plant into the ground.  Could it really be true? Was there actually a winter sport out there that involved strapping something to my feet and not dying?


I know what you're thinking and you are right to ask.  Where did Husband take me for the first snowshoe of the season?  

I looked up from the shiny, Tam-friendly snowshoes, to the trail ahead.  To the trail high ahead.  The mountain trail.  Forbidden Plateau, the abandoned ski hill with creepy burned out shacks and the forlorn chairlift frozen forever, mid cycle, it's empty seats swaying lonely and lost in the fog.  


Yes, fog. 


We hiked straight up for two hours past empty buildings, gutted and charred and totally not as thoroughly creepy as you would think due to the jolly snowman someone had constructed out front.  

Not creepy in any way

At the very top of the old ski run we climbed a rickety wooden Ramp To Nowhere to get a good look at the dense wall of fog completely obscuring the panoramic view.  It's okay, though because it was a wonderful day and the hike up on the fancy shoes was loads of fun.  


The hike down was an hour of hell and tumbling resulting in a pulled groin muscle, two lost ski skins, a broken ski pole, a slight concussion, my invention of the worlds first Snowshoe Toboggan and the discovery of nearly every tree pit and hidden gully on the mountain side. I can't wait to get back up there next weekend and do it all again!

The Never Ending Story

It will interest you all to note that Husband, the shine on my apple, the sprinkles on my coffee, the whiz in my cheeze, has once again... broken the iPhone screen.  
He swears this is what happened:

Spank Me If I'm Lying

I've been dedicated  to attending the gym and to not vomiting at the sight of my running shoes.  I have been taking a daily multivitamin which turns the 5 liters of water I rent from the good people at Dasani a vibrant and healthy green colour.  With Husband's support I am eating more like a cave person and less like Buddy the Elf.  I have even given up cream in my coffee.   I've trimmed, buffed, polished and agreed to something with wax that should be outlawed in every province. 


And despite all this and my insistence that I am doing it all for Future Tam and not for any body image related reasons which have nothing to do with the fact that Husband's work Christmas party is tomorrow...  


... I bought a pair of Spanx yesterday.  


If I'm going to fake delight at being in room filled with incredibly fit people who wouldn't know cellulite if it sat down and ate their dinner; if I am to lie about my hair colour, height, the length of my eyelashes and the colour of my fingernails and if I have to do it sober because Husband assures me that paleolithic people did not drink vodka water... then I am going to do whatever it takes to shimmy into the incredibly whore-y dress I bought for this very occasion.  


More to follow on a.) How I was able to get into the Spanx without a helper-monkey and b.) if I can find a Paleo-friendly shooter.  I suspect there has to be one out there, probably with rocks in it. (Ba dum-bump) 

Skinner-Ma-Rinky-Do

Behaviour Modification Case Study: Replacing note-leaving behaviour with underpants-on-head behaviour

Needs Assessment:

Subject displays antisocial behaviour by leaving handwritten notes requesting that birdseed not be left on a local parkbench. Subject does not seem to have any qualms about littering or being an overbearing control freak. It would be ultimately desirable for the subject to cease this note-leaving behaviour completely however success will be defined as 'uncontrolled screaming at the sight of birdseed'.

Implementation:

Over a period of 20 non-consecutive weeks, on unscheduled Saturdays, the subject's handwritten notes were replaced with birdseed.

Observations:

After 7 weeks escalation behaviour was noted: larger printing, underlined capitols, stapling, or tacking notes to the bench.  No note was left on week 11; instead the bench was occupied for at least 1.5 hours by Clint Eastwood.

Weeks 12-18 showed a marked decrease in the severity of the tone of each note, classified by the use of lowercase letters, writing in blue as opposed to red marker; notes written on the backs of anti-acid cartons in lieu of children's cereal boxes.

Week 19 showed the return of notes demonstrating strong emotion: subject used black and red marker on the same note; multiple notes were tacked to each end of the bench.

On week 20 a trail was discovered leading away from the bench, ending behind a tree where evidence found supports the hypothesis that the subject may have spent several hours there on separate occasions.

Conclusions:

As the behaviourist has never, to her knowledge, seen or interacted with the subject in any way other than those described above, it will be hard to determine the absolute success of this endeavor. However, based on the observations over the final 8 weeks of this study, it would be reasonable to assume that the subject is now very close to scaling a tree and urinating on passers by.

Beef Shakes: Coming Soon

Carb-free, all natural chocolate flavoured protein powder from 100% vegetable sources tastes exactly how you would expect vegan protein to taste, i.e. nothing like pork ribs.


The fact that it comes from Costco adds a subtle nuance of bitter shame to my after-workout, all natural banana-and-vegan-mocklate recovery smoothie.


I need a burger.

My 3.01 k

I went for a run today.  Not a big one, I haven't been body-snatched, just a small 3k.  I realize that isn't a big number but if I run it 13.7 more times I will have run a whole marathon. 
It should take me until around April.


On a side note, I really like using the abbreviation 'k' for kilometer.  It makes me feel more authentic, like those fantastically fit women in Le Salon du Overpriced Footwear Fitnesse.  Needless to say it is only important that I sound like them.  Looking like them would require me to spend an entire paycheck on running shoes and to mortgage the house for fancy pants and hoodies which have clearly never seen a drop of sweat.    


This is all part of the Plan For A New Tam.  It took a week to get me psyched up to go.  A week of dread and turmoil and cheese doodles, which pretty much sealed the deal on the run.   I called in support from a friend who promised that she was in 'probably close to the same shape' as me (poor dear) and we set a date to run together, foul or fair.  Unless it was raining. Or windy.  Or there was a new Vampire Diaries.


It wasn't as bad as I thought.  My friend and I have compatible paces although she's a little shorter than I so technically I guess you could say she runs faster than I do.  I actually enjoyed it.  So much that I think I will be back out there in a day or so.  As soon as I find my other lung.


My next drama will be to return to the Super Expensive Running Shoe Store and, with a perfectly straight face, ask the sales person to recommend good running socks.  I'm told the sight of enthusiastic spittle collecting in the corner of the guy's mouth while he stares at my left ear and extolls the virtues of poly-cotton blends is not to be missed.
 

Wednesday

When you wake up feeling optimistic that the week can only get better; when you find yourself humming a pleasant tune in the shower; when you catch your own eye in the mirror as you floss and give yourself an encouraging wink...


...that's when Wednesday kicks you in the junk after giving you a swirly and leaves you gasping for breath around your own tiny universe of agony because it doesn't matter what damn day of the week it is, people are still jerks.

The Blackest Thumb in The West

I am really awful at taking care of plants. I so badly want to be good at it.  I know how to be good at it. I come from a long line of people who were effortlessly good at it.  Grandmother A could grow leaves on a broom handle.  Grandmother E (don't question the alphabetization, just roll with it) could force tomatoes to sprout in frozen soil 6 weeks before last frost through sheer outraged will.  My mother, who seems to feed her flower beds a combination of pine needles and neglect, grows hostas big enough to climb. Whatever it is that made and makes these women awesome at growing green things, it clearly skipped my generation.

To my shame, I have killed a series of shrubs and plants since moving to BC.  I blame Neighbour Man, who's gardens are perfectly manicured and well-kempt.  My sad gardens, an attempt to fit in with the glassy-eyed suburbanites Husband has parked me among, are a Bizzaro reflection of his.  His shrubs are lush and glossy because he is a Gardening Robot sent from outer space to shame me publicly on my own street.  My shrubs look full because I have propped hidden twigs inside them in order to keep them from collapsing into sad brown piles of brittle sticks.

It is Fall and you would think that would level the playing field a bit. Not in BC. Here, instead of having the decency to be a season of dry browns and frost-nipped seedpods, the incessant rains turn everything into a verdant Eden filled with lush ferns and rhododendrons. Everything, that is, except for the starving perennials in my garden which go from dry to moldy as the rains soak in. The only saving grace is my lawn, which I take a certain amount of pride in not watering all summer. It turns from yellow to green in a matter of hours and looks every bit as healthy as Neighbour Man's without the watering and mowing and hours spent tweezing weeds.  Weeds grown from the seeds blown there from my only successful crop: dandelions.

A friend of mine 'grows' fake indoor plants and I think I am starting to see the wisdom in that.  I need to find a wholesaler who deals in fake trees, shrubs and perennials.

If even one of you mentions Costco I swear my next dozen posts will be photos of Fritti washing her unmentionables.

Border Lands

I recently joined gym for several reasons, not least of which were the parts of my body I have taken to calling the Border Lands.  We all have them.  Those parts, here and there, the ones we don't like to talk about.  The ones that get places long before you do and seem to keep moving long after you thought you'd stopped.  My Border Lands have reached critical mass, as it were, and I am willing to suffer through any amount of torture just shy of a full jog in order to annex the whole damn territory.  


So when an otherwise perfectly trustworthy friend of mine told me about her gym I signed up.  It's been 6 weeks and things are going well.  I have bought new jeans in a number I can almost live with, I can touch my toes without groaning (too loudly) and I have what I would like to think of as the beginnings of an ab.  Just one.  Don't rush me.


I've just returned from Step class and the wonderful instructor gave us a each motivational mantra which is still ringing in my ears.  I've copied it down for you...


'Walk it out, now keep it wide and vee, two, three, four and change here to cross step  and trip over your feet and two, three four, mambo, cha-cha-cha, land on your ass, for three, two, one and kick for four, three, two now repeat and add an arm movement which will competely f*ck you up if you watch me do it in the mirror, good job!' 


She's a miracle worker.

Cheers to Fall

It's my favourite time of year out there.  The crisp Fall air has arrived and I look fantastic in layers.  I enjoy Fall, it's noisy geese and colour displays and whistling winds have always made me feel more alive but it has taken me a few years to appreciate the subtlety of the season here on the west coast, where the colours change from deep green to dull green and the only reds and yellows are on the fungi.  

   

From my parent's deck in Ontario I could watch Fall happening.  Rich colours would gradually overtake hazy green slopes as though some gentle artist were lovingly yellowing poplars, beeches and birch; turning oaks to a soft brown.  Best of all were the maples.  Oranges so bright they seemed to vibrate.  Reds so fiercely deep they nearly shouted for joy.   

Fall in BC isn't as boisterous.  You have to want to see it happen, although in my limited experience, the locals don't seem to make the effort.  Or perhaps they do but in a typically understated and laid-back west coast manner.    And who could blame them when Fall slinks in wearing a slightly less green jacket and hangs about for months and months, like a dead-beat friend who won't vacate the sofa, bringing fogs that linger for days and rains that pound and pound and pound into your very soul....

You know, Ontario may have BC beat for colour but I sure do some of my best drinking here in the Fall.

This Old House: Well Hung

It is renovation season and we are still picking away at the polka-dot patches from last fall.  We're down to the finishing touches now and so I asked Husband to help me hang a new cabinet in our recently repainted upstairs bathroom.  This was against the advice of the little Jiminy Cricket in my soul who, despite my efforts to drown him with vodka, still manages a squeak now and then.  

Husband, who loves me more than he loves ice cream, said a rude word and stamped into the garage for his drill.  

You may recall that we have a deliriously happy marriage based on a strong foundation of trust, humour and never renovating together.  Some things just cannot be done on ones' own, however, and so twenty minutes later we found ourselves jammed together in the corner of a bathroom, hot and sweaty, jostling for position on a toilet lid and trying to avoid each other's elbows.  Again.  

Things were not going well and, when it became clear that a drill was no longer the tool required, Husband asked me for the hammer from my tool kit.  The tool kit I used to have.  Now I have what's left of my tool kit after three lousy hiding places and Husband's uncanny ability find my kit every time I move it but lose everything inside the moment he touches it.  


"Sorry, Honey but that hammer got left out in the rain for three weeks and when I finally picked it up the end fell off."


We exchanged a Look and Husband went off to search for a different hammer.  


A little while later I was asked to produce pliers from my tool kit.


"Gee, Sweetie, I think those were the ones I found at the end of the driveway.  When I tried to pick them up they turned out to be fused to the ground with rust."


Another Look was exchanged, some words were swallowed and alternate pliers were sought.  Before the job was finished, Husband would ask me for screwdrivers, a measuring tape and a level, none of which were to be had and it became clear that I am, in fact, terrible at hiding my tool kit.  


After another hour of measuring, drilling, leveling and re-measuring, drilling and leveling, Husband's ingenuity rose to the occasion and the cabinet is now hung safely on the wall and my rather sad tool kit is hidden away again, this time with a note inside which reads:


"This is the decoy.  Keep searching."

There Is No Pithy Title

The first time I met JD he was hanging out in the back of Husband's red Jeep Cherokee.  Ever a gentleman, he greeted me with civility but you could see by his expression that he had his doubts.  After all, as Husband puts it, he had 8 years in by that point and had seen several variations on the theme of Pony Tail come and go. 

I was a huge pain in his tail from the very start.  No wet dogs on the bed.  No wet dogs on the sofa.  No wet dogs on anything. To a Lab, this was a declaration of war, one that I never really won.  The sight of JD standing proudly on the sofa, dripping green ditch water and wearing that big yellow grin is one which I will remember for a very long time.  

It took three years and a lot of milk bones before he stopped whacking me deliberately (I think) on the shins with every log he'd cart with us on hikes. Before he stopped barking at me when I tried to shoo him off the bed to change the damp doggy-smelly sheets.  Before he was just as happy to see me when I got home as he was to see Husband.  Well, almost. 


 Ever stingy with his kisses, I knew I had finally passed muster one day when he snuck a quick lick on the side of my cheek as I hopped up beside him for a car ride. 


JD passed away last week, quietly and at home, after 16 years of being just about he best dog he knew how to be.  He went with mud on his paws.

The first to tell you when it was walk time, the last to get back in the van.  

JD Hood,  1995-2011

Well, At Least It's Not Birdseed

Dear Crazy Person
Today I noticed a suet bird feeder on the ground beside the trail, directly opposite the bench.  I'm willing to bet good money that it belongs to you.  It would seem that while you do have a problem with birdseed, you don't have a problem with rancid hunks of rotting animal fat.  


I've rehung it for you.


Directly over the bench. 

I hope that's okay.

Lessons Learned On A Girls Weekend In The City

1. Don't let the most easily distracted person in the group (me) do all the driving.
2. Wear sensible shoes to shop for the sidewalk daggers you'll wear later.
3. Women do not experience gas, am I right girls?  I said, am I right?
4. Always get a second opinion before you spend your food budget on a cocktail dress smaller than a postage stamp.
5. Carry slippers with you to the bar.
6. While the experience of getting rascally drunk in a big city is best shared with good friends, the resulting hangover is best endured alone, preferably without the shrill 10 AM courtesy wake-up call.
7. Never leave the hotel without two pieces of ID. 

For Moustacha, who is fabulous and affianced to a fantastically fine fellow.

Great Expectations

Dear Customer, 


I can tell by your tone and expression that no matter how helpful I am your opinion of this organization will not change and you are confident there is no end to the ways in which I will fail to meet your needs as it's representative. Hows about I just take a big ol' dump in your purse right now and get it over with?

A Little Gratitude

"Everyday, think as you wake up, today I am fortunate to be alive, I have a precious human life, I am not going to waste it. I am going to use all my energies to develop myself, to expand my heart out to others; to achieve enlightenment for the benefit of all beings. I am going to have kind thoughts towards others, I am not going to get angry or think badly about others. I am going to benefit others as much as I can." ~ Dalai Lama 


For this reason I did not back up and kick the cyclist who flipped me the bird on Knight Road yesterday after I had slowed to a crawl behind him for more than a kilometer rather than smear him into paste with the Volvo. 


Buddhism is hard.

Go Ahead, Seed My Bench

Dear Crazy Person,


Was that you on the bench today, in the floppy brimmed hat and all-hemp poncho, sitting with your hands clasped around your intricately carved walking staff?    


I bet it was.

List of Things I Cannot Do Well But Will Nevertheless Criticize Others For Doing Poorly Because One Of The Things I Do Not Do Well is Empathise

1. Sing in public
2. Accessorize
3. Smoothly change lanes in city traffic
4. Speak without interrupting
5. Spell
6. Accurately and effectively use punctuation
7. Bake
8. Recall trivial details from movies, books or reality
9. Maintain good posture
10. Understand and/or share the feelings of another
11. Parallel park

Adventures in Camping

Ontario:  August 2003, Bon Echo Park


I thought camping on my own was going to be the best adventure.  Three days of fending for myself in the wilds of a fully serviced provincial park; ruggedly using the pay showers and hiking all the way to the canteen at the park gate for a Creamsicle.  To prove to myself that I could totally handle camping alone I brought Fritti with me because no other creature in the world is better company outdoors than house cat who hates dirt and thinks wind comes from ceiling fans.


Fritti glared from her caddy as I constructed the brand new tent bought just for the occasion.  She watched as I puttered about, tweaking tarp lines and adjusting the Coleman stove out of the breeze.  Once everything was in it's place I looped a long lead around a tree and clipped the end to Fritti's collar then left the door of her caddy open to the joys of Nature and settled back in my lawn chair with a good book, snacks close by for both Fritti and myself.


Three hours later I had nearly finished my book and my half of the snacks.  The chipmunks had nearly finished off Fritti's food bowl and Fritti was still curled in a tiny ball of hate and denial at the back of her caddy.


Fast forward to 2 AM when the thunderstorm ripped the tarp from it's pegs and hurled it into the swirling night sky.  As the walls of my tent heaved and snapped and I fought to stuff everything into my pack, preparing a dash to the car, Fritti clawed her way out through the screen and bolted into the raging darkness.  


Sobbing as I feared the loss of my poor kitten to the rains or worse, I searched through the bush with a flashlight that did nothing to help against the rain and lightning.  Something told me to check under my car and there she was, huddled against the tires, drenched the bone, yowling and steadfastly refusing to believe I could help her in any way.  Finally I had to resort to dragging her out by her tail and stuffing her into her caddy in the back seat.


Fighting my way back across the campsite, slipping in mud and barely able to see through the horizontal rain, I tore down my tent and jammed everything into my trunk, mud and all.  The tarp was left hanging in a tree and I abandoned my now-broken lawn chair to the elements, along with my right shoe.


I must have looked quite a sight later that morning as I sat in a diner nursing a coffee and listening to the tornado reports.  Fritti sat under the counter, filthy and muttering.  I was covered in mud and cat scratches and missing a shoe.  The waitresses took pity on me and brought me kitchen towels and endless hot coffees and my awesome pancake breakfast was on the house.  

Gosling Lake Portage:
Where no one can hear you scream.

All of this was still a far better experience than the recent night and day spent on my own in the BC back country, squatting on a prime site by Gosling Lake, holding down the fort for Husband who had to work, fending off bears and starting at every twig snap and hating every second not spent in a cafe sipping dairy free sugarless strawberry steamers and reading a bootleg copy of the Globe and Mail and never, ever setting foot outside by myself again.


And you can damn well believe I brought that can of bear spray with me.  Oh, yes.

More Than Just The Bacon

Husband can climb mountains and ski backwards.  He can play any song by ear.  He once hot wired our Jeep's battery to it's own cooling fan so we could continue on our camping  trip without having to stop for 'useless spare parts' like a radiator or engine block.


It is all of this which helps me overlook the fact that he is emotionally and physically incapable of driving past a pile of leftover yard-sale debris without backing the Volvo up and shoveling it all into the trunk.  He is no more capable of ignoring the lure of leftover clutter than Homer was of ignoring the sirens. With usually close to the same results if you think of  a broken lawn chair as the naked water nymph/ghastly harpy thing and the garage as the site of the horrible shipwreck. 


So it galls me a little to admit that there are few things which Husband cannot find a use for.  Reams of fabric left over from the 1970's pantsuit craze become camera suits and free fly pants.  Scrap metal becomes a new box frame for the sound board. A router stays a router but Husband, who has never done any cabinetry in his life, assures me that it is in great condition and 'probably even still works.' Even the lawn chair got a quick repair and is now the most coveted seat around the campfire.  


There have been some misses.  My heart just broke when Husband's dreams of building his own kayak out of salvaged door skins were crushed when he realized he had no idea how to build a kayak.  The work benches he brought home collapsed the first time he tried to use them.  Skis have split.  Sewing machines have catastrophically failed.  The tow-behind trailer for children he scored last summer in the hopes that JD would be able to ride along on longer bike rides still sits unused in the garage.  It remains proof that dogs can laugh AND swear at at the same time.


Occasionally I am lucky enough to spot these piles of detritus just ahead of Husband and I'll have the time to hide some of the less ideal items behind bushes.  This is why we are not the proud owners of a matching set of bowling balls (we don't bowl) or golf clubs (we don't golf).  We also don't now own a giant box of Dremel bits ('Dremel tool not included') or, in my most spectacular feat of spousal duplicity, a unicycle.


I sort of regret that last one.


But only a little.

A Little Heckling

Dear Crazy Person,


I was out of town for a while so it's been about a month since I've had a chance to check in and see how you were doing.  I saw your latest sign and was happy to note that you have stopped using all caps, since that's really like shouting and a bit rude.  


I replaced it with a big pile of sunflower seeds.


Cheers

Still A Rose

I am referred to by many names.  Some of them I even answer to.   Remote, Sweetheart, Honey, Tam, Tam-Tam, Tammy-Liz, Tammers, Tammerlane, Tambourine, Tamarack.  Are you getting the picture?   My favourite names are the ones our various pets have given me over the years.  For those of you who do not believe that pets name their owners, you are clearly not pet owners.


My rotti dog calls me Tam.  She always has, partly due to lack of imagination but mostly because I am reasonably confident she is the only one of our Beasts who has never actively plotted my demise (also likely due to lack of imagination).   My cat seems to refer to me alternately as Two-Legger and Can Opener, depending on the level of disdain in which I am currently being held.  


Our old yellow dog was Husband's pooch first and he has called me many things over the course of our time together.  At first I was Cheese, then Pony Tail.  I finally graduated to Tam when it became clear I was in for the long haul and he'd have to learn to tolerate me sooner or later.  


Top dog honour, however, goes to the name given to me by an exceedingly senior German Shepherd we adopted for her final year in this universe.  This dog worshiped the ground Husband walked on, followed his every word of command and slept at his feet.  But I?  I was  looked on with contempt and tolerated only for my opposable thumbs.  This dog hated everything about me and I am certain the reason she lived with us as long as she did was because she was determined to outlive me if she could.  Phoenix never listened, never came when I called her, never backed down or looked away.  She would only refer to me when she was hungry and only then as "Get Me A Cookie, Bitch."

The Words To Move Me

Husband is the frosting on my brownie, the lace on my curtains, the giant panda at my state fair.  His energy keeps me going and his hugs keep me warm.  However sometimes his advice is about as helpful as drilling holes in a sinking boat, filling those holes with dynamite then blowing up the boat before it actually sinks, which it would have done far more slowly without the holes or the dynamite.

The opposite of helpful, is what I am getting at.

Johnston Ridge Trail, Mount St Helens, August 7, 2011.

Elevation: About 1300 m about sea level (4,300 ft)
Slope pitch: 30 degrees
Trail Description: "Experienced hikers in excellent physical condition will find this trail moderately challenging.  Not recommended for hikers who are not goats."

The trail head was a parking lot filled with families, laughing children, bus loads of tourists from seniors travel groups and a Boy Scout troupe from Seattle.  They were all heading to the interpretive centre.  No one was wearing anything more sturdy than flip flops on their feet. I laughingly thought this would be a breeze.  I said as much to Husband who was stuffing a kit bag with extra coats, a compass, water bottles and granola.

'Mmm-hmm.  Sweetie, do you know if I packed my PLB?'  Husband always packs all sorts of acronyms with us on a hike. They act like talismans to keep away the bears, cougars and mosquitoes.  I hoped they worked on volcanoes too.

The trail started out as a broad footpath and we encountered groups of those same families and Boy Scouts along the way. It was desert-dry, our feet kicked up puffs of soft, white dust and soon, like Pigpen, we were covered up to our knees in a thin film of it.  But as the groups of families dwindled we found ourselves on a narrow track about as wide a dinner plate.  


The slope on our left was formed of granite and covered in loose pebbles of pumice, blown there during the violent eruption in 1980 when Mount St Helens woke up.  The further we hiked, the narrower the track became until we reached a point that had clearly been the site of a small slide.  Husband danced across this funky little spot with the sure-footed grace of a dancer.  I looked down at the puffy clouds below me, at the tiny ant-like elks on the valley floor and, naturally, froze solid.

Quietly, so I wouldn't startle the volcano, and hoping he had an acronym in his pack which would transport me back to the hotel jacuzzi, I called out to Husband.

'Sweetheart. I am having a problem.'

Without hesitation, Husband was back at the slide.  His darling face radiated confidence in my ability to deal with this situation. I gazed into his eyes and knew the next words out of my sweetheart's mouth would unlock my frozen legs and un-curdle my blood.


'Don't worry.  When you fall, you'll probably only go as far as that outcropping before you slide to a stop.'


Pure shock and outrage propelled my body across the slide, hands outstretched to throttle.  To his credit, Husband 'misinterpreted' my reaching grasp, returned my 'hug' proudly, then turned and carried on up the path.