Not Coffee

People say that you never know what you have until you lose it. This is meant to demonstrate that most people take much of what they have for granted. 

Just to be clear, I haven't lost anything and I know exactly what I have.

I have silly, secret words that make me giggle and a photo of a man in a snorkel, offering me coffee. I have warm, strong arms around me at night and, when they are away, I have ridiculous conversations about nothing and everything, that shrink the miles and hurry the clock. 

I have a cheerleader. He is someone who dresses up as my favourite character for his Hallowe'en costume.  He gives simple gifts that make me cry; wind chimes shaped like the cone from a Douglas Fir, which music makes me think of home. I have, so far, 11 years of adventure with my best friend, enough to fill pages and pages of this blog, and certainly my days, with smiles and laughter. 

He is my guiding star, the unwavering point by which I navigate. I am grateful for every moment we have together, even that time he convinced me to climb a mountain "just for fun". 

For Glenn, who certainly knows how to keep things interesting.

The Folly And The Ivy

Today I realized that for all my passion, all my care, all my efforts to do it for the last 14 years, I really am horrible at lying to children.

Most people aren't. I wish I had the knack. It seems to flow so effortlessly out of parents and teachers. 

"Mommy will be right back."
"That's a great picture of a giraffe."
"You have lots of friends at school."


Honestly, I do try, but the effort is just so exhausting. I was bound to slip up sooner or later. I really had no intention of doing what I did but I just have no idea how parents do this all the time.

So the guy who seemed to be waiting in line for the ladies room at Canadian Tire piqued my interest, as you can well imagine. We struck up a conversation and it turns out he was waiting on his own Mother In Law, who was 'helping" him Christmas shop with the baby for the day. While we were waiting for her to finish with the little one in the 'Ladies, we got to chatting about grandparents and overspending and toys and about how much is too much. One thing led to another. I didn't mean for it to happen. I had no control over what I said next but  it went something like...

"Oh, I know! In my family, my grandparents got the "Santa Gift" (I actually used air quotes here) and that was it. They played Santa and so they got the one big thing. Boom. Easy."

And then we both did the slow turn, this stranger and I, to meet the eyes of a lone child, age approximately seven years old, who had been waiting silently behind us. Those eyes held shock and loss. So, so much loss.

I am a horrible person. Truly terrible. Not because I outed the man in red 16 days before his big day. Not because I let my guard down in public for 5 freaking seconds around someone's child who frankly, should learn to walk with a heavier tread if she wants to avoid overhearing things she doesn't want to know. It certainly wasn't because I made absolutely no effort to recover the Hoho faux pas, my hypocrisy really only extends so far, after all. And it was not because I simply walked away. 

It was because I cheerfully wished her a Merry Christmas as I did.

Seriously. Between this guy, the Tooth Fairy and what happened
to the classroom goldfish, I am just too tired to care on my day off.

True Love

When you were gone, I finally understood the meaning of the word sorrow. 
It is a bitter ache in the pit of the belly;
A malignant serpent, coiled tight inward upon itself,
Who's name is Despair.

But then I spotted another Tim Hortons and got a refill. 

Through a Process of Elimination

Men, it can be argued, have it easier than women in many ways. They certainly never have to worry about glass ceilings, paying more for razor blades and shampoo, or being patronized when attempting get a car repaired. There are myriads of ways in which the world still revolves a little more smoothly for the Y-chromosome, as a friend and I were discussing earlier this week and the one I would like to discuss today is every bit as important to the complex workings of society as is the right of both sexes to take up arms at the frontline for their country. 

Men get to pee anywhere they like.

Well, obviously not anywhere. In general, men are discouraged from urinating just willy nilly, all over the subway tiles (Paris, France notwithstanding) and certainly not in the potted shrubs outside the bank, unless they are really confident about getting that loan approved. They are also not allowed to tinkle in a public space, unless they really have to, or the Port-A-Potty is gross. So I suppose that also voids pretty much most of urban and suburban Canada and likely the greater portion of the U.S., except for Reno. 

But apart from that, they can piddle just about anywhere and it's considered completely okay. Not only okay but actually a right. 

Well today, I took a big step towards gender equality, while out on trail with the dogs for their morning pooch walk and let me just tell you, I feel free. 

I mean, I've ducked behind the bushes before, under duress, when it was pretty clear that we were still hours from the top of whatever godforsaken mountain Husband was forcing me to trek up. Honestly, why are mountains so bloody large and why do all the best views come at the top? I mean, who decreed that? Surely a view that includes the mountain you would otherwise be standing on is just as good, possibly even better, than the one you can barely see through your darkening vision, as the Death Zone wraps it's fingers around your failing heart.

I've lost momentum. Peeing. Right.

I was not stressed or too far from at least four reputable coffee shops, two of which might even be open in this town on a Sunday. I was not long on trail, nor was it a medical emergency. We were not stranded or hours from civilization. It was not dark. There were no trees. And it felt wonderful. I peed for my sisters. I peed for generations of oppressed. I peed for freedom. 

And also, because I had three big cups of coffee before the dog walk. 

Test Page For The Great Canadian Novel

The following is a work of fiction.

Flat Earth

Miss Yolanda Drupe, age 29 and two thirds, of Somewhere, Earth, is going to die. Well, of course when I say that, I mean that she is going to die soon, surprisingly and in such a significant way that it will change the world as Humans know it. Stating it in that way is more for emphasis, really, sort of sets the tone, lets you know the narrator means business and that that business is, in fact, death. Which will be visited upon Miss Drupe, as previously stated, in a most astonishing and unexpected manner.

It all began with a gumball machine.

Yolanda was going to miss her bus, which meant she’d have to wait for the next one to come along 15 minutes later, which meant Edmund Dormer was going to be sitting at his desk by the time Yolanda got to work at the small law firm where she was interning and that meant suffering through The Eyebrow.

Yolanda despised The Eyebrow, which belonged to Edmund Dormer, her immediate superior, especially when it was raised in her, Yolanda’s, direction, while he, Edmund, glanced primly at his perfect gold wrist watch on his perfect bony wrist and made the tutting noise that Yolanda especially hated. Yolanda also hated the word “superior.”

...

You're Never Fully Dressed Without Pants

Let's go over this again...

Not pants.

No.

Nope.

Now you're just making fun of me.

... alright, but only on special occasions.

Compensating For Something?

Blending In With Albertans: Respecting The Truck

Albertans in this area seem to be a pretty stoic bunch. Not too much will phase them, they handle most daily occurrences with a great deal of equanimity, and not just because it's too cold to raise an eyebrow. I have personally witnessed an Albertan, almost certainly by accident, hit a deer with their vehicle, pull over, drag the carcass off the road, field dress it, load it, kick the dents out of the fender, and drive off in a spray of gravel, blood and fur.  

I ran over a Mourning Dove on my first day behind the wheel of my Mom's 1971 Impala and I was a wreck for a week.

Nope, there certainly doesn't seem to be much that will get a rise out of them, but I have been doing extensive research in this area and I have found a chink in the flannel of the Albertan armour. Simply suggest they could make do with a smaller house next to which to park their big, silly truck; a smaller garage in which to park their big, silly truck; imply they might seem less intimidating if they didn't have fakey testicles dangling from the hitch on their big silly truck; giggle at the "scary" flames doodled along the sides of their big, silly truck; or challenge their right to park their big, silly truck perpendicular to the sidewalks by parking parallel, right next to their big, silly truck.

Or insist, despite steely looks and clenched, stubbled Albertan jaws, on referring to it unwaveringly as "a big, silly truck." 

Not in the picture: Incredibly small genitals.

  

The Voice Within

I lost my voice a few days ago. It happened at work, where, adorably, I was immediately championed by all of my students who vowed to find it for me by snack time. They failed, but in the cutest way possible and so I am home for the next few days, under a vow of silence, lest I do irreparable damage. I am half tempted to keep talking, on the off chance that I wind up with a sexy, Janis Joplin rasp, but it would be my luck to end up more like Gilbert Gottfried.  

                                                            Best not to tempt fate.

Those of you who know me will think you understand how losing my voice has affected me. 

"Aw, poor dear. That must be so hard. I mean, you never stop talking. We love you but, honestly sweetie, you seriously never shut up. Are you going insane yet? Hnur-hnur-hnur."

Not quite.

Being voiceless has been wonderful for that secret little part of my tiny, blackened soul that hates people and every boring and mean thing they say and do. For once, instead of being forced to be gracious and polite in the face of near breath-taking stupidity or just plain mean-spiritedness, I get to smile benignly and say nothing at all. No socially accepted banalities cooed over the pink, wiggling thing they ejected from their body after 14 grueling hours of who cares; no gracious change of subject because I really do not want to talk about their problem with "the Natives"; no vapid exchanges about how truly cold this coming winter is going to be. 

Honestly, this forced silence is keeping me out of all sorts of trouble.

A secondary bonus, which has afforded me endless entertainment, is how strangers respond to my lack of voice. You see, I don't FEEL ill, unless I attempt to speak and then it feels like a fist is slowly squeezing my throat closed. So, because I don't feel horrible, I can still run some simple errands, take trips to the drug store for precious Neocitron, Halls, etc. and while there I have discovered that when I hoarsely whisper that I have no voice, people automatically whisper back and eventually everyone in line is whispering also, our heads bent toward each other, ears cocked, as though we are sharing state secrets or discussing vajazzling in church. It's magical. 

The only draw back is when I am walking the dogs. Meeker simply assumes that if he does not hear his named being called with a raising note of frustration and desperation, that he is good to go and will therefore accelerate over the horizon at Mach 3 at the very moment the van door opens. Jesse feels free to eat as much dead bear as she can in one sitting and Zoe, well, Zoe does whatever her three little brain cells tell her to do anyway, so there's been no real impact there I suppose.

Along The Line of Smoky Hills

It's Fall or, as Starbucks spells it, Pumpkin Spice Everything Season. I love this time of year. It comes a little sooner than usual, up here at the northern edge of Central Alberta, and doesn't last as long but it's all the sweeter for it. The days are bright and clear, the leaves are a brilliant yellow sigh on the wind and the nights have a crispness that remind you that winter is coming

Edmonton, The City Beyond The Wall

I have always had a fondness for this season. Not just because it smells fantastic outside but also because the days and nights are the perfect length; not so long that you have trouble believing your clocks and not so short that you feel rushed into or out of the sheets. The air isn't hazy from summer's heat anymore so the horizon, and Alberta has a lot of horizon, seems close enough to touch. Sweaters and jeans are so much more flattering than shorts and tank tops, and every child suddenly seems to own at least one corduroy item, which is only the world's most adorable fabric.

Is anyone else hungry? Because I could just EAT these.

There is a special feeling I get in the Fall, like receiving a real letter from an old friend.  It's not quite joy, although that is part of it. And it's not quite sadness, but that's in there, too. It's a sweet reminder of beauty and life, but also of the seasons gone that can't be recaptured. 

It's in the Fall that I lay out my regrets and examine them, one by one, snapshots of things I meant to accomplish and just... didn't. It is also the season in which I decide which regrets are the ones I intend to do something about and which ones are going to be swept up with the fallen leaves and used to plant something new instead. Fall is my New Year, my season of resolution, so much more than when winter holds everything immobile and frozen. This Fall, I resolve to be more adventurous, to be braver. To stand up to bullies. To love more, even if it's Tuesday. Especially if it's Tuesday. 

And to forgive Tim Hortons for their Pumpkin Pie Latte, which I am certain will be in their pile of regrets next year.

Say you're sorry, Tim,  and we'll just forget this whole ugly business.

I want to ride my bike...

First bike ride of the summer! Yeah! This is going to be great.

Where is my bike?

Why is my bike in the back shed, who moved it there?

Where is the saddle and post for my bike?

I am going to kill Husband.

Why is the post for my bike in the garage?

Why is the saddle on the post the crappy $15 one? Where is my $80 Terry Cite X Gel Saddle "designed for her comfort", with all the right bits in all the right places for my lady bits?

Text from Husband: Oh, that seat. Um. Sorry. It's at work. Sorry. On my bike. Um.  Sorry. Get Helpful Coworker to go get it maybe? Sorry. Um.

Helpful Coworker is under the weather and besides, that's a silly reason to disturb someone's Sunday morning, no matter how wonderfully helpful they are. 

I am going to kill Husband.

Never mind, I will use the crappy seat and enjoy my sunny Sunday no matter the cost to my lady bits. This is going to be so great!

Wait. Where is the allan key set? 

And the tire pump?

Text from Husband: Oh. The allan key set is in the big blue tool chest behind the other big blue tool chest, in the drawer marked "Glues and Caulks". Not in the drawer with the glues and caulks, marked "Drivers and Bits". I don't know where the big pump is. The small, tubular, silver one is on the tray with 5000 other small, tubular, silver tools. Sorry.

I am really going to kill him.

Pumping up my tires, I am so close to my first bike ride! This is going to be so great!!

Where is that hissing coming from?

Seriously, where is that hissing coming from?

Canadian Tire Service Person: This kit right here is the best we have for patching bike tires. Can I interest you in an allan key set and a large bike pump also?

Hugs with strangers are great.

Plus, I am a grown up. I can patch this tire. Step one, find the leak...

Oh. The hissing is coming from the bike pump.

Ok.

At least I have a fancy new travel sized allan key set with which to tighten on the crappy seat.

Clip shoes make the best noise on the paved driveway, don't you think? Clomp clomp. Grown ups can enjoy clompy shoes as long as they are Serious about their Sport.

Clomp clomp clomp.

Camel Pack and helmet on, check! Map My Run engaged, check!  Here I go! This is going to be so great!

Crap. My chain just came off.

Not to worry. I am a grown up, it's just that now I'm an oily one. Luckily I am wearing the pair of padded bike shorts I borrowed from Husband. Hands not so oily now. Ha.

Map My Run: Distance,  5 kilometers. Time, 28 minutes, 45 seconds. Average speed, Old Lady Pushing Grocery Cart Uphill.

Wow. I never noticed how snarky that voice sounds. 

Look how lovely and green Alberta is! This is really great!

It's raining. It was sunny like 5 seconds ago. I guess I better turn around.

What the hell was that!? 

Oh.

My seat just fell off.

Whew. That was close. Lucky for me I landed on my already wounded back, with my feet still attached to their pedal clips, which I recall swearing to a friend only yesterday almost never happens.

Right in front of a delivery van.

Seriously, hugs with strangers are the best.

No injuries to anything worse than my pride. I'll just pop this seat right back on with...

Wait. WHERE IS MY NEW ALLAN KEY SET.

Omniscient Memory Camera zooms in on handy new travel sized allan key set, tucked in convenient travel case, sitting carefully on top of the blue tool box next to the other blue tool box.

In the garage.

I don't know how this, too, is his fault but I am so going to kill Husband.

For Dad

Today is Father's Day. As days with capitals go, in my books Father's Day ranks right up there with Mother's Day and Victoria Day for providing excellent reasons to get out in the sunshine, roast some manner of beast and generally have a great time with family. I intend to do all of these things. But not today. Today I am very, very far away from my father and my family and although it makes me sad that I cannot see their faces laughing, I can remind myself of all the things my father taught me and thank him for those lessons, even at a distance.

One of the most profound lessons my father taught me was about love. Now, not a lot of you may know this but my father loves my mother more than any man I think has ever loved his wife and the mother of his children. I can tell you this with certainty because my home was not always an easy place to be. I'm not airing dirty laundry here so I'll just say there were arguments and sometimes the greater family as a whole didn't always get along with all the bits of itself that had joined the Collective over time. That can take it's toll on a person and show itself in many ways. My deeply introspective and gentle father seemed to grow a protective layer of prickles and stings in order to shield himself at times and watching him, I learned that reading quietly could sometimes be an act of defiance; a peaceful man's attempt to keep the peace, though not always successfully. Somehow, though, in the midst of all of this tumultuous family goings-on, he showed my brother and I what it meant to love someone with your whole heart. Dad loves Mom and that is the rock I have built my life upon. No matter what, even if it's hard, especially if it's hard, you never turn your back on that promise to love a person for the rest of your life and theirs. 

I have my father to thank for teaching me strength in the face of adversity, for showing me that love isn't always easy or pretty and that the things that are really worth fighting for are sometimes the best reasons to sit down, shut up and read your book. Dad is the reason I trust that people are essentially good, once you let them get all of the bullshit out of their system. He is the reason I love to laugh and the reason I love Husband with every tiny last little bit of my heart. No matter what.

He also told me once that when he was a little boy he dreamed of running away to the Wild West and joining Roy Rogers on his ranch, to grow up like a real cowboy. You can't help but love someone like that.

A Stranger Among Us

Husband can play the ukulele and makes my tea just the way I like it. He can dance and sing and erect a tent in under 10 minutes with almost no bits left over. He giggles at words like erect. 

Last weekend he decided to erect a deck in our back yard and I foolishly agreed to help. Thankfully I was saved from that fate by an equally foolish friend who had nothing better to do. 

Now, normally such an exercise (I just couldn't bring myself to use "erection") would be filled with humourous moments involving meaningful glares and sotto vocce swearing while tools were sought, boards were re-cut, or dogs were shooed firmly out from underfoot. DEFCON 3  would usually be declared before lunch time. Marriage vows would be tested to their limit. At least one extra trip to the hardware store for more/forgotten supplies would be made, aggressively and at great speed. 

None of this happened. I have absolutely nothing worth blogging about because the deck was beautifully and perfectly built in 4.5 hours, including a stop for lunch. 

I don't mind telling you that the dogs and I are completely unnerved by this, having pre-emptively and, as it turns out, unnecessarily moved the sofa to a safe location (the roof) for the event. I can only hazard a guess that it was the presence of an Outsider, that is to say, one not of our clan, which helped things go so smoothly, for which I am eternally grateful. It begins an interesting line of speculation regarding social norms and male bonding and other stuff which I am really not interested in researching now that I have 144 square feet of extra deck space. It was either that or the lunch time beers and surprise delivery of doughnuts and frappuccinos.

Yeah. It was probably the beers and doughnuts.

The One About The Cat

I have some very fond memories of my childhood, courtesy of my parent's efforts to "battle the evil inside" me, memories of warmth and laughter and joy. This is not one of them.

I don't really recall exactly how old I was when I was struck with cat fever. Probably around about that age when other little girls started loving horses and unicorns. Not me. I wanted a cat so badly I would pretend to be one. Friends grew exasperated when we would play Star Wars or Hide and Seek or Checkers and I would declare, "I'll be the cat."

My parents are caring and wonderful people. I want to establish this early so that you will forgive them for what happens next. One day, after ages and ages of begging and insisting I would only drink milk from a bowl, they agreed to get me a cat. Not just any cat, a kitten. Perfectly snow white from nose to tail with one big blue eye and one green one. 

He was perfect. We named him Buttons and the moment I heard him purr I was in love. I finally had a cat of my very own and I was in heaven. Ooo, his wee paws, his wee nose.  

My parents were in hell. 

Little blue-eyed Buttons was deaf, you see, and so none of the regular training (essentially shouting "Don't climb that! Don't pee there! GET OFF THE CURTAINS!") was working. My mother's newly refinished furniture, shredded. The living room curtains, shredded. Every last ounce of my parents' not inconsiderable patience, shredded. 

Finally, it was all too much. I know they struggled with the decision, one they did not take lightly, so I am certain it was with relief but also great sadness that they bundled Buttons and I into the back of our little red VW Rabbit, drove back to the farm they had adopted him from, pried him from my tiny fingers, stuffed him out the window and left in a spray of gravel and my heartbroken tears.

It was one of those difficult decisions that parents must make for the greater good of the family. Buttons really was a very difficult cat to train, especially for people who had never trained a cat before. I was sad for a long time, but my parents knew eventually I would move on and I did. I eventually forgot about playing the cat in every game, learned to climb trees and began pretending to be a bird.

That's not where the story ends.

You see, less than a year later, and not that long after my little broken heart had mended, came Christmas. I would like to reiterate that my parents are decent people. Really. So I have no explanation why, on Christmas morning, they handed me a small package and watched closely while I unwrapped... a photo of the very cat they had forcibly ripped from my arms, but not from my heart, never my heart, earlier in the year. 

As psychological scars go I have to tell you, that one took three different types of the wrong boy to heal.

If the rest of the family is snickering at this, or tutting to each other at this tragic tale, then ask yourselves why each and every one of you felt it was necessary to shower me with cat figurines and stuffed cats and adorable little kitten play sets for the next 12 tormented years. 

I am not attempting to start a new Mother's Day/Dad's Birthday tradition by airing grievances. I hoped to remind everyone that not every childhood memory is a Hallmark moment, not every parental decision works out as they hoped and not every child is easy to parent. I know my mom and dad pulled out their hair in frustration, stayed up nights wondering what to do about me, and still loved me as hard as they could. I love them, too.

This is your day, Mom and Dad. It's yours to share, together. I hope it's wonderful.

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

Mother's Day #1

I just ran across a list of things I had jotted down that my mother-in-law has said to me which make me fairly certain she's messing with me...

1. In reference to the fact that Husband can and has leveled small cities to the bedrock in a fit of pique. "He gets his temper from me."
2. After listening to my diatribe on Oprah, her books and her book club. "You should read Nicolas Sparks. He's great."
3. On our wedding day. "Welcome to the family."

This list is meant in no means to indicate that Mother-In Law is anything other than a saintly lady and I am not just saying that because she is standing behind me holding a frying pan.

"I know where you sleep."

For Alexina, who is a lovely and loving mother-in-law, and who has almost certainly never threatened me from behind with a cooking utensil. I happen to know that when she means it, she'll make certain I am facing her. 

The Dog Who Nearly Wasn't

Some time ago a friend asked why we had sturdy loops of reinforced webbing attached to the roof rack on The Van. Gather closer to the fire little ones and I will tell you why these little loops are there...

Once up on a time, yesterday, Husband and I decided to take our dogs for their evening walk at a local provincial park known to many as French Bay and known to Jesse and Meeker as The Place With The Ducks. Remember the ducks, little ones, they are important.

Bright was the sun and high were our hearts as we set out on trail, marvelling at the Albertan spring (-1 C) and enjoying wearing our shorts and swim trunks for the first time in 7 months. That actually did not happen. Instead we congratulated ourselves on remembering toques and mittens because the trail led us above the (still frozen) lake and the cold updraft from the ice was slowly freezing our nips off. 

As we walked along we compulsively head-counted our dogs, as anyone walking Meeker will inevitably find themselves doing.

"One... two. We're good."

"One................... two. Still good."

"Jesse, stop rolling in the dead bear!..... two. We're good."

"One..."

"One..."

(In unison) "MEEKER!"

Normally the absence of Meeker is not cause for concern. Normally the absence of Meeker is briefly followed by the reappearance of Meeker with the leg of a moose or deer in tow. Normally we tell him he is a good boy and remind him that "he is absolutely not bringing that in the van."

Normally we are not walking next to a partially frozen, 2k wide stretch of Alberta lake, peppered on the opposite shore with ducks, loons, moose, beaver and many more creatures besides.

By the time we had reached the end of the trail by the boat launch, a small crowd had gathered.  A helpful bird watcher loaned us his binoculars and sure enough, there was our boy, 2k away on the opposite side of the lake, gleefully chasing ducks and beaver and blissfully unaware of the fact that he had just stranded himself.

Husband and I looked at our fool dog capering far away in a small strip of open water and I won't lie, we briefly entertained the notion of explaining to Jesse on the way back to the van that she would have to be very brave now because Alberta had swallowed her brother.

As the sun began to set, Husband took off for home and our canoe. (Ah, remember the loops? The loops are for tying down the canoe, quickly and efficiently, when the weather is bad or your dog is an idiot. That's called continuity, little ones.) I stayed to keep a watchful, if distant eye on the dog that is seriously turning out to be more trouble than he is worth and who had better get a job if he intends to keep up these sorts of shenanigans.

Husband returned and paddled around the floes to the opposite shore and retrieved our retriever who, by that time had worked himself into quite a state of distress. He was also mildly hypothermic and possibly suffering from shock which meant he got to spend the night snuggled between Husband and I, wrapped in a sleeping bag like the world's furriest burrito.

It is hard to watch someone you love become frightened. It is painful to watch as your best friend slowly realizes they cannot help themselves. It's is terrifying to hear their distress echoing off the dark trees, and to be powerless to help them. 

Meeker tried for the better part of an hour to cross the bay, as I stood helplessly on the far shore, begging him to stay put. Each time he swam to the ice pack and scrabbled for purchase, more of his strength was gone. Each time his tired body went under on his way back to shore, my heart would stop. 

Then Husband did what he does best and rescued our idiot dog. His quick thinking and strong back saved one of the precious heartbeats that make up our little family from dying alone and afraid, in the cold. 
Thank you, sweetie. And thank you to Reg "The Bird Watcher", for his company, kind words and reassurance while I watched my puppy from too far away.

I regret nothing.

What? ....What? WHAT?

(Setting: Earlier this evening. Our heroine is freshly home from a day of work, mildly over-medicated on OTC cold and flu remedy but still in good spirits because she has two more LOTR movies to watch before Husband comes home and tells her to stop. The hounds have been released to the wilds of the back yard.  With a full bag of garbage in hand, she opens the door as the bell rings...)

Ding-Dong

Good day. I am Officer Extremely Reasonable from the local RCMP detachment, may I speak with you for a moment?

Of course, please come in. What can I do for you?

Have you had any concerns with the neighbours recently?

I think they may have had some problems with where we were shoveling our snow? (Internal dialogue: Have you got an hour?)

Well, they have contacted me because they think maybe someone was looking at their dog in a funny way and it made them feel (consults notes) "really uncomfortable."

You mean the little dog that stands up on the back of the hutch they leave it chained to, in all manner of nasty weather, begging for any human contact of any kind?

Yes, that one.

I think Husband patted it over the fence once, yeah.

Ok, cool. Nice photos, by the way. You seem like a really nice lady, sorry to have disturbed you. Here's my card. Your husband a skydiver? That's awesome. Have a great day. 


(Seriously. WHAT?)

List One

March is, and always has been, List Month here on the blog and so, without further ado, I give you list one.

My List of Secrets. Shhh.

1. I am painfully shy, but a really good actor/liar, pick whichever phrase you like, just don't confront me about it, okay? 
2. I am horribly lazy. There is a half a bag of Smarties under my stove. They rolled there last Christmas. I am not the least bit concerned that they may have already formed the basis for an entirely new, miniature civilization under there, as long as they don't make too much noise or upset the cat.
3. I am not a cat person.
4. Or a dog person.
5. I am a bird person.
6. I am allergic to birds.
7. I wish I were a vegan. Not because I think humans are herbivores but because every vegan I know is so beautifully wan and consumptive looking. Or that could just be hunger.
8. I have never read Tuesdays With Morrie or anything by Jodi Picoult, Maya Angelou or Nicholas Sparks. Not because I am not interested but because Oprah can't tell me what to do.
9. I am only 5' 11 & 3/4" tall. Not 6'. I just remeasured to be sure.
10. When there is no one around to see me and I am certain I will not be caught, I try to do cartwheels. I cannot.

Sleep Away Camp at Crystal Lake

Last weekend, friends of ours invited us to join them at one of the squadron cabins maintained on the northern shores of Cold Lake.  Affectionately known to our group as The Murder Cabin, it is a rough place, with crooked wooden floors, a centrally located wood stove for heat, barrack style sleeping quarters upstairs, a convenient main floor Rape Room, a bathroom with no toilet and The Sink To Nowhere. Taken all together, it is a bit like Little House on the Prairie and a lot like Friday the 13th.

Missing from photo: Ma and Pa Ingalls, 4 feet of snow and a goalie-masked psychopath.

Although none of it was as creepy as the small pair of children's shoes circa 1988, tucked just behind the front door, for no reason at all. I don't know but they don't half give me the screaming shivers. Kids are terrifying.

Let us play with your soul.

There were dogs and chips and beers and shenanigans and a constant stream of laughter punctuated by cries of "Don't pee there!" directed mostly at Meeker and Zak. It was fun. And after lights out, once all were settled, I was treated to an experience that I can honestly say was pleasantly surprising. For when the lights go out and the heat of the fire glows soft on your face, and you are in a big scary cabin in the bushes with no one around for miles, in a room full of men... they will giggle like children for hours until they fall asleep.  

So, so much giggling.

*For Glenn, who brings warmth to every day but especially when he shows up with a high-output 80,000 BTU propane space heater. And for Adam, who continues, affectionately, to nag.