Procrastercation

It's the last day of winter vacation. I think I am ready, I saved up a bunch of nothing to do today and I have already made a decent dent in the pile. I am a 28th level grand master in the skilled art of not doing stuff. Right now, just as an example, I am not doing about 15 things, all of which really do need to be completed before tomorrow's alarm clock goes off at 5:55 in the ante meridiem.

I worry not, for worrying is also one of the things I am not doing today.

I live with a man for whom the phrase "down time" holds a completely different meaning. Husband is a man of many talents and, like Xena, seems to have lived many lives longer than his face allows. This is because the man never stops moving. Why just today he has sewn a skydive suit, possibly broken the bbq in an attempt to cook outdoors in -40, lost Meeker, found Meeker, destroyed Jeese's dignity with the application of new "Mutt Lucks - booties for your sensitive pooch!", and that takes us up to lunch time.

I slept in until 9 o'clock, made some toast and took a nap.

At this rate, Husband will likely have a rocket built in the basement before dinner time. And I might have just about figured out what colour we should paint it.

Blending in With Albertans

Driving Like an Albertan

There are only four reasons an Albertan drives anywhere.

1. To annoy me on my way to work.
2. To annoy me on my way home.
3. To annoy me at night.
4. To annoy me on trail.

Let's break down how I can best blend in with all of the madness.

1. To drive like those who annoy me on my way to work I will have to develop a knack for racing up behind a vehicle, nearly slamming into it's back bumper, barely scraping past it with no concern for oncoming traffic, then slamming on my brakes to drive 45 km an hour in a 60 km zone. All. The. Way. To. My. School. Then accelerating to Warp 5 through the school zone. 

2. In order to get home like an Albertan, I will have to wander vaguely left and right across the four lane highway while I apparently send vital texts to other Albertan drivers about the crazy person behind me who insists on driving in a straight line.

3. Night driving essentially involves all of the above, with high beams locked on their stun setting. 

4. Hiking trails in this area are for the exclusive use of, in no particular order, crappy trucks, expensive trucks, four-wheelers, dirt bikes, snowmobiles, ditching and burning stolen cars, and enjoying the battered remains of local song birds and wildflowers. 

It goes without saying that I will also need a big, silly truck and a bumper sticker that affirms my devotion to small boys urinating on things.

An Apology To Shoes Found While In The Clutches Of A Brief Fit Of Domesticity Which Has Since Passed

I am so, so sorry

Strappy Orange and Tan Peek-a-Boo-Toe Kitten Heels

For promising you dancing

And lattes in cute cafes

And busker festivals

And dinner theatre

And strolls along the boardwalk

While I swing you from one finger 

So that you can see the lights of the night carnival

Reflected a million times upon the quiet ocean

I forgot to pack you when we went to California
Ten months ago

I have no excuse. Or reason to dust you, soooo, yeah.

To Ski or Not To Ski

Husband is my cheerleader and greatest champion. He applauds my successes and comforts me in my failures. He dreams big things for both of us, impressive, wonderful adventures full of dazzling beauty, with hot chocolate for afterwards. Such dreams keep his beautiful eyes filled with light and pride as he urges me to test my limits and explore new horizons.

The horizon at Mount Norquay in Alberta's beautiful Banff national Park was every bit as breathtaking as Husband hoped it would be for me. What I recall of it, that is, as it flickered past my eyes, upside-downside-upside-downside, while I cartwheeled down the "beginner's slope" at high speed, shedding skis, poles and dignity until thankfully coming to an abrupt halt on my face, two thirds of the way from the bottom of the "slow skiers ahead" hill. With nothing for it but to make the limp of shame to the gear shack on a twisted ankle, I dragged my poles and skis behind me the whole way because "I don't need help from anyone, thankyouverymuch!"

The yellow allegedly indicates the "slow" skiing area. We all know it's urine from the bladders of the weak and terrified.

Husband felt frustrated for me, felt sad that his wonderful gift had caused me such distress and, worse, a very sore ankle. He thinks his gift was a failure and fears that I may not want to ski again. 

He is wrong. Not about the day being a huge, awful, horrible, terrifying experience that left us both physically, mentally and emotionally drained and probably scarred for life. No, he's bang on about that, actually. And that was after only two attempts, and a lot of whispered, married-people-shouting-quietly-in-public, at the bunny hill.

No, he's wrong about the gift he gave me. Husband thinks he gave me a lift ticket to a ski hill in one of Canada's most beautiful national parks. What he actually gave me was a glimpse at his vision of me, of us, as Adventurers, Risk-Takers, as Doers of Things On the Weekends. I loved that look in his eyes that he had when I tried on my ski boots and tested my poles, then stared up-up-up at the nearly vertical, windswept starter hill upon which my 5 year old nephew learned to ski. 

True, I nearly died a horrible death, as a mogul on children's run, but metaphorically I was given a vision of who we are, because Husband never gives up on me. And that's just about the best gift any one could wish for.

Apart from books. And pottery. And homemade fudge.

I Don't Pee In Your Pool

My Jesse, as you know, is wonderful and sweet and will be my very best friend until the end of her days, which will be never because we have convinced her she is eternal and you are not to tell her any different. 

She is a gentle darling who wants only pats and to be loved and told she is beautiful and good on an hourly basis and in return she is all of those things and a foot warmer besides. She is the gracious matriarch of every dog pack we have associated with, unless it contains Whiskey, and then there is a cautiously recognized impasse that everyone understands but no one openly acknowledges because therein lay madness and oblivion. 

Just... just don't hug her, okay? 

Or, for that matter, pound on her aging hips with your broad hands, or dig into her tender, old neck with your strong fingers. We are gentle people and we treat our animals with respect. What you are doing, to them, may feel like abuse. 

This has come up a few times over the years and I feel I should say that I hold nothing personal against the people who do this, they may have a different way of treating their pets and it's not my business to correct their behaviour around their own animals. 

But...

This is a time when lots of folks are getting together with family and friends, and their dogs, big or small, so I am sending this out as a tender reminder to all dog owners and friends of dog owners. If a dog's human asks you to stop, then tells you to stop, then yells at you to stop, you have gone too far. Jesse is my dog and I will protect her, but she will also protect herself, even at the terminal risk of being a Bad Dog. 

Take it from me, and the terrible reason I hate Tuesdays, respect the dog and respect the owner.

I don't grab children and shake them until they scream for their mothers.

Don't put my Rottweiler in a headlock, and we'll all get long nicely. 

Caution: If you aren't in this photo then you shouldn't try this with Jesse. 
Or Husband, for that matter.

Letter to 2014

Thank you for...

• the steady beat of Husband's heart
• coffee
• our families
• our family of friends, far and near
• Shenanigans
• the beautiful dream of being a Fairy Ninja, even though it never comes true
• surfing, in spite of Alberta, twice
• laughter, in spite of restraining orders
• Lactaid
• coffee
• the smell of new books
• every grey hair on Jesse's precious nose
• fine, I suppose Meeker, too, if you insist
• winter tires
• yes, okay, and Fritti
• decaf double espresso half-sweet vanilla soy lattes, easy foam and with just a whisper of nutmeg, served in real china mugs in a proper coffee house without brand names or souvenir stands or people with only first names. 
• and Starbucks, because old habits die hard.