List One

March is, and always has been, List Month here on the blog and so, without further ado, I give you list one.

My List of Secrets. Shhh.

1. I am painfully shy, but a really good actor/liar, pick whichever phrase you like, just don't confront me about it, okay? 
2. I am horribly lazy. There is a half a bag of Smarties under my stove. They rolled there last Christmas. I am not the least bit concerned that they may have already formed the basis for an entirely new, miniature civilization under there, as long as they don't make too much noise or upset the cat.
3. I am not a cat person.
4. Or a dog person.
5. I am a bird person.
6. I am allergic to birds.
7. I wish I were a vegan. Not because I think humans are herbivores but because every vegan I know is so beautifully wan and consumptive looking. Or that could just be hunger.
8. I have never read Tuesdays With Morrie or anything by Jodi Picoult, Maya Angelou or Nicholas Sparks. Not because I am not interested but because Oprah can't tell me what to do.
9. I am only 5' 11 & 3/4" tall. Not 6'. I just remeasured to be sure.
10. When there is no one around to see me and I am certain I will not be caught, I try to do cartwheels. I cannot.

Sleep Away Camp at Crystal Lake

Last weekend, friends of ours invited us to join them at one of the squadron cabins maintained on the northern shores of Cold Lake.  Affectionately known to our group as The Murder Cabin, it is a rough place, with crooked wooden floors, a centrally located wood stove for heat, barrack style sleeping quarters upstairs, a convenient main floor Rape Room, a bathroom with no toilet and The Sink To Nowhere. Taken all together, it is a bit like Little House on the Prairie and a lot like Friday the 13th.

Missing from photo: Ma and Pa Ingalls, 4 feet of snow and a goalie-masked psychopath.

Although none of it was as creepy as the small pair of children's shoes circa 1988, tucked just behind the front door, for no reason at all. I don't know but they don't half give me the screaming shivers. Kids are terrifying.

Let us play with your soul.

There were dogs and chips and beers and shenanigans and a constant stream of laughter punctuated by cries of "Don't pee there!" directed mostly at Meeker and Zak. It was fun. And after lights out, once all were settled, I was treated to an experience that I can honestly say was pleasantly surprising. For when the lights go out and the heat of the fire glows soft on your face, and you are in a big scary cabin in the bushes with no one around for miles, in a room full of men... they will giggle like children for hours until they fall asleep.  

So, so much giggling.

*For Glenn, who brings warmth to every day but especially when he shows up with a high-output 80,000 BTU propane space heater. And for Adam, who continues, affectionately, to nag.

Good For The Heart

After a year of decaf in the morning, of living off only the barest sip of coffee when offered before discretely dumping it (sobbing) down the sink, after watching friends toss half-finished cups of perfectly good coffee away and fighting back the urge to grapple the still warm mugs from their hands and snort the residue like an extra on Breaking Bad... I had a cup of real, genuine, authentic, 100 proof coffee. Or at least the nearest that Timmy's was able to muster, bless them.

My nerves are still pinging. I think I touched the edge of the universe on my way home. Or maybe I just ran over a badger, I'm not sure. Why did I ever give this up? And how will I ever give it up all over again tomorrow morning?  In the unlikely event that I fall asleep tonight, that is.

The very first sip of that medium regular Tim's reminded me what good coffee tastes like, in that it was nothing like a good cup of coffee. It did scratch the itch though and I was reminded of the best cup of coffee I have ever had...

Husband was still Boyfriend and we had been living together for about 5 months. Exactly five months, actually, since I had moved in the September previous. I woke up one February morn and could smell something unfamiliar in the air. Was that... freshly brewed coffee? That was unlikely as we didn't own a coffee maker. Boyfriend was "a serious ath-a-leet" and therefore, apparently, not a coffee drinker. This made for some adjustments, while our relationship was still fresh and we had worked out a system whereby I survived on instant, he in the hopes that I would wean myself off and me in the hopes that I would someday remember to pick up a coffee maker from Wal-Mart on the way home from the gym.

I followed the seductive scent upstairs and there, in the kitchen, wearing fuzzy green Farmer John long underwear, chicken feet slippers, underwater goggles and a snorkel, stood Boyfriend, next to a brand new, shiny Black and Decker coffee maker, both of which were burbling happily. Upon closer inspection, I could see there were little pink and gold heart stickers on the coffee pot handle and the goggles.

"Happy Valentine's Day, sweetie," he said, handing me the most perfect cup of of coffee I have ever tasted, before or since.

(What he actually said, because of the snorkel, was "Mmm-mmy Mummemmmum Mahh, meeemme" but that loses a little something in the telling.) 

The Tim's I had today does not come even remotely close to that cup of coffee. In fact, I would say it wasn't even in the same solar system, but I suppose I owe them a debt of thanks for reminding me why I love coffee so much. I don't love it because of the tingle in my fingertips, or the pounding in my veins or even because of what I am now dreadfully worried may in fact be dead badger in my undercarriage. I love it because every sip reminds me of that wonderful silly man, in chicken slippers and a snorkel for no reason, handing me a fresh cup of coffee and telling me, as he does every day in a thousand ways, that he loves me.

Me and my Valentine

What was I saying?

A few hours ago I sat down to write... wait, holy cats, is that the time? Well then.  Quite a few hours ago I sat down to write and thought to myself, this is the day. The day I will speak of on junkets; the day I will exaggerate in my memoir; the day Ms. Atwood will praise, weeping, as the single most important day in Canadian lit-rit-choor. Today is the day I begin the greatest novel ever written. 

But first I'll just open these innocent emails from treasured friends and instead spend an age and a half joyfully reading about pasteurization and grammar and extinct letters of the English alphabet. I will completely lose track of that whispering voice in the back of my mind that has followed me for weeks, teasing me with a cast of characters who have haunted my dreams and clouded my waking moments but who for now take a back seat to the knowledge that we used to have a letter pronounced "thorn" and that the European Union produces nearly 9 million metric tonnes of cheese annually. Such knowledge gives me shivers of enjoyment despite the fact that I have gone yet another entire day without writing a single word worthy of Dame Atwood's sobbing accolades. 

Bugger.

So to these distant and treasured friends I will say thank you here on this blog and not, as it turns out, in the dedication to my soon (or possibly never at this rate) to be written novel.

                                    For M.C. and Tara. Who really should know better.

A Letter to the Year 2013

Dear 2013,

First allow me to apologize for the lateness of this letter. I usually write promptly to each Year as it passes and no slight was intended, but I should explain.

You see you were not my favourite year. Don't get me wrong, I've had worse years. The year JD died was pretty bad. Oh, and the year I crashed my mom's car, that was fairly awful. Not to mention the year Highlander II was released. I still haven't really recovered from that. It's just that you made it so difficult to love you, Year, with your stress and your lack of decent local dining and your new house that smelled like old cigarettes and your bloody seven bloody months of bloody winter. As I sit here trying to think of the things to thank you for it occurs to me that maybe, just this once Year, you should be thanking me.

For...
... increased sales at all western Starbucks' drive through windows.
... insisting that Alberta is a great place to live despite snow,
... and ice,
... and distance,
... and muskeg,
... and a two month growing season,
... and tornadoes,
... and fogs,
... and hail,
... and F-18s,
... and country music,
... and the overwhelming prevalence of plaid flannel,
... and Albertans in pick up trucks,
... and sudden moose.

But mostly you should be thanking me, 2013, for raising above all of this 'thisness' that you threw at me and coming out on top in a happy, beautiful home that no longer smells of other people, my joyful and silly Husband, a healthy family, friendships that have stood strong over distance once we scattered to the four corners of the continent (and one big jump to a whole 'nother one), wonderful new friends who tolerate, nay, egg on my shenanigans, and a determination to never, ever, wear a Stetson again.

You are most welcome,
Remote

*Mashing the Mute Button

I'm just going to get right to the point on this one. Just gonna throw it out there for you to chew on. So.

The intellectual quality of the show being watched is inversely proportional to how much sense the show makes when viewed with the volume set at zero.

Think about it. Turn the volume off anything narrated by David Attenborough and you essentially have the world's most depressing Disney movie about dead penguins. The entire TED Talk's series looks like an incredibly boring timeshare pitch. Now try the same thing with Xena. See? Even with the sound off the saucy high jinks shine through.

So far I have discovered tens of shows (I'm just getting started) that I think are better viewed with the sound off, and not just because doing so increases my entertainment. Turning the volume off is also better for the plot, in many cases it accomplishes this by actually adding one. I'm not saying you can't enjoy Xena with the sound on. I am not saying you can't enjoy TED Talks with the sound off.  And I am certainly not saying anything at all about what that tells me about you. What am I saying? I am saying, simply, that leaving me unattended with access to infinite television is bound to start affecting how I see the world.

I could provide you with a list  of shows for you to test this little pet theory out on but let's not be lazy, do the research yourselves. Also, creating such a list could possibly generate a certain sense of invitation on my part for you to comment on or, less interestingly, rebut any selections I may place on said list and really, that smacks of human interaction and frankly I'm already bored.

Bingeing and Splurging

I've learned a new phrase recently: binge-watching.  If you binge-watch something apparently that is not the same as having an -athon. 'Was a time, in days past, having an -athon meant calling over your best buddies, chopping up some crudites (pronounced "croo-dit-eh", it's French for "I forgot to get stuff for chicken wings") and, in the most refined and genteel manner, discussing every nuance in every scene of all three original Star Wars movies. You might even speak along with your favourite parts or assign characters. There could be costumes. It's an event. And perfectly normal.

No. Binge-watching is, it has been pointed out, something else altogether. It refers to the rather more recent habit of watching umpteen consecutive episodes of a program without cease or personal hygiene. Or, to put it a slightly different way, binge-watching is what happens while Husband is off being heroic and I am left on my own in a frozen province with a family pack of [Name Brand] macaroni and cheese, a fluffy blanket, Netflix and a wonderful, raggedy man called Doctor Who. 

Or Mal. Or Merlin. Or all of the Star Trek captains. Or, once and I am not proud of it, the bald guy from Pawn Stars.

I can watch them all? At once? With no interruptions? Or commercials? Or showers? Yes please. Ahem. I mean, why honey, it's been just dreadful with you gone. What have I been doing with my time? Oh, nothing much. Literally literally.