The Rules of The Yard

Meeker: Any dog who is more handsome than I will not be tolerated. Their very existence vexes me, and I will not be vexed. They must flee or perish, I care not which. 

Rio: *raises one perfectly sculpted Husky-brow*

Meeker: Erm...except you. Obviously. You, I deem equally as attractive as myself and will therefore be firmly ignored.

Rio: *yawns majestically*

Meeker: Right. I'll just...I'll just go over here. Because I was planning on it anyway.

My Inner Ninja

Everyone has a set of skills they consider "marketable". Husband's list extends nearly the length of his gangly arm. Honestly, who teaches skydiving, does small engine repair, changes brakes, starts an IV and sews? All wearing the same gloves?

Marketable skills are great. I have a few myself and I am keeping them finely tuned. I may not be supporting children with learning differences but I do talk to my fellow countrymen on a daily basis and trust me when I tell you, it's keeping me sharp.  Sharp like a fox.

Aside from the skills that get you paid, though, I'll bet you have small skills you are secretly really proud of. Husband is secretly very proud of his ability to set up a tent in utter darkness with, and this is the important bit, less swearing than if he did it in broad a daylight. 

My mother is justifiably proud, if a bit smug, of her knack for making a Yorkshire Pudding that rises from the pan like a billowing cloud lit by the last golden rays of an autumn sunset. She's equally proud never sharing the secret of how to do that.

My dad can whistle any tune recorded before 1969, if it was featured on the Grand Old Opry stage, or in a film about surreys and fringes.

And I...am a shower house ninja.

I have mastered the subtle art of showering in a communal hut without touching the walls, curtains, or in some highly necessary cases, the floor.

Spiderman could take pointers. It's not something that one gets a chance to brag about, because one immediately has to field a bunch of pointed questions.

-Why are you staying in these places?

-Who would force you to spend precious vacation and weekend hours in these places?

-Are you being kept against your will?

-What do you mean, you don't touch the floor?

Which sort of interrogation is the very reason these little skills are kept secret. I don't question your ability to just know when a picture is hanging slightly crooked "somewhere in the house", and you are not allowed to cast aspersions on my ability to cling to furniture in fungal avoidance.

It's Not Rocket Science But It Passes The Time

There are tasks which are complicated and interesting, like assembling the Large Hadron Collider, or a turkey dinner. 

Some tasks are complicated and boring. Answering phones for Canada Post, hoping that someday every woman in Canada gains a sense of perspective and a hobby, is both really complicated and desperately boring. 

Albeit occasionally entertaining. I'm looking at you, Really Important Sandals.

Simple tasks can be boring too, like cataloguing all the screws in the garage by elicited emotional response, or mowing the lawn.  

My favourite though, my favourite tasks are those moments when simplicity and fascination melt together and I spend an entire autumn afternoon searching for the most perfect apple on the tree. 

Is today that day? 

So Fired

Things Said to Me By Actual Canadians, My Reactions to Which

 Are Eventually Going To Get Me Fired 

1. Where's my package?
2. Do you know where my package is?
3. I'm really worried about my package.
4. I've been watching my package move but it seems to have stopped.
5. I'm concerned about how my package was handled.
6. Am I the only one who cares about my package?
7. Who do I speak to about getting my hands on my brother's package?
8. Thank you for handling my package.
9. My package is leaking fluids.
10. If I send you a picture of my package, can you tell me if you think it looks normal?

This has been an episode of Package Handler

 and Professional Platitude Provider:

Apologize, validate, apologize authentically again, thank with apology, offer a fourth,

 even more genuine apology and close with a final thanks and one last apology

 which supersedes all previous apologies in it's sincerity.

Good Vibrations

I am not dancing with the black dog, or experiencing a darker shade of blue. I certainly don't have the vapours or hysteria, although the original "cure" for that one is...intriguing.

I am depressed. Was depressed. Will have been depressed, once I'm finished being depressed at this time.

This is not a brave declaration, really. It doesn't feel brave, I mean.

Mind you, smiling every day for the past 6 years has felt a bit like bravery. Actually it felt a lot like lying, but also a little like bravery.

Mostly like lying, though, to be honest.

And I got really good at it. I even started to believe that maybe I wasn't numb all the time because, look, see? I'm smiling. All the time.  

It's a commonly held belief that Humans are the only animals that bare their teeth as a sign of happiness or a gesture of good will and welcome. I suppose that might be true, although it doesn't fully explain sharks or salesmen. For me, a smile is simply something I put on every day like shoes or a jacket. It is a part of any outfit I call Dealing With The Public, so I wore it. 

I don't really like it, though.

And why DO I have to wear it, every damn day? Anyone who goes around smiling all the time, no matter what goes on in their life, is either a lair or a moron. 

And we've already established which one of those I am.

Depression, as they say, is no laughing matter. I don't know about that, because I do love a laugh. 

And historically and medically justified reasons for a stock pile of D-cell batteries.

Happy Canada Day

Canada is happy, proud, strong, free.

It's cold, rocky and wild.

It's soft, green and filled with growing things.

It is the rolling waves and the deep cravasses.

It's dusty tracks and smooth highways.

It's the sound of birdsong, and the Northern Lights.

It is every city and every small town.

It's the martini bar and the campfire.

It's the wealthy and the poor.

It is friendly and sorry.

It's welcoming, forgiving and fierce.

It's joyful, brave and 150 years young.

Canada is still just an idea really. 

It's a good one.

I Don't Haphephobia, It's Just You

I've worked for 20 years in a field where unwanted physical contact is not just exceptionally rare, it's the sort of thing that shuts down the building until the investigation is concluded. 

I don't think it's such a bad thing, to work in the sort of environment where personal space is not just respected, but safeguarded to the n-th degree.  Not when the safety and dignity of children is at stake. The wonderful side-effect of the situation is that the professionals also reap the benefits. We're there to model the behaviours we want to encourage, which means everyone's bubble of personal space is recognized and validated.

Just a bit of clarity on this point, everyone has these proximity zones. It's not weird or phobic to have differing comfortable distances in mind when speaking and interacting with people of differing levels of familiarity. For instance, I will allow Husband to take an onion ring from my plate. Once.

It's just that I'm liable to use bear spray on the guy at the bus stop if he tries it.

So the last 20 years has really been like rolling safely down a mountain in a hamster ball made of human resource posters and fluffy pillows because no one touches anyone, anywhere, ever.

I've recently been in situations where my bubble has been popped, both at work and socially, and I'm torn. It's an awkward spot to find myself in. On the one hand, there is nothing sinister or malicious about the physical contact, but on the other GET YOUR HANDS OUT OF MY HAIR. WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING MY HAIR? IN WHAT UNIVERSE IS THIS NORMAL BEHAVIOUR?

Let me take a poll...

Raise your hand if you know me very, very well.

Now run that hand through my hair. Go ahead. Play with  my pony tail. Tuck a strand behind my ear. Brush my bangs out of my eyes. Really get in there.

How do you feel? Need an adult, and a social worker? I know I do and I'm sure we've known each other for at least a decade.

To combat this probably innocent but still completely and absolutely inappropriate behaviour at work, I've not disagreed with the notion that I have a fear of physical contact. I've implied that my bubble of personal space extends out from my body in every direction to a distance of roughly Neptune. It seems to have worked because it's been days since anyone has tried to French Braid my hair while I'm sitting at my desk. Honestly, who are these people?

That covers the bases while I'm forced to sit at a desk with my back to an entire room filled with tricophiliacs. Google that at your peril and on your own head be it.

Now someone explain all of Quebec to me.

Nothing in my life so far has prepared me for the experience of meeting for drinks and Montreal Smoked Meat sandwiches (the most seductive of the smoked meats) and having someone pat, pet, smooth, stroke and otherwise touch my hair while cooing ootsie-cutsie Joual into their bieres. 

I'm not one to tar an entire population with the same brush I used to paint a big "Non!" on just one of it's representatives, but when pressed for an explanation about this behaviour and their refusal to heed my vocal cease and desist, I'm told, "it's nothing, they are just French."

So.

My request stands: someone explain all of Quebec to me. 

And while you do that, I'll be over here ordering a set of hair clippers because if this shit doesn't sort itself out pretty soon I'll remove what is, apparently, the biggest freak magnet this side of the Laurentians.

Up A Creek With 3.5 Paddles

Every summer Sunday should start with pillow talk...

...and end with a brief explanation 

to the nice lady at the strawberry stand

why you and your loved one 

are covered in mud, 

dripping wet,

and smelling faintly of river bed.

Field notes:

• new two-place kayak performs well in calm waters
• investigate possible purchase of "stubby" paddles
• slightly* tippy in the tight turns
• manufacture some manner of bailer
• pack towels 

*very definitely, extremely tippy

Thank You

The lady was distressed. On the phone, with quiet intensity, she was pleading with someone to give her a ride home. 

Anyone passing would have looked away. Many did. She stood on the sidewalk, as the sun was setting on a long and tiring day, and people walked past her, looking anywhere but at her. No one wanted to admit that they could hear her frustration. Certainly no one wanted to be seen to be watching her, in this very public space, have a very private moment of complete frustration and despair.

They were though, watching. I could see the eyes flicker back, even while they pointedly tried to look anywhere but at her as she tucked her phone away, slumped against a grubby wall and buried her head in her hands for a moment.

"Can I help you?"

She didn't need help, no thank you, with much straightening of collars and smoothing of hair. She would figure something out, it was fine.

"Are you sure? I don't mind, if you need a ride home....?"

Surprise and the Canadian dismissal of any need for help, a hold-over from our British stiff upper roots. It was fine, she was fine. 

"I see that you are fine, but in case you aren't, I'd like to help. Let me help you."

Another dismissal, this time with a hint of suspicion. Her son had forgotten her and taken the car to the city, her husband was working the midnight shift. She'd find a Tim's and wait for him to get off work, in a few hours. She couldn't accept. Really.

No one likes to admit they need help. It's hard for us to say those words. It's seen as a weakness, an admission that things are not okay and that they have progressed so far past okay that it feels sometimes as though the world may never again get back to a place where just being okay is... fine. 

Admitting things are less than fine is an act of bravery beyond measure.

I waited for a heartbeat or two, just waited...

"Are you sure?"

She wasn't. We walked to the Volvo together and she hesitated at the passenger door. Was I sure I didn't mind? 

"Not at all, you've had the same long day I have. Let's get you home."

We chatted about The Job for a bit. Shared the same disbelief at some of the Calls of The Day, laughed at the impressions of Favourite Callers. Every few minutes she would ask, was I certain it wasn't too far, too late, too long?

After I dropped her off, after many thanks, I had a quiet drive home to the edge of town.

It is very hard for me to admit this but I really, really needed her to say yes. 

This small, kind thing took about 15 minutes out of my day. It cost me nothing but it meant a great deal. Not just to the lady who got to rest her feet on her own sofa, with her dog and her tea and forget about the horrible 9 hours she had just spent getting called a stupid, lazy, useless mindless drone. It reminded me that I used to do small, kind things all day long, because I've had the great good fortune to live and work in places where the time could be taken to do these things for others.

These tiny kindnesses were as much selfish as they were selfless. They made me feel valued, feel good. About myself and the communities I've called home. I liked the thought of living in place where people cared enough about each other to do decent, thoughtful things without a second thought. 

When your job is to be the complaints department for an entire country, it's easy to lose sight of what it is that keeps you grounded, keeps you you. I am not certain when I stopped doing these things, here in this funny little town, working for The Client, but I needed that lady to say yes, just as much as she needed the ride. 

I like me. Funny, quirky, weird, a fantastically incandescent wit with a brain the size of a planet, humble; these are all words people have used to describe me over the years. And that's fine. Good, even.

But I've always just tried to be kind and I nearly forgot how.

In the words of the great philosopher M.J. Blige... "we don't need no hateration, holleration, in this dancery."

Ignorance isn't Bliss, It's Paperwork

Dear Customer,

I know you are calling from Vancouver, because I see your number on my screen.

I know you have a reasonable amount of casual spending money because you were at Starbucks and you had me on speakerphone.

I know you possess a deep rooted sense of fairness because you yelled at your Starbucks barista not to mess up "like they did last time, gawd."

I know you are probably white because the package you are inquiring about cost you $400.00, and contains "vitally important lavender sea salt". I mean, come on.

I know you are distressed because your verbal abuse is coming at me rapid-fire. 

I also know you live in a peaceful country with clean water, clear skies, safe streets, good schools, ample food, a constitutionally protected Charter of Rights and Freedoms and opportunities for all to find acceptance and success regardless of ethnicity, gender, or religious beliefs. 

Based on these things that I know about you, madam, I am willing to speculate that you didn't pay attention while ATTENDING any of those good schools because being patiently asked to call your sender in order to have them investigate why your parcel is late is "literally the worst thing you've ever heard of."

I am so sorry. This is very frustrating for you, I'm sorry for that. Thank you for bringing this to our attention, I am truly sorry. I do apologize, thank you for your time, I really am very, very sorry.

But I am not sorry that you have had a good, safe life. I am not sorry you had the leisure to sit vacantly staring out the window of your publicly funded school, distracted by weekend plans and the "pop music", while history lessons happened around you. I am not sorry that the happy accident of your birth occurred in Canada, where the worst thing you have ever heard of is having to take a small amount personal responsibility.

Thank you.

This has been an episode of Package Handler

 and Professional Platitude Provider:

Apologize, validate, apologize authentically again, thank with apology, offer a fourth,

 even more genuine apology and close with a final thanks and one last apology

 which supersedes all previous apologies in it's sincerity.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig

I expected to find converting from an out-of-province license to an Ontario driver's license an absolute joy. I'm from here. My birth certificate says so. Sort of.

"Who is this?"

"That's me. I'm me. It's me."

"The name doesn't match your, " squints skeptically, "Al-ber-ta...driver's license."

"Well, no, it wouldn't. I'm married now."

"I see. Well, I'm going to need to see your marriage certificate."

I see you, madam. I've met you in every province, although I'll admit this is a new angle.

"Okay. I'll have to go and get it, I know I have it at home."

"No, you'll need your marriage certificate. You'll have to apply for it."

"No, I'll need to get it. It's at home."

"No, I'm not talking about the scroll your minister gave you that you keep in a frame on the wall. I mean the actual legal document. You'll need to apply for that before you can drive in Ontario."

Oh, sweetie.

"Yes. I understand you are not talking about the marriage license my justice of the peace had us sign. I have the legal certificate at home in a file. With my passport, actually."

"Oh, you have your passport? That's what you should have brought."

"Can I bring that instead?"

"No, ma'am. I can't officially un-see the birth certificate, I'm afraid. So if you'll just apply for the marriage license with the province in which you were married and bring it back..."

The charming philosophical implications aside of a civil employee declaring they cannot officially un-see something, that little nugget of Vogonity seems particularly unhelpful.

"I applied for it in Ontario, in 2006, when I changed my driver's license and passport to reflect my married name."

We share a long stare, calculating stare.

"Oh."

Fingers tapping the keyboard.

"Hmmm."

Further, extended tapping.

"I see. Well. Welcome back to Ontario."
"Thanks. Honestly, it feels like I never left."

       

My Valves May Need Replacing

I am worried, sometimes, that I might be going slightly mad. Friends assure me, when I ask them to check in, that I'm wearing my underpants on the right side of my clothes and I'm not dribbling any more than usual. 

And yet...

Is it possible to go slightly bonkers in such a way that bills still get paid and meals still eaten? I do all of the things I normally do but suddenly there is a sort of mental "go/no-go" switch in my mind. It checks the events of the day against a little meter that gauges just how close to the abyss I've stepped that day and thus far has ensured that no, this isn't the day I go absolutely doolally in the Wal-Mart. 

It certainly lends an edge to buying milk, though.

Someone suggested that I am likely just stressed. "Oh that's just stress," they said, when I explained the restless tension my little check valve cha-cha towards madness was giving me. "You should do some yoga, and go for a walk or read or something."

I already do all of those things. Am I suddenly reading or walking incorrectly?

I consulted my family physician and Dr. Google suggested that the migraines and constant sensation of fleeing from a giant rabid polar bear through endless dark caves with no hope of escape were nothing more than mild depression. Possibly brought on by the move and the new house and job, he also suggested yoga and physical activity. It was either depression or cancer, but I feel like he was just covering all his bases with that one.

The "or something" my friend suggested has some possibilities. I would like to get a stand-up paddle board this year, because nothing is funnier than a grown woman with an inner-ear imbalance attempting to hold Warrior 1 Pose, while bobbing on a foam board in the middle of the Saint Lawrence Seaway.  I also want to learn how to ride a motorcycle. Again, my inner-ear will no doubt ensure this is HILARIOUS.

Until then I guess I can try walking differently, maybe backwards, and hope that my little valve holds up until I can afford the new Ducati.

Superbike 959 Panigale (US Version) @ $40,000
I shall name her Beverley

March: List Four

In an effort to follow the age-old advice, "write what you know", my contribution to the world's greatest works of literature will be about...

1. only ever successfully baking muffins on the second go
2. songbirds of North America
3. Lev Vygotsky's theory of cognitive development
4. obscure crochet abbreviations
5. insomnia
6. the complete works of Douglas Adams and Sir Terry Pratchett
7. the theory of evolution
8. edible plants and fungi of coastal British Columbia
9. the first four chapters of my physics textbook because I have to keep re-reading the damn thing
10. passive aggression
11. wilderness survival camping and why it's not nearly as much fun as staying in even the crappiest of sketchy motels
12. moving house
13. Doctor Who, beginning at Series Nine ( never skip Nine)
14. a random smattering of historical facts and minutiae, WITHOUT the help of Google, thankyouverymcuh
15. functionally dysfunctional families
16. cheese

Mary Shelley, eat your heart out.

March: List Three

Simple things one might do before leaving for a trip during a blizzard, in order to prevent one's spouse from going insane with worry and dread, leading her to alert the air force in two separate provinces, 

and upset the cat.

1. Don't
2. Leave
3. Your
4. Phone
5. At
6. The 
7. Office.

March: List Two

My mother can say things in normal conversation that, out of context, and sometimes even in context, sound like euphemisms for

le acte de l'amour. 

Wink wink, nudge nudge, say no more, say no more.

1. Fluff the pillows.
2. Set up camp.
3. Start the dishwasher.
4. Shovel the walkway.
5. Massage the kale.
6. Your father needs to learn how to stack my bowls.

March: List One

Brief excerpts from an actually quite average conversation which are pretty good indicators that I am married to some sort of evil genius.

1. What's the worst that could happen?
2. I know what I'm doing.
3. I know what went wrong.
4. I think I can fix it.
5. It's just a little blood.
6. I by-passed the compressor.

The Sound of Silence

I find I am disturbed.

The thunder storm we were threatened with today did not arrive. I would have welcomed it, it's too quiet here.  It stayed dreary anyways, not a nice day to be out and so it's endless cups of tea and a chance to make a dent in the thick stack of books by the window. I'm avoiding several important adult things at the moment but I'm doing laundry so that makes it all better.

Our new neighbourhood is calm to point of sedation but we are starting to learn it's rhythm. The retirees to the east of us are travellers, they fly everywhere looking for warm sun and gin. No pets. Grown children. She takes an early fitness class in the city. He tinkers with his snow blower, even on rainy days like today.

The family straight across has a pair of fluffy Goldens and a low fence, perfect for meetings and sniffs. Meeker is not amused by their grins, or their freedom to romp while he sits, tied to the house in our front yard-with-no-fence. There may be repercussions in the summer. Meeker keeps score.

The neighbour to the west of us is quiet. She is shy, or busy, and we haven't had a chance for the Polite Halloo. We understand shy. We won't push.

A neighbourhood dog named Gunner, who is yellow and sweet and follows walkers in the hopes of pats or cookies, found Husband to be an easy mark. He followed along until his "sweet stray in search of love" ploy was shattered by a helpful soul up the street, who shooed him by name and shamed him home. Next time, buddy. Next time. We'll bring bacon.

I confess I find the peace here a bit smothering. This idyll we've discovered is comforting, like a blanket. A thick blanket that fights back in the night and grows tentacles in your nightmares, to pin you down and throttle your soul...

Erm.

I suppose I just mean that I have grown used to the bustle and noise of a city. Many cities. Peace is taking some getting used to, and I still rely on the radio to help me tune out the silence on the street. I didn't think I would miss traffic, blaring car stereos, sirens, air brakes, jet planes, helicopters, street sweepers, Snow Birds, car horns, construction, back-up signals, alarms, sidewalk plows, fire stations, and the occasional domestic disturbance, but I really do.

....Tentacles?

Words, Words, Words

I was in a house without books once.
It took me a moment to realize why the house seemed so empty.
I snuck away from the noise of the party to explore.
I thought, 
Maybe this house has a library.
Maybe, somewhere, there is a whole room dedicated to books.

I'll admit to being ever so slightly turned on by this thought.
Which was awkward.
At a Christmas party.

But it gradually dawned on me.
No books. Anywhere. 
Not. Even. One.

I couldn't decide if it was creepy or sad.
What I do know is that I got drunk immediately.
To forget.
And when I woke up the next morning, 
In my house, with my shelves filled with words and worlds,
I thought, creepy. 

Definitely creepy.

"A life without books is a thirsty life..." Stephen King

Settling In

Husband has retired from being a SAR Tech. So that's that. 

We've moved to a sweet little spot on the Saint Lawrence River. A sleepy little town where all the chimneys puff white smoke in the mornings and a little exploring on snowshoe in the back fields has revealed that in the summer I will be surrounded by old orchards, rambling hedges overgrown with lilac, ancient and forgotten raspberry patches, and at least three secret ponds which will certainly turn the Meeker twit green. 

The area is quite lovely. Cornwall insists that it is a vital city on the mouth of the river, with many wonderful things to recommend it to visitors and settlers alike. It certainly has a pretty waterfront and a friendly downtown. It's also close enough to some bigger cities with bigger budgets, for festivals, things to do on the weekend, and Ikea, and not so far away that it takes three days to get a part for the Volvo. 

We are smitten with our new home town and not least because many of our neighbours are direct descendants of the British soldiers and Loyalists who set fire to a famously white house just over 200 years ago. How many Canadians can say that? We'll skirt over the fact that they also set fire to the Library of Congress and all 3000 volumes it contained, and focus instead on the knowledge that that little bonfire represents the only time in American history that their capitol was occupied by an enemy force. 

And the cheese here is so cheap.

Getting settled is taking some time. The house is in good shape, but finding homes for all of our things is always tricky. Often it's a matter of "just leave it in the box and we'll probably use it in the next place." The thing is, this is the last next place. If it's not used here, it will never be used, so it's time to toss the crate of creepy china dolls, boxes of surplus shoes and (dare I say it?) the sectional to the curb. More room for a sweet new paddle board and a fat bike. 

This blog, which began the day we left Ontario a decade ago, was intended as a letter to our future selves, recording our adventures. 

I've determined that our adventure is not over, despite the fact that we have settled in Cornwall, Ontario. I know this to be true because any day in which you see or do or learn something new is an adventure.

Why, just yesterday Husband learned that tire pressure is inversely proportional to the amount of control required to prevent one from crashing a fat bike into a tree.

A Promise Made...

My sweet canoe is nestled in a moving truck, amidst mummified sewing machines and boxes of books. When we arrived in Manitoba, I had promised my canoe rivers. Rivers wide and muddy, with friendly shorelines and at least one flock of pelicans. 

They didn't happen. Neither one of us, my canoe nor I, were prepared for city life. 

Every day I came home and I would tell my canoe about my adventures.

"I found a place that sells sushi pizza!" 

"There are buskers at the Forks! They were juggling FRUIT!"

"I got spit on by a homeless guy!"

My canoe was always so excited for me, and always patient. The weeks slipped by and the shadow under her belly stopped the grass from growing. Every now and then, her sweet glass heart would leap as I pulled her out, but no, I was just mowing. Just raking. No river today.

Now she's in a truck, headed for another province. Two other families are sharing the truck, I hope they have canoes who will keep her company as they bounce along the highway. 

I haven't told my canoe where we are going this time. She doesn't know that we will be living next to the widest river in Canada, or that a creek runs right past our yard. She has no idea that we will be a stone's throw from Algonquin Park. In the small Ontario hamlet, with no buskers or sushi, no Little Free Libraries, no Zumba in the park, no food truck festivals, art galleries, or weird little shops that sell nothing but teas that smell of feet... she has no idea what she's in for.

I can't wait.

We drive out today. Ontario, here we come.

We leave in mere hours for our next great adventure. For those of you military families who are reading this, spread the word: Winnipeg isn't a frozen waste of time. It's not stinky or boring or riddled with thieves and murderers. It has a warm heart, a GREAT down town, a rich cultural history, sushi pizza, a guy with a pet duck, awesome festivals, every possible amenity you could dream of, fantastic schools with dedicated staff, and a world class dining culture to boot.

To Winnipeg: Thank you for everything. Even the mind-opening experience of getting spit at. He was cold and tired and I was too happy, because Winnipeg is just so awesome. It's not his fault.

Cheers Winnipeg!

The Perfect Cup of Coffee

Raise early, while the light is still pale and watery looking.

Stretch. Scratch.

Feed the cat.

Then start with the beans. Use the ones you like the best. 

This step isn't as important as hipsters would have you believe. Nothing needs to be organic or imported, although Fair Trade is a good call. What matters is that you use the coffee you like. If you like the grounds from a red plastic tub, or only the beans from Jamaica, lovingly packed in a hand-sewn cotton bag, use those. Honestly. 

The beans are not the coffee. The coffee is the coffee.

The method you choose to use in order to brew your coffee is a deeply personal one, each with it's own merits and all equally useful in their way. Only one is correct.

Use a standard 4 cup French press.

Measure your coffee using a 1/8 c scoop. The amount is a matter, again, of preference. Four is correct. And don't be smarmy, adding up the fractions and using the wrong measuring scoop. No one likes smarmy coffee.

Boil the kettle. 

Use this time to meditate on the choices you have made in your life which have led you to this moment. 

Stare into the abyss.

Pour the boiling water over the grounds in your press.

Stir.

Place the lid on top.

Set the timer for the desired amount of time, once again bearing in mind that this is a deeply personal choice which reflects both the boldness you desire in your coffee and the length of time you are willing to wait before your head explodes and you nearly die already.

Four minutes is about right.

Depress the plunger on your press. 

Pour the coffee into a clean porcelain mug like a proper adult.

Add cream and sugar in reasonable ratios. 

Sit. 

Breathe.

Sip your coffee and gaze into the middle distance as the sweet brown liquid warms your body and brings meaning to your existence.