Friendly Manitoba: Weather You Can Stand It Or Not

It's Fall now. In Manitoba that means rains and mist and much passionate wooshing about of leaves in the wind and there are few things that will brand you an outsider faster than your reactions to the local weather. I tend to carry an umbrella when the weather is foul, partly because I think an umbrella adds the touch of class that a hoodie will never match and partly because some day there will come the ideal convergence of sidewalk, gutter, puddle and lamp post for a moment of epic Gene Kelly perfection. I will also wear extra splashy, super sassy, lace-up rubber boots at the slightest provocation.

Seriously. They're plaid and go up to here.

Many times in Manitoba have I been told "you mustn't be from around here." More than in any other province apart from B.C., where for practical hurricane related reasons, an umbrella is really just a sacrifice to the capricious gods of wind and shingling.

I'm just saying that in general, I like to be ready in case of rain. Apparently this attitude is considered frivolously light-hearted and suspicious. Such things are not to be tolerated in a province where the population is so endearingly dependent on their steady intake of Vitamin D that I have seen people stop in their tracks to glare at fluffy-duckling clouds on a summer's day, in much the same way one reacts to line jumpers and people who talk during the movie.

I am not going to change, because clearly I am killing it when it comes to living life, but I am thinking I need to buy many more umbrellas in many more obnoxious colours.

Maybe plaid, to match the boots.

A Poem of Much Busyness

I was supposed to be writing yesterday. 

At least, that was the plan. I didn't, however, 

account for the abysmal,

you will agree, 

disorganization of my book, 
as it were,
shelves. 

Who put Darwin next to Gary Larson 

and why are all my Pratchetts out of chronological-by-story arc order?

You see my problem.

No one could be expected to work

under these conditions.

Which is why going out and buying a new bookshelf

was the only way I was going to get any writing done.

Foam packing material is quite diverting, the static clingliness

must be investigated. It sticks to 

walls, 

sweaters,

black dogs,

orange dogs,

but absolutely will not stick to inexplicably jittery cats.

Extra pieces left over. Pffft,who needs them? Seems sturdy enough 

without "small dowel #2 and associated flanges." Not a word I 

get to use often enough: FLAN-ges. Fuh-LAN-ges. 

Ah, look at all this room. This space, such a luxury! Who will live here... Natural sciences? Philosophers? Douglas Adams?

I can only hope that tomorrow's writing tasks go half so well.

Remember to Dress in Layered Cliches

I keep the secret hidden for most of the year,

Behind Star Wars t-shirts and scuffed sneakers, 
And a giddy optimism that I will use like a blunt object, 
Or a deflector dish! Yes, let's go with that one.

I wear my true colours in the Fall.

When the leaves are a-twirl in a wind that can't decide if it wants to be warm or cold. 

When the sunshine and the rainclouds wrestle for the same patch of bluest blue sky.

When the green flees the fields where the geese start to gather.

That's when I don my Lulus, head to the nearest cafe with book of Important Essays in hand, 

Declaring to the world with my tall flat white coffee,

Unapproachably oversized dark sunglasses, organic lip stain flavoured with honey from only the most self-righteous of bees,
And wearing a meticulously messy top knot over a perfectly baggy sweater emblazoned with a single, profound directive like "Be" or "Dream" or "Verb"...

This is when I declare that YES, I am a white girl.

Jesse's Name

They call me Old Girlie, because my cinnamon has turned to grey, and Sweet Potato which, as a descriptor, is perhaps a bit too accurate, but I don't mind, as long as the peanut butter toast keeps coming. They call me Dearest and Baby Girl, and Come-On-Honey-Bee when I take too long to think about things as I sniff along the trail. They call me Silly Sloot, as I lay in the sun with my privates on glorious display.

I am alright with this. 

I am even okay with being called Jesse, even though that is not my name, because I hear my real name in their voices.

I hear it when She uses my back for a pillow while She reads to me, even though I don't really care for post-apocalyptic fiction. He speaks it as he rubs my hips on cold mornings to make the ache a little better. I hear it when they call me over and over in the too-early morning, when my warm bed is all I really want. 

I hear it when I suffer the indignity of being lifted down from the car, before my legs betray me and I fall. 

I hear it every day.

My name is Awesome.

Happy

Husband is the the powdered sugar coating on my lemon filled doughnut. He is the breeze through my hair on a summer bike ride. He can build and operate a sound system from two coconuts and a jar of capers. He can hot wire a snowmobile, for completely legal reasons, or set off a flare responsibly, outdoors and not anywhere near our sofa. He is the tinkle in my wind chime and the long, deep, heartfelt sigh that expands my chest and eases away the stress of the day.

And I only just recently realized that I am his brakes. 

This wonderful, happy, silly dreamer of mine, who believes I should quit my day job to write full time and make millions, "because you're so funny sweetie", who believes that people can change even though they will likely just carry on being grumpy and small, no matter how hard he tries to show them that that is simply not enough, but he still leaves the house every day to try again...this man chose me. A worrier.

When I say worrier, I don't mean about the big stuff. The world and the universe will be fine without us, long after we have self-immolated atop a gasping and desperate pile of last minute efforts to save ourselves from ourselves and we won't be missed, least of all by the universe and specifically by all the other brother-species we destroyed or served battered, with ketchup.

I worry instead about things like housing costs and interest rates, how will we look after our parents as they age, how often we get out with other people to gauge what is still normal and are we "it", money, the cost of broccoli, how much red meat we are eating, does this latte come with refills, how many calories are in an apple, Husband's heart and my pancreas, whether I'm ever going to be comfortable with the fact that I think I might be a bit of a psychopath who's particular brand of crazy just happens to be really wanting to seem like a regular person and maybe I should talk to someone about that, how much bleach is too much bleach when I clean my floors as a dog owner, why I can't seem to knit or make a decent souffle or get French accents to work on my new laptop, and many more things before breakfast. 

All of this translates into a crippling caution which Husband respects, even when he is frustrated by it.

As it turns out, Husband worries about none of these things. His only worry, in the face of raising costs of living, aging parents, distant drop zones, and occasional burned eggs, is me.

That's also something I worry about.

I want Husband to have a life free from worry, which is not rational. But I also want his life and our lives together to be as happy as we can manage, which so far is really quite happy indeed, despite not living in a trailer on a drop zone in the middle of Alberta, or in an Adobe house in Arizona, or in a cabin in Half Mile House, BC, or in a van on Long Beach, or in a ski lodge in the Laurentians, or France.

Today is our 10th wedding anniversary. Don't be upset if you didn't know, we aren't that demonstrative. I have been wracking my brains over what I should give Husband this year. Tradition says that it should be tin. Hallmark, capitalism and a very good friend says it should be diamonds. 

I think, instead, I can give Husband something more meaningful than a pile of empty pop cans or shiny rocks. 

I'm going to give him my bravery. Fewer what-ifs and worries, less caution and flinching. What is the worst that could happen, if we chose one of those adventures for our next 10 years together? 

...I don't know but I'm secretly making a list.

Happy Anniversary, Handsome. I love you.

Quackers

In the rush and bother of everyday, 

when the city life swoops past, flicker-flick, 

I find myself thinking, 

"Did I just see a man trying to teach a little white farm duck how to safely cross the street?"

Yes?

Oh, thank goodness.

To the Duck Man, whom I spotted on the corner of Portage and Main about a week before fame launched him into the public eye. I am glad you are real.

CBC News item here

SAY MY NAME

Let me give you a hint...

I am polite to a fault, unless you cut in line, whereupon I may harrumph, quietly, until you make eye contact, and then I will say absolutely nothing at all.

I like camping, even in the rain. In fact, if it doesn't rain while I'm camping, I'll have to invent some other reason why my camping trip was so totally epic despite hardship and the nearly insurmountable disinterest on the part of my listeners.

I am not really all that fond of Tim Horton's coffee, but I will defend it to the death if I hear any one else slagging off about it.

I know how to pair the appropriate beer with every occasion. Christmas? Have a chocolate stout, with my compliments. Just mowed the lawn? You'll need a crisp, fruity ale. Friends coming over? Better pick up a taster double pack from your favourite micro-brewery. Annoying coworkers dropping by? Anything produced by the Budweiser Company. 

I can light a bonfire, a barbecue and a firework, occasionally from the same cigar. 

I will brave muskeg and mosquitoes to watch the Northern Lights from the roof of my van.

I really, really like to talk about the weather.

I like to think of myself as environmentally conscious, although I could probably put in a bit more effort to live in a more reasonable sized home, choose a more fuel efficient vehicle, or take a shower that lasts less than the usual 5+ minutes. 
I like to laugh, often at my neighbors but mostly at myself.

I pay more for wifi, fuel, hydro and lumber than nearly any one, but less for health care than a whole lot more.

I sleep safely in my town, without fear for tomorrow.

I can love whomever I choose.

There is very little that moves me to aggression, but compassion will often drive me to stand in defense of the smaller person with arms crossed and eyes hard.

I am not perfect. Mistakes do get made. 
I will say sorry and work hard to make it right. 

I am Canadian. I am strong. I am free.

Happy Canada Day, everyone.