Wake the Cat

There is nothing sweeter in all the Universe 

Than the sound of a snoring cat.

Unless Vance Joy is on the radio, 

Because hot damn, that's my jam.

A Philosophical Discourse on The Strength of One's Convictions in the Face Adversity

I am, as Husband reminds me often, really quite bright actually, despite my appearance and the little, ahem, "antler problem."

Which is why I maintain that I had a perfectly good reason for driving the van unswervingly into a ditch, miring it to the undercarriage in snow. A reason that is sound and able to withstand the most intense scrutiny: it seemed like a good idea at the time. 

I mean, everything was going so well right up to the instant before the van literally ground to teetering halt at 30 degrees off level. From a philosophical perspective, any manner of course correction would have been construed as that most insidious of all creatures which is Doubt. Only a quitter abandons a plan when things become difficult. Am I quitter? Or do I see things through to the bitter end, come rain or ruin? 

I am not a quitter. So to speak. 

Instead, as I became aware that my blithe U-turn was turning into something else altogether, I somehow managed to hold my breath while at the same time begin chanting "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry", as though the van were capable of forgiveness.

Well, the van may be but Husband is another matter.

After a pause of nearly a millennium, Husband turned to me and in a steady voice, uttered a phrase I have not heard him speak since the day I maced the house:

"Why did you do that?"

I did try to explain my deeply rooted philosophical reasoning but he cut me off, still very, very calm.

"Get. Out."

No problem! I had to push and hold up the suddenly heavy door in order to scramble out so that Husband could climb into the driver's seat. While I stood on the road, Husband began swearing as only he can, while attempting to get the van unstuck.

After some time, as I had only my burning embarrassment to keep me warm on the crisp winter afternoon, I heaved the door open for a progress report.

"Sweetie?"

"Close the door, I am not done being angry yet."

Minutes passed. Husband climbed out and rummaged in the back of the van, returning with a snowshoe and a stony expression. He employed both to dig out a three foot trench around the van before climbing back into the driver's seat and swearing a bit more.

I considered my skill set and offered to help.

"Want me to call a tow truck, Honey?"

I think it's important for married partners to support each other, be it in times of strife or, say, in the pursuit of a hobby. Like, for example, practising a newly acquired language.

Husband did indeed want me to call a tow truck, to rescue us from the middle of Je Ne Sais Pas Ou Je Suis, Quebec. Because he loves me, he asked this of me in mild and civil tone. Because he was still seething with frustration, he refused to help me translate my needs to the guy from the towing company, arguably the most Quebecly French man in the world.

The true test of any relationship is how quickly anger recedes, if it starts at all. Stormy waters will rise, and attempt to swamp the little canoe of any marriage as it navigates the rivers and backwaters of marital bliss. They are unavoidable. It is how the paddlers respond that will determine if the canoe is righted and the rapids left behind, or if the craft will be abandoned while the riders swim to opposite shores.

Husband's frustration disappeared with the taillights of the tow truck as it drove off in a spray of slush, with $150.00 of our vacation budget.

He also elected, purely of his own volition, to drive the remaining 953 km to Nova Scotia.

Letter to 2017

Dear 2017,

Thank you for many things, but chief among them...

...for Husband, who's enduring love, despite depression and anxiety nearly erasing any recognizable "me" from existence, has been the calm shore at the edge of a stormy ocean.

...for the kindness and patience of friends, the significance of which is truly incalculable.

...for leaps of faith.

...and for tall, decaf almond milk flat white coffees and free wifi.

Cheers,
Very nearly Me again 

The Rules of The Yard

Meeker: Any dog who is more handsome than I will not be tolerated. Their very existence vexes me, and I will not be vexed. They must flee or perish, I care not which. 

Rio: *raises one perfectly sculpted Husky-brow*

Meeker: Erm...except you. Obviously. You, I deem equally as attractive as myself and will therefore be firmly ignored.

Rio: *yawns majestically*

Meeker: Right. I'll just...I'll just go over here. Because I was planning on it anyway.

My Inner Ninja

Everyone has a set of skills they consider "marketable". Husband's list extends nearly the length of his gangly arm. Honestly, who teaches skydiving, does small engine repair, changes brakes, starts an IV and sews? All wearing the same gloves?

Marketable skills are great. I have a few myself and I am keeping them finely tuned. I may not be supporting children with learning differences but I do talk to my fellow countrymen on a daily basis and trust me when I tell you, it's keeping me sharp.  Sharp like a fox.

Aside from the skills that get you paid, though, I'll bet you have small skills you are secretly really proud of. Husband is secretly very proud of his ability to set up a tent in utter darkness with, and this is the important bit, less swearing than if he did it in broad a daylight. 

My mother is justifiably proud, if a bit smug, of her knack for making a Yorkshire Pudding that rises from the pan like a billowing cloud lit by the last golden rays of an autumn sunset. She's equally proud never sharing the secret of how to do that.

My dad can whistle any tune recorded before 1969, if it was featured on the Grand Old Opry stage, or in a film about surreys and fringes.

And I...am a shower house ninja.

I have mastered the subtle art of showering in a communal hut without touching the walls, curtains, or in some highly necessary cases, the floor.

Spiderman could take pointers. It's not something that one gets a chance to brag about, because one immediately has to field a bunch of pointed questions.

-Why are you staying in these places?

-Who would force you to spend precious vacation and weekend hours in these places?

-Are you being kept against your will?

-What do you mean, you don't touch the floor?

Which sort of interrogation is the very reason these little skills are kept secret. I don't question your ability to just know when a picture is hanging slightly crooked "somewhere in the house", and you are not allowed to cast aspersions on my ability to cling to furniture in fungal avoidance.

It's Not Rocket Science But It Passes The Time

There are tasks which are complicated and interesting, like assembling the Large Hadron Collider, or a turkey dinner. 

Some tasks are complicated and boring. Answering phones for Canada Post, hoping that someday every woman in Canada gains a sense of perspective and a hobby, is both really complicated and desperately boring. 

Albeit occasionally entertaining. I'm looking at you, Really Important Sandals.

Simple tasks can be boring too, like cataloguing all the screws in the garage by elicited emotional response, or mowing the lawn.  

My favourite though, my favourite tasks are those moments when simplicity and fascination melt together and I spend an entire autumn afternoon searching for the most perfect apple on the tree. 

Is today that day? 

So Fired

Things Said to Me By Actual Canadians, My Reactions to Which

 Are Eventually Going To Get Me Fired 

1. Where's my package?
2. Do you know where my package is?
3. I'm really worried about my package.
4. I've been watching my package move but it seems to have stopped.
5. I'm concerned about how my package was handled.
6. Am I the only one who cares about my package?
7. Who do I speak to about getting my hands on my brother's package?
8. Thank you for handling my package.
9. My package is leaking fluids.
10. If I send you a picture of my package, can you tell me if you think it looks normal?

This has been an episode of Package Handler

 and Professional Platitude Provider:

Apologize, validate, apologize authentically again, thank with apology, offer a fourth,

 even more genuine apology and close with a final thanks and one last apology

 which supersedes all previous apologies in it's sincerity.