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.