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.