Dance of the Kettle Bell Fairy

Anyone wandering into Tracy's gym for the first time might wonder, where's the gal? The one who's going to whip me into shape? Then you see her. A woman who's so tiny, if you stuck a pair of wings on her back and set her on the branch of a tree, she'd look right at home. I remember gazing at the whiteboard with it's strange set of instructions and wondering, what's a thruster? Is it appropriate for public viewing? How about a deadlift, a man maker, and a Turkish get-up? Is this a gym class or are we doing some work for the mafia?

I watched Tracy skip lightly over to a set of parallel bars on the floor and raise her body in the air until she was upside down. Still talking, of course. "I'm not doing that!" I yelped, forgetting I was supposed to just shut up and listen. It's a lesson I've yet to learn. "Oh, you will," she said airily. I stared at my friends, the ones who'd talked me into joining the gym. They didn't look any more convinced than I.  But they were smart enough not to complain.

Whiners get handed extra weights, so wearing a pitiful facial expression is key. Channel your inner pillaged villager and you'll have it about right. There's no such thing as appearing too defeated, unless you want to add a hundred extra lunges to your day. Friends reading this are thinking, 'Quit telling her all our secrets!' I think she knows.

It's also important to say how much fun you're having, but without sounding sarcastic, which is much more difficult than it seems. Tracy loves it when we're having fun. Because she's always having fun. You can't wipe the grin off her face as she hands you two kettlebells and watches you hoist them and squat like a constipated gorilla.

On the other hand, I'm stronger than I was at half my age. I wish I'd been working out like this before I gave birth, because that's what it feels like when I'm shoving a kettle bell into the air and grunting like a cave woman. As desired by wicked Maleficent the kettle bell fairy, there are many who leave class smiling, their elegant muscles and endorphin highs an example to all. I'm cheerful, too, but more like the guy who just escaped from Shawshank. And yet.

 I love the way I feel the rest of the time. I like my arms, and I'm at an age where no one likes their arms. I like my legs, and ditto. Mostly, I like the way they work and keep me balanced. As I mentioned before, I'm more ungainly than I look so I need all the help I can get just to stand upright.

I remember telling Tracy that I didn't want to have 'one of those weight lifting bodies.' After much laughter at my expense, she said, "Never gonna happen. This is the wrong class for that." I was relieved, but also puzzled. I felt like I was working as hard as humanly possible. Not only that, but I still had to listen to my muscle's ongoing debate. My butt, for one, is a serious whiner with strong opinions.

"Look, Tracy said don't use your glutes!" my butt says bitterly. "I wish that effing core would show up for once." My glutes are right to be cranky. Though my core has returned from the Haufbrau House in Germany, it's still as self indulgent as a hung over teenager. When Tracy says, 'Tuck in your belly button,' it replies lazily, "I don't know how. Just leave me alone." My rhomboids, trapezius and deltoid muscles also use the F word a lot. "Shut up!" I scream back, startling my fellow gym members. It's very hard to do all those swings and deadlifts when your muscles are deeply engaged in arguing.

The gym is a loud place, anyway, what with all the grunting and the heavy music telling us we can't do it. Or reminding us to go balls to the walls. (Seriously. That's a thing.) I can't get over how Tracy never gives up on us. I've tried to convince her I'm a lost cause, but she just won't buy it. Based on her optimism, some things I might try in the future are:

1. Take part in a bar fight and win. ( Although I'm not really much of a fighter. The last time I even went to a bar was in Liverpool, England, where I tried to convince all the Scousers to emigrate to Canada. Though my success was limited, I made sure to let my fervor show. My fervor has increased along with my strength.)
2. Save someone. Even if they're not in danger, I'd just like to try it. I don't care about the situation, either. Burning building, someone trapped under an anvil. I'll use all my skills to save them. I'm still clumsy, but also stronger than I look.
3. Do the Turkish get-up. This is an exercise where you get up from the ground without using your hands. My son in law, Bob, can do it with his tall, nine year old daughter clinging to one arm. When I told Tracy about it, she said, "Oh, you'll do that, too."
No, I won't. I'm not that ambitious. I just pray for the day I can get up from the floor hands free.

Tracy is starting a class for beginners, in January. In spite of my bellyaching, I can honestly say that anyone who joins will have their lives changed for the better. It doesn't matter if you need a hip replacement or had a hip replacement, have bad knees, shoulders, walk with a limp, or are in your eighties. We already have people that age in class, and you will only be stronger and healthier for the workout. (Going for coffee after and whining about everything is an important part of the routine.) There is no gun to my head as I write, but I'm hoping this earns me ten less squats in my first workout of 2020.  Happy New Year, dear readers. And you too, dear Kettle Bell Fairy. Besides brimming over with dread and excitement, I'm filled with too many chocolates, glasses of wine and servings of turkey. It'll take some heavy lifting to get this body into shape again. And that's no joke.

It's a Stepford Family Christmas. Someone Bring the Cheese

There are some hallways I will never enter. Strange doors I will never step through, and belief systems I cannot embrace. I'm talking not about scientology. It's the appeal of the Hallmark channel with its 24/7 Christmas movies that I cannot understand.

I know full well their popularity.  I have close friends and family members who wait all year for Christmas and the magic of Hallmark. These movies are a monetary success story, not just for the card company but for actors, writers and many who work in the business. Yet there's something almost subversive about them. The characters don't stare blankly like the women in the Stepford Wives movie, but still. I find their steady cheerfulness and unusual prosperity just a little creepy. There are other unexplained phenomena. Like the constant baking and the drinking of multiple cups of hot chocolate, yet no one is overweight. 

As I write this, I'm eyeballing a movie called 'Christmas in Evergreen: The Tiding.' Perhaps they've done many shows in the fine town of Evergreen, and this is the latest rendition. I have no idea, because the only time I watch them is when I land on the channel accidentally. Still, I have to confess. There's something mesmerizing about the way they capture their audience.

The first thing I notice is the clothes. Everyone is so well dressed, like they're ready to attend their own wedding. Even the children look fresh from the hair salon. Toques (that's Canadian winter head gear) are accompanied by matching scarves. Boots gleam, and fun mittens adorn every pair of hands. All this fashion finery is backed by elaborate decorations that make Rockefeller Center look small time. Lights everywhere, wreaths on all the doors and even the smallest store is wrapped up like an extravagant gift. Nobody ever frowns in Christmas movie land. Well, nobody except for a child whose mother, (let's call her Amanda) is just too busy.

Amanda has an immaculate, amazingly decorated house, works full time and is always home for supper. And yet, little Jenny feels neglected. She needs a Christmas miracle--one that will have her mother come to her senses and get her priorities straight. Amanda loves to shop. That could be the problem, except everyone in town is constantly shopping and strolling around toting beautifully wrapped presents. By the end of the movie, Amanda has found both love and more time for her daughter.

Then there's little Jimmy, who needs a new mother. His handsome father  is too heart broken to date the boy's gorgeous teacher, though she's funny (Hallmark funny, not Tina Fey funny) and smart and perfect in every way. Jimmy's father looks off into the distance as he speaks about his wife. He was too busy working when she was alive, and now he is filled with regret. Jimmy can't act as well as his father, but we're supposed to root for them both.

The men of Christmas are as well groomed as the women. They look like Ken dolls, with hair that stays put no matter what winter sport they're playing. Usually it's something light, like skating. Or shopping. Even if their car broke down on the highway and they had to spend the night in a village resembling Santa's workshop, they still look like mannequins. Their fastidious appearance leads me to believe that these men are all gay. Except I don't think they have any LGBTQ people in Hallmark movies. Not any who are out of the closet, anyway. Please let me know if I'm wrong.

There are no drunk uncles in a Hallmark Christmas movie. No one ever confesses to cheating on their spouse. If they have a child and they're a single parent, they're never divorced, they're a widow. Or widower.

 I hate to diss the company, because I've been known to wander through Hallmark stores, reading cards while sitting in the aisle and weeping. After a good half hour of this behavior, I'm usually approached by a clerk with a strained look on her face. "May I help you?"
 "No thanks. I just like to read the cards. This is the one," I say, holding it up with the solemnity of a woman buying herself a $10,000 ring. I'll spend $8 because this clever writer deserves the pay.

If these movies were cheesy novels, (which, maybe they were, once) there'd be a bare chested cowboy leaning over a beautiful girl while doffing his Stetson. But TV Christmas movies require clothing. Well fitted, stylish, fake casual. Young couples strolling down snow covered streets, flakes drifting softly past their faces, a church spire or an old brick bank that needs saving, in the background. Maybe a dog. I haven't seen one yet. There must be a Hallmark dog movie out there somewhere. Dogs are emotionally available, and therefore popular.

No one in a Hallmark movie is Charlize Theron beautiful, just very good looking for regular town life. Even the old people look fit and attractive. There's a lot of botox and filler, but its subtle. I can't help thinking, oh, please. Give me one heroin addict dying in an alley while people wander by, unseeing. An old person neglected in a neighborhood of uncaring young people. Any touch of reality that acknowledges the messiness of real life. Our houses may look nice for half a day, but who can keep it up longer than that unless they have domestic help?  Especially if there are kids around. I want to see a Hallmark character step on a Lego piece and yell, 'Fuck me!' It will never happen.

I'd love to see a guy say, 'Want to hook up, just for the night? Nancy next door has been talking about a three way. You up for it?" Wouldn't that shake up the audience. As their Christmas movie coma fell away, the viewers would blink their eyes and shake their heads. "I have to get a life," they'd say, getting up from the sofa for the first time in eight hours.

And yet. The people I know who watch and love Hallmark movies are busy with their own jobs and kids and full lives. At the end of a hard day, they long for the comfort and dazzle of a well decorated town. A simple story line where love waits for the pretty, and kids have small, easily solved problems. No one's parents have dementia, no one's dad is trying to kick his drug habit. Small problems, magical fixes. Yet watching these movies makes me want to try heroin, or lie down in a back alley with a bottle of 90 proof home brew.

I guess what I really want is to burst people's bubble. Apparently this is the reason I can't stand the movies. I'm a bubble burster. A Christian scrooge. Bah, humbug. Christmas for me is about Jesus, but I can't stand the church people in these movies, either. Anyway.

Wait a minute. They just kissed. Why is she leaving? Is she driving away? I thought they were going to get married! What the...?? Dammit. Now I have to watch to the end. Sigh. At least I'm dressed badly. My old flannel bottoms and torn sweatshirt represents the realities of regular people's lives. Because someone has to keep a firm grasp on... Wait...she's back! She's getting out of the car with a string of lights in her hand! Oh, for the love of God! Stop decorating, already.

A Series of Unfortunate Events

Beware of overconfidence. It can turn around and bite you in the derriere, or at the very least, leave you feeling betrayed by yourself. Here's a small example. I am an excellent parallel parker. My mother taught me, as well as my driver's ed teacher, and I got pretty good at it.

I've learned to be patient, and not pressure myself just because cars are waiting behind me on the street. I use my mom's technique and can squeeze into the smallest spaces. I've been bragging about it for a few years. My daughter and I had to exchange vehicles for a week so she could haul some furniture. Our cars seem similar, but that doesn't mean a thing when it comes to parking. My first attempt with hers put me up on the curb. My second left me a couple feet away from it with my car angled strangely. I felt shaken by this. What was happening? It turns out I was only good at parking MY car.

I tell you this as a lead up to my first unfortunate event. It started small, with my favourite backpack breaking just as I entered the Winnipeg airport. No big deal...I anchored it to my suitcase with a strap and was on my way. My next unfortunate event was a bigger deal. I was heading to Surrey for an International Writer's Conference and my plane was due to leave at 11:50. My sister Linda watched me having a leisurely breakfast...it was just after nine...and said, "Why aren't we driving to the airport! You're going to be late!"

"I've already checked in. I'll get there an hour ahead and be fine. I've never missed a flight in my life, so chill." In this way I was reminding her that while she's still older, she's not the boss of me anymore. I got to the airport 70 minutes before my flight time, and went to print my luggage tag.

'You cannot check in for this flight,' was the message on the machine they make you use because they prefer to hire less people and have lots of cash left over for their shareholders. The same reasoning applies to the tiny seats all regular folks are obliged to sit in. It's today's version of traveling steerage at the bottom of the ship. Anyway.

I headed up to the counter and was told that my flight was leaving in a few minutes and I had missed my chance. I pulled up my phone to show the man behind the desk that he was wrong, and I could prove it. I showed him the flight on my phone, and he said, "Yes. Like it says, your flight leaves at 10:40." My first words to him?

"Oh no! My sister was right!" I said, and continued babbling hysterically. "Now my children will lose faith in my ability to run my own life!" I had been proud of how I'd been doing without my husband, who always took charge of our travel itinerary. It was true that he'd missed a few flights himself, but in that moment it didn't matter much.

We exchanged looks, him absolutely certain I was going to cry and me also certain I was going to cry. I fought the tears to make it easier on both of us. My daughter, Hilary, would soon be waiting for me at the Vancouver airport. I sent her a quick text telling her to head to the hotel without me.

The ticket agent found me a new flight, though it cost me some more money, but he didn't charge me for my suitcase. He also told me to lie to everyone and blame Air Canada, which I thought was very noble. "This happens all the time," he said.

"Not to me," I replied.

"It has now. But it won't again."

He's right. What a life lesson. Somehow I'd convinced myself of the wrong time, and my sister, whom I'd correctly informed a few months before, had stored the info in the reptilian part of her big sister brain. Linda was right. Apparently, she's still the boss of me after all.

But then he said this. "I guess the Force just wasn't with you today."

"What?" I asked this very loudly. "The Force is always with me! Don't mistake stupidity for not having the Force! Sheesh!" His hands went up defensively, and then he gave me a better seat for free. Anyway.

All went well after that, until day one of the conference when I had to pitch my novel to an agent. Now full of self doubt, (I can't park, I can't get to the airport on time) I didn't know what to do. Ordinarily, I wing my pitch, outlining the theme and storyline plus giving a short bio. This time I headed straight for the bar, ordered a shot of tequila and wrote the whole thing out. I felt a little better as I marched into my appointment. The first thing I said was, 'I've had a shot of tequila and written my pitch out. Can I just read it?' She said yes, not changing expressions. These agents have to be fearless...they never know what kind of kook will be standing in front of them, begging for a chance. In the end, she decided to take a look at my novel, upping my chances of representation from zero to 1%. Filled with joy (but not self confidence) I hastened to give my daughter the good news.

That night would be a celebration. There was a banquet with the theme, 'It was a dark and stormy night,' and apparently everyone would be wearing costumes. I'd brought the one I'd used for the Rocky Horror Picture show, thinking I could make up a suitable story about my character. In the end, I looked like a vampy hooker having her own dark and stormy night, because less than a quarter of attendees dressed up. The ones that did were wearing raincoats, or carrying lanterns. There was the odd cute mask, and some cool vintage costumes as well as one woman who dressed like a crow. It was very Moira, 'The Crows Have Eyes,' from Schitt's Creek. My daughter wore a cape and mask, and there was I, looking like someone who couldn't charge much for her services. Ironically, this was the outfit that spawned my last blog, 'If Bras Could Talk.'

We were not staying at the host hotel and I couldn't change my outfit, so I just barrelled through dinner and the cocktail party that followed. Fortunately, writers are a quirky lot and I can't help feeling at home with them. Agents are basically the same. Many of them are writers or deal with them every day.

The last unfortunate event ( at least I hope so, I'm still on the road) meant missing all of Sunday's events because I'd booked my leaving flight too early. So consider me humbled and feeling like I'm thirteen years old again. But since I write young adult fiction, that might not a bad thing.

If Bras Could Talk

I was trying to pick an outfit for an evening out when I overheard a conversation not meant for my ears. Before I tell you what was said, I need to revisit my past relationship with undergarments.

There was the time I purchased my first bra from the Blue and White store in Flin Flon. I was twelve, maybe thirteen. I'm unsure because I usually repress this memory. The saleswoman who had handed me a size 30 A had to be called back so I could ask for a smaller size. Do you remember what it felt like to be that age, how you already thought the whole world was watching you? 'Nobody cares,' my mother would say, which might have been true. But it wasn't the caring I was worried about. It was the laughing. The saleswoman hollered across the store, 'Judy Hanson needs a 28AA!' As I tried to crawl inside the wall and disappear forever, I pictured the conversation this little cotton bra was having, one cup to another.

"Easy gig, right? Not much heavy lifting, ha ha. Let's just sit back and relax!" When you're a kid, even your clothes make fun of you. But I never expected that to continue into adulthood.

Today I was wracking my brain (which should be left alone, it's suffered enough over the years) about what to wear for a Johnny's Social Club event, 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show.' I dressed up the last time and it made the evening that much more fun. Fortunately, my youngest had left a bag of cast off clothing behind, and she has a strong preference for black. Sure enough, there in the bag was a garment that could have looked cool if I was young enough, but now would appear kind of silly and therefore perfect for the evening.

I tried the outfit on and realized I needed to wear that bra. The kind that sits in the bottom of the drawer because it's not your friend. The two of you never talk. It's not comfortable and you can't forgive it for the money you spent on its behalf. With a heavy sigh, you pull it out into the light.

Mine was bought in the kind of shop where the saleswomen follow you inside the tiny change room. I felt like an inadequate thirteen year old all over again, even though the sales person herself was barely in her twenties. She handed me her version of the perfect bra and I just knew it wasn't going to be comfortable. However, like Fantine in Les Miserable, I dreamed a dream. Hope was high and life worth living, so this time would be different and that lovely piece of lingerie would fit and make me feel good. It's only when I returned home that I realized I'd purchased another expensive mistake. There should be a bureau one can turn to regarding buyer's remorse, or some kind of bra complaint department.

In the meantime, this bra had to step up and be worn. I managed to wrestle the thing in place and that was when it started talking. The cups totally ignored me in favour of a team meeting. I'm not sure where the other speakers came from, but there were quite a few. One appeared to be the leader.

'Look,' he said, (of course it was a man, smug, patronizing  and fortunately, no one I recognized) 'we need a whole new plan here. Things have changed since the last time we left the drawer.' Another voice pipes up, 'You're not kidding. We need a crane for the whole lifting and separating thing. My God, how much weight has she packed on? Does she even fit us anymore?'
'Look, you stand over there and do the necessary, I'll...'

'Shut up,' I said sternly, pushing things in place, prodding and poking and then doing that horrible reach back for the clasp, which gets no easier with age. A woman needs monkey hands for that kind of business. Or a spare person. Anyway, I finally pulled the outfit over top and this seemed to quell the voices a bit. I heard a bit of mumbling, 'We're never going to make it,' but decided to ignore them.

This is what happens as we grow older. It's not that we get smarter, or wiser. We just stop caring about critical voices, ours and those belonging to our lingerie. We've been to the beach and back and have the broken elastic bathing suits to prove it. There's not much we haven't seen, and really, we paid good money for these contraptions and need to wear them more than once, so we refuse to be shamed. I stand back from the mirror. Yes, I look a bit silly, which means I'll fit right in. Oh, shut up.

Men In Trouble

There are a lot of men in trouble these days. Donald Trump, for anything you can think of, Boris Johnson for emulating him, and Justin Trudeau for brown-facing and enjoying the dramatic life just a little too much. There are others who've been caught harassing women, men, and children. Some out there are thinking, why is nobody pointing the finger at Mick Jagger? I'm sure he's done something. Every rock and roll band from the seventies has to be guilty of SOMETHING. Anything went, back in the day, if you were rich and famous. Even if you weren't. But nobody cared. Nowadays, men are always in trouble.

The married ones, anyway. Since my husband died, I am exercising my 'man chastisement' muscle on my brother in law, Bob. He's a good sport, and since I often stay at their apartment in Winnipeg, I have plenty of opportunities.

One morning, I entered the bathroom and drew back in horror. In a small dish by the sink were two shrivelled brown things resembling:

a. Preserved and shrunken (but not by much) penises
b. Two cooked hot dogs left over from last summer.
c. Something the witch from Robin Hood, (the Kevin Costner version) would use to cast a spell.

I was informed that this hideous couple of lumps was once soap on a rope. Bob is thrifty, and also sentimentally attached to the thing. It looked like wood, he said fondly, but now the bar had shrivelled into a left over body part from Night of the Living Dead.  Bob's defensiveness made me nostalgic for the days when my husband was in trouble.

There were the clothing offences, like his penchant for high tide pants and loud shirts. There was his sense of humour that was almost always fun until it wasn't. Like the time he was the MC for a Chamber of Commerce dinner. The trick with Clarence, who was not generally a big drinker, was to keep him from imbibing BEFORE he had to speak. This time he decided to warm up the crowd with a story about a man who was well known for his moose calling skills. After setting up the scene nicely (a cold fall day, breath in the air, the sense of anticipation) my husband leaned into the mike and said:
"Come here, you fucking moose."

By the stunned silence that followed, he came to understand that perhaps he'd misread the room. I can't remember much about the rest of the evening because of my shock, but I know that a wifely smackdown took place once we got home.

It doesn't need to be a thing of this magnitude to make wives feel irritated. Hearing from friends and strangers, I've realized that any of the following may get a man into trouble at home:

1. Loud throat clearing or nose blowing, especially over the phone, as well as excessive coughing. Having a cold is generally not considered an excuse.

2. Pretending to clean out the garage while basically farting around and rummaging through all the old junk lying about, then simply moving it across the room.

3. Disregarding our health advice, no matter how good it is is or how long we drone on about it.

4. Being gormless: ie: bewildered by our ongoing and ever changing expectations and their own constant failure to live up to them.

5. Walking around with stunned expressions. Not knowing they're walking around with stunned expressions.

6. Snoring, having sleep apnea and not believing us. Telling us we snore too, which we never believe.

6. Basically, whatever gets under our skin on any particular day. They won't know what it is until we tell them, which we don't often do, choosing instead to make them guess. They never get it right. (Is it the socks? Wearing my underwear two days in a row?) We turn away, disgusted. Why can't they read our minds like they're supposed to?

Dear women of the world, (and gay men who feel the same way) I'm not defending the other team, or making excuses for the things men do that drive us crazy. I'm just saying, mine would be in a lot less trouble with me now than he used to be, if only he weren't dead. Though now that I think about it, he's still in trouble for that.

Me, Myself, and Canada

I woke this morning with a very high self approval rating. This is not usually the case. Ordinarily I'm castigating myself for eating late at night and then not being able to fall asleep. Or for forgetting to brush my teeth, which is rare because I'm a very strict taskmaster. I'm like my own S&M club, where I work both ends.

But this morning I looked at my tired, aging face in the mirror and said, "You're doing okay. There is nothing you can do to reverse this morning look, unless a genie comes along at this very moment (I look up in the air at nothing) so bloody well relax already." And for once, I listened to myself. "What wise advice," I said aloud, being very comfortable with audible conversations between me and me.

This is the curse and pleasure of living alone. Now that my husband's witty banter exists only in my head, I'm fielding discussions that should be internal but are more like a noisy parliament session. My political debates before the Manitoba election were fierce, rivalling Gollum in the split personality department of side taking. Now that the federal election looms, I'm back at it.

I wonder how many of us succumb to the eeny, meeny, miny mo form of decision making. My husband was a politician so I've seen, nay, walked through the grass on both sides of the fence. So even with the people I'd never vote for (no matter how much my contrary Gollum side likes them) I'm still able to view them as wanting the best for their country and themselves. And yet. Am I doing what I always do, voting 'same as usual' or will I pick the best one for the job?

Dostoyevsky said, 'You can judge a society by how well it treats its prisoners.' Nelson Mandela and Churchill both said you could measure the degree of civilization in a society by how it treats its weakest members. Mahatma Ghandi said the same thing about how society treats animals. And Margaret Thatcher said 'The problem with socialism is that eventually you run out of other people's money.' Then there's climate change, harder to ignore if you live on the East Coast.

Choosing the right politician generally comes down to addressing one's own anxiety. Am I bothered by other people's pain, or by the idea that my country's debt is growing too large? Do I see immigrants as an economic boon or as people who cost the taxpayers a lot of money? Do I believe people should pull themselves up by their bootstraps, or is it just easier for those with stable home lives, safe upbringings and/or white privilege?

Whichever politician we pick, and however we choose to address our anxiety, we're all in this together. As Canadians, we share a social contract that agrees on many points. There's the unique culture we share, with each province offering it's own flavour. We really are a people who apologize a lot ( I have a video of myself in childbirth, and mid scream, I stop to say sorry to my midwife.) We pride ourselves on being nice, and for the most part, I believe it's true. Let's not lose that. As part of Team Canada, I'll stick up for you, and you stick up for me.  Okay? Now let me check in with my other half to see what she thinks.

"I concur!" she says. I love it when we're both in agreement.

Training Day

I was wandering through the lingerie department of The Bay when I stepped into the training bra section. It's hard to believe that a girl who's a 28 double A needs to bother with anything besides the shirt on her back, but apparently every North American female starts sometime.

How on earth does a bra train a girl, anyway? Does it issue B.O.L.O.'s? (Be on the lookout...) Because that's not bad advice. There's plenty to watch out for on the journey from girl to woman. Is the training just early practice for the discomfort that comes with women's clothing? Let's face it. You don't see men strapping up their chubby chests with a tight band and suffocating unbreathable material. Or waltzing down the street in heels that hurt with every step. In light of that, the training bra might be telling girls the following:

 'This is merely the first step. Sure, you feel like you're locked in a small room until bedtime. But someday soon, you'll graduate to more elaborate prisons, until one day you'll don a Victoria's Secret bra that is the comfort equivalent of a ten year stay in San Quentin. So brace yourself.

The truth is, it's older women's breasts that  need training. After they've spent enough time on the planet, they get a little jaded. Cynical. Opinionated, some might say, and positively revolutionary. There is no accounting for the direction they'll take (though many head south for the winter) and when it comes to the steel-like frames that promise to 'lift and separate,' many women's breasts raise a metaphorical middle finger, and say, 'Fuck that.'

This is why my mother and mother in law entered their seventies like it was 1969 and they were going to burn their bras in the city square. They didn't, of course. Instead, they discreetly tucked them away in a drawer and never looked at them again. Every day life was lived cage free, and like healthy hens, they were free range all the way.

On that celebratory note, here's a shout out to my weight training instructor, Tracy Salamondra. Every day with her is training day, and yes, there are some benefits there for wayward, recalcitrant breasts. It's all in the posture one gains from swinging kettle bells and thrusting those dumbbells in the air. When your shoulders are locked down properly, your breasts might sulk a bit, but eventually they settle into place. "Hmm", I thought, the first time I noticed. "There's something to all this suffering after all.' And unlike a bra shaped like a medieval torture devise, her gym workout actually offers some promise. So I think I'll stick with it and see what happens. Onward and upward, right? Girls, stop it! (I guess we're not quite there, yet.)

My Paddle's Keen and Bright

I might have saved someone's life today. I'm not entirely sure, so I'll lay it all out and let you be the judge. I was paddling my kayak and singing a song I learned a child:

My paddle's keen and bright
Flashing with silver
Follow the wild goose flight
Dip, dip and swing

Dip, dip and swing her back
Flashing with silver
Swift as the wild goose flies
Dip, dip and swing

It's a cheerful piece, and being alone on a lake is the best place to sing it. My patient husband used to allow me to go on and on with nary a complaint. Sometimes he'd join in, though it was always hard to recognize the tune as he sang it.  Now that he's gone, I get on the lake whenever I can, because I feel very connected to him there. 

Today I was paddling and singing, when mid song, I notice someone drowning. Well, something. A dragonfly was thrashing around in the water, desperately trying to fly away but not able to free itself. I paddled quickly and ran right over it in my effort to help. Then I tried again, almost falling out of my kayak in my attempts to get the bug aboard my orange paddle. It seemed even more frightened of the paddle than the water, but I wasn't taking no for an answer. 

There are many religions in the world, several believing that people can spend their next life as something else. Like an insect. In between singing, I'd been talking to my dead husband, saying, 'Feel free to join me! Sneak away if you can!' And then I came upon the drowning dragonfly. This was a moment I'd been waiting for, where I'd get to address my inner Kate Winslet from the Titanic movie. "I'll never let go!" I said to the dragon fly, softly but with the right amount of drama in my voice. I meant it, too. I was willing to flip my kayak far from shore to prove it. It was a safe proposition, because I was wearing my new life vest which makes me look like a person who takes out terrorists and then goes kayaking. Anyway. 

At last I got the dragon fly onto the paddle and dropped it gently on the front of my kayak where it sat, rubbing its face with its front legs, it's small chest heaving with what I believed was relief. I felt so good. 'I saved you,' I said to the bug. 'Is your name Clarence? You'd better not be a reincarnation of Hitler.' 

What is it with Hitler, anyway? There are other evil people who've walked the earth that I could mention. I could have said Stalin. Or the Marquis de Sade, who wasn't very nice to his house guests. But Hitler's always the first guy that comes to mind. I really didn't want the bug to be a bad guy, and that got me thinking.

I'm a Christian who has never believed in the concept of hell. Rather, I believe that when our energy moves on to our next lives, we develop an awareness of how we behaved while on earth. Does that mean Hitler is sorry? Is he wringing his hands and hoping people will forgive him? I guess he'll have to run that by the people he killed. Enough of that. Let's get back to my life saving business. 

As I drew close to shore, I could see the bug reviving even more. I climbed out of my kayak and carried it over to my car. Fetching my straps from the back, I lowered the Hullavator Pro so I could load my kayak and push it up on the roof. I got the thing strapped up, secured it both back and front of my car and drove off down the road. Then I remembered the dragon fly.

I forgot to check if he'd flown away. Perhaps he was still desperately clinging to the vessel. Maybe the wind beneath his wings had dried him off. Or maybe I had killed him. Perhaps I was supposed to let things take their natural course and let him die all along? I'm a Hanson by birth. It's my nature to get involved in things that are none of my business. 

The good news is, I had a wonderful, peaceful singing afternoon on a lake as smooth as glass. The bad news is, I'm a neglectful, potentially dangerous  bug killer. If it was my husband, it's okay. He understands my forgetful nature. If it was Hitler, who cares. Dear bug, I salute your valiant efforts to survive, even if it was all in vain. Such is life. Now here's my song.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I4AUHWGaOoE

I'll Give You Something to Cry About

When I was growing up, this saying was something many parents used as a child raising technique. I've been thinking about it a lot today, and wondering if mom and dad really understood what it meant:

'Here is a little gift from me. It's going to hurt enough to make you cry.'

I don't think they got that. The point was to shut the child down, thereby making life easier for themselves. Self esteem wasn't a thing back then. Providing food and clothes, and teaching kids manners and ethics was considered a decent parenting benchmark. But as many of us have discovered, having something to cry about comes to everyone sooner or later.

Today is my husband's birthday, and I know that since he's dead, time does not pass the same for him anymore.  I believe that he exists on another plane (some call it heaven) because many people have had near death experiences and discovered that our life energy does not die with our bodies. So, wherever you are, honey, I hope you're doing something special, like a canoe trip. Me, I'd be shaping up to battle the Death Star with Han Solo at my side. But you were never into science fiction. Happy paddling. Say hello to our friend, Charlie Mott for me.

I hope my request for someone to distract  you on June 28th and July 3rd  was taken seriously. Those were the days I had garage sales for all of your dad's stuff. Some of yours, too. I'm telling you now, in case you didn't know. We raised over $3200 between the two sales, and the money went to some good causes. I'm sorry you didn't get to be there because you would have been shocked by everything your dad had squeezed into those towering piles of junk. It was kind of insane.

And almost like a party. I had three different guys (looking like they were on safari and had just spotted a rare breed of rhinoceros) tell me, 'This is a man's garage sale!' Family and friends helped make it happen. Their kindness gave me something to cry about.

So does your absence, which seems  more real now that time has passed. I guess I took you for granted, which is a gift no one understands until it's gone. When you're accustomed to having someone at your side, you slide into the comfortable certainly that they will always be there. But your spot is unfillable, and I'm learning how to deal with that.

Sometimes I get angry, and other days I walk around like I'm searching for something. 'What am I looking for?' I ask myself out loud. This has been a constant theme in my life. (I should just admit that I'm looking for my brain.) But now I think I'm mostly looking for you. Even though I'll have to die to see you again. And I have people here, so that's not currently doable.

However, when that day comes, you'd better be ready for me. I want to see a shoreline, and a canoe ready and waiting, with you at the back, and my home made Rick Hall paddle already in place. I want us to camp somewhere, and I'm taking it for granted there'll be no mosquitoes. Maybe you could arrange for us to use that first tent we bought. Remember how small it was? We forgot to buy a fly and it collapsed in the rain. But the rest of the time it was so cozy.

Until then, have a wonderful birthday, and please hug our parents for me. I was going to post the Beatles singing the applicable song, but I think I'll use one that you sang all the time, even though you couldn't really sing at all. But that never stopped you, and that's another thing I loved.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O_s01hE4yFs

West Side Garden Story

I was hacking my way through the jungle of my perennial garden when I saw a horrifying thing. On the path below me,  a horde of ants was attacking a worm, rolling it over and over, and biting it as it wriggled frantically. I ran for the garden hose to gently wash the ants away and found myself singing along with a song from the musical, West Side Story. The New York 1960's gang, the Jets, were attacking a lone Shark who'd wandered through their territory.

Was it my imagination that the ants were snapping their fingers? Do they even have fingers? Probably not, but there was some serious dancing going on, especially when I turned on the hose. The worm (ahem, the Shark) managed to escape down a crack in the dirt, and the disappointed Jets headed for home, once they'd dried off.

Next, I shoveled up their ant hill. The little buggers had been stealing the dirt from between my bricks, and I was tired of fighting them. Crossing the road, my wheelbarrow loaded with an entire ant kingdom, I realized I was the bad guy. Like the aliens in War of the Worlds and Lord Voldemort in Harry Potter, I'd brought the dystopian reality of a world gone bad into the ant's lives. I pictured them wringing their hands (do they have hands?) and weeping about the loss of their home. Honestly, gardening is difficult enough without all this guilt.

What with the singing and gang warfare, it's hard to know where to start. The clover in the grass is a pain, but there's a monster sized version lurking in the taller shrubs that's so much worse.  I think my perennials are in partnership with many of the weeds, hiding them beneath their broad leaves. Tiny dandelion plants, little bits of chickweed. It's like Romeo and Juliet out there. (The old version of West Side Story.) When I pull a weed up, the perennials seem to cry out in despair. I'm sure I heard one quoting Shakespeare.

"I defy you, stars!"

There might have been a song in there, too.  It's our Community Choir's set designer, Ken Pawlachuk's fault. He brought the lovely pier from the Mamma Mia musical into my front yard and now, everyone's a diva. Even the hostas, and they're usually so sensible.

So, if you see me at the store laughing maniacally in true bad guy style, realize that I've just decimated a whole village of ants and uprooted a few hundred weeds. They're all busy singing 'One More Day' (from Les Miserable) while I'm trying to harden my heart. Sure, I'm not using pesticides anymore, but I'm still spraying the weeds with vinegar, baking soda and salt. I'm dousing them with boiling water. It's just a different kind of torture. But that's the way we are, us villains. It's all about our tidy yards and the money we shelled out during the frenzy of spring plant buying.

'It's for your own good!' I shout at the perennials. 'Stop singing!' I holler at the weeds. They barely listen anymore.
One more day, indeed. (Here's the video, a human version. The plants haven't quite nailed it yet.)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ydpmzU_i2hg

ASMR - It's Weirder Than I Thought

I woke up at two the other night and felt wide awake. To get sleepy, I turned to YouTube for a quick relaxation session. I like watching two things: a nice massage or a gentle hair brushing experience. I wrote a blog about the hairbrushing thing called, 'Let Me Help You With That Kink.' That's how I felt in the beginning when scrolling through YouTube in search of something that would quiet my mind. Just a little kinky.

But now I've been introduced to a whole new level of strange. I clicked on what I thought was my video and the usual ASMR sign came up. But this time, there was no hairbrush or masseuse waiting for me. Instead, a gold sprayed mannequin head came into view, along with a woman holding a pair of Q tips. To my surprise and discomfort, she proceeded to insert the swabs in the ears of the mannequin. In, out, in out. Like some kind of ear masturbation. I exited out of that one and lo and behold, another mannequin appeared, wearing a set of headphones. A woman stroked the headphones over and over again and I found myself wondering how anyone on earth would find this relaxing. It was just so weird.

It turns out that the world of ASMR, or Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response, is a wide one, and what makes me feel like falling asleep just doesn't do it for some people. There's one where someone gets an eye exam. There's different videos of people whispering. Some people tap on wood, or books, or balls. (The bouncing kind.) People hum, they whistle, or smoke in their cars.Maybe the last is meant for people who've quit and miss it. Truly, there's something for everyone.

It's left me wondering. If my videos relax me because it feels like someone is brushing my hair or giving me a massage, how did these other scenarios originate? What are people doing with mannequins, anyway? And who decided gold was the colour for the head, and that Q tips would be a hit? Who enjoys seeing headphones get a good rubdown? I wonder how the videographers figure these things out. Do they have a team? Are they taking requests? I have no idea. But to explain how people feel diving into the deep end of weird videos, I'll quote the lyrics from Lady Gaga's moving duet with Bradley Cooper in 'A Star is Born.'

I'm off the deep end, watch as I dive in
I'll never meet the ground
Crash through the surface, where they can't hurt us
We're far from the shallow now

Yes, we are, people. We're waaaaaaay far from the shallows. But whatever makes you sleep at night, whatever has your body falling into a deep state of relaxation, remember this. Never put anything in your ear that's small than your elbow. Now you stay safe. Good night. And here's a little something for your resting pleasure.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oXp0hTkXiks&t=78s

Snack Time in the Apocalypse

My daughter, Hilary, is my alpha reader when I'm writing a novel. I recently sent her the first three chapters of my latest work in progress, and after all the required ego building; 'Yes, nice, very good. I like the character and story,' she proceeded to put me in my place.

"Mom, what's with all the eating?"

 I'm wondering how she can see through the phone to the coconut muffin I'm holding, but I hide it behind my back anyway. "Not you, mom. The girl in your story! She's always cooking. It slows down the action. Remember that she's terrified and alone."

My first instinct was to feel defensive. "That's why she eating so much. She needs provisions to help her handle the horror of her situation. You can stress eat in the apocalypse, you know." Silence on the phone.

When I go to a movie where the characters are constantly running and hiding, all I can think is, when are they going to have a meal? Or go to the bathroom? I find it hard not to worry about their wellbeing. Never mind that the enemy soldier, alien or dinosaur may be closing in. When's lunch?

I have five sisters and one brother and I swear I'm the only one who thinks this way. The sisters are like corset wearing Southerners from the 1800's, who never have appetites. "I think I'm off my food right now," they'll say thoughtfully, pushing their half full plates away. I stare at them in bewilderment. I've never pushed a plate away in my life. And my brother seems to burn 1000 calories an hour, but not me, so that's why I have to exercise so religiously. (Okay, maybe I'm not that diligent, but I try.) My inner tube threatens to become an outer tire, and I'm certainly not going to miss a meal or a snack on it's behalf.

Do you ever wonder why those characters in movies or novels who never eat, sleep or go to the bathroom don't discuss it with the other people on the run? "Oops, I just crapped myself. I should have hid out in that gas station bathroom."

Dear reader, you've read my potty stories about the long road north. There is no bush, ditch or vacant lot that won't do in a pinch. So I really don't understand these characters. I see my daughter's point of view that you can't break the tension with mundane things, but let's have some believability. Science fiction shows are particularly bad for this. A character goes days before finding a tiny, foil wrapped piece of thousand year old dried meat, makes a face eating it, then is back on the run. Really?

Okay, yes, perhaps my girl is cooking too much. But like me, she has food insecurity. Not the kind that actually exists in the world where real people starve every day, but the kind that's in your head. My phone tells me its been two hours since breakfast. Time for a snack. Then its lunch. Then its snack time. Then it's supper. I'm trying very hard not to snack after that because of my inner tube, but I always feel like it. I don't care if my pants/corset are too tight. Thanks to Tracy's weight class (the suffering! the joy!) they're not.

If you have a book you've always wanted to write and it's going to be action packed, let your characters have a moment or two. A bathroom break. A sandwich. Even a bag of chips snatched from a vendor as they whip by, two steps ahead of a giant robot. From all parts of the theater, people like me will exhale in relief, finally able to enjoy the rest of the movie.

If I was a character in a movie, caught by the enemy and facing a death squad, I know what my last words would be. Instead of requesting a cigarette, I'd say, 'Do you have any bananas?' And people like me watching the movie would mutter, 'Good choice.' People asking about the movie later might say, 'Was it sad?'
"Yes, but they let her have a banana.'
'Oh. Thank goodness.'

A little kindness goes a long way. I just hope the Rotten Tomatoes critics like my idea.

Lessons from the Business Side of the Road

In light of my recent eight hour drive home, I'm revisiting the subject of peeing outdoors. I must write this because if I don't, I'll start discussing the relaxed standards of widowhood. It's like living in a frat house with a population of one. It turns out that my husband was the prissy half of our duo, (he had one sibling, I had six...it makes a difference.) Between the hours of midnight and eight, our bedroom sounds like a herd of trumpet swans have moved in. There's no one home but me, so who cares, right? But I've been told that the topic of farting is not fit for public consumption, so that'll be enough of that.

Instead, let me regale you with my latest grievance. It says somewhere in the Talmud (I'm not Jewish...sorry for the cultural appropriation) that there's a men's morning prayer with the following words:

“Blessed are you, Lord, our God, ruler of the universe who has not created me a woman.”  

I say Amen and high five every man on the planet for being on the winning side of that prayer, solely because of the act of peeing. Men get to stand up for it. You can drive by at 110 klicks an hour and feel certain that the guy standing outside his car is just kicking the tires. But nobody buys it when you're squatting with your pants down. And there are not enough bathrooms between Flin Flon and Winnipeg to avoid this situation, so the whole time I'm driving, I'm keeping an eye out for lonely roads exiting the main highway.

This is a bad idea for several reasons.

A. Serial killers lurking nearby
B. Bears

It's still spring and every bear in Manitoba was traveling the number six highway on Friday. I'd pull over on a lonely stretch of road, not a car in sight, and barely (pun intended) get down to business when an actual bear would lumber into view. I broke speed records getting back into my car. So I entered one of those abandoned logging roads, first making sure there wasn't a clown-faced axe-wielding murderer hiding nearby. In spite of the all clear, there were still several problems with the area.

First, it was disgusting. People, this is not your personal dump for your child's diapers, your fast food containers and the last thousand water bottles you drank from and then abandoned. There was barely room to move, the place was so littered. And, there was a bear. A black one, smallish, but even so. I had already assumed the position, feeling grateful for the stretchiness of my Lulu Lemon pants and trying not to pee on my shoes. I thought I was going to faint, but fortunately I skedaddled instead.

In spite of the cold, it's actually easier peeing out of doors in the winter. The bears are sleeping and the snow means no splashing, which is a plus. Men probably splash too, but I doubt they care because of the distance thing. I can't explain it properly because I'm not good at geometry, or finding pi or longitude. Maybe its physics. I don't know.

I started wondering about the plan for women. Like, what's with all the squatting, dear Creator? But then, the more I thought about it, the clearer it became. Childbirth, gardening, picking up tiny toys like Lego pieces. There are many reasons for the act of squatting. With it comes a certain sense of resignation, of patience, and a calm acceptance of what is, at least in the moment. Squatting makes a person feel vulnerable, and maybe that's why women are so open with their feelings, comparatively speaking.

That which doesn't kill you (the bear, the axe wielding murderer) makes you stronger, according to Nietzsche.  At least in the thigh area. So I'm doing a 180 on my whining and will consider the squatting position a gift. I'm pretty sure the Dalai Lama squats. I've seen him do it in a magazine photo. Maybe he's practicing yoga, or praying. Perhaps he's getting in touch with his feminine side and allowing himself to be vulnerable. Whichever it is, I choose to believe that for those few moments of getting down to business, I'm also exercising and meditating.

It feels appropriate to end this blog post with the almost prayerful lyrics of Canadian female icon, Shania Twain:

Oh, oh, oh, I want to be free, yeah, 

to feel the way I feel,

Man! 
I feel like a woman!

Me too, Shania.

Mamma Mia!

The musical is over. The props are put away, the actors returning to their regular lives. Teachers, students, miners, nurses, retired people and at least one writer will take a deep breath and enjoy the peace, quiet, and extra time on their hands. And yet.

I grew accustomed to the daily cries of the Greek Chorus, ie: the Flin Flon Community Choir, sequestered behind the scenery with the band. We were our own little family back there. 'What's happening now?' we'd ask anyone with a view of the floor. Fortunately, there was lots of singing backstage so we didn't have too much time on our hands to think about it. I missed being out in the hall with the actors, but we definitely paid better attention to our fearless conductor, Crystal Kolt.

As we sang our hearts out night after night, I realized that the music in Mamma Mia is perfect for every occasion. Feeling betrayed? Try the theme song.

 'I was cheated by you and I think you know when, so I made up my mind it must come to an end. Look at me now, will I ever learn, I don't know how, but I suddenly lose control, there's a fire within my soul.

These words are applicable to many situations. Got teenagers? A broken down clothes dryer? It's handy having a theme song you can direct at the recalcitrant child or household appliance, especially when you enjoy singing and need to let off a little steam.

I wouldn't mind if my friends met me on the street singing, 'Chiquitita, tell me what's wrong...how it hurts to see you crying, how it hurts to see you sad.' We all need sympathy from time to time, and it's such a tender song. Who wouldn't feel understood with these lyrics? In fact, there were many cathartic moments happening backstage during the whole of the musical. It was like a therapy session. But free.

Then, there's many people's favorite song, Dancing Queen.

'You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life!'  

Well, maybe you can't dance or jive, but when you listen to Donna's friends and all the back up singers belting this one out, you'll feel like you can. This song epitomizes those moments when life can't get any better. It's a high five from the universe, the whole world dancing, singing, and pointing at you in a 'you can do it' vote of confidence. You find yourself squaring your shoulders and thinking, 'Dammit, I think I can!'

Then, there's the cast. Janelle Haucault is our choreographer, ( and that's forever, Janelle. Don't try to get out of it.) Unless you've been to a Flin Flon musical production, you'll never see anything like our own Mamma Mia cast and their wild dance moves. After each energetic number, they'd drag themselves to their changing stations, stunned into silence by their extreme effort and looking like nothing more than colorfully dressed, sweaty zombies who got bit at studio 54 in 1979 and haven't summoned the energy or brains to go home. Every year, the whole singing, dancing cast always seems to lose weight. It's almost become an audition promise. Like some kind of fitness class from hell...(but not like our class, Tracy. We love our classes with you. :) And yet somehow they gather the energy for the next number, and the next.

We, the choir, are squirming in the dark, frantically looking at our scores, the words written in some kind of comic sans, our book lights trying to sort out the music as we belt out what we hope is the right part. We're like miners of a different sort seeking the notes and script and praying we strike it rich so we don't have to see Crystal's shoulders slump in defeat when we blow it.

Meanwhile, the band is playing like their assess are on fire. The drums, guitars, pianos and tambourines just don't stop. Nothing short of amazing, and all this perfection for free. That's right, non-Flinonians. Except for a few, everyone sings, dances, cartwheels and pours their heart and soul out for the sheer fun of it.

And it is fun. We've had twenty plus years of performing, and it never gets old. As Sophie sings, 'It's the name of the game. Do you feel it the way I do?'  Yes, Sophie. In fact, we all get that crazy high that comes from joining our voices with a bunch of others and letting it rip. Do things go wrong? Occasionally. I never noticed a single mistake with the cast, but I remember singing out too early on one part and then saying, 'Well, shit. I blew that one,' before remembering the microphones hovering over our heads. Thankfully, I don't have a voice that carries.  Which is nothing to be proud of but helps in moments like these.

When the finale comes and the crowd surges to its feet to join us in singing Mamma Mia, Dancing Queen and Waterloo, there are no doubters in the room. There are no left or right wing nuts, no grudge holders, no sad people. The place rocks and every voice is raised in the kind of harmony that always comes with the celebration of music, art, and most importantly, community. It's like a magical kind of glue, so that no matter what worries are trying to crowd our spirits, we all have this singing and dancing time together, and in those moments, joy takes over. Of course, the same thing can happen at a Bomber game, too. But that's a whole other blog. See you in the fall, choristers. Now everyone get some rest.

That's Gymnastic!

When my daughter Michelle came into town, I roped her into helping saw the bottom off her bedroom door, which scraped against the flooring. YouTube had recommended using a reciprocating saw for the job but when we started it up, I realized we'd be safer wrestling alligators. We settled on the jigsaw as being easier to control.

Here is the problem with sawing the bottom of a door with a jigsaw but no dust mask. It takes forever, and all the sawdust flies up your nose.

"Mom, every time you look away to breathe, your line gets crooked." She was right. The bottom of the door was as jagged as the teeth of a meth addict. (Or an apocalypse survivor. They say dental care is the first thing to go.) She took a turn with the jig saw, but it was exhausting. We gained an inch for every fifteen minutes of work. I took the last turn and promptly broke the blade, then foolishly touched the broken end and burned my finger. Those kids who lick poles when its 30 below never learn.

Someone told me how to change the blade in the drill. Since Michelle had to head back to her real life, I went out and fixed the door by myself. The sawed off bottom now looks more like the teeth of someone needing braces, but when the light in the bedroom is off, you can hardly tell.

My next project involved courage of a higher sort. My laundry room louvered doors needed some trim. Now that I'm no longer afraid of my mitre saw, I got the pieces cut and only had to nail them in place. The problem was that my clothes dryer sits six inches from the left door and I didn't want to move it because then the vent hose falls off and I've never mastered the art of putting it back on.

So I placed a board across the top of the dryer, put my small kitchen stool beside it and carefully climbed up, making sure to point the nail gun away from my face. (This is not my first nail gun rodeo.) Now I had to contort my body, get behind the dryer and squeeze the gun in place to nail the trim. What with all the bending, the straining and the pushing, I felt like I was giving birth to the nail. I had to take a break just to sweat and curse. (Also happens when actually giving birth.) Finally, I did it. I was gold. Home free.

Or so I thought. Stepping down proved to be a bigger problem. Let me set the scene for you. You've already figured out that I'm not Mike Holmes with his 'do it right the first time' mantra. I'd love to do it right, but first I have to learn to do it. I'm a creative type, which means that I"m using the longest air hose possible on my compressor. It snakes thirty times around the laundry room, heads back toward the rumpus room and finally joins up with the compressor right beside the stairs. I've got boards lying around, hammers, measuring tape. It's a zoo of wild tools and the zookeeper is not always on top of the wild game.

But the good thing is, I know this about myself. I know that having three pictures with the glass out and two broken mirrors does not happen to people who are really coordinated. So while I'm extremely disorganized in most things, I'm also wary. I work like I expect a horde of zombies to enter the room at any minute. I chant to myself, 'don't die doing this,' and it seems to help. So when I leapt from the dryer to the low stool and it skated across the room, I held onto the nail gun and used my newly acquired gym muscles (thank you, Tracy!) to stay aboard.

This was one of those moments in life when you realize that two parts of your life are coming together: weight class and carpentry. Because I've learned to hold my position in a four hour squat (just kidding, kind of)  I skated that sucker right across the room until I bumped into the vanity and stopped abruptly. I looked at myself in the mirror and said, "That was gymnastic!" Because if there's anything that I'm not, its that.

I'm coming along in my weight class, but I have one remedial move where I have to hold onto a bar. It seems that the lunge, where you step backward onto one bended knee and then get up to do it 99 more times, is beneficial. My thigh muscles did not let me down. Ever since surfing the laundry room floor, I have begun calling myself Skater Girl, Avril Lavigne style.

I remain humble about my skills, and yet I have a certain sense of pride.

 A. I got the job done.
B. I didn't lose a hand, or die. Others might question my sanity, but I call my finished work while not dying on the job a success. Now, here's a photo of my 45 degree upper corners on the louvered doors.

ps. I was missing a slat so I boiled a piece of wood in water and made it fit! It seems I'm turning into an older, more inept version of McGyver.

What Not to Wear

I love the TV show Project Runway. Maybe its the years I spent designing products, or because I learned to sew in my twenties and still remember the marvel of making my own clothes. These garments would not have passed grade nine Home EC - not if anyone had checked the seams, zippers or darts. But I'll never forget the first couple things I made; white bell bottoms and a fabulous satin pantsuit. If I'd ever learned to disco, I had the right outfit. It pains me that I don't have a photo of it to paste here. But that was back in the day when you had to use an actual camera.

I also made a number of semi-hideous matching Victorian dresses for my three daughters. "This is the last time I'm doing this," my long suffering twelve-year-old told me at her cousin Leon's wedding. There was also the blue velvet with white satin collar outfits they wore when they were too young to complain. Otherwise, their plea might have gone like this: "Judith Pettersen designed these hideous garments. Please save us."

I watch Project Runway like an alien examining human beings. I don't 'get' fashion, and lag years behind other people, especially those who appear in magazines wearing famous designers. Unlike my daughters, I'd be happy if the whole world wore matching jumpsuits and no one bothered expressing themselves with clothing, ever. Am I comfortable spilling my anxieties and secret wishes on this page for the whole world to read? Yes. Have I ever once figured out fashion trends? To quote the Donald: 'Not.'

I've recently learned that the enormous white sneakers I wore in the nineties are making a comeback. This fear was confirmed by the Project Runway show I watched just the other night. Every model strutted down the runway in bizarre interpretations of puffy jackets, dresses designed for a dystopian world, and extra wide calf length pants. The last outfit was matched with a pair of sling-back shoes, and the designer was criticized for not accessorizing with supersized sneakers. The models are 5' 11" and110 pounds. They wear crazy with no problem at all. Then there's the rest of us. Dressed like that, we'd all look homeless.

Back in the nineties I proudly wore those white sneakers, or, as we call them in my neck of the woods, runners. I was in love with that era's combo of shapeless pants, wide sweaters and huge Minnie Mouse style shoes. But now my heart sinks at the thought of revisiting the Big Whites. 'Do we have to?' I ask myself, with the troubled certainty that I will never get things right. This also applies to your average North Americans vacationing in Europe. On the other side of the world, they're always three years ahead, fashion wise. Every time I visit London, I feel like an Appalachian Hillbilly. (My apologies to all hill folk, but Hollywood has not been kind to your people.)

On the other hand, I live in Northern Canada, so jackets tend to be naturally puffy, and so does footwear. But that's in the winter, mostly. Can't I wear something more slimming in summer? May I not hold on to relatively form fitting clothes? Perhaps a T shirt or two? When you're short, you don't want to call a lot of attention to the fact, and the MC Hammer pants coming back into style do the vertically challenged no favours. Right, Joni Hanson?  Unfair of me to target a sister, but yes. In the nineties, she was in bad need of a makeover. When she put on a pair of jeans one day, people thought she'd lost fifty pounds. Such is the power of tailoring.

In conclusion, I fear the next decade. I'm in that awkward age group where I can't dress young, but don't find the elastic waist pants and loose tops of the elderly quite necessary yet. But, wait. That's the answer. Old people clothes are finally in. (Or, back in. Remember the nineties.) Elastic waistbands, comfy shirts and pants. And yes. Big white shoes. The baby boomers are descending even as I write. Watch out, New York fashion week...you're about to be ripped off.

If you don't watch Project Runway, I have no evidence to prove any of this. Whenever I try to google pictures about it, all that comes up is 'mature porn, very old naked people.' Since that's a fashion we'll all be embracing soon enough, let's just leave it at that.

The Hardest Part is Getting Back Up

In today's weight class, we worked in sixty second segments. Doesn't that sound easy? We interspersed dumb bell routines with some other activities, like using a stepper, a stationary bike with a fan, a ski thingy, and also Jacob's Ladder, which sounds like something you'd climb to get to heaven but is really more fitting for a Catholic Purgatory experience. Lots of climbing, but you're going nowhere except down. Because you can't climb fast enough to make it to the top. And if you go too fast, then you feel very out of control and have to drift downward, hopelessly defeated, and climb off.

A minute seems like such a short period of time, but the whole hour has a 'go, go go!' thing happening, including the sit-ups portion. Getting up from the floor is the hardest part for me. I'm supposed to use my core, but that bitch hardly ever shows up. Sometimes I feel like I've joined an S&M club, but I'm only involved with the M portion. When Tracy (who is lovely, and nothing like Aunt Lydia from a Handmaid's Tale) (there is no gun to my back as I write this) tells us to pull in our belly buttons, tighten our stomach muscles and stop using our glutes, I experience a moment of confusion. And bitterness, because my belly button and that whole general area has been letting me down for years.

And then I find out that overusing your glutes can cause problems for your bladder. (Tracy is concerned about the whole body, not just the biceps. In my mind, that was the only muscle that mattered.) Truthfully, it's my bladder that does a lot of the whining during class. "Why am I involved? Isn't it enough that you drank tequila on the weekend? One shot? Yeah, right." It's not just my brain that likes to complain. My organs are about to form a union, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.

I would love to have a gym butler  at every class, fetching my water and helping me up off the floor. Also, a reporter of some kind asking tough questions. "Is your heart rate supposed to be that high? Do you always slow down when Tracy's back is turned? Is that sweat on your shirt or did you spill your water again?" The reporter could never quote me because my language is boringly composed of sharp cries and this kind of thing:

Dear Jesus, when will it be over?
I just hammered my thigh with a dumbbell!
Oh, God. Did she say we're doing Moby? NO! The hour is up! Right? (like there's some kind of complaint department. I guess filling Tracy in could be the reporter's job. There'd be a lot to say, because my organs are growing very vocal.)

The crazy thing is, for the first half hour, I feel really strong and determined, and I get some pretty wild ideas. Like, maybe I'll head to the bar after class and start a fight. Or rescue somebody from a dark alleyway. (I'm really good with cats.) And then I watch a movie like GI Jane and find out that Demi Moore did six hours of workout a day just to prep. Well, hell, no. I guess my hour workout isn't so bad after all. I think I'll settle for getting stronger, feeling fitter, being happier and possibly someday winning an arm wrestling contest with a child. It's good to have goals.

Since You've Been Gone

Dear Clarence,

It's a year today since you moved out of this life and into the next. I remember your calmness when you left the world. The way your eyes twinkled at the end. Your words were full of love, and we surrounded you with everything we had, holding onto you until the last moment. Until we had to let you go. We had talked about what might lie on the other side of death, and what you might find there. Your last words were, 'I hope I get to go for a swim.' I sure hope you did, honey.

In case you don't know, here's what's happened since you've been gone. I stumbled my way through spring and went into the summer full tilt, handling my emotions by never pausing for a moment. Like a shark that has to keep swimming, I felt as though something terrible would happen if I stood still for even a moment. I got a little bit kooky about it, and you'll be glad to know that the neighbors intervened in the kindest way. One day, I'd been working in the garden for twelve hours, when they suggested I take a break and head inside. I'm pretty sure that right then, I needed to be told what to do. The yard definitely benefited from my ongoing mania. I've been renovating, too, and joined a weight class, which you would love. And the new ER you worked so hard for is finally finished. I hear that it's lovely.

Every first thing we do without you is hard. The kids coming home in the summer, all the birthdays, including yours. My first time in the canoe without you paddling behind me. First Halloween. First Christmas. And now, a whole new year in which you never lived for even a day. Do you know how strange that is? Things are happening around the planet, and it's all a little scarier without your calm perspective.

I didn't understand that I would have to be brave. I believed that the need for it would be over once your suffering had ended. But when you died, it felt like parts of my body had been cut away and the pain was going to kill me. It didn't, and that was hard, too. Because then I had to learn how to live without you. Which sounds like a line from a cheesy love song, but is actually true.

I didn't really understand the forever-ness of it. Like, maybe you'd pop your head around the corner and say, 'Just kidding. I'm still here!' But that happens only in my dreams. Every day, those of us left behind arm ourselves with pep talks, with friends, and with plans for a future that does not include you. Every now and then, a wave of grief comes out of nowhere and knocks me off my feet. But grief has to win sometimes, because that's part of this journey that has no map.

We're celebrating you today in Banff, Clarence. We're going to illegally scatter a tiny bit of your ashes somewhere near the hotsprings, one of your favourite places, and then read a poem by Leonard Cohen. It's beautiful, so I'm going to print it out here. It's called Dimensions of Love.

Sometimes I hear you stop abruptly
and change your direction
and start towards me
I hear it as a kind of rustling
My heart leaps up to greet you
to greet you in the air
to take you back home
to resume our long life together
Then I remember
the uncrossable dimensions of love
and I prepare myself
for the consequence of memory
and longing
but memory with its list of years
turns gracefully aside
and longing kneels down
like a calf
in the straw of amazement
and for the moment that it takes
to keep your death alive
we are refreshed
in each other's timeless company

It's from his latest poetry collection, The Flame, which I am in love with. Reading poetry helps.

After that, we'll go for a swim in the hot springs. I'm going to imagine that somewhere across a thin divide, so very close to us, you'll be having your own swim. You'll be right beside me like you used to be, and even though I won't see you, perhaps I'll feel you there. And that will be its own kind of joy. Those moments when we celebrate you hold me together. So in future blogs, I still might make fun of your wardrobe like I used to. I might talk about the crazy things you did while you were here. And when I write those things, I'll be telling you and everyone else another thing that's true. I'm not ready to let you go. 

Dear Lois (A Community Choir Lament)

I have failed you. Today at choir, I tried to do exactly what you do every Saturday. Sing enthusiastically, learn the part, and then record it for altos who like to practice during the week. I didn't get the job done.

In my defense, which is a poor one, I have a bad cold and I'm not handling it well. I haven't been sick since the fall of 2017 and frankly, I'm as whiny as a man with a cold. Yet staying home and watching TV is boring, so today, I decided to show up for choir practice. I had promised to do this for you, after all. And now, in my highest  operatic alto voice, here is my litany of THINGS THAT WENT WRONG.

First, a hissy shout out to the composers of the Mamma Mia music book (Don't worry...it's not Abba's fault) who charge a fortune for their score and then leave parts out. That's right, non musical people. A professional score, missing whole bars and measures of music, is what we're dealing with here. The musical debuted in 1999, for heaven's sake. Isn't twenty years time enough to fix all the mistakes? Then there's the barely legible font, obviously created by a joker with great eyesight.

I know my fellow choir members don't like it when I use the word 'dunderhead.' But for those who talk when we're supposed to be singing, or repeatedly find themselves singing the wrong song, it works. Today, I fit the description so well, I should inscribe it on a hat. A warm one, because I live in the north.

Because of the cold, my head is stuffed with cotton and my lungs are making strange wheezing sounds, like a badly tuned organ. My choir binder is neat and organized, because I thought it was complete. But we got handed a bunch of new music for the bowing part at the end (seriously, the bows take that long? It's like 100 pages.) The altos were practicing in another room, under the tutelage of Courtney, our local librarian. Instead of beating us about the head with her book, she kept apologizing, as if the person who messed up the score for the musical wasn't to blame for our current struggles.

Fuzzy headed, couldn't find the right page, and it was way too warm inside the school. I was really feeling the lyrics to that song, 'It's getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes.' (not part of Mamma Mia, sadly.) I'd walked to choir, and had layered my Lulu Lemon tights beneath my jeans. Courtney, who'd taken us page by page through the music, says, "Are We Ready?" At this point, I'm trying to undress, crouching with one foot out of my jeans and one in, and hopping around like an uncoordinated frog. "Wait," I called out. "I haven't got my pants off yet." I swear the whole alto section gave a massive sigh in complete unison which sounded lovely and would have been perfect if it was part of the score.

I kept dropping my pencil, losing my highlighter, needing a Kleenex, trying not to cough, ( I think I left a lung on the floor somewhere) and trying to record with the new app I downloaded, like you asked me to, Lois. Yes, I have a cell phone. I have apps. But I couldn't figure out how to re-record, or even start afresh, and then I dropped more things and I guess I should apologize to Beth and Susan who sat beside me. I should probably move through life wearing a sign that says, 'Sorry for being so annoying all the time.' I could colour coordinate it with my dunderhead hat.

Anyway. I did not record the parts, Lois, and for that, I'm sorry. Please forgive me.

ps. Don't worry about the missing bars from Mamma Mia. I'm sure they'll show up by the time you get home.

Happy Birthday, Weirdo

I have finally resigned myself, after many years, to a certain aspect of my character. I come from a time when name calling was taken for granted, and can finally accept the fact that I'm a weirdo.  I was thinking about this today because it's my birthday. I'm not going to put any numbers down since I write young adult fiction and don't want to lose my street cred as a really hip person. Too late, you say? No one says hip anymore? Oh, well.

Four days ago I was flying to San Diego with my daughter Michelle when I had the Weirdo revelation. I was about to board the plane when the steward asked if I was okay sitting in an exit row. I barely stopped myself from answering with this bare faced lie: 'I'm a paramedic and can handle any situation.' Why would I do this? Because I wanted to make myself sound better than I am. I'm short, too talkative and can come off as scatterbrained. While it's true that I am occasionally bewildered by life, in an emergency I'm extremely cool headed. But no one who looks at me ever seems to believe this.

Michelle and I were among the first people to board. Since I knew we weren't taking off for a while, and I hate sitting, I decided to just stand in front of my seat. I begged the pardon of the woman on my left, but tapped the young man to my right on the shoulder. 'Oh, I'm so sorry,' I immediately said. 'I touched you without asking. But it's okay. I'm a mother.' He gave me a look that was impossible to read. We never said a word to each other after that, but it's when I realized that the aforementioned label fit. It's true that I love talking to strangers, and also true that it bugs my kids. They feel its unsafe, while I feel like it's my job to connect with all kindred spirits all around me.

I guess I've always been a bit weird. I was described this way by others as a kid, but almost everyone had some kind of unpleasant handle back then, and mine wasn't such a bad one. The more I think about it, the more I realize how true it is. I talk to myself a lot, and when my husband was alive, he'd pop his head in the room and I'd have to give him a look. 'Oh,' he'd say when he realized what I was doing. 'Carry on.'

When something exciting happens on TV, I will address the actors. When I'm writing and one of my characters takes me by surprise, I'll actually shout aloud. 'You weren't supposed to kiss her yet!' Or, 'You killed him! I can't believe it!' (As if I'm some stranger reading the words instead of the actual author.) As I walk around my home, I will have little arguments with myself. 'Should I go for a walk?' (I ask this out loud.) 'Should I vacuum?' This is why people have pets...so they can pretend there is someone actually listening to them. I don't care how it looks, either. Maybe its the writer in me, but I have a vast interior life that is quite entertaining to me, and I don't mind addressing that life out loud.

I also talk at a pretty good volume to my dead husband, which is okay since I've been told almost everyone does it. I just hope he can hear me. Lately, I've been telling him how right he was about practically everything. It's sad that someone has to die to win the argument, but its true. You won, honey. I hope you know it and get a fist bump from someone up there with you.

Anyway, the older I get, the more comfortable I am just being myself. I don't care what strangers think of me (obviously) and my friends and family formed their opinions years ago, and likely won't be changing them. If this is the title I carry with me until the day I die, I'm okay with it. So happy birthday, weirdo. It's going to be a great one. (Self pep talk--also out loud!)

The Handmaid's Gymnasium

As I left my weight class this morning, I realized that Charles Atlas was right. Nobody wants to have sand kicked in their face at the beach. There's something about feeling stronger that's so empowering, like maybe I can wade into a fight and help someone weaker than me. Which, unless they're a child, is a stretch.

While I'm working out, I'm like all the other gym class submissives. Our bondage mistress, Aunt Tracy, carefully disguises her leathers and whip with gym clothes and a water bottle, but we're not fooled. And yet, when I finish my morning workout, I swagger out of the gym feeling extremely proud. Unless its leg day. Then I'm humbled and hobbled, and feel a bit more like...a handmaiden. The Margaret Atwood kind.

We do this routine called 'Moby' where the name Sally gets thrown around a lot. Not quite sure of the spelling, but it really should have Dick after it, because that's the kind of move it is. There's not many lyrics, its mostly a dark rhythm that doesn't sound too horrific, unless you've spent time with Sally in the past. She's the one in the song ordering us to move up and down in squats and lunges, or while messing around with kettle bells heavy enough to take our heads off. At least four times in the song, we hold our positions, because those segments are thrown in for extra torture. We hold. We hold. And we hold. I've heard some cursing, (okay, it's me) and more than a few prayers. 'Oh God, let it be over, my thighs are about to explode.'

I find myself praying for an open wound or some heart palpitations, so I can leave. What is this feeling? Oh, right. I'm a gym handmaiden. Nothing sexual, of course, unless you count almost impaling myself on the end of my dumbbell. Aunt Tracy is not meanspirited. She is like Wonder woman, and has a vision for us all that some (me) are having trouble grasping. Really? I ask. This is possible? And worse, am I growing used to the pain? Am I liking it?

I accidentally attended a class on New Year's Eve where the whole hour was just that damned Sally and her up and down Moby Dick moves. 'This is helping me,' I reminded myself grimly as I clung to my ring, or my kettle bell, trying to remember everything the commander...I mean, Tracy...had said. Tighten stomach, tuck in butt, don't jut your neck, shoulders down. 'Yes, mistress,' we reply as she strolls past, whip water bottle in hand. She's always smiling, calling out pleasant comments like, 'Are we having fun yet?' Well, of course we're not.

But having said that, by the time I'd finished my 8th class, I'd gone down a whole pants size, and when not hobbling around after a leg workout, I feel kind of amazing. I do believe my robe is looser, and the white hat can't hide my cheerfulness once I've managed to escape  leave class. Anyway, all is well with the occasionally foulmouthed sisterhood of the loosening pants. And while you won't find me entering any weight lifting contests, snow shoveling is a lot easier now. In northern Canada, that's a plus. So, in case you're wondering, will I go back to having my ass handed to me in weight class? You bet.  Besides, I paid upfront, and I kind of like it. Oh, mistress Tracy. You win again.