A Walk in The Park

Husband is the cinnamon on my French Toast, the down in my pillow and the sweet, foamy underside of my hot chocolate marshmallow. I love him more today than I did yesterday and the same will be true tomorrow.

But if he keeps losing Tofino on every walk, I will seriously consider surgically attaching the two of them together, creating a single, glorious Franken-Glenn/Tofino who is both brilliant AND an idiot at the same time. See if I don't.

Tofino is actually very intelligent, it's just a peculiar and highly focused intelligence. Like a physicist who can push the boundaries of understanding of the Universe further than ever before, but can't remember to put the bins out on garbage day, Tofino can figure out how to open the fridge door but often forgets how stairs work.

To be fair, Husband can play just about any song by ear on almost any instrument but once got lost inside a fitted sheet for an entire afternoon. 

(I know we went through this phase with Jesse, who was perfect and therefore exempt from all societal expectations of obedience, recall or flatulence. And I know we went through this with Meeker, who is a beautiful freak and nearly always comes back right away now sometimes. That is not the point. They've earned the right to be considered cheeky. Tofino still owes me $389.00 in shoes alone before I'm prepared to think of her as anything other than a garburator with a pulse.)

I am just endlessly puzzled by Husband, who can build a television out of a box of graham wafers and an old boot, as he consistently forgets from one day to the next that Tofino has the approximate cruising speed of a ballistic missile and can detect the smell of a mouse fart from 8 km away. Often before the car has come to a stop in the parking lot of the dog park.

I should acknowledge that sometimes Husband does remember these things about Tofino, and those are the days he ties her to the handlebars of his bike.

Things Tofino Has Ruined So Far

Everything.

The First Draft is The Deepest

Everyone writes two letters, right? When we're upset, that's what we do. We write two letters or emails or texts or whatever but, and this is the important part, we never send the first one. Write it, but don't send it. That's the rule. Get all the bile, all the anger, all suggestions for improbable biological acts or reflections about parentage out of your system and only then write a second letter that clearly outlines your concerns without any of the emotional detritus or comparisons to farm animals.

I found a 'first letter' to a previous employer today while scrolling through my backups. The file name was in all CAPS.: "DONT SEND THIS ONE"

This sort of thing always seems a bit petty, a bit small, but often a few truths about why you are angry can be revealed. In this case, it was because I worked for a bunch of heartless swine who likely date their own cousins. 

Dear Employer,

I wish to tender my resignation for the following reasons:

This is not a good job. It is a boring job. A dull, repetitive, endlessly boring and thankless job.

That is not your fault, but many things are.

There are many things that could make this job bearable. A living wage. A minimum standard of professionalism from the supervisory staff. Permission to have a small photo of my loved ones on my desk. Windows to the outside world. 

Even the simple dignity of a moment to recover from being called a useless waste of a human being, before hearing my name shrieked from across the room by a supervisor, that would have helped.

Not seeing my or anyone else's name in a company-wide email, labeled as a “worst offender” for too many seconds/call/week, would have certainly helped.

Offering me the opportunity to wear a ridiculous hat to work is not going to overshadow that I sat next to a sobbing colleague while she pleaded with an instructor to remove her from a training class in which she had volunteered to participate but was now finding overwhelming. It's not going to help me forget the voice of her supposed instructor, using threatening language to bully her, whispering that he'd been nice so far but he didn’t have to be nice about it for much longer if she continued to refuse to volunteer.

I am ashamed of myself for witnessing her mortification in silence and dismayed that my colleagues did exactly the same. I was not a bystander before this job. Shame on me for allowing you to silence my compassion. Shame on you for encouraging it.

You can take this boring job which was turned into an awful job by your poor oversight and lack of respect for simple human dignity, and stuff it up your ass.

Go fuck yourselves, 

Employee #79049 

The Elves and The Weed-Whacker

I like to sit at my kitchen table while I write because there's a pretty view from my window, because the kettle is close for tea and because Fritti's litter box is in my office to prevent Tofino from getting her daily dose of Tootsie Rolls. 

From this spot I can see the neighbour's beautiful lawn, which is golf course perfect, draped by towering blue spruces and framed by rustic cedar rails.It's the sweetest corner on the street and is the stuff my dreams are made of. Seriously. It's like I live across from Capability Brown. Sadly, from Capability's point of view, he lives across from the Clampets.

Husband and I have started to make the place our own. Started being the operative word. We've ripped out the old swimming pool, but the sandy divot and the cookie cutter "deck to nowhere" still remain, because we're busy and fair weather doesn't get wasted on landscaping.

Our raised front flower beds already had decent enough greenery installed when we bought the place so they've been given the nod to carry on, which they've done marvellously, and while they're at it they also hide some random bike parts, my wetsuit booties and the snow scoop. 

The back garden at least, is a vast green sweep of grass. This gets mowed matter of factly and at speed, about once a week. Capability Across The Way comes out to watch me sometimes, as I whiz around the yard on our little second hand lawn tractor that pops and backfires, singing along to The Hip on my headphones and trying to beat last week's time. 

In short, we're coming up short in the category of fussing about the acreage. The neighbours don't seem to mind. I think they recognize that we are just weekend warriors of a different breed. They shake their heads at out bikes and canoes as they load up their 4-wheelers and speed boats. I know they tut at the lilac bushes that could use a trim and the indifference bordering on actual aggression with which I treat my hostas, but they also love to hear about our adventures, and leave bags of tomatoes on our front step while we are at work.

Of course, that could be the old reverse shoemaker ploy. Maybe they leave tomatoes in the hopes that I will someday grow my own.

Homeward Bound

Husband was the one who suggested a road trip, to any destination I chose. He barely got the words out before I yelled, "TO THE SEA!" and had the hated tent trailer hitched and packed with essentials: dog food, litter box, SUP and camera.

We decided ("We.") I decided that the closest access to the sea was through Quebec and so we headed for the Gaspe peninsula and Forillon National Park. Every time my beloved waves came into view I would point and say, "I can SEE THE SEA." 

It's all a blur of cheerful villages and houses painted every colour of the rainbow. Of fog and white caps and lighthouses. Of campfires and blown trailer fuses and a seemingly endless dog walk that lasted for five days. 

I took so many pictures of rocks and flotsom, none of which are interesting to anyone but me. We ate scrambled eggs and toast for breakfasts, seasoned with pine needles because a dropped egg is still a good egg when you're camping. We played ukulele and sang along to The Hip and because we were in Quebec, we even sang along to Rush.

It was short. It was sweet. It was perfect. 

Even though we tried unsuccessfully to lose Tofino. Twice.

Until my feet were wet,

Until my lips were salty, 

Until my skin was prickled with chill and red from the sun, 

Until my heartbeat steadied to match measured waves, 

And my breath became easy and slow,

I didn't know the thing that I was missing most was Home.

Thank you, Sweetie.

There's Also Isospin, Strangeness, Topness and Charm

Making advanced bookings for a road trip is like calling a paint-by-number poster a master piece. Sure, it looks fine but it has no soul, and you usually run out of Phthalo Blue long before the sky is done, which means another trip to the craft store and spending more time than is probably healthy rearranging the papier mache letters on the shelves to spell out all the flavours of quarks, and giggling when you get to "bottom".

We leave tomorrow, for an unexpected road trip that hopefully will result in at least one day of surfing. I don't know where we will be staying but Husband keeps saying things like, "Bah! We'll figure it out!" and "La Parc Provincial du Walmart Parking Lot."

Onward!

Thrown

Sometimes a writer will use a throwaway line to keep the attention of their audience. It can be a one-liner, something glib with no connection to the immediate plot; or it can be a set up for a much larger story that will pull the twisted pathways of anecdote straight again. And sometimes it's just used as a tension release, like when the Customs agent finally locates your vibrator in your luggage and turns it off.

Chaos Theory Does Look Pretty Neat On A T-Shirt

I am probably never going to grasp the fundamentals of physics. I should have that written on a calling card. 

"D.S.W. ~ Friendly, outgoing, will probably 

never grasp the fundamentals of physics."

I have been reading physics and studying maths and taking courses for the past 6 years, as a hobby, and I know that if someone were to ask me right now to explain the theory of quantum chaos I would likely panic, throw a handful of glitter at their face and run away while screaming "God Save the Queen". 

But that would be more for my benefit then theirs. 

I don't study because I feel as though I have some hidden proof buried inside my brain, waiting for my understanding to match the profundity of the expression that will shift Humanity's view of itself and it's place in the Universe.

Although that would be wicked cool. 

It's just that I am often confused by seemingly very simple things: rude people, why I have to stop wearing white after Labour Day, the notion of holding a fresh baby even though it was literally inside a good friend's vagina only yesterday. Regular life is beautiful and complicated and weird and I find it desperately bizarre that very few people are willing to freely admit they are as captivated and confused by it as I am.

So it's sort of refreshing to be utterly baffled by something as beautiful and weird as the Hubble Constant or the Drake Equation. I feel I'm on firmer ground if I'm shaky about calculating the age of the universe to the closest decimal. At least I know there is a reasonable answer to the question, and I have never silenced an entire pool party because I was unable to fully explain the Schrodinger wavefunction. 

But offer a cappuccino to one toddler...

The title for this piece, my admiration for science, my urge to know more about the many many many many many things I know nothing about, and the reason I enjoy being puzzled by all of the millions of things that puzzle me... are inspired, endlessly by THGTTG and Douglas Adams. 

Malice Most Delicious

A favourite author of mine once wrote that everyone should have about a dozen or so things they are allowed to find intolerable, without explanation or apology. I think that's a wonderful idea. How cathartic.  I'm generally a pretty positive person but I think we can all admit to having a secret list like this one. For this reason and without remorse, I absolutely hate the following...

1. Tights worn as pants.
2. Anyone who will smugly say "Spoilers!" without offering up a more interesting conversation topic, when what they really mean to say is "I haven't seen the movie yet but I'm too lazy and self interested to step away, so I'm going to stay here and force you to entertain me, just not about that one specific subject."
3. Beards.
4. Parents who give their children stupid names like "Mandolynne" or "Apoplexia". 
5. Rush.
6. Political correctness.
7. People who tell me every year that they love getting a Christmas card from me, who have never sent me one in return.
8. The phrase "No offense meant".
9. Plans on a Sunday afternoon.
10. Eowyn.
11. Literally every word ever written by E.L. James, from kindergarten through to the present day.
12. Having my beer or wine explained to me.

There. That felt wonderful. Many thanks to Bill Bryson for the inspiration.

Whisper Women

A woman has endless tools of communication at her disposal. To make her point, she might employ strength, guile, humour, wit, boobs...

I say tools of course but they can be weapons as well. Of these, none is more devastating than the whisper, especially when deployed against other women.

Whispering is the worst, most aggressively unfriendly thing women do to each other, and it's dangerous. Just ask the survivors in Carrie.

Forgive my ignorance, I'm certain men whisper. In fact, my secret crush has made a career of whispering on camera while gibbons procreate in the foreground. #davidattenborough #shinsofsteel 

It seems to me that women who whisper are choosing to do so because they want to draw a visible line between those whispered to and those whispered about. The act isn't subtle and the intention is for the excluded party to feel 14 years old again, sitting alone at the back of  Mr. Sherry's ENG OA4 class, hiding behind an ill-advised perm and over-sized glasses, trying to disappear into an Douglas Adams novel and not react to the twitters of the twits around her.

I've never liked whispering. I'm too loud, for one thing, so I'm acutally not very good at it. I also try my best never say something about a person that I wouldn't want them to hear.  Partly because that keeps life interesting but mostly because I have better manners than that and I am not a horrible human being. 

If you have whisper women around you, here is some advice: be kind to them. For two reasons. First, it's entirely possible that they haven't had many acts of kindness in their lives up until this point, so this is a good opportunity for you to show them what it looks like. In my experience, this alone will make a huge difference in their behaviour. 

The second reason to be kind is that in general, it also really pisses them off.

Nappy By Nature

We are taught early to feel vaguely guilty about napping, which is weird because even Rip Van Winkle got a huge pay off when he woke up after getting his head down for a quick 20 years.

You know how the story goes. Rip wakes to find decades have passed, his delinquent children grown into responsibility, his nagging wife dead, and impending political upheaval resolved. Basically, all the things in his life that were overwhelming him had disappeared and he could now live peacefully knowing that he'd dodged the draft, his children would take care of him in his old age, and the woman he promised to love forever had perished alone, in despair.

Win:win.

Nowadays, children are the only ones encouraged, sometimes begged, to take naps. Once you reach adulthood, naps become an underrated activity. Maybe even shameful, something to sneak in when no one is watching. 

Unless you're Husband, who proudly naps like a champ. Napping is a sacred duty and must be performed daily, between 13:00 and 14:00, or whenever it's most likely that I will suddenly feel the urge to violently move all the pots and pans from one side of the kitchen to the other.

Generally though, a napping grown up is not considered to be contributing the GDP in an effective manner and should probably get back to work, or at least mow the lawn. 

There is definitely something delicious about napping. A cheeky luxury that we admit only to our closest friends when asked what we did on the weekend.


"Me? I napped on the sofa. For, like, the whole afternoon. Even though I was supposed to be filing my taxes like an adult. It Was Epic."

I sit here watching my cat napping, with her toes flexing, her little orange body curled into a peaceful circle, and I know I have never been that relaxed in my life. 

Of course she's relaxed, she doesn't have deadlines and hasn't recently discovered a grey hair in her eyebrow. 

I think North Americans are shy about napping because historically we've had to work really hard to clear lands and build roads and feed the chickens. Indigenous cultures weren't going to suppress themselves, so up up up! Hands of rocks and on with socks! I get it. 350 years of that can be habit forming and without the soporific effect of the European sunshine, or cholera, we gave up napping in lieu of getting shit done.

I do remember vividly the best nap, perhaps the only real nap, I have ever taken. I fell asleep across the foot of the bed in our house in Comox. It was a perfect afternoon, with the clearest blue sky. The neighbourhood was drowsy and calm. The Neighbourhood Idiot Child had either gone to terrorize a different part of town or had finally learned how to stop yelling from the sidewalk and go inside to get his own freezie. Someone up the street was mowing their lawn (pfft, grown up) and the breeze through my bedroom windows carried the lemony cucumber smell of fresh cut grass. I woke up after 20 minutes and for one second, grasped the edges of what inner peace must feel like.

Then Jesse vomited salmon bones expansively on the carpet and life has carried on pretty much up until this point. 

We all deserve a break in our lives. We need to give ourselves permission to take a few minutes to rest, to refresh our bodies and minds. We all deserve a fleeting glimpse of inner peace. 

And after 10 years, I could really use another nap.

Time Enough for Me

I've spent the last 4 months as voluntarily unemployed person. At the urging of Husband, who had watched helpless as I faded away over 9 months of joyless work at a meaningless job, I resigned and walked away just two days before Christmas.

On my last day, I floated home on a wave of relief and for the first few jobless weeks I was living in a sort of warm euphoria. I spent time with family and friends for the first time in ages. Instead of curling into a ball every morning, I got up, I stretched, I walked the dog. My time was my own again. I could fill it with all of the things that made me ME. 

Which is when crippling anxiety gripped me tight and demanded I answer, just who did I think I was, then?

I used to be a lot of things, a writer, an artist, a gardener, a surfer, an educational assistant. My hobbies had slowly tapered off as we moved and they became harder and harder to access in each new place. Being an EA was something of which I was very proud, but with no schools hiring here, it was time to consider other options.

Can a woman have a midlife crisis? Was I suddenly going to become one of those women who go aggressively Girl Power, buy an organic bicycle and become a Life Coach? *gasp* Was I going to take up running?

Nope.

What I did was freeze. It turns out  there is something worse than having endless, repetitive monotony fill your days, to the point where the only thoughts you have are so awful that even the drudgery of a call center is preferred. It is the deafening echo you hear when you quit and ask yourself what's next? A few months ago, when I wrote about that very question, it was with a different and more hopeful tone.

When I quit, I thought I had a plan. I was going to get healthy and fit, so I scheduled 3 weeks for that. Then I was going to redefine myself with a degree and a new career. Easy-peasey. And for dessert, I'd paint the house that I had lived in so lightly for the past year that I barely recognized it.

After staring blankly into this new abyss for about a month, I finally did what I should have done ages ago, when anxiety first started to creep into my every day, because living next to crazy for 3 years rubs off and makes you a little jumpy at the doorbell or the phone, and slightly phobic of weedy little men with dirty beards, and hoodies pulled up no matter what the weather, who watch everything and smile with too many teeth.

I called a counsellor.

The first question she asked was "How are you today?" and I cried for nearly our whole hour. It was lovely.

Since then, things have been much better. I've started writing a book I can't wait to read, which is a good sign. I drew up a plan for my front garden (I have a front garden!) and I actually think I might do it this summer. I go for walks, I take a yoga class once a week and I read. Best of all I laugh now. With my sweet silly man who is endlessly patient and who loves me despite the fact that I am barely recognizable as the woman he married. I am on my way back and he's grateful for that, too.

I admit that I waited too long to ask for help but there is no shame is needing it. I see my counselor once a month. She's very smart, and her peppermint selection is excellent. It's helpful to have someone ask the big questions like, "Why don't you just take a few guilt-free weeks to be sad about leaving a province you love and a job that delighted you? About your dog dying? Why can't you write a novel? Where is it written that you have to be happy all the time, and that you're a failure if you're not?"

She's right, of course, and naturally I found myself a lot happier once I thought about all of these things, in a Starbucks, with a latte. Because that's what white women do after a good cry with their counsellor. Live your truth. Life Coaching for the win.

I have lots of work left to do, but it's a to-do list that I finally like the look of:

• walk every day, maybe even run soon
• write every day
• talk with my mom and dad more
• find out who developed the Keto Diet and force feed them a Belgian Waffle
• only accept a job offer that I will be proud to put on my resume
• take a risk
• go vegan

(Just kidding. I'll go vegan when they genetically engineer a bacon flavoured eggplant and not a moment before.)

"If you know someone who is depressed, please resolve never to ask them why. Depression isn't a straightforward response to a bad situation; depression just is, like the weather. Try to understand the blackness, lethargy, hopelessness, and loneliness they are going through. Be there for them when they come out the other side. It's hard to be a friend to someone who is depressed but it is one of  the kindest, noblest, and best things you will ever do." 

 -Stephen Fry, President of MIND (formerly The National Association for Mental Health) and a seriously funny man.

Writing Assignment #1

Provided a prompt of a photo of a sad woman at a tower window, wearing a gorgeous, creamy gown, the instructions were to write 750 words. This is my submission.

The Tower and The Gown

“Hello. We meet again.”

“Excuse me? Were you speaking to me?”

“Yes. I said, we meet again. I remember you from last time.”

“Sorry, do I know you?”

“You were here last summer, in the storm.”

“I think you might be mistaken, I’ve never been up here.”

“I’m terribly sorry. You all look so alike.”

“I beg your pardon? ‘You all’? What’s that supposed to mean, exactly?”

“Nothing! I just meant that there are… similarities…”

“Such as what? Integrity? Craftsmanship?”

“Yes! And… er...ruffles.”

“Ruffles. Really.”

“They’re NICE ruffles.”

“I know they are nice, but that’s not what I use to define my truth. Typical of you lot, to overlook the intricacies of the individual and just see the surface.”

“AH HA! NOW who’s using gross generalizations! I am unique! Strong and proud…”

“I can see four identical towers from this window alone.”

“….so, what brings you up here?”

“She’s had a fight with her father. I think this one was about a marriage to some warty old duke.”

“Huh. Last time it was over keeping a pony in her private garden.”

“Yes, she won that one. The sorry little thing is still there, chewing up the roses and causing a huge mess. I HATE it when it nibbles for sugar lumps. Oh, here we go. She’s throwing herself onto the floor to weep. You know, it would be nice if she brought a blanket or something. This is hell on my seams.”

“Sorry. My engineer favoured granite for durability. He wasn’t really planning on defending the castle from hordes of weeping teenagers.”

“Given how many daughters kings tend to produce, you’d think he might have given it a passing thought.”

“I know right? So what’s wrong with the duke?”

“The king has made an arrangement with this duke who has buckets of money. In exchange for her hand in marriage, the duke has promised to fund the king’s plans for fortification and renovation.”

“Renovation.”

“Yes.”

“Renovation?”

“Yes, that’s what he said.”

“Did he say what he was renovating?”

“I don’t think so. She doesn’t usually take much of an interest so he didn’t elaborate on his plans.”

“But surely he’ll take service into account. I mean, seniority has to be recognized, doesn’t it? RENOVATIONS?”

“Easy now, you’re starting to tremble. If you crumble, it’s not going to help your case.”

“I’M UPSET.”

“Well try to stay calm. There’s no need to make a fuss. You don’t even know you’re on one of the walls scheduled for blasting. Whoops.”

“BLASTING?!”

“Listen, we all have our part to play. I am meant to sweep elegantly along in a waterfall of creamy folds while she makes dramatic statements about marriage or attempts to ride that bloody pony. And when she’s done, she’ll toss me on the floor and I will become the property of her lady’s maid, who will likely take me apart and use me to make a dress for her little girl or a burial shroud for her nan. And someday, you’ll be an outhouse and a farmer’s cottage.”

“HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT? I’VE DEFENDED THIS CASTLE FOR CENTURIES.”

“Well, you’ve let yourself go a bit. I mean, have you seen your mortar? And these cornices, tsk tsk. You could at least TRY to make an effort.”

“Listen. There has to be something you can do to help.  What if you could get her to marry this duke fellow and then have me converted to a library? I’d make a great library.”

“It’s not really up to me. I’m just glorious confection of silk and pearls. Drafting a pre-nup isn’t really in my wheelhouse.”

“I can’t be torn down. I’d rather… I’d rather TOPPLE.”

“Now, don’t be hasty…”

“NO! YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND! THIS IS ABOUT CHOICE! AND THIS IS THE ONLY ONE I HAVE!”

“You’re starting to sway! Look! She’s running down your steps, at least let her get me out of here! I’m from FRANCE!”

“GOOD BYE, CRUEL WORLD. ‘ Years of love have been forgot, in the hatred of a minute!’”

“Oh, that’s lovely. Is that Poe?”

“I TOLD YOU I WOULD HAVE MADE A GREAT LIBRARY!”

The Rumbling and Thunderous End

Feces Flung with Flare and Purpose

The most frightening thing in the world is asking yourself the question "What next?"

Generally, I'm asking "What now?" which is an entirely different kettle of soy-free protein substitute. "What now?" is a reactive question. It's asked at 2 in the morning, when we wake up and hear the dog vomiting. It's asked when, despite all of my best efforts to ignore it, the check engine light in the Volvo goes from a soothing glow to an urgent flash of S-O-S. It's asked when there is a knock at the door and the peephole shows Neighbour Lady wearing yet another stern expression. 

"What now?" is the question stress asks. It's the rapid pulse of a tiny creature destined to end life as a damp crunch. 

And it's boring.

"What now?" makes no plans, has no vision. It exists between one moment of uncertainty and the next. That's fine, in the short term, if you're trying to land a plane but the engines and the pilot have suddenly taken a nap. It made certain your specific ancestors leapt from the bank to the branch at the first sign of something large and toothy approaching the waterhole. "What now?" is the best friend Humanity has, if all we want is to survive the depth of night.

Over the long haul, though, "What now?" will eventually wear you out. It's wearing me out, but it's known and safe, even if it's not that restful. Ooh, and there's the sweet lie, right there. Living on this many eggshells is not safe, not really. It's noisy and uncomfortable and stinks of eggs. It's familiar and that can feel like comfort but it's not the same as actually feeling security and trust. 

So if "What now?" helps you leap to the highest branch and throw feces at the eyes that circle below, "What next?" will help you find the plants higher in fiber so you have more ammunition next time. It acknowledges that not only will there be a next time, but when it arises, the beast below is going to have a find a deeper water hole to wash off the consequences.

"What next?" is a risk taker. It gives a nod to the status quo and then suggests that status quo put down it's knitting and grab life by the nethers. 

"What next?" is a visionary. 

This little letter is to me and to anyone who's pulse is flagging from being rapid for so long. When you're ready, take a deep breath and challenge your inner ape to climb to the top of the tree. Not to search the horizon, it's too far and no one has ever really touched it. Search for the better tree on the next hill, maybe the one with a better metaphor and dare to ask yourself, "What next?"

Wake the Cat

There is nothing sweeter in all the Universe 

Than the sound of a snoring cat.

Unless Vance Joy is on the radio, 

Because hot damn, that's my jam.

A Philosophical Discourse on The Strength of One's Convictions in the Face Adversity

I am, as Husband reminds me often, really quite bright actually, despite my appearance and the little, ahem, "antler problem."

Which is why I maintain that I had a perfectly good reason for driving the van unswervingly into a ditch, miring it to the undercarriage in snow. A reason that is sound and able to withstand the most intense scrutiny: it seemed like a good idea at the time. 

I mean, everything was going so well right up to the instant before the van literally ground to teetering halt at 30 degrees off level. From a philosophical perspective, any manner of course correction would have been construed as that most insidious of all creatures which is Doubt. Only a quitter abandons a plan when things become difficult. Am I quitter? Or do I see things through to the bitter end, come rain or ruin? 

I am not a quitter. So to speak. 

Instead, as I became aware that my blithe U-turn was turning into something else altogether, I somehow managed to hold my breath while at the same time begin chanting "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry", as though the van were capable of forgiveness.

Well, the van may be but Husband is another matter.

After a pause of nearly a millennium, Husband turned to me and in a steady voice, uttered a phrase I have not heard him speak since the day I maced the house:

"Why did you do that?"

I did try to explain my deeply rooted philosophical reasoning but he cut me off, still very, very calm.

"Get. Out."

No problem! I had to push and hold up the suddenly heavy door in order to scramble out so that Husband could climb into the driver's seat. While I stood on the road, Husband began swearing as only he can, while attempting to get the van unstuck.

After some time, as I had only my burning embarrassment to keep me warm on the crisp winter afternoon, I heaved the door open for a progress report.

"Sweetie?"

"Close the door, I am not done being angry yet."

Minutes passed. Husband climbed out and rummaged in the back of the van, returning with a snowshoe and a stony expression. He employed both to dig out a three foot trench around the van before climbing back into the driver's seat and swearing a bit more.

I considered my skill set and offered to help.

"Want me to call a tow truck, Honey?"

I think it's important for married partners to support each other, be it in times of strife or, say, in the pursuit of a hobby. Like, for example, practising a newly acquired language.

Husband did indeed want me to call a tow truck, to rescue us from the middle of Je Ne Sais Pas Ou Je Suis, Quebec. Because he loves me, he asked this of me in mild and civil tone. Because he was still seething with frustration, he refused to help me translate my needs to the guy from the towing company, arguably the most Quebecly French man in the world.

The true test of any relationship is how quickly anger recedes, if it starts at all. Stormy waters will rise, and attempt to swamp the little canoe of any marriage as it navigates the rivers and backwaters of marital bliss. They are unavoidable. It is how the paddlers respond that will determine if the canoe is righted and the rapids left behind, or if the craft will be abandoned while the riders swim to opposite shores.

Husband's frustration disappeared with the taillights of the tow truck as it drove off in a spray of slush, with $150.00 of our vacation budget.

He also elected, purely of his own volition, to drive the remaining 953 km to Nova Scotia.

Letter to 2017

Dear 2017,

Thank you for many things, but chief among them...

...for Husband, who's enduring love, despite depression and anxiety nearly erasing any recognizable "me" from existence, has been the calm shore at the edge of a stormy ocean.

...for the kindness and patience of friends, the significance of which is truly incalculable.

...for leaps of faith.

...and for tall, decaf almond milk flat white coffees and free wifi.

Cheers,
Very nearly Me again