Honey, I Maced The House

When they turn my life into a movie and Uma Thurman begs for the starring role, the following story will likely be a humorous counterpoint to the tragedy which is my inability to play sports, bake cupcakes or go more than five minutes without injuring myself.

Belleville, ON ~ 2006

The reasons I was leaving the house in a rush that day aren't important. You need to know that I was running late, that Husband was walking the dogs early and that my father-in-law may be trying to kill me.

I needed mittens. I had hoped to get away without them but it was early on an October morning and the frost was still on the pumpkin. Mittens were stored in the mitten basket in the front hall of our house.  I grabbed it down, plunked it on the sofa and started rooting for my favourite blue pair of handmade mitts just as Husband came clomping up the front steps with the Beasts. Blind fingers felt the scratchy wool I was looking for.  I had to tug as the knobbly yarn seemed to be caught on the bottom of the basket. The tangle came free, my hand tightening around the mittens as I pulled them loose to hold them high and shout something clever like "A-HA!" just as Husband came through the front door.

Triumphant, I turned to my beloved, ready to sing the praises of neatly organized wicker from Pier One only to see him turn an abrupt about face onto the porch.

I looked back to the lumpy bundle held tight in my hands in time to see a brown cloud shoot from the nozzle on the can of bear spray* that I was squeezing. (*Caution: Shoots up to 25 feet! Point away from face; use only outdoors, in a well ventilated area, preferably on a bear but certainly not in your living room.)

The brown cloud hit the far wall as I stepped forward to follow Husband out the door. I was nearly there when I recalled that we also owned a cat and I would have to grab some air and go back.

Ever had a lung full of mace? It's like Hell and a hot August day lit a fire with a blow torch to bake Christmas cookies in your chest.

Only more worse.

Coughing, eyes streaming, I stripped off my sweater as I raced ahead of the mace to slam our bedroom door shut, locking in our cat and stuffing the sweater into the crack. I turned and nearly made it to the front porch before my lungs began to heave, then hurled vomit and profanity at the rose bushes for fifteen minutes.

When I could finally take a breath without sobbing, I looked up into the loving and concerned eyes of Husband, who brushed the hair from my face and tenderly asked "Why did you do that?"

I hadn't.

My father-in-law had carefully tucked this aerosol propelled mace into my mitten basket after a hiking trip through Algonquin Park. Father-in-law is not a man to give things away if there is any possibility that he might need said item at some distant point in the future. However, even his parsimonious soul knew that Customs might question the need for a can of bear spray on a domestic flight to BC via Montreal.

Why he chose to hide it after disengaging the safety catch is not much of a mystery if you consider that after meeting me for the first time, he suggested Husband think about traveling to a foreign country 'where the women are more docile.'