On Fridays We Wear Pants

Friday Friday
Thou funkiest of days.
When dark wash denims and inoffensive graphic ts, paired with a chic little jacket and maybe a chunky choker,
And sassy flats in a bright colour to accent,
Unless it's all about the boots and tights,
Which are not pants,
And so should not be worn as pants,
Ever,
Make the workplace more interesting,
In a thoroughly business-like
And absolutely politically correct
Fashion.

On A Sunny Sunday...

...one might

• ride bikes
• find a new bench upon which to smear peanut butter
• walk dogs
• chase Meeker
• snoop in bookstores
• visit friends
• nearly obliterate a K-Model BMW, two brand new Kias, a pair of adorable dachshunds, and one elderly rottweiler under 400 lbs of steel belt all season radial rubber, one wine rack, some cedar planking and a wheel barrow
• knit

The Big Book of Manitoba

Chapter One:
Prairie Virtues


Manitobans are a practical lot. They have a solid grasp on reality and will not allow it to be shaken by silly emotions like optimism or exuberance. *see also "Dailing back the happy, being asked to."*

Which is not say Manitobans are strangers to joy; attend a Jets game, if you doubt me. 

Typically, this practical nature is expressed in one of several ways. In rural areas, if you don't sow, you don't reap. Biblical metaphors aside, that's about as practical as it gets, and I fully support it on account of really enjoying food, and not dying of starvation. 

In the city, this straightforward perspective on Life, the Universe and Everything is still in evidence: if you don't jam the nose of your car into the tiny gap between vehicles in the next lane, some other bugger will, and your virility will suffer a set back such that any remaining ability to produce healthy young you may have possessed, dissipates as quickly as exhaust on an autumn wind.  

Practical. Sensible. Easy to understand. 

Listen to The Music

When asked I will say
I am firmly against early rising.
It shows a weakness of resolve,
And a marked disrespect
For the eight hours spent
Masterfully rumpling sheets
In my sleep.

Except when You come home.

Then, I raise early,
Make coffee, read quietly,
And listen to my house,
As it suddenly becomes Home again.
All the sleepy breaths,
And slow heartbeats,
Together.
Playing my favourite song.

Triplicate is My Favourite Form Of All

Vogon: I am sorry ma'am, but that signature is not correct. It does not appear to be yours.

Me: I just signed it in front of you. You watched me do it, that's what "witness" means. How can a signature be incorrect?

V: It doesn't match the one on your passport. Can you do it again?

M: Can I have a few practice goes?

V: We aren't allowed to permit that, no.

Me: How's this?

V: Try making the "d" a bit loopier.

Twenty agonizing minutes later...

V: If you could just look into the camera... 

M: *vacant expression*

V: Let me try one more, you look neutral but it might not be neutral enough.

Fifteen minutes after that...

V: Are you a felon?

M: No.

V: A drunk driver? A drug user? An addict of any kind?

M: No.

V: Do you wear glasses?

M: Yes. Seriously, though, that's on the same list?

V: You're a shifty bunch. 

(I'm starting to like this guy)

Thirty Minutes Later, Oh My GAAAAAAAAAWD

V: (rather smugly, I felt) Can you tell me the exact date you were issued your first driving permit in Canada?

M: (equally as smugly) December 10, 1993. It was a rainy Friday. 

V: I...you...that almost never happens.

M: Mazel tov.

After spending two days attempting to navigate the murky sea of red tape of Manitoba Public Insurance, which is the Manitoban Ministry for Driver's License, Motor Vehicle Registration, and Muggle Befuddlement, I feel like I can safely cancel that pending appointment for an exhaustively thorough medical examination.

Winnipeg Welcomes You

Right. Let's get this over with as painlessly as possible. 

I can see your house from here.
Meeker ran away, and we watched him go for three days.
Gosh, what is up with that corner, it's, like, super confusing, eh? 
That Luis Riel, he sure was a scamp, and no mistake.
Anyone want a Slurpee?
Call that a parka? You're going to need three more.
There's a Winnipeg on Mars now, and this one is still colder.
Come on down to the social at the curling rink and we'll listen to The Guess Who while we discuss the history of the Bluebombers, and Canadian Medicare.
Oot and aboot. 

I think that just about sums up everything I've heard from all the people I've met who, pointedly, are not in Winnipeg. 

From the people of Winnipeg themselves, I have repeatedly heard only the following:

Welcome. It's really nice ta meetcha.  

Blending In With Albertans

The Final Chapter

Today we head east. The family will make a new home in Winnipeg, Manitoba, hopefully one with as much to teach as Cold Lake.

I have learned a lot from Albertans during my residence here. I have learned how to properly complain about the weather; which obnoxious truck to buy and how poorly I should drive it; and to which city I should swear my undying fealty - the big C-City of Edmonton, not the small c-city of Calgary. 

Albertans have given me countless opportunities to cultivate patience behind the wheel of my car, in drive-throughs, while waiting in line at Wal-Mart, living on my street, and while mistakenly thinking I had the right of way at intersections. 

They have taught me that no matter how dry it is, it can always get drier, unless it's flood season and then it can always get floodier. Unless it's wildfire season. Or Mosquito season. Or January.
 

I think Albertans are some the toughest, most adaptable people I have ever met and it's probably significant that a lot of them are not from here. I am not suggesting that born-Albertans are not tough, far from it. I am attempting, rather clumsily, to explain that this can be a hard place to live; beautiful,certainly and fun, but hard. Alberta does not forgive foolishness or lack of foresight. To discover that so many people who describe themselves as Albertans are from so many other provinces and places, is testimony to how wonderful life can be here, if you'll allow it. 

We did. We'll miss it.

Good bye, Alberta. Thank you for everything.

Amish Paradise

The movers have boxed up
the AppleTV, my iMac,
all of my art supplies,
all of my crochet hooks,
and every precious book that I own.

Today is the day
I learn how to beat box.

No Capes

Do you know any heroes?

 I don't mean someone you admire because they inspire you to start a business or run a marathon. I'm talking about someone who risks their life to save another, or maybe it was your life that was saved. That's the quintessential hero, someone who charges in on a white horse and carries you to safety. 

Actually, the horse isn't really part of the job description, what with wear and tear on carpets and the rising cost of hay. Don't even get me started on live-animal transport regulations at border crossings. But how cool would that be, if a horse came with the job?  

Imagine you were rescued. Pulled from the edge of disaster, returned to your life and loved ones; maybe whole, maybe broken, but returned and offered the chance to heal and carry on. What would you say, if you could? What would you do, if you had the chance to thank your saviour? I don't know about you but I'd build libraries and parks, dedicate statues, name happy hour cocktails. I'd certainly write a book. Everyone would know that somewhere out there, a person was selfless enough to change my life by saving it. I would do everything in my power to deserve that gift and I would ensure that my hero knew the depth of my appreciation.

But would it change how you felt if you knew your hero was paid to save your life? If it was their job? 

There it is again. That word. Job. 

(The thumping and banging you hear is my soapbox being dragged to the center of the room.)

What if being a hero was actually a job? Not one you need a cape for, obviously, but a real paycheck-every-two-weeks, annual vacation, fill-out-the-paper-work-in-triplicate job? They are out there. Countless military members, firefighters, police officers and paramedics, most if not all of whom would certainly shrug off the idea that they are in any way heroic, receive a paycheck for what they do. Does that make them less heroic? 

And what if it someone decided that it did?

What if someone, somewhere decided that your hero was just doing their job. Now, it's one thing for your hero to tell you this. Modesty is quite beguiling, after all. It's actually nice to know that there are people out there, people of great skill and compassion, who roam around looking for opportunities to save lives, with no thought of recognition or compensation beyond the ability to use their highly specific skill set. I sleep better just thinking about it. 

It doesn't answer my question, though. What if it was decided that heroism is not just it's own reward but also it's only reward. That an act of selflessness should go unacknowledged and unawarded because the hero was on the payroll, and that to do otherwise could foster a culture of highly skilled risk-takers, who's actions are driven by the need for accolades and applause. Instead fostering a culture of highly-skilled risk-takers who's actions are driven by...what? The risk of PTSD, physical or career-ending injury, death or, possibly even  worse, a bland, nut-free cake at their retirement dinner because Brenda in accounting once had cashews and they made her tongue feel weird.

We ask much of these servants to the public. We require them to run towards the screaming. We train them to walk into the burning buildings. We insist they stand up for the ideals of our country, even on foreign soil, away from their families and in the midst of insanity and injustice. We demand that they do their duty. Do we have the right to demand they do it without commendation? Do we have the right to insist they have no outward means to show quiet pride for their good works?

I mean, I got a certificate and a scratch n' sniff sticker from my employer for doing a years worth of lunch-time yard supervision, a duty actually outlined in my actual contract, and I talked about it for days. 

Heroes do what they do because they have the will and skills to do the things that the rest of us can't or won't. They don't want books, or parks, or libraries, or the paparazzi trampling their azaleas. What they want is at the least a simple thank you from those they saved and at most an acknowledgment from their peers and superiors that they fulfilled their purpose, commendably, and with grace and humility. That they have, in fact, done their job. 

Heroism is a choice, and one that should not go unawarded. Ask any preschooler why they want to be a police officer or a soldier and they won't say it's because the pension is good. They will tell you it is because they want to be heroes, they need to be heroes. And we need them, too.  Presenting our heroes with a bauble to wear on their breast is not an encouragement of recklessness, it is recognition that they performed admirably, as expected, and prevailed when the worst was anticipated. 

I am quite extraordinarily lucky. I know lots of heroes, many by name, and it's my privilege to know them when they are at their least heroic. I see them mowing their lawns and playing with their children. I've hosted them at backyard campfires and let them teach me washer-toss. I've listened to them laugh, curse, sing and complain about the weather. They are my neighbours, my community, my friends and my family. Thank you, to each and every one.

A Little Taste of Home

as your teeth burst through the smooth skin 
of the summer's first ripe tomato,
still warm from sunshine and sweeter then holding hands,
spiced with the dust from your own earth;
as you lean out to let the seedy drops fall from your chin 
and star-burst splatter your freckled toes;
as light and heat slip down your throat, you close your eyes
to watch the memories of soft cotton tea towels snapping on the line,  
in the fluff-filled air of endless summer afternoons;
and you recall skinned knees 
and the freedom of treetop forts on windy days...
then I think it's easy to know what happiness tastes like.

Speaking In Tongues

My dogs speak to me.

No, to answer your question, I haven't finally been alone long enough for the crazy to start coming out in public. (Hang on a second, my kettle's ringing.) Obviously dogs can communicate, they just don't speak English. Doy.

Unless I do the voices.

Let me just tell you, Jesse may look like a lady but she swears like a drunken sailor after three days of shore leave, stuck in traffic, late to report for duty, and worried she forgot her prescription ointment back at the hotel. 

Especially when the cat steals the sunbeam.

Meeker has his own basket of troubles. He misses Husband but there's no clutter so he can't build a Meeker-Pile. His walk schedule is all off because I am not a chipper, early-rising robot who likes to wander the neighbourhood before sunrise. The worst is the daily betrayal of breakfast time, when I offer pats but not toast. This is obviously wearing on his little soul, as evidenced by the increasing number of times I have awakened in the night to find him sitting over me, staring, and quietly making a list of all the organs he can sell on the black market.

In truth, our furry family members are very good company, and, though I may anthropomorphize just a teensy bit, they are a reasonable reflection of my current emotional state. We all miss Husband as much as he misses us and he's all alone, which makes it that much harder. So we muddle through days of fetch and walks and try to be patient with each other even when I forget everything while I'm writing, or Jesse hogs the pillows, or Meeker rage-piddles on the basement floor. We've all been there. We have a strong bond that keeps us going, a commitment we all share that will see us through the hard times, no matter how long they may last. We made a promise to each other at the very start of this difficult time...

...as long as we draw breath, Fritti will never nap unpestered.


There is no psychiatrist in the world better than a dog licking your face. ~ Bernard Williams (paraphrased)

For Those About To Beep

Profound are the differences between Tofino...

 (pronounced "Elysium")

 and Cold Lake.

(pronounced "Where's the rest of it?") 

I will not state here that one place is better than the other and in so doing brand myself a hypocrite of the highest order. However I will admit to being a partial and prejudiced judge based solely on the fact that while Tofino's local radio had Mandatory Marley at 4:20 every day, here in Cold Lake we have Three Bells for ACDC.   

That's still not the crux of it. 

In Cold Lake, for four days straight now, the "professional" announcer has declared the hour: Three Bells for ACD2... and I just don't trust that he's being clever.

Get Up!

My second favourite way to wake up in the morning is slowly. I enjoy the sensation of drifting upwards through ribbons of waking dreams, gradually becoming present in a room filled with gentle light and the murmur of news from my clock radio. I like to spend a few moments laying perfectly still and listening to the noises of my sleepy critter family. The dogs woof and their paws pulse in a dreamy chase. The cat snores quietly at the foot of the bed. 

There is no end to the enjoyment I get out of this time in my day. This is when my mind is still and my heart beats slowly. The room and my nose are cool, the pillow is warm, and the sweet promise of coffee beckons. These few moments before action is married to thought feel like a gift and I lay in the wrappings, cherishing the calm before beginning the process of transforming into a productive adult.  

I understand that somewhere, out in the world, there is a percentage of the population who can leap from their bed three seconds before their alarm, completely alert and ready to make complex decisions about nuclear fission or what sweater to wear. I know this because, so help me, I married one. These people are important, they are from every walk of life and without them our society would come to a grinding halt. The remainder of Humanity would surely be late to work at the bus depot/power plant/surgical theatre/Starbucks. Cherish the early risers who are keen to start their day as soon as possible, they are the reason we know which rocks to bang together. 

Mind you, for the rest of us it is a wonder that we did not simply use those rocks on them and eat cold saber toothed beaver for brunch.  Which point neatly illustrates my favourite way to wake up, which is late.

Medium Tabby, Regular With a Hint of Ginger

Every morning I bring a coffee and a book to my favourite chair
And sit
Gently flipping through pages,
Enjoying the heat and weight of the porcelain mug on my knee as I read.
Each day my cat will raise, stretch,
And pad over to where I sit.
She will blink with sleepy sweetness, mew for permission,
Ignore my protests,
and leap,
Directly onto my mug of hot steamy coffee.
Every time.

Allow Me To Lie To You

Husband is going on Imposed Restriction to Winnipeg. Those five bland, bureaucratic syllables will mean absolutely nothing to many of you so let me put it in terms you will understand. He is moving to a big, scary city filled with raccoons and bicycle thieves and dogs with horrible eyebrows, and he his going without me. I am remaining here until the house sells. Or something falls out of the sky, obliterating said house and thereby freeing me, like a pasty northern genie from a newly renovated, reasonably priced, 4 bedroom suburban bottle in a good location, close to schools and shopping.

We are fine (we are not fine) with this. It will be fine (it's not fine). 

But we will be fine (we will be fine).  

Let's define the word fine, as I am employing it here. Fine is not good. It is not peachy. Fine is not even okay or acceptable. Fine is what you become when you consider all of the alternatives and decide, despite distance and turmoil and having to live so far away from your very best friend that your heart aches just typing the words, fine is just how it has to be. Fine is a state of mind. It's a verbal shrug while you're trying to smile and hoping no one hugs you at the wrong moment and breaks your dam, because excessive and unexpected public mucus is certainly not fine. 

How do I know this? Because we always are. Twelve years of supporting each other through floods, loss, sickness, house sales, moves, endless home renovations, mysterious nocturnal flatulence, and Meeker have taught us that we will, always, be fine. 

Even when things are not fine (things are not fine). 

I Can't See The Difference. Can You See The Difference?

I don't think I will ever understand Humanity. The greatest philosophers throughout history have struggled to define what we are, asking not "why are we here" but "who is really doing the asking?" 

They have wrung from the paltry flesh of our race a score of definitions that encompass soul and ego.  Such feeble attempts that the best and brightest of us could muster describe a race yearning to be more than the sum of it's parts; a tribe of naked children who stand in the muddy ruin of their crumbling world and still strive for grace.

None of those learned minds, not one of them, considered that we might simply be apes. Nothing more. Nothing less. 

http://www.edgeboston.com/news/news/179952/japanese_women_flip_out_over_'handsome'_gorilla

 =

Reward Offered

Just the thought of you

Alone

In the darkness

Lost

Makes me fierce

Makes me brave

Drives me to feats of heroine-ism

For you I would battle dragons 

I would walk through fire

I would speak in public

If it meant saving you

Finding you

My precious

My only 

Missing coffee mug

Assimilation Complete

There is a certain skill set that goes along with being a military family member. As discussed, one must master the subtle art of resilience while at the same time balancing on the knife edge between stability and total blithering panic. One must learn every climate zone, and which ones will definitely kill lilacs. One must acquire a taste for the regional cuisine, be it beef or bento box. One must, of course, blend in the with the locals while attempting to add one's distinctiveness to their own. 

"You will wear a cowboy hat and we will learn how to tie a fashionable scarf."

It is also vital that you love your country. I am not talking about the sort of love that builds a bunker, stocks it with Pepsi and Twinkies, and points all the guns at the door...

"It's my God-given right to arm myself and my children, my chihuahua and the wife's parakeet."

..that's not patriotism, that's paranoia. And, let's face it, under planning. Everyone knows when the revolution comes it won't be because your god was better than their god. It will be because the last fresh water lake in North America was sold to a guy in Holland, for apparently highly valuable and yet still completely undrinkable gold and diamonds. He will sell it back to you by the drop for your last Twinkie and your daughter's untainted kidneys.

I remember having a point at one point...right. Love of country.

Loving my country isn't something I think about everyday, because I am not a crazy person. Shut up. It's just something I do naturally, when I am confronted by my fellow Canadians who haven't quite figured it out yet. It's a strange experience, having to explain what patriotism is to someone with the same blue passport. As gently as I try to describe Canada to a "countryman", it always seems to shock the person, who is busy making snide comments about the concrete in Winnipeg, the snow in Alberta, the heat in Ontario, the rain in BC, the Toronto in Toronto. Their point is usually something like "Here is infinitely better than There. Hnur hnur hnur." 

Mine is consistently "Here IS There. Love it or get out."

You have to love your country with the kind of love you hold for your partner or your family. You have to love all of it. Every dusty, windswept, drought-ridden, hail-riddled, flooded, fiery, quaking, rocky, salty corner of it. Passionately and with forgiveness for the parts you  might wish were different, yet you defend all the same because the imperfections are what make your country beautiful. 

Proud to be a Real Canadian

Blending In With Albertans

Facing Disaster

I come from a province where the worst natural disaster in it's recent history was a snow storm that prompted the mayor of Toronto to call in the army to help with the heavy lifting. I am not attempting to be snide, Ontario snow is really quite heavy and even occasionally deep and abundant. Why, I can recall tens of days when I was forced to shovel for upwards of twenty to twenty-five minutes at a go. Imagine the savagery. I even got a blister once.

Albertans, however, seem to be made of sterner stuff.  Tornado? Just tighten the ball cap and keep fishing. Hail? If it ain't biggern yer mama's Shih Tzu then quit yer whinin', Nancy. Floods may change the landscape, uproot your house and destroy your livelihood but, by damn, the Stampede will go on. Temperatures that dip below -40, then soar to 40-plus inside of four months aren't even to be remarked upon. Do not even get me started on the general apathy held for drought. It is dry here. Move on.

But then there's wildfire. Ah, I thought, here is something that Nature can deliver which will finally tighten the Albertan sphincter. With the ignition of the current and devastating wildfires on the Cold Lake Air Weapons Range, not 40 km to the north west of our fair town, I expected at least to hear some comparisons to wildfires of days gone by or how things used to burn hotter in the good old days. Indeed, everyone is very serious at the moment and there is a general sense that things could actually, just maybe, possibly get very bad. 

Last night I spent two hours taking pictures of everything I own, including the camera I was using to take the pictures, and packing a go-bag with clothes, pet food, important documents and my copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide. When I finally opened the front door and stepped out, I expected to see a flurry of similar activity up and down my street.

And yet...

The kids are still at school and the lawns are still mowed and there is a big fish fry planned for the weekend after the rodeo. People are still going about their business as usual, and only occasionally glancing at the western horizon where a towering white cloud has been building for days. They are still making summer plans and having coffee dates and backyard barbecues.  

Albertans are not fools. They seem to know that it isn't time to worry yet.  They understand the danger of wildfire and it's disastrous effects but with their usual reserve they are also living their lives, not unconcerned but not frantic either, in this dusty province caught between prairie and paradise, because that is not just what Albertans do, it is who they are. 

Mirror, Mirror

I turned forty back in March. It was fantastic! ...I think. I was heavily medicated at the time. Although not because I was turning forty. And why is that number so significant, anyway? Just what is the very big deal? I feel no different today than I did the day I turned fifteen or twenty. To prove it I stood in front of the mirror, on the morning of the day I turned forty, naked and armed with clarity of vision and a vat of industrial grade moisturizer. In my grandmother's words, you can never be too moist.

Hmmm.

Is that really my ass? Ooo, collar bones and shoulders are very nice, this season. Those freckles are going to be classified as adorable and not skin cancer so let's move on. Breasts, two of, (honk honk) seem okay. Sublime actually, but focus dear, focus. Tummy... umm. Well, we can work on that. Wait, when did I get my mother's hands? Have my feet always been this weird? Seriously, what the hell is with my ass?

It was a long 20 minutes. Lot's of twisting and chasing my tail and ridiculous faces. I discovered some changes I didn't know had happened, some things I like, some things I will accept, others I will try very hard to change as healthily as possible, for the sake of the Me who will be 60 some day. On the whole, I like what I saw. The lines around the eyes are new, but when I smile my best smile at the me in the mirror I can see right away that I have laughed them there. 

I still don't understand why the age of forty holds such significance for some. I have been razzed and chided and generally poked for turning another year older, as humans are wont to do, but in terms of why that number seems so important, I am afraid I am still mystified. And just as likely today to buy gum whenever I find money, as I was when I was eight.

Under the category of things to change for the sake of Future Me, I know what needs to be done, I just have to make sure I do in a healthy and lasting way. The goal I have set is a realistic one: make sure I can keep up with Husband. Now that is motivating.

 And I've also made a promise to add a few more laugh lines, for good measure. 

Friday's Coffee is Full of Grace

Have you ever been so mesmerized by the sweet folds of cream as it swirls through your morning coffee; become so lost in their silken dance that as you stare into their depths you forget time until only those drifting ribbons hold any place in reality and you ache to decipher the patterns of their motion, straining against the sensation that a deep mystery is about to be revealed, such that you become so entranced you forget to drink?

Me neither.

And The Winn(t)er Is...

To where are we posted this year? I'll give you three hints....

Can I Touch Your Baby? No, Not Her. The Cute One.

I am in possession of an unreasoning prejudice. Actually, I don't know of many prejudices that are, in fact, based on reason, come to think of it, but all the same here it is: I think parents who ask permission for their children to touch my dogs and who then insist that it "not be the black one" are pox ridden sociopaths who will poison my family if they follow me home. 

It's not that I don't have a deep understanding of the fear a big black dog can generate, on a societal level. On the contrary, I know that sometimes the appearance of any dark beast may cause the ape inside us to scream and wave it's broken branch from the treetops as warning to the tribe at the waterhole to grab the younglings and make for the hills. It is this instinct that has kept us alive long enough, as a species, to invent calculator watches and Manolo Blahniks and the ISS. But, and I cannot stress this enough, none of those creatures is currently asleep on their back in my living room, with their privates fashionably on display.

I used to feel pity for these poor souls who feared and avoided my beautiful Jesse because of her black fur. Obviously something tragic must have happened to them, for them to refuse the heaven that is scratching Jesse's ample rump while it is pressed lovingly against your shin. Used to, that is, until with increasing frequency, that fear is taught to their little ones who take one look at Jesse's beautiful face and scream until their mothers scoop them up, glower at me and stomp away muttering "don't worry, the mean, black dog won't hurt you."

I am just going to start refusing to allow children to touch Meeker, who couldn't care less in any case, until they pat Jesse first. 

Either that or I get to scream in their child's face until someone takes the bad, pink toddler away.

Give me all your pats and no one gets hurt.

Empty Nooks and Crannies

As John Merrick famously declared, I am not an animal.

But sometimes I feel as though I live like one, especially when it comes time to clean my house. I certainly do not mean to suggest that there are piles of old bones and tumbled heaps of sticks and rocks in the darker corners. Well, at least not in all of them. But there is a certain limit to my weekly routine that only becomes apparent when a serious seeing to is being given. Which brings us rather neatly to....

The Levels Of Clean

1. It's Saturday and Nothing Seems To Be Snarling or Moving On It's Own - Generally, this is the state in which we live; the secret to which our closest friends are privy; the ugly truth for which my mother will deny any genetic responsibility. Laundry is not of urgent concern and no one is particularly picky about having to reuse their coffee cup. The dish hider is our favourite appliance.

2. Friends Are Coming and Will Need To Eat Off Of / Sit On Something - As long as no one opens closets, uses the cat's bathroom, opens closed doors or checks behind the sofa, we will all get along fine. 

3. It's (Food Holiday)! - At first glance this is similar to Level 2, but both bathrooms are clean and there is a general effort made to keep the house in this condition for the duration of the season, on the off chance that someone pops by unexpectedly, in need of a fancy bowl or the Murder Room.

4. Sweet Thundering Crap On A Cracker, My Mother / Mother-in-Law is Coming - Not only are the closets inspection ready, but actual dusting has been attempted and all traces of the Mystery Beast have been removed from under sofas and behind the fridge. Ellen could look and does look anywhere. Lovingly and with great attention to detail.

5. Buy My House - If my Mother and Mother-in-Law visited on the same day, with the Queen of England and the Dalai Lama, my house would not be cleaner. No one lives like this. Kill me now.


Dedicated to the manufacturers of Lysol Brand Disinfectant Wipes, Swiffer Wet Jet, and Lemon Pledge.

I Am A Delicate Desert Flower, Dammit!

Once upon a time a total stranger asked me how I was doing, in a voice of sincere concern, and so I told him truthfully that I was feeling a teensy bit overwhelmed to be standing on a stranger's patio sipping iced tea mere moments after spending a small fortune on a house in a province where the trees were too tall. 

Mr Helpful Stranger then proceeded to educate me. In a ringing voice he explained that Sar Tech wives are as strong as oaks, resourceful, independent and reliable, never a peep out of them, just a great bunch of gals who get the job done without fear or hesitation. He helpfully explained that my current situation was not in any way unique, that he understood precisely every thought I was having about it and that I needed to get over it pretty quickly, because everyone else had. 

In this case, everyone else was my new peer group, which happened to be a backyard filled with Sar Techs and their spouses. As I mentally counted off the 10,000 anxieties of the day swirling around in my brain, I glanced around at all of those faces and every one of them, it seemed to me, was nodding agreement and looking at me with undisguised pity. 

So it was just me, then. With the giant ball of worry in my belly about leaving my family, new homes, mortgages, finding employment, fitting in, finding a decent hair stylist and generally just trying to survive in a new province while Husband was away on seemingly endless taskings. Because they had all "gotten over it."

Okay.

Let's examine that statement. I don't have a problem with any of the adjectives in particular. I am delighted to consider myself creatively resourceful. Ask my mother and she will tell you I was independent in the damn womb. I work with children with special needs, I think reliable comes with the territory. Nope, as lists of attributes go this is nearly complete apart from eloquent, artistic, delightful and really tall. Check, check, check and check.

It was... the tone. 

The tone was firm. It made it clear to all and sundry that, no, I couldn't possibly be worried or stressed, because that is simply not how things were done. Best buck up, stiffen my lip and answer properly next time, wouldn't do to let the team down, no sir. 

As ambassadors to new communities go, this guy really needed to revisit his job description. Effectively, probably without thinking about it, he ensured that I would actively avoid the members of this new community of mine, that I would hide from them in the super market or "accidentally" not find out about events until too late to attend. I couldn't let them find out that I was absolutely not "getting over it." Better to be pasted a snob than a basket case and be subjected to more of those pitying looks.

It took me about a year to realize that I didn't have to "get over" anything. That it was perfectly normal to be worried when your safety blanket slips off and gets left behind in another province.  There is nothing wrong with admitting that you are overwhelmed, that you feel worried or scared when the pager goes off and your heartbeat races out of the door, leaving you with laundry and bills and mountains of snow and helpful strangers with too much advice and not enough compassion. 

All of these icky feelings are coming around again, as things do when military postings are bandied about and no one knows what is going on. If I may offer some advice of my own, to those of us who know military families: be kind. Don't assume you know what is going on, each situation is absolutely unique, despite similar circumstance. Offer to go for a walk or to grab coffee and talk about anything else, unless they broach the subject. Above all, be normal, because normal is the one thing that is rapidly vanishing as all the stressors mount up. 

I am a strong military wife because I carry on in spite of these things, honestly and openly freaking out while I walk the dog, or spend hours getting the house show room perfect, or play the radio all night to fill up the empty corners. I do not need to be an oak tree. When the wind is too great for the oak to bear, the oak will snap.

And we don't want that, now do we?

List Six

Responses I Have Given When Asked "WHY ARE YOU SO DAMN HAPPY?"

• It's raining.
• It's not raining.
• All the glitter belongs to me now.
• It's called dissociative amnesia, thank you very much.
• It's not Tuesday.
• I am married to the most courageous and wonderful man, who's touch makes my heart leap from my chest. He just texted me an onomatopoeia of fart noises.
• Would you like me to (dramatic pause) ...dail it back?

List Five

A Few Things Which, It Turns Out, Are Remarkably Difficult to Do 

While Taking Cyclobenzaprine Three Times Daily For Three Days, For Moderate to Severe Muscle Spasm In The Lower Back 

• Hold a conversation in real time and not, as it turns out, five minutes after everyone else.
• Concurrently blink both eyes.
• Put on my socks without falling over.
• Speak with my employer in a professional manner on the phone. I may have called my boss, the Division Coordinator, "a totally rad chick."
• Prevent myself, based on the above, from time-slipping into a different decade.
• Successfully manipulate a doorknob by the third attempt.
• Make toast using the fridge, apparently. For, like, at least 15 minutes. Lucky I didn't burn the place down.

List Four

 Since I am constrained by both the amount of data I can upload, 

and by my half-hour lunch, 

here are just a few words I use to describe Tuesday

• Repellent
• Wretched
• Abhorrent
• Vile 
• Odious
• Obnoxious
• Miserable
• Lamentable
• Heinous
• Accursed
• Flagitious (and my personal favourite) 

List Three

Happiness

• is a new book, spine uncracked, pages unruffled, cover smooth and slick beneath my fingers...
• the first sip of hot coffee in the morning, bitter and sweet, curling into my belly...
• a good stretch without pain...
• the sound of purring next to my head while I read...
• memorizing the constellations of freckles on your shoulder, early in the morning, while the house still sighs along with sleepy bodies...
• and homecoming days, when the distance between us is finally small and manageable and still much too much too much too far, so snuggling is really the only option.