Thursday, December 20, 2018

Peace on Earth - The Dance Off

I have a new idea for the world. I believe that ninety-five percent of us want peace on earth, and though Donald Trump will not like what I'm about to say, I'm pretty sure Justin Trudeau will be on board. (Please do not message me with your opinion about our Prime Minster. Not the point, here.) 

A war mongering five percent long to win battles and turn problems into wars. Does religion create strife? Maybe, but perhaps those who fight over it would use any excuse to exert their power.  What if, instead of using armies and tanks and bombs, every country, indeed, every child, had the opportunity to learn some new debating skills. I'm talking about art, people. Singing, dancing, painting, poetry. People facing off in epic battles shown live around the planet. To children heading to school, parents would lovingly say, 'Study hard. You might be Prime Minster one day and you'll need those recorder lessons.'

I would love to see Kim Jong-un learn a Korean ballet dance in hopes of winning the favor of the world. A panel of artistic judges would decide the merit of his case based on his performance. We'd probably excuse the Russian judge from partaking because of past Olympic problems. Other than that, everyone would weigh in. It would be reality TV at its best. All of us on the edge of our seats wondering if North Korea's leader would have to step down. It wouldn't necessarily be about style as much as heart. Just how much does he care? Is he fit enough to continue his dictatorship? If not, the panel of judges would proceed with a country wide vote. Hopefully they'd pick someone with acting chops, or epic slam poetry skills. Now that's a leader worth voting for.

School yard fights would be more embarrassing but would result in less visits to the principal's office. Two junior high boys standing in the playground battling it out to Whitney Houston's 'I Will Always Love You,' will be too mortified to care who won. In fact, they may decide to shake hands and forego the singing all together.

And Donald Trump...what talent would he employ? With blustering over confidence, he'd turn some past tweets into a musical mashup, using Stompin' Tom Connor's 'The Good Ol' Hockey Game.'

'Our southern border's insecure but I'm the guy for them,
Negative polls are all fake news, a witch hunt, CNN!
I won the popular vote if you deduct illegal ones
And my IQ's the highest, and let's not blame the guns.'

Oh, the good old hockey game...well. You get the point. This would be a tough one for the judges. Not many people around the world actually like Donald Trump, but he'd have to be evaluated fairly on his artistic performance. I just want one of the judges to shake his head and say, 'Sad!'

Performance art would be allowed, but not the Hitler kind with all that yelling and fist raising. Angry diatribes in front of the judges would need to involve Opera. I can't picture it any other way.  For smaller disputes, break dancing could be considered, along with slam poetry. Put some heart into it and you may win. Perhaps you'd get to be leader for a year. Then the people would reevaluate, and you'd be back to the drawing board, wondering what skill you could bring to the next competition.

It's time for world leaders and anyone with an axe to grind to channel their inner artist. Tired of our immigration policy? Paint about it! Show us your passion. We need a break from all the haters out there, and I could use something new for my walls. Of course, if you're in Flin Flon, we'd hang your art in the Orange Toad coffee shop first.

I say we put my idea to a vote. Justin? What do you think? Are you and Andrew Scheer ready to lip sync to Celine Dion? And Premier Pallister, if you insist on taking away our maternity ward, then I really want to see you dance. (You might protest that its not your decision. Well, it feels like it is.) Pallister seems to be a Scottish name, so perhaps you could do a little number involving kilts and crossed swords. It's only fair. In 2019 we'll reconsider the whole thing again. I have a feeling that Flin Flon will show up with a really big musical number and you'll have no choice but to concede, thereby gifting us with a brand new birthing center. In the meantime, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and you'd better start practicing now.

Saturday, December 15, 2018

I Can't Help Myself

This blog post will come as no surprise to my family, and certainly not to my children. It turns out that I'm an impulsive person, and have the tiniest bit of OCD. Unfortunately, its not the kind that ensures a clean house or a job well done. It's the type that fixates on something until it swirls around in my head and drives me crazy. On the plus side, I may have been granted a small glimpse into the world of serial killers.

Except I don't kill people. I over empathize. I used to think this was a good thing, but apparently, its not. If I'm walking down the street and I see someone who looks really glum, I send a little prayer their way. But I want to do more than that. I long to hustle over to this complete stranger and ask, 'What's wrong?' I also feel bad if babies are crying in their strollers and moms and dads are too busy with their phones to notice. (This is hardly anyone, so these people stand out.) 'I'll hold your baby for you,' is what I want to say. What I have actually said. Only a few times, but the response has never been good.

Here's a better example. During our choir production, many of us had chairs on the stage for those times when our guest soloist would take over, or when other members would step forward and burst into song. (For those not from here, it was a lovely concert.) Instead of fully immersing myself in the moment, all I could think about was the people whose risers were too narrow for chairs. They looked so uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot while the rest of us sat like lumps. One of the standing women is in her eighties, and though she's very fit for her age, I'm sure she would have liked a rest. I suggested they sit on the risers, which they did for the first half, and then they must have made a group decision because they all stood for the second half. It was like they were naughty school children undergoing punishment. Or, as one audience member said to me later, like they were going to perform their own piece but never got around to it.

I really dislike this about myself. Why can't I mind my own business? I know that most of us are haunted by the terrible things going on in the world. But when I see toddlers with their scarves, hats and coats still on during an hour long indoor shopping trip, and the parent's coats are off, I really, really want to say something. Maybe its the ex-teacher in me. The whole crowd control, let's coordinate so everyone's comfortable but mostly so I feel okay, thing.

I really dislike bossy people. Nothing gets my back up like being told what to do, unless that person is in charge of me, like Tracy at the gym, or Crystal at choir, or the minister at church. When he says 'please stand,' I don't think, 'No thank you, I'd rather not.' I stand with everyone else. It's those times when someone like me tries to tell me what to do. 'You're not the boss of me,' I think to myself. So why do I have to be the boss of other peoples feelings and situations? I don't picture myself walking a mile in someone's shoes. I'd rather take their shoes away and give them a pair of comfy slippers. Whether they want that or not, of course.

It's time to end my neurotic behavior. From now on, I'm going to ignore everyone else and just go about my business. If you're on fire, I'll probably help you. I'll still pray for people, because that is in my DNA. But I'm going to loosen up a little, let the world slide by and do its own thing. I don't have to get involved in every single thing happening. Right? Unless you need help. Or look sad, or even bothered by someone. Me? It's me bothering you? Oh. I feel so bad about that. Let me help you.

Tuesday, November 27, 2018

The Weight

About a month ago, I started attending a weight class. I'm well aware that as I age, things can start to break down. Unfortunately, the warranty on my body parts is long expired. I checked in with the God department and got the standard answer, the kind you never read online when it says, do you accept this policy, and you always says yes, otherwise you can't use the site. Two knees per person is apparently the standard. Wouldn't it be nice if it were different?

I also go to Zumba, and out for walks, but apparently, I haven't been doing anything for my core. When Tracy told us during today's session that all the work with kettle bells and rings would really help, I felt some self doubt. "I think I left my core at the Haufbrau House in Germany, back in the seventies," I said. I don't think she believed me. "No, it's in there," Tracy said with her usual cheerful smile. She's possibly the most chipper task master I've ever met. "Okay, one hundred squats and then you're done."

But it's not always true. Just when you think the class is over, she'll pull a little something out of...well. Not her hat. "Hang on to the rings and let's work our glutes!" She sets a timer and everything. The thing we all dread is the personal inspection. Our motto is to look busy all the time, because if she stops to check, her suggestions about posture correction could take a while. "But I was already finished," whimpered someone nameless. (Okay, it was Penny Grove.) We all gave her sympathetic looks while being willing to throw her under the bus if it meant diverting Tracy's attention from ourselves.

It's like going to a spa at the Gulag. Or being stuck in a Gary Larson cartoon about doing leg lifts in hell. 'One million and one! One million and two!' I get the feeling I've been here before, and though I've never believed in previous lives, I get strange flashbacks while I'm busy groaning, sweating and lifting.

a. I was once a slave on a galley ship, rowing for hours through stormy weather and dark nights.

b. An indentured servant in a coal mine working sixteen hour shifts every day.

c. Or, somehow I've mistaken myself for someone who actually enjoys physical pain.
When I leave class I have a vague feeling I should be asking for my prison bucks. And then I remind myself that I pay for these classes because they're good for me.

We all start the morning as confident women, stretching, laughing, happy to begin our day with some vigorous exercise. But a part of me now believes that purgatory, that old Catholic standby, may be real, and Tracy may be in league with you know who to give us all a little well deserved chastisement. When she says into her mike, 'Is everyone finished their hundred kettle bell lifts (it has a better name but I can never remember it) we all holler, 'yes!' Some of us may be lying through our gritted teeth. But its true. We are finished in the best sense of the world. I told my daughter, who was starting a class with Tracy, don't be surprised when you leave it all out on the floor. By that, I mean you are literally collapsed on the floor, wishing someone would put your coat and boots on for you and carry you to your car.

One of my problems is that I'm very unaware of how all my parts should be working during these exercises. 'Tuck in your butt,' Tracy says. 'Drop your shoulders. Belly button in and lined up (what the???) Don't turn your feet like that, Judy.' It's as if while lifting that 20 lb. kettle bell over my head for the eightieth tine, I'm also required to do math.

Having said all this, I have to admit this one very positive thing. I get a feeling of euphoria after class that can last for hours. It may be a 'Wow! I can't believe I survived!' kind of moment. But still. It's a real thing. And I find that my stomach flattens itself out for a while. Apparently, if I keep going, it will last longer. And even though it feels like I'm stuck in the Braveheart movie and being torn apart by four horses, this class is actually good for my joints.

With all my heart, I wish it wasn't. I want it all to be a lie so I can go back to lifting my eight pound weights at home while sitting on my balance ball and watching 'This is Us.' Apparently, I was doing everything wrong, because no one was there to tell me to tuck in my tummy and my butt and straighten my head and don't jut my neck and be careful about my feet because it will save my knees. That's Tracy's job, and she's damn good at it.

So if you see me on Main Street and I seem glum, know that I'm on my way to weight class. If I look like I just won a trip, it means I'm done for the day. And some time soon, I hope I will find my abs, and my core will show up, having drunk enough beer at the Haufbrau House in Germany and willing to take her share of the beating. But not yet. That's an equation that needs a little more work. In honour of all the women in class, those hard core nuts I deal with, I'll leave you with this song, suitably called 'The Weight.' And yes. Do put the weight on Annie. Or Penny. I'm so okay with that.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sjCw3-YTffo

Friday, November 16, 2018

O Christmas Tree!

Our artificial Christmas tree was 27 years old when we finally sent it to the dump. It had been falling apart for years, and we'd hung onto it for sentimental reasons, and because of the environmental impact of buying a new one. I really wanted a tree from Banff's Spirit of Christmas store, but couldn't seem to get there. So I found one online at Lowe's. I would have bought it locally from Canadian Tire, but they didn't have the one I wanted. My tree came within a week, and I set it up immediately. It is truly the most beautiful fake tree I've ever seen.

It's got 600 lights, over 2000 branch tips, and is heavily covered in artificial snow. I can't keep my eyes off it. It looks like the kind of tree you'd see if you were walking through the woods and little enchanted forest creatures started to sing and scamper about. And then you spotted it, shining like an angel in the clearing, and you just knew it was the one, the same way you recognized true love when it came along.

There are only a few problems with my new tree. When I took the pieces out of the box, I was so busy exclaiming over its beauty that it took me some time to realize I was getting a headache from the smell. Things that come from offshore are often sprayed with chemicals, perhaps to keep them free of pests during their long voyage. Even as I was separating the branches and plugging in the lights, I found myself feeling kind of sick and lightheaded. I also felt stupid, like I'd lost about ten IQ points. I'm calling this feeling 'offshore shipping syndrome.'

Fortunately, I had to leave the house for choir practice. By the time I got back, the smell had abated slightly, though I could still taste chemicals in the back of my throat. My eldest daughter was probably right. I should just have gotten a real tree this year. But I find as I get older that I like to start celebrating earlier. And I like the perfection this tree offers. It helps me imagine Christmas as being stress free and happy, like in all the commercials. But really, there's no more truth in that than there is in all the cheesy, made for TV, Christmas movies. (Sorry, friends who are hooked on them.) For me, real happiness at Christmas comes from remembering my parents, and all those years attending midnight Mass, and always having a stocking hung on the curtains with care. (We didn't have a fireplace.) And the Christmas story, too, of course.The one about Jesus, and not about the boy who wanted a BB gun. Although I like that one a lot, too.

Another problem? My new tree makes the room look shabby by comparison. It's too grand, like Queen Victoria, whereas I'm more like Fagan from Oliver Twist. Every morning, I walk into my living room and we have a small quarrel, the tree and I. 'Stop being so damned majestic,' I say. She doesn't answer. She's kind of stuck up, and her ego is growing by the day. But oh, she's beautiful. Now, here is a photo of her royal fakeness as taken from the website. (Which does not compare to her sheer physical presence in my living room.)


Sunday, November 11, 2018

Even Riskier Business


A month ago, I decided to make some changes around our house. The living room and front entrance needed painting but I didn’t have a tall enough ladder, so I started with my bedroom. When I sewed the curtains ten years ago, Clarence had scoured our back garage for the right rod. I hate the ones that sag, so he found an incredibly heavy steel bar long enough to reach right across the room. It wasn’t a problem for us to thread the curtains onto the rod and then poke it through the wooden thingamajigs on the wall. (Googled the word. Couldn’t find it.) Taking them off by myself was much trickier. 
Yes, I have people I can call for help. But I’m impulsive, and when I decide to do something, nothing can stop me, including my own common sense. The rod was only about four inches short of the room’s width. I managed to lift it from it’s hardware and then pull the curtain rings off, my shoulders shaking as I held the whole thing up in what felt like a circus routine. Then, moving the ladder over, I removed the other curtain. After, carefully gripping the long steel bar in both hands, I descended the ladder backwards, feeling pretty awesome about the experience so far. This changed when I turned slightly and broke the glass on my favorite bedroom picture. Oh well. I took a deep breath and inched backwards, not noticing the two drinking glasses full of lemon chunks and water. I smashed both of them. Made a note to clean up later. Wondered why I had two of them. Then I painted the bedroom. 
The next thing I had to deal with was the missing baseboards. My friend Tom helped me pick up the fourteen foot lengths at the hardware store, because he has a truck and is smart about how to load things. My brother had already shown me which saw to use, and said he’d come over and give me a lesson when I was ready. But I have a feeling that my dead father found a way to get in touch with him, because we haven't talked since. ‘Are you kidding me?’ dad would ask. ‘Clarence is up here having a nervous breakdown!’ "I can't look,' I picture my mother saying, covering her eyes with both hands. 

And yet I know Clarence would want me to finish the job. I’ve been hiring people for the harder things like re-shingling the garage roof and replacing the siding. Also for plumbing situations. I took our dishwasher apart once and after seeing a thousand pieces lying on the kitchen floor, Clarence decided we should buy a new one. I have since recognized my limitations in certain departments. 
Next I took my closet door off and carried it to the basement for painting. It turned out well. I’d really like a new one but then I’d have to get someone to help me because I don’t know how to do the whole door jam thing. I guess I could YouTube it. Anyway, when I was putting it back on its hinges, I accidentally dropped the screwdriver which for some reason I was holding in my hand, and it put a small dent in the hardwood floor. Oh well. 
Once I’ve figured out the saw and the air compressor/nail gun thing, I will update you all. But this Riskier Business blog post is not just about carpentry and household repair. 
We are learning some very challenging pieces for our choir concert this Christmas. Somehow, Mark and Crystal, our fearless leaders, have mistaken us for other people and not the dunderheads many of us are. Yes, we have talented singers who read music well, but then there’s the rest of us. The musicians who make up the group Pentatonix are probably some of the world’s finest singers. Yet we’re doing one of their Christmas medleys. I find myself looking around at the other altos and thinking, is it just me or are we in an alternate universe where we’re pretending to know what we're doing? And this other song, Mary Did You Know, where we sing the tenor part, then the alto part, and some of it is so low that only people shaving twice a day can reach the notes.
And then there’s the piece de resistance, the Sugar Plum Fairy. It sounds very light and lilting, as if the Altos are tiptoeing down the staircase on Christmas morning, ready for the best surprise ever. Our voices rise and fall, saying 'Ta da ta da, Dum, da da da da, but then suddenly, taking us and our future audience by surprise, we sing a very high opera note for six beats. Think of the worst part of the Meryl Streep movie, Flora Foster Jenkins, and you’ve got it right. Crystal said people could laugh, so don't feel bad if you do.
It’s kind of sweet, when you think of the faith our leaders have in us. It’s like they live in a world where if you want something bad enough, it will happen. ‘The Altos were really getting it right today, don’t you think?’ I picture Mark saying to Crystal, who is in the bathroom weeping too hard to hear him. 
If you live in Flin Flon and don’t have tickets yet, please. This may be the best concert we’ve ever done. We’ve got the lovely Joanna Majoko as our leading lady, and then there’s the rest of us. It’ll be exciting, I promise, and the suspense as to how it will all go is just an added bonus. Perhaps there'll be some audience participation during that high screeching note. After all, we need all the help we can get. Ta Ta Ta Ta, La La La la, Ahhhhhhhhhh! (No, it's higher than that.) But good try, and we'll see you on December 9th. 

Sunday, October 14, 2018

Let Me Help You With That Kink

One evening a few weeks ago, I realized I couldn't get to sleep. The day had been a bust, the weather miserable and the roads impassable. I hadn't been out for a walk or gone to Zumba, and if I don't expend enough energy, I don't get a good night's sleep. Here's a scientific equation about it. E X 2 = GNS. My math.  I started googling, because that's what I do when I have a problem. I google and I pray, a combo that usually works very well for me. I wrote something like 'relaxing videos' into the search bar and a video on YouTube popped up. It was a twenty minute segment of someone brushing some else's hair. 'Well, that's weird,' I thought, but I kept watching and before too much time had passed, I fell asleep, phone in hand, slumped over my pillow like I'd popped a couple of sleeping pills. I woke a few hours later, turned off my light and promptly fell back asleep.

The next night I went directly to YouTube and found another hair brushing video. It started out okay, but quickly got irritating. The woman holding the hairbrush started whispering about what she was going to do with it. Suddenly, I felt very uncomfortable. It wasn't pleasant  whispering, either. It was like that smacking sound some people make when they eat. And then she started running her fingers over the tines of the comb, and then feeling up her hairbrush like she wanted to do something illegal with it. I actually yelled at my phone.

Since my husband died, I have a large supply of tolerance for big picture problems, but the tiny things can send me over the edge. And there is nothing worse than freaking out without someone there to listen. It feels so pointless. Little did I know that it was one of the important parts of a good marriage. That sounding board of practical advice, telling you when you're acting crazy.

Over the next few weeks, I started refining my searches. I'd type things like, 'No talking, just hair brushing.' But it was hard to find the right video when I added,  'No stroking of the hairbrush or comb.' I ended up getting videos of people stroking each other with feathers. Or doing fake reiki, or waving their hands wildly over people's heads with their exaggeratedly long fingernails, which were creepy in a 'how can they possibly be clean,' way. Then, I had an uncomfortable revelation.

I was acting like Walter White from the TV show, Breaking Bad; a teacher with cancer who paid his massive medical bills by making and selling meth. Next thing you know, he's turned pro and feeling no remorse whatsoever. So this is how it happens, I thought. You dip your toe in the water and suddenly, you're a criminal. If I kept this up, would I jump from watching hair brushing videos to kinkier stuff?  What if feathers didn't do it for me? And now I'm afraid to search for anything else, because God only knows what's out there.

Perhaps its time to wean myself from this kind of sleep aid. It's time to bring back the Rosary, the essential oils and the common sense idea of turning off electronics a few hours before bed. I'm just too staid for anything more than that. So you keep brushing other people's hair, You Tube ladies. It is indeed relaxing, and since over 500,000 people have watched, I'm not the only one who thinks so. But, please. Stop hissing out your game plan and feeling up your hair dressing supplies. You're making all of us feel very uncomfortable. We had a good thing going, but it's over. And now I''ll just do one last search and call it a night...

Saturday, October 6, 2018

Getting in a Tiff

I've never been interested in celebrities. The grand exception to that rule is writers. But most of the time, I don't even know what they look like. When I meet them in person, though, I'm a slobbery mess. For example, here's me, my daughter Hilary, and author Will Ferguson, at the writer's conference in Calgary last year.

I'm not comfortable with movie and TV celebrities. I like movies. I like TV, but I've never felt the need to investigate a star's private life, or meet them in person. Will Ferguson, in the meantime, refuses to drop his 'cease and desist' case against me and, 'must stay 100 feet away from at all times,' court order. Really, Will. I've read all your books. Doesn't that make us friends?

So, when I was in Toronto for the film festival, there were a few times when we accidentally on purpose sat in a restaurant beside the venue where Vanity Fair was conducting interviews. We were right beside the window, and so help me God, I surprised myself. Jesse Eisenberg walked past about a foot away. I left my seat and rushed onto the sidewalk, almost running into him. We stared at each other for a long moment, me stunned, him looking around for his bodyguard, and then I turned around and went back to my seat. When we left the restaurant, a bunch of celebrities came outside, one after the other. My friend Lorna was able to get a beautiful selfie with Melissa McCarthy, but here is a reaction from Viola Davis. 'Must get away from kooky lady,' is my interpretation of her body language. 




This also applies to Julianne Moore


Who did this with another person immediately after spotting me.


Was it my look of desperation? I'm not certain. But the celebrities walking away got a lot faster once I was spotted. Were they calling to warn each other? I'm not even interested in you! is what I want to tell them, but there's something compelling about seeing a famous person on the street that you've just seen in a movie the night before. 
My friends, Lynn, Lorna and I had to get used to it, because there were a lot of stars in Toronto during Tiff. 

We attended a rally where one of the speakers was Geena Davis. Since we arrived early, we stood right in front of the fenced area below the stage, directly behind the press. As more and more people arrived, the bars around the reporters kept getting pushed in until it looked like a very small pen for large, well dressed and uncomfortable looking animals. Here we are, and here's Geena.
 A good time was had by all three of us, and the thousands of others also in attendance. And I learned something about myself as well. It turns out, I'm just as star struck as the next person. And being an actor is not for the faint of heart. Especially when I'm in town. 

Tuesday, September 18, 2018

That Time I Tried Botox

In 2012, I had the honour of joining my community choir and others from around the world to perform Mahler's 2nd symphony at Lincoln Center in New York. (Or Beethoven's Ninth. Can't remember. for sure.) We'd practiced until I was singing in my sleep. We were nervous, exhilarated, and at our wits end trying to figure out what the weather would be like. What kind of coats to bring? How many pairs of shoes and boots?

And then there were the other questions haunting me in the middle of the night. Just how good were these other choirs? Would I get to stand beside my friends, or would I be stuck beside someone who was so fantastic, she'd be glaring at me throughout the performance. I'm sure most of us felt anxious, but it was really starting to haunt me. What could I do to make myself feel better?

First, I bought a sparkly black jacket and some swishy chiffon harem pants, along with stylish flats so my feet wouldn't get sore. Later, I came to regret those decisions. I never wore the flats again, the jacket was itchy, and the harem pants were...well. Harem pants. Like what Barbara Eden would wear if she was eighty. But the piece de resistance was the decision I made to get botox. I'm not sure why I decided to go for it. I guess I thought the occasion called for a big move.

Before catching the plane, I stopped in at an office I'd looked up online. It didn't take long for them to stick a few needles in my face, and I was on my way. I felt no different at all, and wondered what the fuss was about. The truth of the matter came about four days later, when suddenly, I felt like I'd been given novocaine and it just wouldn't wear off. It was upsetting, and for a few days I didn't say anything to my sisters. But the day before our performance, I came clean.

The first thing I did was burst into tears. 'Something terrible has happened,' I sobbed, and we all sat down on the bed. They each grabbed onto some part of me, like we were all going to pray, which happens occasionally.
"What's wrong," they asked, sending each other worried glances. I just kept crying and couldn't get the words out, so they started to guess.

'Does someone have cancer?' (Ironically, three family members would face this in a few years, but not at this time.) I shook my head. "Are you having financial problems?" Head shake. "Marriage problems?" More shaking. 'Are you being sued?' My only reply was to cry harder. 'Well, you're going to have to tell us," Susan said. I drew a big breath.

"I got botox and I really hate how it feels." They exchanged looks and Joni lifted her hand, then put it back in her lap. I think she was about to smack me.
"Are you kidding me?" she asked. 'Botox? We thought you were dying.'
'Well, I really hate it,' I said defensively. 'And I thought you should know.'
'For God's sake,' they muttered, and left the room. No sympathy there. Fortunately, the effects wore off after a couple of months. And it didn't do a damn thing, anyway.

The next night was our performance, and I enjoyed it so thoroughly that I celebrated later with four cosmopolitans and some champagne shared during a singoff with the choir from Singapore. On the walk home from the party where I was half carried by my sisters while crooning Christmas Carols, I stopped to beg Janice and Ken Pawlachuk not to tell my mom I'd been drinking. These were not my finer moments, but I can honestly say that  a good time was had by all. And here's the takeaway lesson. Don't do anything crazy before an important event. Control your impulses and insecurities. And leave your face alone.

Friday, September 7, 2018

Risky Business

About ten years ago, we removed a phone from the wall by the kitchen, but in typical Pettersen fashion, never got around to taking off the old plate and wires.  Placed beside my flashy new door, the ugliness of it was really starting to bug me. I'd found an electrician for some future work, but I couldn't live with this another day.


I have a vague idea about the workings of electricity, but who am I kidding? If the apocalypse comes and some of us survive, I will not be on the team that puts things back together. 'Judy...over here! Get this power plant up and running, stat!' Nope. 'Here's some glass and wire...build a solar panel for the survivors!'  I am simply not that person. I can help in the garden, or teach kids. Cook and tell stories. I'm a fairly decent problem solver, and have a patent to prove it. But knowledge about modern technology has escaped me. I've let it slip through my fingers and now, it seems too late for me to even bother googling.

My lack of understanding about phone wires was my current (pardon the pun) problem. Were they dead? Were they attached to that same invisible power source that keeps my fridge running? I couldn't find the right switch in that thingy cupboard that would turn that section of the house off. I've always been cautious, but I decided, to hell with that. Donning a pair of rubber gloves and a pair of scissors with rubber handles, I stepped up to the wall, squeezed my eyes shut, and cut the wires. Nothing happened.

I was thrilled. And disappointed. Part of me hoped that my deceased husband would show up like Robert Pattinson did in the Twilight movie whenever Kristen Stewart did something risky. This part--the understanding of how things work--was his job. Clarence's, not Roberts. I know that with some couples, it's reversed. But he was the skipper, I was the less able bodied/minded crew member. Together, we kept our ship afloat.

I had other risky business to manage, like car mats. For a guy with such a messy garage, my hubby really liked a clean car. Now that the spit and polish was left to me, I felt bad about the dirty floor mats. I was leaving town the next day and didn't want to bother with a car wash, so I hosed and scrubbed them down. I found a bottle of Turtle wax in the miscellaneous cupboard and liberally applied it to the mats. It took hours to dry, which should have been my first warning.

The next day, I climbed into my car and my feet did a kind of Charlie Chaplin dance as I tried to reposition my seat. For the next two hours of driving, I had to be very careful how I moved, or they'd go shooting out from under me and accidentally hit the brake or gas. (I was using cruise control.) It was only when I stopped on the side of the road and covered my shoes with dust that the mat became more manageable.

This is all the fault of my long marriage. When you've been together for a certain amount of years, you lean in, like two sides of a pyramid. And when the other person is gone, you still tilt that way, and there's nothing to stop you from falling over. It takes a while to start standing on your own two feet. In the meantime, I've borrowed tall ladders to replace lightbulbs outside the house, and climbed on the roof to wash a bedroom window. But I promise, dear children and friends, to be careful now that Robert...er, Clarence, did not show up. So I've hired a guy to fix my hydro mast on the roof, and someone else to put new beams in front of the house. As for the bricks that need cutting for my patio construction, I'm almost certain I know which saw to use, and where to find it. Or I can find instructions on YouTube.
Just kidding. Maybe. We'll see.

Friday, August 31, 2018

The Altos

I come from a family where everyone sings, and every single female is an alto. My only brother is a tenor, but he could easily join us. While not mob members like the Sopranos, we have our own set of skills. Let me give you the rundown.

I hadn't realized that my oldest sister, Linda, could actually sing until our summer as camp counselors. We had a cabin full of young, homesick kids, and Linda would sit at the edge of their bunks and croon to them. One time, since I knew the song, I joined in. A little girl opened her eyes and glared at me. 'Not you,' she said. 'Just her.' That was my first inkling that not every Hanson was meant to solo. Even at camp.

I attend community choir because I enjoy singing, can carry a tune (if it isn't very heavy) and love musicals. That's it for me. I'm also shy, which might surprise my friends, and prefer being one of a crowd of sixty stuck behind the orchestra pit with the drum thumping nearby. Now that's a choir experience I can get behind.

As the Shirley Temple of our generation, Susan had chubby cheeks, white blond hair, and a hyperactive desire to entertain people. We were the same size when I was seven and she was five, but I didn't have an ounce of her pizazz. At the lake, on a car trip, in our own kitchen, in the middle of a movie, she was always singing, and that battery never wore down.

I didn't know my brother Bill could sing until he joined choir. When he was a kid, he'd have thrown himself off a cliff before a single note slipped out of his mouth. His friends just didn't roll that way. Picture a handsome young blond tenor weaving his way through a gang of Hell's Angels while singing an Andy Kim song. That would be a no. To my surprise, he tried out for a part in the musical, Titanic, and nailed it. He feels too busy for choir now, but if we could persuade Crystal and Mark to start at six AM, he'd be there for sure. Otherwise, you can catch him singing karaoke at the Hooter.

Cindy was the only true hippy in our family. She liked to wander around the bush near our house, plucking a guitar and singing wistful songs about love and harmony. She lived for the TV show, the Partridge Family, and was convinced that all of us could be contenders. But no one ever listens to little sisters, unfortunately. Later, Cindy shone in choir, taking a lead role in Follies after starting out with a bit part from My Fair Lady, as Eliza Doolittle. 'Aye, Guvnah!' No one could have done it better.

Joni never gave us a clue that she could sing at all. She had a gravelly voice as a child, perhaps a symptom of too many colds. She spoke and people would search for the elderly man in the room. When our family performed gospel songs at church, and occasionally in the community, Joni was partnered with me as a 'root pal.' Everyone else harmonized around us. But as I stood by her, I heard the smooth tone of Doris Day. That girl could sing! We made a video to send to brother Bill who was traveling at the time. It was unintentionally hilarious, as we kept stopping so we could switch places. It looked like a badly done magic trick as we disappeared, popping into different spots throughout the song. To make things weirder, we were all dressed like Nikki from Big Love. Or old time Mennonites. Take your pick.

Jennifer is a whole other story. Severely red haired, she was bellowing out Hello Dolly! in an Ethel Merman-like voice when she was barely born. The last of seven children, she continued to be the loudest in the family. It was that or starve to death. (People from big families know what I'm talking about.) It was nothing for nineteen year old me to be driving around with four year old her in the back of the car and hear her belting out a mashup of 'Everyone's banging Lulu!' with 'And Bingo was his name-o!' I can't imagine what went on in her daycare, and anyway, its too late now. Still occasionally loud, always funny, she should be a writer. If you're lucky enough to live in Flin Flon, she's performing this Friday and Saturday at Johnny's social club. And she doesn't just sing. Trust me.  Now I'm going to hide from my family until they all get over this post. Goodbye.

Sunday, August 26, 2018

That Other Porn

I'm not a shopper. I've made that very clear on my blog. My three most dreaded purchases are bathing suits, underwear and shoes. The first is obvious. I think every woman feels the same way, unless they're modelling for Victoria's Secret. The second is a comfort thing. You just have to take a chance and if you can find a brand you like, buy more. There is no solution for shoe shopping because: a. I have no sense of style. b. I need to feel comfortable all the time. c. I almost always experience buyers remorse and/or diminished self esteem. Part of me wishes that we were living the National Geographic dream of a loin cloth and no shoes. Of course, we'd have to have a more natural view of beauty, and for North Americans, that ship has sailed.

But something happens to me when I go into Winners. (TJ Max, in the USA.) I'm instantly taken by the thought that there might be a whole other me waiting to be discovered. Someone with glamour potential, or the ability to lose ten pounds while walking around the store. One who can wear anything without bitching about it later. Suddenly, I'm sure I'd look great in a long, shaggy gray sweater that hangs to my knees, or a pair of cropped jeans marked down to $24.99. And that cerulean blue dress on the clearance rack for $14.99. How could I not buy it?  It's practically reaching for me as I trot by, wide eyed.

Why is the food section with its prettily packaged teas, unconventional chips and tiny bottles of maple syrup more attractive than the same items in a grocery store? Are the cookies made from quinoa, nuts and molasses as tasty as they look? The small boxes of designer hot chocolate imported from Belgium certainly look more sophisticated than my own tin of Fry's cocoa. Whatever the reason, I find myself pawing through the products like an archaeologist at a new dig. Then I move into the household goods, my favorite section.

Have you ever noticed that things look better at Winners than they do at the Bay? Those lustrous, shell-like bowls and rose coloured wine glasses. The three foot high vases, and dainty picture frames. Tiny crystal lamps with turquoise shades that promise to transform any room. Five hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets for $49.99. Crisp apple strudels and warm woolen mittens. You get the idea.

And the shoe department. Nikes for $49.99! Clarks for  the same, and a lineup of every kind of sandal that I would never try on in a different store, but they're just sitting there and I don't have to ask for help. There's the kind with straps that wrap around your legs, Roman soldier style. Are they for me? I stare into the tilted mirror on the floor, lifting my pants out of the way and imagining myself strolling around Italy in them. A couple quick trips up and down the aisle confirm the fit.

Here's my mindset at Winners. In this ultimate shopping experience, maybe my feet won't be fussy anymore. Perhaps I've grown a few inches since I walked in and no long have to tailor my dresses. Whatever it is, I'll continue enjoying this version of myself that feels more comfortable in the world. The one that, like my late husband, has a linen collection.

So if you come for tea, make sure to ask me about my tiny jars of jam and hand crafted crackers. Run your hands through my fake expensive sheets. A woman dressed in linen like the one I'm pretending to be will be happy showing off her purchases.


Tuesday, August 21, 2018

Team Canada: Are We the Good Guys?

At a Chapters Indigo book store, I found a cute lunch bag with a picture of the Canadian flag and the slogan, 'Still on the team.' I loved it instantly. I have a friend who thinks patriotism is anti-world or pro-war. Something like that. But while we have much work to do as a nation, I'm very proud to be Canadian. But what does that mean?

Years ago, my sisters, daughters and I would travel to Dallas, Orlando, or Vegas for juvenile products tradeshows. We'd flog the babyTrekker baby carrier and have loads of fun doing it. Overall, people loved knowing that our product was made in Canada, so we made sure to mention it on the box. 'Made in Canada, eh.' To many buyers and other vendors, being from Canada meant that we were kind, reliable and honest.

There was a product I liked by an American designer with a small but thriving business. It turned out that her very unique stroller cover had been stolen by a Canadian company called Jolly Jumper. 'And they're Canadian!' she kept saying, as if this was the most important detail. I wasn't surprised, since they'd ripped me off the year before in the most shameless way. One of their sales people was pregnant and had asked me for one at wholesale cost. Of course I gave it to her. Within six months, their badly made copy of my other carrier, the First Journey, was on the market.

I'd had the same reaction as my American friend. 'But they're Canadian!' Kind of a plaintive cry, an awakening to a few hard truths that some Canadians are as ruthless as, say, He Who Must Not Be Named that Lives to the South. Why do we think of ourselves as 'good guys' anyway? Do Canadians never steal, tell lies or act rudely? Are we all like characters in those old Jeannette MacDonald, Nelson Eddie movies; direct, thoughtful and without guile? Unfortunately, no. So where does this idea come from, and why are we all drinking the same Kool-Aid about what it means to be Canadian?

Here's my theory. Some other countries may dislike our healthcare program and not appreciate our attitudes about guns. This may be true of some Canadians as well. But overall, we have a social contract that we've figuratively signed onto, saying, 'I might hate you but I need you to prosper, so I can, too.'

We don't have the kind of healthcare I'd like, one that includes dental and pharmaceutical expenses, but what we have is pretty substantial. When you lose your spouse to cancer as I did, you find out pretty quickly how good we have it. And as I recall, not one person said to him, 'Gee, I really hate that you have free Cancer Care.' As it turns out, we Canadians are pretty united on several fronts.

We can bicker about how we heat our houses and run our cars. Gas! Windmills! But being Canadian means we all deal with a lot of cold weather, and being warm and fed comes first. Our social contract says that we can argue, but we can't fall apart. We can't afford to be a country constantly at war with itself. This sophisticated, intricate Canadian system that we carry together, like movers hauling a piano around, depends on a certain amount of harmony. And for us, the solution to a shooting in Canada isn't to give every shopper in Toronto a gun, but to try to understand each situation as it arises. It helps that in spite of the many folks I know who hunt, not one considers using a gun as a form of home defense.

As we move uneasily through elections, we're all aware that in spite of our various concerns like immigration, taxation and social programs, we have to keep it together.  Some think that Andrew Scheer would be an awesome Prime Minister. Others want to weep into their pillows at the very thought. It doesn't matter. We're a diverse group, and that's a very good thing.

We may not like our prime minister, or our next one, but we know this. Nobody wants to end up in a dictatorship. That's why a lot of our folks emigrated here in the first place. None of us want to live without the rights we take for granted. Most of us want every other Canadian to have them as well. I may not like your politics, or the fact that you don't recycle or mow your lawn. But I'm willing to live with it. This piano is just too heavy to carry without you.

Tuesday, August 14, 2018

The Game's Afoot

All my life I've been a terrible card player. Once the games got more challenging than 'Go Fish' I lost the ability to win. When I worked at HBM&S as a student, I faced daily humiliation at the game of Durroc. (made up game...who knows the correct spelling?) Is it a math thing, or a confidence problem? I'm not sure. Maybe both.

A few winters ago, my friend Gaye held a dinner party at her house. The wine flowed, the conversation was delightful. Much to my dismay, after dessert the cards came out. And the game of Ramole proceeded to kick my ass. We were betting with quarters and it wasn't very long before I was deeply in debt to every person there. I'm blaming it on the wine, but really I'm just bad at cards.

Even Monopoly was a challenge. I had a romantic view of the game, so tended to play with my heart instead of being practical. And the money made me anxious so I'd hold onto my cash instead of buying up houses as they came onto the market. When I met my husband and we played with friends, he'd throw money around like a bigshot. We had to watch him like a hawk, because he wasn't above stuffing extra cash under his side of the board. We never let him be the banker, but he usually won anyway.

A few years ago, some friends invited us to join a bridge club. My friend Nayda plays, and she'd told me some things about the game. My biggest problem, besides the challenge of learning, is the silence rule. Apparently, people don't speak while playing. I can just see myself holding my cards and longing to ask for advice or talk about books or the latest Netflix show. Or talk about anything, really.

I excel at easy kid's games, like snakes and ladders, or Clue. I can beat an eight year old at checkers, but after that all bets are off. I have no strategy or game plan, ever. I like to fly by the seat of my pants. And I don't like to feel like I'm at school, about to fail a math test. Which is how card games occasionally make me feel. But I just read a Walrus article about how we're all supposed to continually try new things. Especially things that scare us. It's good for the brain, and an important part of creating new neural pathways.

I'm all about making healthy choices. I want to be the kind of person who meets a challenge head on, so when my daughter and I went to a karaoke session at the Calgary writer's conference, I got up and sang. It was bad, and I waited until the last moment. I sang Ruby, by Kenny Rogers and people clapped with looks of deep pity on their faces when I was done. But still. I did it. And while I'm not going to jump from a high cliff or an airplane, I guess I'm willing to drink and play card games when the occasion arises. Just don't make me play bridge.




Monday, July 30, 2018

To All the Books I've Loved Before

It started with the Baby Feet nursery book. Copyrighted in 1928, it had stories like the politically incorrect 'Little Black Sambo,' and the tale of the Teeny Tiny Woman. My siblings and I never grew tired of them, and even now, are constantly looking for an edition in better shape than the one we still own. (Full disclosure: I drew on the pages and cut them up with scissors when I was four. Or maybe six. I was very young for my age.)
Books can be friends, and not just the characters in the story. It's the way it feels in your hands. The cover design. It looks back at you and says, yes. We are going to be besties. When at age nine my teacher said no more picture books, I was horrified. My obsession with Dr. Seuss was genuine: Bartholomew Cubbins and the Five Hundred Hats. Oobleck. Yurtle the Turtle, the King's Stilts. I loved them all. But I took a breath and stepped into the world of Hugh Lofting, who I called Hudge until a teacher corrected me.
The Dr. Doolittle series was my first foray into chapter books. It was so influential, we ended up naming our new red haired puppy, Chee Chee, which means ginger in monkey language. From there I became Pollyanna, Trixie Belden and every adventurous character by Enid Blyton. Then there were the classics like Little Women, Heidi, and Robin Hood, an abridged series that my uncle gave us every year for Christmas.
I could never figure out what really happened to Beth in Little Women. The last sentence in the saddest chapter says: "...a face so full of painless peace that those who loved it best smiled through their tears, and thanked God that Beth was well at last." Was she dead or not? I wasn't a 'read between the lines' kind of girl. But eventually I figured it out. She was dead. But with God. So she wasn't really dead. Or something like that.
As a teenager, Harlequin Romances were my entrée into the world of working women, travel and romance. The protagonists were all virgins. Many had cool jobs like ballerina, opera singer, or first violin in a London orchestra. But they all got married and lived happily ever after, though I was never sure if they got to keep their jobs.The books cost a dollar, and we traded them around like comics.
After the Harlequins came the aptly named bodice rippers. To be honest, it was hard for me to understand how such aggressive seductions could be romantic. The word no really meant, 'only if you force me.' And then there was the age difference. If he was thirty-two, she'd be sixteen. I only read a few before I was done. I got halfway through 'Sweet Savage Love,' (a lot like the title) and said, nope.
In high school, my favorite novel was Rumer Godden's 'An Episode of Sparrows.' My least favorite was 'Ethan Frome' by Edith Wharton. I just didn't get it. We also read 'Of Human Bondage', 'Tess of the Durberville's and 'Huck Finn.' The last was the only book that wasn't unrelentingly sad. I always had trouble understanding the theme of a book and still do, which is troublesome, given that I'm a writer. On another note, in my first year at university I discovered the Lord of the Rings series and almost failed  midterms by trying to get through the whole thing in five days. Never do that.
I was a more discerning reader by this point. Barbara Taylor Bradford was hugely popular back then. I read a few of her books, then picked one up where the protagonist had twin one year old's, was the CEO of a large corporation and a master gardener. I had no kids yet, and no green thumb to speak of, but somehow I knew this character was extremely far fetched. Like an early Clive Cussler book where a scuba diver lands on a beach and ravishes a girl who is sunbathing. 'Thanks,' she says afterward. 'I needed that.' I clapped the book shut and shook my head. These authors are hugely successful and have made millions of dollars, so I'll doubt they'll be hurt by my words. They can laugh all the way to the bank while reading this blog.
But here's the truth about reading. Immersing oneself in a novel makes life better. Empathy, curiosity, hope and persistence are traits we can absorb from characters we love. Like when Dumbledore from Harry Potter says, 'It matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be.' The child in all of us understands that no matter how old we are, we're on a journey, and we have some input into where we go and how we get there. We learn from our heroes that being brave and forging ahead really does help. Unless you're reading Thomas Hardy. Then, abandon hope, all ye who enter here. Just kidding. (Sort of)
 
This is the cover of my childhood book, 'Little Women.' Just because.



Sunday, July 15, 2018

E.T, Phone Home

I have PTSD. This sounds self aggrandizing and presumptuous since I've never been in a war. But lately, the crazy weather we've had has been getting me down. And Friday night, a week ago, was the worst.

I was sleeping soundly when the loudest thump I've ever heard woke me from a dead sleep. It was storming, and the lightning was like nothing I'd ever experienced. The sky was lit up and crackling like a scene from the movie, War of the Worlds. I scrambled out of bed and gazed at the window in awe filled dread, certain that the large maple tree behind my bedroom was falling onto the house. Yet when I threw open the curtains, there it was. Still standing.

I turned on a light, but the power died promptly, so I grabbed a flashlight from my nightstand. Rushing to the living room, the strange thumping sound morphed into something more sinister: like a madman breaking through the back door with a big axe. With the rain slamming against our house like a separate malevolent force, I scurried over to the garden doors leading to our deck. And I couldn't believe my eyes.

My husband, who passed away in March, had built a canvas topped pergola on top of our raised deck, three years before. It was homely on the outside, but the inside was cozy and completely sheltered from the sun. During mild rainstorms, I could sit outside under the canopy. It was this beloved edifice that was making the noise.

To my horror, the whole thing was jumping up and down, like a ten foot high, ten foot wide and fifteen foot long monster having a temper tantrum. Amidst the terrible noise, sheets of lightning lit the sight of tall 4 x 4 beams leaping high enough to drop over the other side of the deck railing, and 2 x 6 roof slats ripping away from the beams to dance above the two glass tables on the deck. In the meantime, one of my eight foot high metal plant holders left its spot and sailed through the air, scratching the house siding an inch below my bathroom window and landing with a crash in the yard seven feet below the deck.

I backed away from the doors as the breaking pergola continued its insane dance, certain that the whole mess would bust into the house at any moment. As I lowered myself onto the sofa in the middle of the living room and listened to the craziness of the storm and the maniacal behavior of our formerly well adjusted pergola, a feeling of betrayal crept over me.

I sat on the sofa with my small flashlight that barely lit up the wall across from me and said aloud to my dead husband, "How could you leave me to face this by myself?" I really meant it. The fact that he couldn't help it didn't factor in. In that moment, I felt as if he'd abandoned me on purpose. Every marriage has a contract, and his part was to make me feel like everything would always be okay. And just when I needed him most, he wasn't there.

"Where are you?" I asked aloud in a whiny voice, feeling about five years old. It was a futile question, because he didn't answer. But strangely, I began to feel the presence of my parents who had passed away some years before, and a few others, too. I immediately calmed down and began to pray, because that is what I usually do after having my own version of a temper tantrum. I prayed for peace, and for everyone in my community to be okay. While I prayed, the canopy on the deck continued doing the Armageddon Rumba. My heart was still thumping in time to the beat, but somehow I knew I was going to be all right.

I never went back to bed. Around five in the morning, when the storm was over, I started crawling around under the mess, picking up broken plant pots and busted pieces of wood. I cleaned up the yard below where debris had fallen, and a little after eight, went over to my good friend Rick Hall's place, to ask for help. Within fifteen minutes, he was at my back deck undoing all the screws and dismantling the whole thing. He offered to try and repair it, but I knew I'd never feel safe again under that green canopy.

I've learned a few things about myself from this whole experience. First, I'm pretty sure I still have some anger issues over losing Clarence. Second, I've turned into a bit of a nut job. However, as Oprah says, when you know better, you do better. Since I've already admitted my kookiness to the world, I'm going to go one step further and confess that I really am waiting for my husband to get in touch. A celestial phone call will do nicely. Or some other kind of sign. I'm certain there'll be something. Friends in similar situations have assured me of it.

For now, I will get on with things. I'll woman up, I'll lean on my family and, as I learned on that terrible Friday night and other times since Clarence died, I'll get by with a little help from my friends.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=awBy_K30Pe8

Tuesday, June 26, 2018

Sing!

I attended Broadway night at Johnny's Social Club  here in Flin Flon, and was reminded just how much I love musicals. In fact, I would like to live in a musical, with every bit of it set to the appropriate song. Yes, it would take awhile to get through the day, but maybe that would help me live in the moment like I'm supposed to. If I was walking down the street and someone asked me (because we're allowed the occasional spoken word, just for dramatic emphasis) how are you? I'd reply like this:

'I'm fine, but not really fine. Can you read between the lines?' (I'd hold the last note, possibly doing a soft shoe dance routine while throwing my arms in the air.)

'Tell me more!' the woman would sing. And I'd tunefully unpack all that information right there in the street. We'd both sound lovely in this musical world of mine. Everyone would. A truly great musical is packed with passion, and I think we all spend too much time subduing ourselves and not admitting to the world that we have something to say. Something big. Because even if doesn't seem that way, it feels that way. And that feeling needs its own song. Tim Rice, Andrew Lloyd Weber, or that Hamilton guy could do all the lyrics. I'd bring Richard Rogers back to write the music, although Mark Kolt also really gets to the heart of things, as we Flin Flonners know.

There would be no more suffering in silence. We'd all be singing our hearts out, stopping only to pay the cashier at the Co-op or say good morning to the attendant at the Gas Bar pump. On second thought, we'd sing those parts, too. I recently watched the musical, 'Bells are Ringing,' with Judy Holliday and Dean Martin. While one of them crossed the room to sing, the other pretended they couldn't hear. They sang about each other in a way that would be considered stalker material nowadays, but was sweet and naïve because people didn't know better then.

In my musical world, no moment would go uncelebrated or un-mourned. And when we returned to our homes in the evening, we'd still sing. But in a more subdued way. Perhaps a lullaby for the kids, or a romantic number for that special someone. In fact, don't be surprised if the next time I greet you on Main Street, I give a little twirl and turn my salutation into a catchy number. And if I see you ducking around the corner or just plain avoiding my eye, I'll completely understand. In fact, I'll be ready for you next time with a tune about annoying people like me. And there won't be an ounce of irony in the whole song.

If we all lived in a musical, there would be no need for therapy. We'd be like scientologists, shunning psychiatry and feeling like our best selves all the time, but without the whole .13 cents an hour wage thing. (Now that would be an interesting musical.) For now, though, it's so long, farewell, auf weidersehen goodbye. I hate, to go....well. You get the idea. Until we meet again. (I can't stop.)

Sunday, May 20, 2018

Eulogy for a Love Story

My husband has been the subject of many of my blog posts. I've celebrated his kookiness, made fun of his wardrobe choices and planned on writing many more over our years together. But he died on March 28th of this year, and at his funeral, I left the eulogy to our kids. Now its my turn. So here goes.

We shared a home town, but I didn't meet Clarence properly until university. On my fifth day there, I saw him standing in the doorway of our residential dining hall with his friends. He wore a red plaid shirt, faded jeans and a curly, brown, clown shaped Afro. There was something about his face that I instantly loved. He'd gone to the same high school as me, but I'd never been interested in the slimmer, hockey player version of him. I wanted the guy with the added freshman fifteen. The one ready for anything and definitely different from everyone else.

'I'm going out with him,' I told a friend. 'What if he's not interested?' she replied. 'Too bad,' I said. 'It's going to happen.' And so the plotting began. He was completely oblivious to the way I arranged to sit next to him when a bunch of us went to the pub. I was relentless in my pursuit, and the only mistake I made was in conversation when I told him he was a little weird. (Which his friends would totally validate.) I meant it as a compliment because I like people with a little something extra in their personality. He thought I thought he was gay. For about two weeks, he avoided me. Then, at a Ukrainian themed party, he asked me to dance. When the song was over, I made my bold move by continuing to hang on to his arm. I was like a stalker and a jailer at the same time. Nowadays he might complain to the administration, but he just shrugged and let me stay. We talked all night, and no, that's not a euphemism for something else. We were pretty inseparable after that point. We'd been dating for two months before I knew his real name was Clarence, because everyone called him Ace. But I had already fallen in love so it didn't matter.

I've never met anyone less self conscious than my husband. Once, we were waiting for the bus with a bunch of other people when suddenly, he dropped to his knees and started reciting his version of the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet. (He was really great at making stuff up.) I was charmed and mortified--not the last time I'd feel that way. His quirky side was really on show whenever we traveled. Clarence had no problem pretending to speak the language wherever we were, and was not above doing the chicken dance when trying to buy meat for his cooking group. In Switzerland, I came out of the bathroom in the world's largest restaurant to find him up on the stage yodeling. At a gathering in Flin Flon, we decided to try square dancing with Clarence as the caller. He was very persuasive, and when he hollered, 'Swing your partner round and round, clap your hands and pull your pants down,' people followed his instructions. It was a very fun party.

I'm a home body, but Clarence was not. He loved traveling, and talked me into trekking up the Himalayas to Base Camp, then hiking the golden triangle in Thailand, and slogging through the West Coast Trail once we'd settled down in Canada. He loved to go walking and in the early days, I pretended to love it too. And then I did, and it became something we did every day.

We're an even match when it comes to being chatty. At times, we'd get home from a party and accuse each other of not letting other people talk. But there was one party where we were the only people interested in holding a conversation. We tossed the ball back and forth to each other until we began wondering if we'd accidentally stumbled into a Buddhist retreat. Clarence took our failure to liven things up very personally.

Everything between us didn't jive completely for the first couple of years. We didn't lived together before we got married, so there were things we had to figure out. I came from a family of seven children, and an open bathroom door policy (with a closed shower curtain if one was bathing) was considered appropriate. He was not used to anyone interrupting him in the bathroom, and acted like I was trying to steal his virtue.

'What are you doing!'
'Brushing my teeth?' I was truly mystified by his attitude. Who knew that peeing was supposed to be a private affair? Not me. But he grew more relaxed over time, and I got better at respecting his privacy.

Everything got sorted during our third year of marriage when we traveled through Asia with a group of strangers who became very dear to us. Far away from family, our own relationship tightened and we realized what we had in each other. I would highly recommend poor living conditions and a certain amount of danger to ramp up the closeness factor. Only for a short time, of course.

On that trip, we learned to love the same books, because there were no kindles or even book stores in most of the countries we visited. Instead, we'd swap with strangers, happy to have something new to read. I grew to love Dick Francis, who wrote British mysteries about jockeys and horse trainers, and Russian author, Mikhail Sholokov, who wrote about depressing Russian things. Before we left for Asia, reading was something we both enjoyed. But when we were overseas, we began the habit of reading each night before bed. It was one of my favorite things about our married life.

When we moved back to Flin Flon, it wasn't long before we'd built our first house from plans we'd drawn up ourselves. It turned out well, but I still remember the carpenter saying, 'Did you really want a window in the closet?' We did not, so an adjustment was made. I still love that first house because it was ours in every way. We moved in to floors bare of carpet or linoleum and a kitchen holding only a toaster oven, hot plate and fridge dating from the forties. The sink sat on a board floating between two sawhorses. As we got paid, we bought flooring and appliances until the house was fully furnished. Although our kitchen chairs were cast offs from the Flin Flon School Division because we were still very thrifty.

It was an adventure, especially when I was painting the trim on the second story. I was afraid of heights, so Clarence tied a rope to my waist and wrapped the other end around a beam. It wouldn't have done much if I'd fallen, but psychologically it worked very well. Our fathers helped us with the carpentry. When we were done, we bought them both VCR's. They were $800.00 each, because they had just been invented. At least in Manitoba. After that, we had kids. But that's a story for another day.


Monday, March 19, 2018

Excuse Me, I've Misplaced my Brain

My cell phone had been giving me grief for a while. Since it's a few years past its free replacement date, I headed to our local MTS shop to pick up a new one. Because there always seems to be a lineup, I packed the necessities. But to my surprise, I was the only one in there. I walked up to the counter, thrilled with the lack of other customers. 'It's past time to replace my phone,' I said. 'And I have some changes to make to my account.'

'Let me see it," said the employee, a friendly guy I've dealt with before. I checked my pockets and the handy cloth bag I was carrying. I dug through my jeans and my secret inside-the-ski-jacket zippered compartment. Nothing.

'I've forgotten it,' I said, trying to look nonchalant.

'Well, let's take a look at your account. Do you have some ID?'

I checked my coat and jean bag once more. 'I can't seem to find my wallet. But I brought my kindle.' I held it up like a trophy as we stared at each other, unsure of who should speak next. 'I was worried about being bored,' I said, over explaining as usual. 'I always bring something to read and I just got a new book from Amazon before I came up here.'

'Uh huh,' he said. I get this a lot from sales people. A kind of measured look, like I'm taking a test I'll never pass no matter how hard I try. I can't crack the code of people who know how to behave in every situation. Anyway, it took a few days for me to get back there with my phone.

Meanwhile, on the same day, in preparation for doing chores around the house, I plugged in my ear buds, picked a playlist on the phone I'd found in the laundry room and started changing the sheets on my bed. I was busy grooving to the cool sounds of Taka Taka when my ears began vibrating with such intensity, I felt like I was sitting on one of those motel beds from the '70's. I stopped moving. Everything was fine. I snapped the sheet in the air and spread it out onto the bed. Suddenly, zap! I looked around. What was going on? I backed away from the bed, but nothing more happened. So I started tucking in the sheet. Zap! Zap!

I ripped the ear buds out, feeling like the unwitting participant in a science experiment. Am I being body snatched? I wondered. Being a writer, I'm open to all kinds of possibilities. This idea, though frightening, was also intriguing. I picked up the next sheet, and as my fingers got a shock, reality set in. I was electrocuting my ears with static.

I'd missed some sleep the night before and I'm always a little zombie-like when that happens. Not brain dead, exactly. Just brain displaced. And my default setting for situational analysis is never very logical. I always prefer the more exotic reason for strange problems. Like aliens. Or rogue government agents planting thoughts into my head. It was actually a little disappointing to realize that plain old static electricity was causing the problem. If you've experienced this and you're inclined to believe in a darker and more interesting theory, perhaps with conspiracy elements, please let me know. I really want to believe that my brain is not the problem.

Friday, February 23, 2018

Armchair Athlete Wins Gold!

I have never been an athlete. Or even an 'athletic supporter.' I'll watch the Maple Leaf's on TV with my hubby, because misery loves company. (Though not this year! We're so hopeful right now!) Otherwise I feel no affinity for one team over the next. I'll cheer for the Flin Flon Bombers, but that's home town pride.

With the Olympics in full swing, Clarence and I have stopped watching other shows. From sunrise to sunset, we're all about the games. We enjoy every sport, but I can't help feeling that athletically, figure skating trumps the luge and any kind of skiing beats the bobsled. But my inner critic really shows up when it comes to curling.

I'm having difficulty with choices the skips make. 'No! Take them out!' I'll holler at the TV. Clarence never curled so he isn't as opinionated. But I've just watched Kevin Koe throw a draw with such little weight that it reminded me of myself in grade ten. Come on. Be better than the freshman me, Kevin. Be better!

I used to hold Canada to a very low athletic standard. We were killing it in the music business so who cared about the Olympics? Apparently, we Canadians do. Currently, we're third in total medals and I can't help wondering where all these coordinated, hard working people came from. How does one decide to go from snowboarding over the weekend to flipping off a ramp at seventy klicks an hour while performing twists and somersaults, then hurtling straight down while trying to land on one's feet? Someone with a death wish. Where will it end? With polar bears waiting at the bottom, ready to eat the contestants who land in the wrong spot. It's getting very 'Rollerball' in Korea.

The luge might be my sport. I  could do it if someone tied me to the machine with a pillow beneath my head so I wouldn't have to stress my muscles. I'd definitely scream all the way down. But unless fear is a speed enhancer, a successful arrival time would be purely accidental. And really, isn't everybody's? Are there things lugers are doing to provide a better outcome? Mostly it looks like a slippery death run with a low survival rate. If so, there's probably a praying component in this event. Without the pillow, the whole thing is like one long and difficult sit up. Hopefully, the payoff is rock hard abs and a medal. Not a concussion or a broken leg.

I can't help noticing that when we're winning medals, we like to share in the glory. 'We won gold! We took silver! We got a bronze! When a Canadian team or athlete loses, though, its all on them. 'Oh, so and so really choked. Too bad for us.' We had no part in it. Which we never do, of course. But winning draws us in and makes us feel like part of a team. Like the Canadian Tire ad says, We all play for Canada. It's a nice thought for all the couch potatoes, including me. The fact that the athletes worked so hard to get to Korea should earn our unending support and approval. It doesn't always work that way.

If I could offer up some alternative events for people like myself, none of them would be athletic. I've heard they're considering video gamers for the next Olympics. The athletes would be fifty pounds overweight,  with a steady stream of snacks nearby to keep them nourished during the competition. If that's a potential sport, I'd like to suggest the art of talking be another category. Not debating, otherwise people would have to be smart. Not lectures, for the same reason. Just talking. It would be a people's choice award kind of thing. I'd enter myself as a candidate. If we can make it happen, I'm counting on some hometown support. Hopefully all of Flin Flon will get on board, and all will be able to say, 'Yahoo! We got a gold in the conversation category! And if I don't win, feel free to let your inner critic rain down. On second thought, we'd better hold local tryouts. It's only fair.

Thursday, January 25, 2018

Even Stranger Things

When people marry, they usually discover new things about their partners. A dislike for returning library books, a penchant for Big Macs. And then there's the clashing of family cultures. My husband's clan were kind of superstitious and had certain beliefs about good and bad luck. Salt played a huge part in things. My family believed in God, the devil, and the consequential fallout of making the wrong choice. Luck played no part in anything and to even suggest such a thing put a black mark on your soul.

But according to my mother in law, there was a whole other dimension to consider. For instance, if you spilled salt, you'd better throw some over your shoulder. If you wanted to bind the devil (same guy, different theory) you'd also toss a little salt, left shoulder only. If my mother broke a mirror, it was a tough cleanup. For Clarence's family, it meant seven years of bad luck. For someone like me with clumsy moments, this became a problem.

I remember talking with Clarence's Baba, (who believed the earth was flat) and trying to pin down behavior she regarded as careless. Most of these exchanges involved me saying, 'Really? Really?' It was the Twilight Zone of conversations. Black cats, ladders, the proper way to walk through a graveyard. There were too many rules for me to possibly remember. And then one night, I crossed the risky behavior line. Since my mother-in-law was not around to help, Clarence had to step in.

We'd just moved into a rental house not far from my mom and dad's place. Our bedroom had an unusually big window and curtains that barely met in the middle. One night, I was fast asleep when Clarence woke me. He was shaking my shoulder and hissing my name. 'Quick!' he said. 'Look away from the window!' I should have just rolled over. Instead, I asked why. 'The full moon is shining on your face,' he said.

'It's not bothering me,' I replied, appreciating his thoughtful concern about the light keeping me awake.
 'No! You can't let the full moon shine on your face!' said my husband with five years of university and a double major in economics and history. I went back to sleep, because I was young and didn't have kids and slept well and easily. But the next day, I asked him what the problem was. He wasn't sure.

But it was something he'd learned, probably from his grandmother, and his knee jerk reaction was to follow it. 'Will I turn into a werewolf?' I asked, almost charmed by the idea. Again, he didn't know. But something bad would happen. I couldn't get over the craziness of it and bugged him about it daily. For some reason, we never asked his mother. (She might have been getting a teeny bit defensive about some of this stuff.) I'm still not allowed to break this rule, but if you're up for the challenge, throw open your window coverings during the next full moon and bathe yourself in its light.  Then get back to me about it. But if you find yourself covered in hair and howling your way through the bush, a telephone call will suffice. 

Sunday, January 14, 2018

Hi Jinks

Growing up in a house with six other children required a certain amount of hardiness. After a traditional baptism, another followed that was more like an ongoing episode of Fear Factor. It involved loud squalling, bare knuckle fighting, laughing, and general hysteria. Since six of us were less than two years apart, my mother was always in full survival mode. People talk a lot about the common sense of parents in the sixties, but let's be honest. Families were larger and a few toys couldn't possibly compete with wild ideas and the lure of general mayhem. Many parents buckled against the pressure and allowed their offspring to run free. Until I was fifteen and Jennifer was born, all of us lived upstairs. It was a tight space for the eight people there at the time. 'Go outside!' was a common refrain at our house.

 'Quit climbing the walls!' was another. My sisters, brother and I would take turns bracing our hands and feet against the sides of the entryway to our living room and see who could hike their way up to the ceiling in the quickest possible time. This was done with a lot of yelling, jeering and possible sabotage, like pulling someone's legs out from under them. Susan and I were often the instigators, and she remains to this day the most competitive person in the family. If you showed her something you could do, she'd figure out a way to do it faster. The important part was when she got to win.

When we weren't climbing the walls, Susan and I were busy making up new commercials. We were certain we could do a better job than the ad companies we heard on the radio, or saw on television. My mother encouraged this kind of behavior because it took less yelling and a lot more planning. Another favorite activity was pretending to be movie stars. I'm fairly certain that Linda enjoyed this too. If you needed a glamorous, tight dress look, you would simply insert both feet in one leg of your pajama bottoms, and use the empty leg for twirling. I was Connie Stevens. Someone else in the family was Annette Funicello, though I can't remember who. Possibly Bill. Just kidding. Though we did encourage him to take part in our crazy plans. 'Encourage,' meaning a fair amount of arm twisting. Literally twisting of the arms. Remember snakebites? That was torture for beginners at our house.

My father was more cunning than my mother when it came to filling up our time. If she was at work, he'd put on one of his Spike Jones records and we'd dance like crazy until we fell down. Seriously, like teenagers popping ecstasy at a rave, we'd exhaust ourselves boogieing to 'Cocktails for Two.' He played music the whole time mom was out, especially some of his crazier jazz records by artists like Stan Kenton. Or, to paraphrase my mother, 'I've died and gone to hell, and this is the soundtrack.'

In the early years, we had a wood stove in the basement. Occasionally, we'd thread hot dogs onto sticks or coat hangers, for roasting. Or we'd play with fire, adding interesting things to the stove and waiting to see what would happen. My mother was usually upstairs washing floors, preparing meals and generally working like an indentured servant. She worried we'd burn ourselves or put our arms through the ringer washer that always seemed to be running. It was the dilemma of every mother: 'They might be in danger. But they're so quiet right now.' Her need for some kind of peace and order gave us plenty of opportunities to try out our crazy ideas. In no particular order, here are a few more:

Sliding on cardboard down the basement stairs.
Making a slide with blankets for the younger kids to slip from the top bunk to the bed on the other side of the room. We only dropped the blanket a few times.
Sneaking food from the kitchen. I liked to pretend I was a hungry orphan. 
Lighting the candles hidden in a cross on the wall that were meant for special religious occasions. I spent the rest of the week worrying I was going to burn in hell for being sacrilegious.
Playing mass and taking turns squishing bread and shoving it into each other's mouths. We mumbled fake Latin words and had the parishioners kneel for a really long time. (My children did the same thing, but with different hymns and more Holy Spirit carryings on.)
Flipping through the gigantic family bible that was filled with horrifying images of the torture of saints. We couldn't get enough of it.

There were times when we played regular games, too, like Monopoly and War, (the card game, though we were always up for the other kind, too.) Clue fascinated all of us because we really wanted to live in a glamorous mansion with murderous people. Chinese Checkers promised a good hour's worth of arguing, then there was Sorry, and the hipper kinds of games, like Password, also a television show.  We truly loved Password.

The only reason my parents lived as long as they did was because we all loved to read, or have someone read to us. I'm sure mom and dad tiptoed through the house on such days, usually a Saturday when we'd all been to the library. There was also the lure of the great outdoors, though that often involved a command rather than a wish.

I like to think that our wild youth directed our futures. Linda (always seeking refuge) became a librarian, researcher and major source of info and help to breastfeeding moms everywhere. I was an entrepreneur (I can make it better!) and a writer. Susan left home to seek her fortune as a performer and traveled across Canada singing backup for Graham Shaw and his Juno award winning album. (Okay! You win!) Bill became a carpenter, probably for reasons of self defense. (saw, hammer, nails) Cindy's been a preacher and a fantastic saleswoman, which may be one and the same job. Joni has had too many careers to name, is the best painter and can restore order to any home. (She was the kind of kid who put tape across the bedroom floor so your mess couldn't wander onto her side.) And Jen grew up singing, simply as a way of being heard above all the noise, and carried it further with a couple of albums and a personality large enough to subdue nations.

Thirty-five years after my mother had her first baby, Jennifer left home and gave my parents the gift of an empty nest. They couldn't get over the quiet. Then, there were grandchildren. But that's a story for another day.  For those of you who want to turn your pajamas into a sexy outfit, it's the dress on the left. And for those who need an excuse to cut loose, please enjoy some Spike Jones. Please listen past the 30 seconds of slow music, then hang on for the ride.

Image result for tight full length cocktail dresses from the 1960's

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lvt4b_qwC_Q