March Is List Month...1

The Things About Which I Do Not Worry Enough, According to Professor of Astrophysics, Brian Cox and My Mum

1. Super volcanoes

2. Plague

3. Supernovae

4. Asteroids

5. Humanity's own stupidity

6. Dust on the back of the toilet tank

A Bit Flushed

I am late to hop on the resolution bus this year but I've finally narrowed all of my problems down and set myself one simple goal. Hydrate.

I am going to drink 4 litres of water each day, for the next 30 days. 

It turns out I don't really drink as much water as I thought. I always have a water bottle at my desk and it always seems to be about half full (of water) so someone must be filling it and taking the first few optimistic swigs. But I also have a three cup a day coffee habit, an afternoon and an evening tea, sometimes a soda as a treat when I am out and occasionally a tall decaf flat white with almond milk, extra wet, on Tuesdays to keep me from waltzing right out over the edge.  

I've worked it out and in terms of just plain water, I drink less than 500 ml daily. The rest of my fluids come with added dairy, sugar or in extreme cases, pudding.

I am also curled in a tiny hobbled ball every morning, my spine and feet about a century older than the rest of me. Tired and achy all day, it takes me ages to recover from a Zumba class or folding laundry. I was sick a few days ago and I am not sure which was a greater shock to  my system, the gastro virus or the half litre of Pedialite I managed to keep down in an effort to stave off dehydration. 

If I can make it through the next 30 days and 120 L of pure H2O, I am promised, among other benefits, glowing skin and hair, more energy, improved flexibility and recovery, and kidneys rinsed so clean you could eat off them.

Day 1: I have peed 8 times already and it is not even noon.

Meeker's Song

This tree is my tree, it isn't your tree

I peed on this tree, that makes is my tree.

It's in your front yard, but it is mine now.

This tree and all the other trees.

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.