Christmas at the Hop

I've already written my blog post for Christmas in 2020. But I forgot to mention a few things. For example.

If you live alone, or have a tolerant partner, you might consider spending part of your day at the Hop. Not the IHop, home of pancakes and carb lovers everywhere. The old fashioned Hop, where you take your shoes off and boogie.

The benefits are many. No critics to weigh in on your dance moves so no need to restrain yourself. Just put on your favourite Christmas dance music. But nothing slow or thoughtful. The last thing you need at the very end of 2020 is too much introspection. Don't live in your head. (Full disclosure: My whole life is in my head. But I'm trying.)

When my play list is ready, I dance. I prefer a combination of moves inspired by the sixties. The Pony, the Swim, the Twist, the Monkey, and a few Zumba elements that occasionally threaten the stability of my Christmas tree. It doesn't matter, really. All that counts is the celebratory feeling that accompanies any crazy movements of your choosing. And if you can't do Christmas all day long, you can still Charlie Brown it with hits from your past. Or your children's past. One of my favourites is an old CD I unearthed called Summer of 2009!!  

This is how you hold your weight gain at what I call the 'Manageable Covid 10' while keeping your spirits up. In fact, the very best time to dance is when you're feeling low, and you need your eye to ignore the100 proof  bottle of hooch gifted by a distant relative of your husband's. You resist by walking over to the mirror, or waking your slumbering partner,  and with a fierce look of determination, say, 'Not me. Not this time, Covid 19. I will not surrender to the lure of lying down and watching another Hallmark Christmas movie. I will dance!' 

Are there downsides to the Hop? Full disclosure, yes. A few of them. But you can prevent the one I call Blue Christmas (referring to the air, not your spirits) by moving your furniture just a bit out of your way, thus preventing toe stubbing and actual falls. Also, close the curtains at night time. Otherwise you'll experience a drive by where cars are parking outside your house even though you live on a busy street. The upside is that you've been someone's entertainment, and the story they get to tell over Christmas dinner. 'I saw the craziest thing!' etc.

All in all, I encourage you to join me in celebrating the fact that you're alive. If you're using a walker or crutches, you can still take part with a few spins and a lot of hip wiggling. However you do it, I promise you this. It will help you push away all thought of a nasty virus currently curtailing your seasonal celebration. And on a Christmas note, it will bring a lot of Joy to your World. 

Christmas in the Bipolar Vortex

For my parents and grandparents, there've been some tough Christmases. Two world wars with food rationing meant mystery meat and no sugar for pies. All those boys leaving the country. Many not returning. There was much anxiety over the future. How would things turn out? Would we still be us, or would future generations be required to heil Hitler? Happily, my generation has been spared that anxiety.

Covid is the first real challenge we Boomers have faced. Yes, there was polio back in the fifties, but that was our parent's problem. The sense of unreality that's come with this virus is mostly due to our fantastic luck. We got to cruise through life worrying about ordinary things. Mortgages. Parenting. Will our favourite team make it to the finals?

It's understandable that there'd be resentment over the arrival of a world wide pandemic. When the news first broke, I remember thinking, it's just a flu! What's all the fuss about? It didn't take long for the news to sink in that smugness does not confer immunity. And sadly, there are still many who think their grade eleven biology class and some online information means they know more than scientists and health professionals about the need for masks and a vaccine. Don't bother! they tell us. It's all a hoax! Okay, good to know. Thank God we have you on Facebook, educating the masses.

On the one hand, I've never felt so grateful. Because I've realized that the most important thing in my life is other people. And yet, other people can drive me crazy. And don't we all feel a little resentful that the rules apply to us? "Yes, please lock down those people over there. They're shopping, and visiting. And partying! But I'm not, so please let me see my family at Christmas. Allow ME to break the rules, because I've been so very good. 

In spite of my sadness that I am not exempt from the rules, I'm grateful. We haven't run out of toilet paper or food or electricity. I've certainly got time to read and watch television. I've been zooming a lot. I'd never even heard of zoom before the pandemic. I have coffee with friends on Whatsapp and Facetime. I own snowshoes. And use them. So, there are good things in my life. 

And yet, perhaps some of us nourish a tiny kernel of bitterness, believing this: 

1. Someone ate a wet bat and then coughed in a crowded restaurant. 

2.This is a scheme by foreign agents to take down the world. 

3. Donald Trump is to blame. (Well, isn't he? Doesn't it feel good to blame everything on him? I mean, he's just so awful.) 

4. We should have shut down our borders and isolated much sooner. 

5. We shouldn't have shut down. Save the economy! Let the weak die! 

Really, the opinions alone are enough to sink our spirits. But we don't let them, because we can't afford to. We need to keep our spirits up and soldier on. This is a war, dammit. Not wearing a mask and following isolation rules is like living in London during the blitz and not putting up blackout curtains. You're basically saying to the enemy, 'Come over here! I've got a live one for you!'

Most of us hoped we'd be done with this thing by the fall. All the Covid bugs around the world would high five each other on an excellent job and head off for a well deserved rest. That ain't happening. So we will eat our Christmas dinners in twos and threes, or groups of five for those lucky people with children still living at home. We'll buy tiny turkeys and remember to touch base with others by every means possible. We'll sing carols along with people online. We'll give ourselves permission to feel sad that everything isn't perfect. And remind ourselves that it never is, really. We just miss the main ingredient of Christmas, which is other people. We'll continue to wake up in the morning, push away the thought that it will be the same as every other day, and rejoice that this will hopefully be our last Christmas in the time of Covid. We'll remember what Charles Dickens said in 'A Tale of Two Cities,' 

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.”

It's us in this bipolar vortex. And when it comes to an end, there'll be dancing in the streets. At least, there will be in Flin Flon, Manitoba, because that's just the way we roll. Merry Christmas, everyone. During this bipolar vortex of whirling emotions and longing, we're going to have the best, worst, happiest, saddest, most unusual day ever. And 2020? It's already in the rear view mirror. 

Here's a little something to celebrate with.

(4) Fifth Harmony - All I Want for Christmas Is You (Official Video) - YouTube

 

Being Mr. Bean

 I was thinking about Mr. Bean the other day while pouring myself some water. I'd taken the carafe from the fridge and was filling up a glass when suddenly, it overflowed all over the kitchen floor. I also make a mess watering my house plants. And at those moments I always think, just stop it. Because, I don't like the Mr. Bean side of myself. The one that occasionally misses her mouth while taking a sip. But the uncoordinated of the world often misjudge the size of the glass, or the situation.

Like Mr. Bean, there are moments when no foot is too big for my mouth. I travel through life with the same goofy, good humor, but also with the tendency to say the wrong thing from time to time. Like Lady Catherine de Bourg from Pride and Prejudice, I can raise thoughtlessness to a whole new level. 

But there is something that saves me from my role as the crass, uncoordinated being bouncing off the walls in my own house. And that's spending time outside. I believe this is true for everyone, especially those struggling with Mr. Bean syndrome. ie: Feeling like a loser. 

When I'm kayaking in the summer, or skiing, walking or snowshoeing in the winter, I feel very differently. It's not that I'm particularly good at those things. But being outdoors is like receiving a back pat from God in the self esteem department. Even on the occasion when I've turned too quickly while lifting my kayak, thus bashing a dent into my car, I still feel okay. Because overall, I've had a successful outing. I didn't drown, fall in, or even worse, stay home. I went, I saw, I paddled. It's the same in the winter. However slowly you move, as long as you're putting one foot in front of the other and taking in the view, you're one hell of a success story. 

That feeling goes a long way toward thwarting the 'turkey on the head' feeling of being Mr. Bean. 

There are those of you who go through life smoothly. You are the Cary Grants of the world...suave, coordinated, well spoken. Then there's the rest of us. The ones who fear that dementia in old age is the fallout from all the times we banged our heads on something. You know you're being Mr. Bean when you haul too many things at once up the stairs or in from the car, and all that's missing is a banana peel to slip on. You try to hammer a nail in the wall but miss, creating a dent. Which you cover with a picture, of course. As you go through life, you tend to say things to yourself like, 'Slowly, now. Careful. And the ever popular, 'Don't die.' 

So, go on. Get outside. Show the world the real you, the 'Not quite athletic but knows how to appreciate the great outdoors' person. I'll meet you there at the corner of 'There's ice under the snow and I wore the wrong boots.' We can have a chat while we brush ourselves off. 

Christmas Math, a True Story

  My relationship with the subject of math has always been strained. Like every kid of my generation, I memorized the times table, learned long division and had no trouble with the basics. But once I got to high school, things changed. In the tenth grade I actually did okay due to an excellent teacher. But after that year's glow of self worth and the short flirtation with a slide rule had worn off, our relationship went downhill. 

As I was arranging the Christmas lights on the pillars outside my house, I was reminded of all those math feelings, and also of my dad. I remember him pulling out the box of lights, his face filled with the belief that this year would be different. But sometime over the past year the strings of lights had once again decided to mess with him by tangling themselves together. 

 'What the...?' I remember his shoulders slumping as he realized that sorting them out would take a whole evening. So here's a heavenly coin, dad. Buy yourself a beer, and get one for Clarence, too. Decorating the  outside of the house is not all that much fun, and I'm sorry I didn't sound more appreciative at the time. 

Anyway, back to me. As I swung around the first pillar, one foot on the top rung of the ladder and my De Walt drill in hand, a surge of vertigo washed over me. This has become my new normal, so planting my feet, I grimly screwed a hole into the wood overhead and then twisted in a hook. My problem? I'd recently come into contact with a math germ, ie: Christmas lights and electricity, and was having a hell of a time figuring things out. 

All four strands had gone up a few days before, but only two pillars would light. For people like me who live in a world of faith, God, and occasionally a fairy or two, this was not good news. Was it the cords I'd used? Could one of the many strings I'd joined together be broken? (Full disclosure: I forgot to check them before winding them around the posts.) The strings had been braided through with fake greenery. Working with them can be a challenge. Especially when I'm up high, and the world is swinging crazily around in spite of my not actually being high. If you know what I mean.

I brought out a portable radio and plugged it into the cord ends along the way. Aha! One had only a single in-thingy that worked. The one on the other side didn't. (For the official name for in-thingy, please consult google. Or anyone who knows about plugs. Or who hasn't lost words over time. But that's another story.) 

Sadly, I have recently discovered that electricity is not my friend. When I was installing two small chandeliers in my bedroom ceiling, my brother, who was at work and probably hiding in a closet, was talking me through it. I felt like the latest hire on a bomb squad. In the end, it worked. But after that, my bathroom lights would flicker on and off at random times. I've changed the bulbs twice. We'll see.

So, getting the lights around the outside of my house to actually work was very important to me. I'm basically like every two year old you've ever met. 'Do it myself!' That's the toddler's motto I cling to these days. I don't know why. Seriously. I have very helpful friends and family members, but I like to experiment with things that might kill me. 

As I was testing the cords, figuring out where I could plug in what (eight cords were now involved, snaking along the wood facing of my overhang and tucked into the now installed hooks) I realized that I really wished magic was a thing. I wanted to be Hermione Granger and just wave my wand and mutter a few words like 'Stringem upem.' No wonder they enter Hogwarts at age 11. You don't have to worry about things like math when you have a magic wand. 

Fortunately, a few verses of 'How Great Thou Art,' seemed to do the trick. I don't know if God saw it as a bribe (it was not, it's my go to theme song for panicked moments) but in the end, everything worked out. Will I remember how I did this next year? No. I will not. Otherwise, I would have remembered doing them last year. This is not the kind of thing that sticks in my brain. 

So if you drive by, please appreciate my hard work, math efforts, and ability to stay on the ladder while surfing a wave of vertigo. And I will appreciate your work, too. We Christmas lighting people have to stick together. 

The Life and Hard Times of Inanimate Objects

 I was busy rebuking my toaster yesterday when I had a revelation. It had burned my single piece of gluten free bread, an item expensive enough to make me swaddle it in butter and honey and eat it anyway. Our friends may recognize us for who we are, our family even more so. But nobody knows us as well as our household goods. This includes walls, floor and ceilings, but most of my vitriol seems to be aimed at my appliances.

I try to be the kind of person who thanks them for their service as recommended in that Japanese book about not holding onto crap. But I'm more like an ungrateful girlfriend. I fall into abusive verbal behavior very easily. And for my poor vacuum, there's not a court in the land that will hold me to account. 'You clean my floors well,' I say to my Dyson. 'But why does your cord insist on getting caught in the furniture feet? Why do you always make me walk across the room to bend over and untangle it?? Why, Mr. Dyson? Isn't that your job? Things seemed to be going so well when I first bought you. But lately your attitude sucks."

Next, I give my drill a serious lecture. 'Why won't you hold onto the bit? My job is to hold you. Yours is to grip the bit and let me get this screw into this board!' As I holler, I can sense all the tools in the house shivering in their poorly organized cases. The walls hear everything. And I am not a silent whiner. Even before my husband became a landed resident in heaven, I was very vocal about the shortcomings of our possessions. 

And yet, I consider myself a grateful person. I am continually giving thanks, aloud, for things like my comfortable bed, warm home, family and friends. Anyone overhearing me would be inclined to think that my character is above reproach. Sadly, as my mangled can opener will tell you, this is not true. 

I'm confessing publicly to appliance abuse as the first step in my self made program I've taken to calling 'Inanimate Objects Anonymous.' Before you get any ideas about joining, let me tell you up front that this is a one person group. I'm all I can handle right now. I kneel apologetically before my kitchen stove (something I've picked up from all those Korean Dramas on Netflix) and tell it I'm sorry for swearing at it last night. I must have programmed the oven incorrectly. (See how I'm owning up to my mistakes? This program is working!) 

And then I notice the pot of soup I left simmering on a back element. Most of the broth is gone and the mushrooms and vegetables are sticking to the bottom. An almost burned smell is rising through the kitchen, along with my temper. "That damned pot," I mutter, trying to be quiet so the stove won't hear me. Is this a step backwards? Perhaps. I might have to give back the coin I gave myself for one whole day of nice behavior.

It's Covid 19's fault. Okay? There were white and black birds singing on the lake this summer that were less loony than I've become over the last six months. Besides going for a walk, I try to do one thing per day that gets me out of the house. Mail a letter. Buy groceries. Drop off some books for a friend. Little make-work jobs meant to shorten the day. But there are mornings when I wonder if I should even bother washing my face. Because, who cares? I'm wearing a mask everywhere I go. I could have spinach stuck between every tooth and no one would know.

I feel better getting this off my shoulders. And I'm sure I'm not the only one with a bit of a temper problem. Maybe other people don't take their frustrations out on their household appliances, but I think it's better than yelling at the postal worker for not giving me mail two whole days in a row. 

Last night I heard strange whisperings and rustlings coming from the basement. Since my deceased husband Clarence and I have a pact that he will check in now and again, but without being creepy, I knew it wasn't him. And I realized that if I'm not careful, the neighbors could come in search of me one day and find me at the bottom of the stairs, the vacuum posed innocently at the top, and a pot in my hand with a strange dent in it. Okay, time for another meeting. I really need to earn back that coin. 

I'll Make Love to You (Like you Want me to)

 I was clearing out a cupboard in the basement when I came across a zippered case full of cd's from my daughter's high school years. I tossed it onto the passenger seat of my car and started going through them. The first was the Boy's to Men song of the above title. And I thought, aw, that's so sweet. How woke of them! It's like they looked ahead and saw how things were going to change in the world. Well behaved men would ask permission before making a romantic move. Though I should really credit Babyface, aka Kenneth Brian Edmonds for the foreshadowing--he's the songwriter. But still. The boys did a lovely job. I assume they're all men now. 

It got me thinking. Things are changing pretty quickly, and I'm having trouble keeping up with the movements of the day. And the language of the day. (I can picture my sister Linda reading this and jumping to her feet. 'No! Don't go there! We've talked about this! (We have, indeed.)

It's true that I often suffer from hoof in mouth disease, and why should my writing be any different? But one thought led to the next and suddenly I was immersed in the bewildering world of political correctness. Don't get me wrong, people. I don't want to find myself bombarded by posts from incels high fiving me because someone is finally validating their belief that women owe them sex. Because, you know, women are alive. And they owe them this. Nuh uh. (Although, I do feel sad for people who can't find love. But that's a whole other story.)

I'm talking about the rush of the world as it speeds toward a more compassionate way of being. The way that boys are now being raised to be considerate, to ask for permission before kissing a girl, and to view women as deserving of the same jobs, the same pay, the same respect. This was not always true when I was little. As I said in the first paragraph, this also applies to sex. The whole song is pretty racy, and I don't want to break any copyright laws, so go check out the lyrics. Okay. They're not THAT racy. But I'm the woman who took many decades to realize that so many songs of my generation were actually about sex and that's what all the background moaning meant. Who knew?

Anyway, back to the point I was originally going for. Some of us are afraid of making mistakes in this kinder, gentler world we're all aiming for. We don't want to call people of other colours and races by the wrong names, we don't want to mislabel others of various sexual persuasions. I worry that we (meaning I) will turn away from a conversation simply because I'm afraid I will say something wrong. Perhaps those of us who err on the doofus side should wear signs like those carried by cars with new drivers. Something like, I have a kind heart. Forgive me if I hurt you. Tell me what I did wrong and I'll do better next time.

Okay. That's a bit long for a sign. But you get my meaning. 

There are also people offended by those who practice cultural appropriation by doing some of the following: Wearing blackface. (Justin!)  Copying someone from another race, like how people dressed up as Beyonce before the word got out that it wasn't nice. Guys dressing up like Dave Gunn (from Flin Flon) for Halloween. Does Dave mind? Weigh in here if you do, Dave. We need to know.

There are those in hot water for writing about someone else's cultural/racial experience. Like author Jeanine Cummins. Her book, American Dirt, is about a Mexican woman and her son escaping to the US because their lives are in danger. I don't want to give too much away, except to say that it's a terrific read. Some Hispanic readers were upset because they didn't see this as her story to tell. As an author, I can't buy into that argument. If we only start telling our own stories, the world will be a very boring place. Think of Communist China under chairman Mao, where everyone dressed the same and ratted on their parents if they weren't walking the party line. It feels dire, that kind of censorship. I might feel differently if the book was terrible, but the writing is stellar, and the story a real page turner. It doesn't mean that someone else can't their own version of what it's like to ride the Beast across Mexico. But why should the world not get to read this book? I'm backing Stephen King on this one. 

I'm happy that the world is moving in the right direction. I especially hope for a really big change on Tuesday, the day of the American election. There's nothing like the leader of the country next door bragging about how he doesn't ask have to women for permission, he just moves in and grabs them by the you know what. Does that set the world back about 75 years? More? Sigh. Here's a good guideline to follow. If he does it, it's probably best not to copy him. 

In the meantime, I love you all, dear readers. Forgive me when I hurt you or disappoint you. I'm trying to outgrow my cluelessness, but it's taking me a while. And finally, I'll respond again to the title of this blog post by saying this: I'm old fashioned! Go ahead and kiss the girl! Okay, I'm being heavily influenced by the Little Mermaid here. Wait...is that bad, now?  Sheesh.

My Secret Romance

 I have fallen down a rabbit hole so deep, I may end up on the other side of the world. It was a friend who suggested the trip, and now there's no going back. It's not a garden variety descent into obsession, either. In fact, I've never done anything like this before. What's driving this deep dive? Korean Dramas on Netflix. 

They have taken over my television experience. I find myself checking in throughout the day. What's Kang Joon up to now? Has he stopped brooding and allowed himself to fall in love with the girl who literally fell from the sky? At first I worried they'd be just like Hallmark romance movies, or even worse, the Christmas ones. Thin plots, fake problems, too much decorating. But no. These people are beset by all kinds of serious situations and heartbreak. For example.

The first one I watched was 'Crashing Down on You,' about a rich South Korean girl who accidentally paraglides into North Korea. Enter one handsome soldier and his cadre of funny sweet sidekicks and the drama builds from there. These shows are almost Austen-like in the making. It takes a while for anyone to even hug. And when they do, it's always accidental. She stumbles and he catches her around the waist. The music swells (with the help of a dreamy Korean pop song) and they gaze into each other's eyes. I don't know how they do it, but they seem to nail the chemistry every time. After 16 episodes they may have kissed only once or twice. 

Their success is guaranteed by one thing: yearning. It's the star crossed lovers gazing longingly but never able to seal the deal, trope. Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy, Bella and Edward, Laurie and Jo. They've tapped into our teenage selves and shown us that for some people, it works out. Because let's face it. Most teenagers yearn for the impossible, and we all carry those hopeful 16 year old idiot beings within us. Yes, we do, so stop denying it. 

Another aha moment: I find people of other ethnicities more attractive than white folks. It's like opening a coloring book and instead of seeing bare spaces, the pages are filled with rich hues and physiques that do not seem inspired by the MacDonald restaurant. (Though a MacDonald's lover by the name of Clarence still holds my heart tightly in his deceased but heavenly fist.) 

Another surprise: Like characters on the run in any of my novels, these people love to eat. Like, all the time. They must be paying homage to the basic human need for sharing meals. And Koreans eat differently than we do. They tend to slurp their noodles loudly and put far too much food in their mouths. This is to show how much they're enjoying the meal though it's usually the female characters doing this. It demonstrates that they're just regular girls not out to impress anyone. 

One of the characters is always rich, (not necessarily the guy) and one is of modest means. In this way, the wealthy character can gift the poorer one with a new wardrobe so we can all enjoy their Cinderella experience. So the love interest is both the prince/princess and the fairy godmother. It's extremely satisfying. 

If you're interested, try Crashing Down on You first. Then step into a more gothic take on love and family life with 'It's Okay Not to be Okay.' I really loved that one and cried all the way through the last episode. I won't share any more titles because I'm not willing to admit how far down the rabbit hole I've traveled. In terms of distance, I may already be in Korea. And if you decide to join me there, let's get together for some noodles. 

Can I Get a Witness?

 Musically, I'm all over the place. There aren't many limits to what I like, though once upon a time, I couldn't handle loud music at all. As the years passed and heavy metal came into being, I realized that I really didn't mind ACDC, or Metallica. It's the volume that's an issue. My older sister feels the same. Once when I was playing my Led Zeppelin II album, she came screeching into our room. "Have we died and gone to hell?" (When stressed, we all tend to quote my mother.) For some reason, Led Zeppelin gets a pass from me. I think it's because Robert Plant's voice is so agile and almost feminine at times. 

Linda and I are not alone in our response to loudness. Some years back I went to a movie with my five sisters. The moment the music swelled and the violins/whatever the hells/ were screaming, I looked around. Every single one of us had our fingers stuffed in our ears. We're all a bit like Dustin Hoffman in the Rain Man movie. If the sound gets too loud, we have a tendency to slap ourselves about the head. Or slap those responsible. So in spite of all the talented screamers out there, this disability prevents me from appreciating them.

I like rap music, but during the rapping part, I'm always secretly wondering if the artist can sing. It feels like cheating if they can't. The notion that rhythmically chanting poetry is an easy thing to do is obviously wrong. I can recite a poem or two...maybe even write one. But I truly don't know how these artists squeeze all the words together, convey a message and still make me want to dance. And yet in spite of my growing appreciation, I feel comforted when the rapping stops and the crooning starts. "Ah, okay. They deserve to be famous, because they have a really nice voice." Silly, I know. And probably an age thing.

I've always loved gospel, which is different from the usual 'hymn sing' type music you hear in your average mainstream protestant church. Because we're not allowed to sing during Covid, my minister has been playing taped music. This last Sunday, he took a real chance and played a gospel version of a hymn we've sung many times. It got off to a good start and then quickly went off the rails. It was fine until one of the singers started screeching, 'Can I get a witness!' about thirty times in a row. First, let me set the stage. No. In the United Church of Canada, you cannot get a witness. Not the kind that will jump to their feet and shout, Amen, sisters and brothers! Preach it!' We do say Amen, though. After someone has prayed, or maybe after a hymn we really enjoyed, you can hear some muttered Amens. To give Steve credit, he's really trying to mix it up and have some fun, because we're all just sitting there, not able to pray out loud or sing, or even stand. I myself plan on trying out a gospel song when I do a service in a few weeks. However, thanks to Steve, lesson learned. I will not ask for any witnesses. Especially ones with loud, high voices. 

I grew up listening to two kinds of jazz. The stinky kind (Stan Kenton, Miles Davis) which had my mother repeating the phrase about dying and going to hell. Then there was the other kind... a light, loungy jazz like my sisters sing. Dad played big band music, with guys like Glenn Miller and Duke Ellington. I also love any kind of World War II era songs, like White Cliffs of Dover or I'll Be Seeing You. (Billie Holiday!) It's good they don't play these in grocery stores anymore. I'd be found in the produce section weeping into the bananas. It gets me, that music. 

Everyone loves pop. I know there are many of you out there climbing up on your high horses and saying, 'No way! I'm too good for that crap!' No you're not. We know you secretly listen to Lady Gaga or Shawn Mendes. But don't worry. It can be our secret. I remember lying to a friend about liking Donny Osmond, because it wasn't cool to admit it back then. But I loved his voice, and wished only that he had better material. 

I learned to like classical music in university when I shared our dormitory bathroom with a music major, Shari. She scoffed at my small Strauss collection, who I considered the pop star equivalent of his day, and introduced me to Prokofiev and Debussy and some others that I can't remember. When I joined our community choir, I fell in love with Mozart and Beethoven and all the guys who wrote really great requiems or symphonic pieces. 

And then there's Country Music, which wasn't allowed in our house when I was growing up. I think this was the greatest barrier between Clarence's parents and mine when they first met. My mother liked Julie Andrews and Harry Belafonte. His mom loved Loretta Lynn and Hank Snow. I remember the first time we all gathered in his parent's rec room and had a drink while listening to Vic's favourites, 'The Moms and Dads.' My parents looked shell shocked when we got home, muttering to themselves and asking me if I was really sure about this guy. 

I learned to enjoy some country music, even Tammy Wynette, famous for the D.I.V.O.R.C.E song. Although, who did those parents think they were fooling? You can spell things out all you want, but you can be sure little J.O.E knew about it already. Country music is like a Hallmark movie that's been twisted a bit. It seems pleasant and melodic, but the siding keeps falling off all the houses in town. That's Country. 

My all time favourite music, besides the gold standards like the Beatles or Simon and Garfunkel, is emo. Give a whiny guy or girl a guitar and set them loose. There is not a sad, slow song that I won't listen to on repeat, unless I'm with one of my sisters. 'Shut it!' is their usual response. Anyway. 

My least favourite music is really about the performer. I should not throw anyone under the bus, because God knows, my voice would not soothe anyone's soul. But there is something about the artist, Daniel O'Donnell. Every song he sings sounds the same. Irish lullaby's, hymns, dramatic songs like 'The Impossible Dream.' They're all very...pleasant. If you've ever watched one of his concerts on PBS, you'll notice that his audience is white haired and elderly. (And now it seems like I'm throwing seniors under the bus. I'm not! I know that many of you are at home right now listening to your Black Sabbath albums!) Daniel O'Donnell fans definitely offer a different kind of witness. "Wasn't that lovely, dear?" 

Thank goodness there's something out there for everybody. If only politics was so easy to navigate. Come November, we'll finally know the results of the US election.  We all get to be witnesses for that momentous event, and even if we can take the tension of the next six weeks, we'll all feel the fall out, whoever we're cheering for. If things continue on the way they have for the last four years, I'll probably find myself in the mood for something like this. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bUr7rdsFdOU

A Loon Walks into a Bar

 Well, not really. More like I met it out on the lake, shortly after dropping my butt into my kayak. That's how you do it...you put in a leg and then drop your butt. It doesn't matter what your other leg does, because you're already secure. Anyway, I was paddling merrily along the shore, staring at the rocks and belting out the Christian standard, 'How Great Though Art." For those who love to sing, there is no better place during Covid than being alone on the water. First came the hymn...I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder...and then I met the loon.

Immediately, the lake, rocks and forest around me were transformed into a smoky lounge. Think Rick's Café in Casablanca. Grabbing a barstool, I silently wondered if the loon came here often, but since I'm writer, I try to avoid such clichés. "Did you come here alone?" I said, knowing they like to travel in pairs. 

"Did you?" it replied with a languid but lonely look. 

Pointing to the spot where I'd scattered my husband's ashes a month before, I took a second look at the bird. It seemed melancholy, and gave a forlorn wail as proof. "Did you get left behind?" I asked. It nodded. "Yeah?" I said. "Me too. You'll be okay." We chatted about the lake, how empty it seemed and how all the beavers had disappeared. I'd gotten used to the steady sound of their slapping tails. It seemed eerily quiet without them. 

"Beavers are just so bitchy,' the loon said in a low voice. "Always in a bad mood. Like, no one else is allowed to swim around? I raised my glass, saluting its bitter sarcasm. 

"Here's to those who love us, and bugger all the rest." We toasted and sipped. I must mention that while we were deeply engaged in this conversation, the lounge was growing darker and more intimate. As we leaned our elbows on the counter, I tilted my fedora...(okay, Clarence's Tilly hat) and said, 'Of all the gin joints in all the world..."

"You had to walk into mine,' the loon finished with a heavy sigh, just before we heard a booming sound. We looked up. Dark clouds crowded the sky, and in the distance, thunder rolled across the heavens. Oh, the irony. I'd just been singing, "I hear the rolling thunder," before I met the loon. Sadly, its meaning had not registered. 

Quickly the loon flew upward and the lounge disappeared, leaving me to desperately paddle back to my car. As lightning teased the sky, I asked myself this. Would my rubber soled Keene's ground me? Was my paddle just a lightning rod in disguise?

There are different kinds of prayer. Singing is one type; a celebration of being alive and able to breathe freely. Ordinarily when paddling, I sing a lot, gazing at the fallen trees, (compliments of the beavers) lying beneath the waves like ship wrecks and the gray boulders resting on the bottom like sleeping dinosaurs. As I paddled swiftly, the loon disappeared from sight and I practiced the desperate person's prayer. (Many of us know it.) 'Please don't let me die here. My kids will kill me.'  

Life holds all kinds of lessons for us. Like, remembering to put a foot in your kayak before dropping your bum. Like understanding that time spent with Mother Nature is like applying lip balm to a chapped soul. And then there's this. If you meet a loon in a bar, don't be seduced by its pretty feathers or lonely wails. Just doff your Fedora, wish it well, and leave. But feel free to call over your shoulder like I did before paddling away. "Loony, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship." 

A tremulous answer came from somewhere far above me. I took it as a yes.

Dear Clarence, Who Art in Heaven

 It's been a month since I've written a blog post. And in case you didn't know it yet, we're in the middle of a pandemic. You'd laugh if you could see me heading into Walmart or the Co-op. I adjust my mask...yes, I said mask...looking like I'm about to rob the place. This is the new normal here in 2020. 

When I go inside a store, I say hello to random people in case I know them. It's very hard to tell. We've been isolating from each other since March. Happily, summer finally came along and saved us all. It's been thrilling just working in the yard and kayaking every day. Remember last summer, when I thought you were the dragon fly I saved from the water? I didn't know for sure. But you'll be glad to know I've been a little less nutty this year. I think.

Our daughter Michelle got married on August 15th. Thankfully, you met her fiancé, John. The day was lovely in every way, but small because of the whole Covid 19 thing. The wedding party was large: six bridesmaids, six groomsmen, but the guest list was tiny. Just family, with a couple extra people. I performed the ceremony and you'll be relieved to know I stayed dry eyed. I'm not sure how I did it, and I worried about sobbing through my Welcome to the Family speech, later. Fortunately John's best man Dave cried during the wedding, and this saved me. I felt completely calm speaking because I mentioned his teary face about five times. 

John's parents, Gerry and Pat, offered their back yard for the celebration. They'd worked so hard on it, and it was stunning... like something out of a movie. Think Meet Joe Black, but on a smaller scale and nobody dying at the end. (Not even of covid... we're all okay!)

Michelle placed one of your Hawaiian shirts on a chair during the ceremony. After it was over,  everyone toasted you with a tot of Irish whiskey while John, his parents and our family sang The Wild Rover. I might have cried a bit during that part. It felt like you were there.

I've had vertigo again this summer, and not the light kind, either. It's the tougher variety, where I lift my head to look at the sky and the earth tilts. I had to paint the pillars in front of our house, they were long overdue. I stood on the ladder, weaving like a drunken sailor and gripping an overhead nail to steady myself. I also, ahem, cleaned the front eavestroughs, which used to seem so scary. There were three small trees growing inside them. All maples. They're gone now, and the water definitely flows better.

Because of the vertigo I didn't have a drink until after Michelle's wedding. During supper I had some wine, which might be why I mentioned Dave in my speech, referencing his sweet tearstained face. I talked to him about it later. He didn't seem to mind. Some of the bridesmaids were tearing up, too. Just more quietly. (Sorry again, Dave.) 

Fall is definitely here, but friends and neighbors are all still out and about, boating and doing yardwork. But as they say in Game of Thrones, winter is coming. Fortunately, Michelle is already married, so there'll be no Red Wedding. (Another G.O.T. reference. I can't help myself.) 

Our former neighbors Rick and Pat paddled with me onto one of the many lakes around Flin Flon and together, we scattered your ashes. It was time. We sipped Amaretto from tiny plastic bridal shower glasses, told stories about you and sang the Hockey song in memory of all the things we used to do together. You'd love the location. I plan on joining you there someday.

So, that's me, done for now. I'll catch you up again someday, but I want you to know that in spite of this strange pandemic down here on Earth, I'm living the best life I can. And I love you forever, honey. I'll see you in my dreams. 

Bug City

According to the Dalai Lama, or any Buddhist worth their salt, I have become the moral equivalent of Hannibal Lecter. In my previous life (ie: last summer) I was in total agreement with the dharma of interdependence and compassion regarding all beings. For example. 

I have a bug catcher from Lee Valley and it has been invaluable. I trap as many insects as I can inside my house and let them fly free outside. Partly because, why kill them when I don't have to? Also it saves me from squishing things against my windows, walls and ceiling. Whenever I open the door to let a housefly/spider/weird unidentifiable bug outside, there's a pleasing sense of being one with the universe. That ended this year.

Since Covid 19 arrived, my temper is not as easily calmed. Little things get me down more readily than usual. Also, it rained for the last three months and the bugs are now the size of cars. All of the bugs. When walking outside in sunshine or gloom, I Am Legend in a land of vampires. I must keep my eyes rolling around in my head at all times because those suckers are everywhere. The tiny black ones are the worst. The smallest come through the screens, and all of them seem to head for the back of my neck, or my scalp. Obviously my hair is like a forest to these tiny creatures, and each strand is like a well spaced tree. They just zoom inside and make themselves at home. For all I know, they're building nests and planning to take over the world. Before Covid 19, I would have laughed at myself for having these thoughts. For writing about all the craziness that has taken me over. 

But let's face it. All bets are off. The world as we know it is undergoing some unthinkable changes. President Putin has his hand so far up Donald Trump's rear end that he can wave at the world through the guy's mouth. He's busy running Facebook, too, by the sounds of some of the crazy memes that a lot of folks buy into, and for all I know, the Chinese are working their hands up Mark Zuckerberg's butt even as I sit here, slapping at the vampires lurking around the room.

I will still protect the insects that help the world. Bees and wasps and all who pollinate. Good for you. You are untouchable in my yard. Spiders, my friends, remember when you take over the world that I was always on your side. My Lee Valley bug catcher is a testament to that. But mosquitoes and all flies of the biting kind, prepare to be flayed and have your livers eaten for dinner.  

My Christianity is veering toward the Spanish inquisitor variety. See things my way or take a gander at my heated metal pincers. This is only regarding the biting variety of bugs. And yet, right before I swat, slap, pinch, scream or smack a bug, I tend to holler, 'That better not be you, Uncle Walter!' (And I'm not even Buddhist.) But it wouldn't be him, because he would never bite anyone. Although my favourite bachelor uncle did have a thing for blondes, come to think of it. Anyway.

If you drive by my yard and see me whirling like a Sufi Dervish, please realize that I have not changed religions. And I am not dancing ecstatically. I am in the process of:

a. Fleeing

b. Avoiding

c. Trying to trap bugs.

Feel free to stop and say hello. I'll be friendly, I promise. But if all my whirling is accompanied by maniacal laughter, just run. 

If It's Wednesday, I'm in Albuquerque

I'm not really in Albuquerque. By the time I post this, it might not even be Wednesday. I wouldn't really know, because I am losing track of the days. At the beginning of the pandemic I should have started scratching them out on the wall of my cave like Tom Hanks did in the movie, Cast Away. I have an iPhone and a computer, but in the early morning when I'm making breakfast, it does not occur to me to check the date.

In these pandemic times, maybe it's only the retired, unemployed or childless who feel like their brain is in resting mode. Previously, we've had events in our lives that let us know what day of the week it was. For me, that was gym class. I always knew that leg day was Tuesday because I would wake up filled with dread. And now, I never know it's Tuesday. Not until Wednesday, at the very least. And my legs are getting very fussy at the lack of attention. Come fall, I'm going to have to do something. No, really.

For now, I'm like a vacant lot with no building prospects. No fence, no tools to indicate that creation is about to take place. I work in my yard and garden every day, but I'm getting to the point where I would like someone to come over and boss me around. (This is conjecture. Don't any of you do this.) But I obviously need direction of some kind. I am so tired of my own pep talks. Some mornings while I brush my teeth, I'll stare at myself in the mirror and say something like, 'Today is going to be special!' Spit. Rinse. And then I'll say, 'You know you're full of crap, right?'

To emphasize the feeling that we're truly in a pandemic, the bugs are in the middle of a full speed ahead, evolutionary process. They're bigger, faster, sneakier and they bite like they want you to remember them for the next month. People meet on the street and compare battle scars. 'I made the mistake of gardening in the morning,' they'll say, throwing their hands in the air sheepishly. And really, what are any of us thinking? Never mind Covid 19, we need full body suits to combat the mosquitoes and all the tiny variations of black fly that seem suspiciously new to northern Manitoba. 

I know, I know. We've always had them. But like everything else, even the bug world is freaking out. And like a two year old trying to be the boss of everything, I want everyone, including mother nature, to stop doing things I don't like. Yes, some of the world's craziness has been brought on by ourselves...we're not guilt free... but the toddler in me doesn't care about that. Like a contestant doing badly on a reality television show, I want to ring a bell and quit the game. Get off the island. Tell the bachelor/bachelorette that frankly, I just don't give a damn. 

On the other hand, the sun is shining and my kayak awaits. I have bug spray in my bag, and a bottle of water that I could exchange for gin at a moment's notice. Maybe the toddler in me just needs a time out. (I'm stomping one foot, now.) Ahhhh. It's lovely outside, with the sunshine and the gin...er, the water. Today is going to be special! (Oh, shut up.)

Everyone Shut the Hell Up

Some people find their gardens restful. In the summer I feel the same way, but in spring, I find my plants to be very whiny. Think kindergarteners crossed with junior high kids, with a few immature high schoolers thrown in for good measure.

It starts with the potted plants. I'm planting petunias with a couple dahlias, zinnias, some trailing ivy's and a few pansies for good measure. Then, it starts.

'George. George? Where are you, honey?'

'On the other side of the petunias! I tell you, Jane, this woman doesn't know what she's doing."

"The petunias! Don't pay them any attention, George. You know how they are. Such posers. Everyone knows they're very high maintenance." Jane sniffs loudly and George grunts in agreement.

As I sit there, spade in hand, bugs nipping at my neck while I push in more plants, add some soil and stick in something else, I find myself agreeing with Jane's point of view. There's no doubt that a bunch of cascading petunias are beautiful, but really. All they want is your constant attention. 'Dead head me, please,' they say to George and me in a sultry voice. 'Cmon. Just lightly massage these dying buds of mine.'

'Don't listen to them, George!' Jane shouts from her side of the plant pot. 'Once you start, they'll bother you constantly. Stick with the pansies.' George looks around, but the pansies have already fainted in the mild spring sun. He gives a scornful grunt, wondering what on earth possessed this gardener to put pansies in the same pot as Dahlias, petunias, and marigolds. I later admit my mistake aloud, which satisfies George immensely.

And then, the begonias. They're quite content spending most of the day in the shade. But lately, with no sun at all, they've been complaining and turning slightly brown around the edges.
'Why is it so gloomy out?' the showy pink one says. 'Where is the sun? I just want a few minutes of it. No, I want it lurking in the sky, somewhere around the corner of the house. This is so depressing.' I find myself agreeing with her.

The other begonias chime in, their voices droning softly like rich people at a boring party. They're showier than the petunias, and they know it. They don't usually spend much energy talking to the other plants, other than offering the occasional 'hush up, now,' to George and Jane, who are the most vocal dahlias I've ever planted. George always listens. Unbeknownst to Jane, he has a secret crush on the pink begonia in the large bowl to his left.

Then there's the grass. It whispers faintly all day long, filling me with guilt as I survey the patches of clover and dandelions dotting its surface. 'I think I'll move over there," I hear the grass saying, and soon enough, it has infested a flower bed. There are large bare patches on the front lawn, but fresh, green blades grow happily in every other area.

I survey the unconscious pansies, the petunias begging for attention, the snooty begonias, and as I wipe the sweat from my brow, I drop a choice word or two. They don't care. As I slink back into the house, I can hear them all laughing at me. Even the weeds, who sound like Russian mobsters. Sometimes I really hate my garden.

Assembly Line at the Ninth Gate

A few years ago, after a fraught experience putting furniture together, I wrote an essay titled, The Devil is Swedish, His Name is Ikea. This past week I realized that in the world of furniture assembly, the lord of Hell is still running the show. It's the same manuals with badly drawn diagrams and tiny Allen wrenches that leave you with either hand cramps or permanent paralysis.

Like childbirth, my last painful assembly experience had been dulled by time's passage. In fact, as I lugged home a huge box of patio furniture, I pictured myself pulling out two chairs, a love seat and a coffee table and displaying them on the deck. Alas, it was not to be. But laying out nine thousand screws and multiple chair pieces did not discourage me, because this is how the devil works. He lures you in with pretty pictures of a life filled with leisure and plants and good weather. And then you open the instruction manual. After a panicked search for actual directions comes the sinking realization that the indecipherable drawings are it.

With the first two pieces, I discovered another stark truth. The drawings were backwards. I hunched over the furniture like Quasimodo, sweating and turning the Allen wrench four thousand times. That was the first screw. I did a headstand, reaching and twisting in a feat worthy of Cirque de Soleil. But this show was Hell's Deck, and I, its indentured servant.

After several days of assembly purgatory, my patio furniture was finally done. Next, due to local shortages amidst the pandemic, I bought a sofa bed in a box. Though still experiencing hand spasms and night terrors from my previous experience, I began again.

First, there was a detailed and fruitless search for the various parts. Finally I found the legs nestled in a hidden compartment. But not the screws. Calling the company, I got this cheerful reply.
"You didn't check the compartment inside the hidden compartment! The large packet of screws is under the Velcro, inside the second zippered area up in the far corner. You'll barely be able to reach it, but it's there!" It was. After that I had to take a break because my back was seizing up.
The directions on the outside of the box said the sofa would be finished in thirty minutes. Five hours later, after much weeping and gnashing of teeth, I was done. Or so I thought.

Yesterday, I returned to the hardware store to buy a deck box for storage. It's funny how things work. You can purchase a very large Rubbermaid bin that's instantly ready for use. But if you need six more inches in length and a two more in height, you'll have to purchase a cardboard container filled with a thousand screws and many parts, along with the words, Some Assembly Required. The box will stay in the garage until I work up my courage and get some feeling back in my hands.

The Devil may not be Swedish at all. His name might not be Ikea. But whatever he's called, he's sure to stock hell with millions of unassembled items. So make sure you end up in the good place. You don't want the assembly line at the ninth gate, working beside Donald Trump (who goes by many names and descriptions) and listening to him exclaim about how he's going to make the place great again.

Now that that's settled, I need a favour. If you see me out and about, remind me to never do this again.

It's a Mutant, Mutant World

Last weekend I got caught up watching a movie on TV. I'm fairly certain it will never end up on Netflix or Prime, because it was awful. A Mutant World had the following problems.

Bad acting
Terrible directing
Dreadful script
Unbelievable storyline
Accidentally hilarious special effects and costuming (The mutants looked like they were fleeing an off Broadway production of 'Cats, the Musical.' )

Here's a plot summation. Some doomsday prepper's dreams came true when a meteor hit the earth and made life above ground impossible. These people had formed a kind of army, and you could tell they'd always wanted to be soldiers but probably failed the psych exam. Still, they had the uniforms and matching high powered weapons. After shooting a lot of people trying to join them in their underground bunker (which looked far too sophisticated for these yokels) they locked themselves down. Ten years later, they climbed out and found mutants everywhere. Yes, those would be the escapees from the Cats musical.

The truly unbelievable part is, I sat through the whole thing. It was like watching a tone deaf singer belting out show tunes, or attending a really bad poetry slam where they acted out the verses. Every now and then I'd ask myself, why am I still watching this garbage? I laughed quite a bit...maybe that was part of the attraction. I also got angry. How dare someone make a movie this bad? For over ninety minutes, I bathed in a sea of mixed emotions, including rage.

When the movie was finally over, I congratulated myself for not breaking the television. And then, I had a revelation. In spite of its dreadfulness, the movie struck a nerve. Because, we are living in a mutant world. Never mind the tricky Corona virus. We're not really feeling like ourselves anymore, and it's not so much due to a sense of isolation...I think we've gotten used to it...but an overwhelming certainty that the world is struggling and we westerners might have to accept a new normal. Yes, some of us may have lost jobs in the past, or people we love, or struggled through illness or complicated family matters. But through it all, we relied on the rest of society to keep carrying on.

And in the back of our minds, we're left wondering. What will the world look like when Covid 19 is over? And when will that be? How will we know when to duck, when to take aim, and when to start making plans for an alternate lifestyle? We have mutated into uncertainty, and of all the emotions, it's one of the toughest. Especially for those of us who like routine. This Groundhog Day experience we've all been sharing isn't so bad when compared to an unknowable future.

In the light of this, I'm going to make you all some promises. I won't start carrying a gun, building a bunker, or hoarding food. I won't start believing anything that isn't science based (except for the whole Jesus thing, because that's how I roll) and I will keep a stiff upper lip even if I have to get Botox to do it. (I won't get Botox...we had that talk already.) Most of all, I will believe in you, my fellow earthlings. We can survive this. And who knows? Maybe we're mutating into a newer, kinder, more thoughtful and environment loving version of ourselves.

John Lennon said, "Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end." For now, let's all imagine that.

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

Oh, The Void!

There's something strange going on with me. It has to do with prayer, but I also have some questions for my atheist friends. Like, what are your go to phrases for hard times?

I tend to cry 'O God,' when things get tough. Or even, 'Help me Jesus!' if the situation feels dire. This can happen in a variety of situations, like with bad news or flat tires. Sometimes I verge into Handmaid's Tale territory and say things like, 'Praise Be!' But I mean it in a good way because unlike them, there's no gun to my back. So it feels very authentic. But what do non believing exclaimers shout? 'Oh, the Void?' Or, 'What in hell?' I'd really like to know. 

I've always thought of the Almighty as a she, although, does a spirit have a sexual identity? Probably not, yet we insist on giving God a pronoun, anyway. If you've heard the fable about the universe being built in six days, ask yourself this. Who works that hard? Is it the guy who offers up some seed, or the woman who takes it, grows a baby and then gives birth to it? Pardon me, dear male readers, but I believe that only a woman would build a universe that quickly. The male part of the God brain might add, 'Thank ourselves that that's over! What do you say we take the seventh day off?'

Anyway. In 2006, I said the following prayer: 'Dear God, please help me get off the sugar wagon. I'm seriously addicted and just can't stop." I'm not sure what I expected to happen, but it wasn't this.

I developed allergies and began breaking out in hives. Massive things, with maybe 400 smaller ones on the bottom of each foot. Seriously itchy situation. It started with kiwis, then apples, then every kind of fish. No one could help me. Not my doctor, or an allergy specialist, or anyone. At last, I spoke to the family guru, my cousin Susanne. She listened carefully before speaking these dire words.

'You should give up sugar and wheat. Maybe oatmeal, too. You've messed up your digestion and it needs to heal. It's just for a while.' (She was wrong about the last part.) But I followed her advice and a week later, lost all my allergies. The brain fog I'd been carrying for many years left me. I didn't even know I had it until it cleared up. I also got back a decent iron and B12 count, which had mysteriously gone missing over a number of years.

Some people think that God watches from afar and doesn't interfere with us. Or that there's no one there...hence, the void. But that has not been my experience.  'Asked and answered,' I pictured the Creator saying about my sugar addiction prayer. 'Job done!' (She high fives an angel.) It makes me wonder. Should we be careful what we pray for?

My daughter Mari has been living with me during the pandemic. I do the cooking and always end up making too much food. Not enough for leftovers, though. There's no reason to put a cup of rice, or oven fries, or homemade soup, or chili or, you name it, in the fridge. And I can't throw it away. That's a waste.

 So I eat it. Or I encourage Mari to eat it. And we've both been feeling the effects of those large meals. (I blame Clarence. His family's motto was 'Eat Big.') So I prayed about it. And then one day I was out in my car listening to a broadcast about shortages in the supply chain for groceries and I pictured God thinking, "How about a temporary loss of food? That should stop her overeating."

No, I thought. That wouldn't happen. Humans make their own problems, and I am not the center of the universe. I brushed the worry aside, but just in case, began planning for a foodless pandemic. Storming with my fogless brain, I threw a survival idea at Mari.

"Those large birds perching in our trees aren't very smart. If we're desperate, I could catch one in a pillow case, smash its head against the cement driveway, pluck out all the feathers and cook it for dinner. Yeah?" She looked at me the way kids do when their parents are going around the bend.

So I pushed away the thought of no food and hedged my bets by adding prayer addendums, like, "Regarding my prayer about portion control, don't do anything that affects anyone but me, God. And one more thing. I don't want to end up shipwrecked or left on an island somewhere. I don't really care  that much about overeating." Man, the paranoia can really set in.

It's this pandemic. I have too much time on my hands and I'm missing my friends. It's leaving me a bit...well. Like how I sound here. Anyway, if more bad things happen, just know that my prayers are becoming very specific. And yet. Perhaps they should be vetted by a lawyer. Or by my minister, Steve. Or Father Paul. Just someone else. However it goes down, I think I'd rather shout 'No funny stuff!' than not believe in a Creator. But that's me. If you disagree, comfort yourself with this. You may be an atheist shouting into the void, but at you'll least you won't have to give up sugar.

A Hundred Years of Solitude

I have a confession to make. I have never been able to get through the novel lending this blog post its title. I pride myself on loving literary books—I've read War and Peace—it's hard!
But Gabriel Garcia Marquez did not find a reader in me. Ironically, when I was trying to get through it a third time, I told my daughter, who confessed to struggling with Love in the Time of Cholera, written by the same guy. At least she finished it.

But I still have to thank the late Mr. Marquez for his inspiring titles. They're so timely since the Pandemic has me feeling torn between two opposing poles. Let's just label this feeling as bipolar.

On the north side, there's the decent, almost zen kind of solitude where all is well. For example: In that space, I give myself a pep talk every night before sleep, some part of which involves dreaming up ideas for a great breakfast. I have to face it; food is always on my mind. And it encourages me to organize my time properly. Like this:

 I can't exercise. I haven't eaten breakfast yet.
Never mind writing, it's time for lunch.

 And so on. I also have to schedule snacks, which I do even if I'm not hungry. I know. That's so bad. (A south pole feeling.) Pre-pandemic I used to blame my busier schedule. Now I treat the constant eating as my true purpose for living.

On good days, I pull back the covers and make the executive decision to 'air out my bed.' This breaks a major rule for success which says that if you don't make your bed every day, you're failing at life. I can't remember who said it. Some old soldier. And then, after giving the covers a gentle pat, I turn to the mirror, smile at myself and say, 'It's going to be  great day!'

I try to mimic the narrator in the Jerry McGuire movie. I get dressed right away. Then I eat breakfast (well, of course) practice the piano, go for a long walk, and write. Sometimes I wash clothes or clean out a cupboard. This I consider a successful, northern kind of day. A north pole attitude of looking up. Then there's the other kind.

When I'm spending time at the south pole, it's more like Marquez's other book, 'Love in the Time of Cholera.' Since I've never read it, I'm going to assume there was a fair amount of foreshadowing in the title. All the protagonist's loved ones are dead. Happiness does not abound.

Now, this is not really true for me. There are plenty of alive people that I love. But it doesn't feel like that when I'm spending time at the south pole. It feels like I'm the only person left in the world, except for maybe Donald Trump. (Yes, I'm in a horror movie.) Me and the Donald. If he uses the word 'bigly' to describe the scenery around the boardwalk one more time, I'm going to deck him.

In the south pole, there is never anything good to eat. My piano keys laugh at me because I play so badly. I can't find anything to watch on cable, Prime, Netflix or Crave. There's always a certain amount of sulking going on because I've just finished my latest read, and I always feel a bit lost when I'm between books. (This is a thing. Seriously.)

Happily, I usually wake the next morning and find myself once more at the north pole. Eggs for breakfast! Pancakes! (gluten free, sadly, but still!) Yogurt with multiple kinds of berries! Nothing has ever felt so exciting as deciding what to eat. It's the same with lunch and dinner. In this mood, I feel like I'm on a cruise in my own house. It's so much better than when I'm at the south pole, sitting on my toilet in the bathroom (purely for a change of scenery) and crying into my hands, repeating over and over again, "This too shall pass."

Because it will. But I want you to know that if you're feeling chicken hearted, cranky, and even, (if living with other people) murderous, you're not alone. So brace yourselves, my people (this means my whole town, including the folks at the lake) because, when we're all let out of solitary confinement, I'm going to hug each and every one of you. If you don't want that, please wear a sign. Be direct. Until then, chin up, and stay north, my friends. The mood is so much better there.

(After all this writing, it has occured to me that Hugh Maclennan's book, 'Two Solitudes' would have been a much better title. Oh well.)

Remember the Pandemic of 2020?

These are words that give me hope. The days will pass, we'll enter summer and hopefully suspend a bit of social distancing. We'll spend time in our yards and visit with neighbors. Time will go by and eventually, maybe next year, we will breath a sigh of relief that it's over.

I know I'm not the only one counting on that. We started out so cheerfully, hunkering down in our homes after that first desperate scramble for food and toilet paper. The internet was filled with peppy slogans and cheerful, funny memes. Oh, I miss those. There's still a few around, but there's also a lot more of an atmosphere, circa George Orwell's 1984.

I remember being in the Co-op one day when a woman coughed loudly. She swung around with a desperate look on her face, and cried, 'I have allergies! It's just an allergic cough!' I swear, it was like a scene from Shirley Jackson's short story, The Lottery, where once a year, someone is picked to be stoned.

My heart went out to this woman, and others felt the same. Even as we all edged further away from her, there were murmurs of, 'It's okay. Don't worry.' And I thought, is this what's going to do us in? Turning on our friends and neighbors, watching out the window and then calling the police if people out walking look too close together?

I get it. We have to keep ourselves and others safe by keeping our distance. But one thing I'm certain of is that all those memes on Facebook hollering at us to Stay Home! aren't going to make a difference. Because, guess what? We already know what to do. And those who aren't going to listen won't be swayed by your words. It's like all those posts screaming at people to vaccinate their children. Most believe the science and the proof that vaccinations work. Those who don't won't believe you, either.

And it's wearying. Concern for society can morph into a kind of social bullying. It leads to a lack of trust and to people feeling like they can't count on others. And that's simply not true. I know that this 'pass it on' mentality is natural. We're part of the human herd. We want to fit in. But there comes a time when shouting instructions at other people via social media makes people (okay, me) want to turn it off. And frankly, I can't do that. I need to see people's funny pandemic memes, their family photos, their top ten albums, their quizzes, their desperate and hilarious stories about how much weight they're gaining. That is the boat I want to be in. Those are the people I want to sit beside as we row through the choppy waters of this pandemic.

The news is serious. I have to listen to it. But, dear friend, I want to listen to you, too. So, please. Don't let me down. Try a little tenderness. Because, I've realized that I'm in love with people. With every person I sit beside in church, or work beside at my gym class, or see at social events. Those I grew up with, and the ones I don't know but admire from afar. Winston Churchill said that we create our own universe as we go along. Let's decide right now to make ours the best one possible and create a little cheer in the midst of all this worry.  Now, while you think on that, I'd like you to take a little break. Just sit back and let me row this boat for a while. Because God knows, I could use the exercise.

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I didn't think I'd revisit the Breakfast Club movie anytime soon, but I'm a lot more open to watching things again under the circumstances. (If you're reading this in fifty years and no one is around, we had a Pandemic in 2020.) Anyway. I was thinking about this one part, where the kid writes the required essay, ending with, 'In the simplest terms, the most convenient definitions, what we found is that each one of us is a brain, an athlete, a basketcase and a criminal.'

Through all their shenanigans, these kids manage to see each other as whole, and to realize that names are often assigned without permission. But does knowing that change how we see ourselves? It doesn't feel great being pushed inside a box and labeled accordingly. Nerd. Soccer mom. Smarty pants. Widow. Now the last one might have you thinking that, yes, that is a very true description of some women's status. But I have to tell you that the first time I saw it on a government document, I felt very put out.

I looked at that piece of paper and felt truly startled. And perplexed. I thought, I'm not a widow. I'm still married. To a dead man. Yes, okay, that might make you want to apply that word. It may speak to you. But it doesn't speak to me.

In my mind, it paints two different pictures. Jackie Onassis in a beautiful dress with a black veil over her face. And Snow White's step mother. Neither feels remotely like me. I still feel married. And I rarely wear black, or try to feed innocent girls poison apples. I wanted to sit down and write the Canadian government a letter, but you know what bureaucracy is like. I mean, I'm not willing to go to court over this. I just think that I should get to decide when to apply that word. Maybe when I'm eighty-five. Certainly not when I still speak to the guy at all hours of the day and have to remind myself not to talk to him in the Co-op. After reading this, you'll probably want to apply the label, 'kooky,' to me. That's okay. I'm willing to wear that hat. (I know, I already do. Don't worry...it doesn't hurt my feelings.)

So if you think of me, feel free to use any description you like as long as it's not widow. Just say, 'She's married to that dead guy, Clarence.' That will do for now.

Feeling Lost, Please Send Directions

The movie, 'Taken 2,' has a scene that describes exactly how I'm feeling these days. Liam Neeson is helping his daughter escape an abduction. Pointing to the the roof, he says something like this:

'You're going to run for five hundred yards. Then get down to the street, head south for three blocks, turn left and go through the red door on the right. On the other side, head north and run for ten blocks....' This continues for a while, after which the daughter nods and takes off. And I'm left thinking, well, hell.

Just another confirmation about my bad sense of direction, about never knowing north from south unless I'm at home. I'm clueless about the steps it would take to run five hundred yards. I'm easily lost, especially in a strange city. I have to keep my eyes open and repetitively say the names of streets, businesses, and even the colours of buildings. I've gotten better at it. I don't get lost as much as I used to, though my friend Lynn will tell you I was late for dinner in London last fall because I couldn't remember how to get to the restaurant and didn't have wifi for my phone. Anyway.

Covid 19 is no different for me. This Pandemic requires a whole new set of directions. The problem is, they change every day, even since I started writing this blog. Here's what I know so far:

1. Stay home most of the time. When out, keep my distance from others.
2. Don't travel.
3. Stock up on medicine and food. And toilet paper.
4. Wait for more news

I have no trouble waiting. It's my imagination that isn't patient, and wants to create fantastic scenarios of every kind. I write young adult sci-fi and fantasy, (among other things) often specializing in dystopian futures for the planet. And now here we are, facing something big. I know it's going to be okay. But it would nice to have a map. So far, finding my way has not been difficult. But what if the directions for survival get more complicated? What if the virus decides to get creative with the rest of nature? Will we turn on the television and hear things like this?

'All citizens must keep sharpened sticks by the door for killing the giant mutated squirrels currently ravaging the country. Stay tuned for more news at six.'

If it becomes a thing, I'd like Justin Trudeau to get very clear about how exactly one should kill a giant squirrel. Perhaps an online demonstration would help. For the extremely paranoid, or just the imaginative, should we be exploring the bat connection? Like in Justin Cronin's Passage trilogy, where people turn into  speedy vampires? Though if that happens, I'm sure the squirrels will suddenly find themselves on our side.

I'm pretty chipper most of the time. But I like directions for everything coming my way. Don't give me any north, south, go five hundred yards bullshit, either. Say it straight. Be clear. And don't mess with us on April 1st. I have to admit, the government could have a lot of fun on April Fool's Day, but we're all losing our sense of humour, here.

For now I'm remembering all the things I'm grateful for. We're not at war. We're just isolated. And I'm a Canadian. (My apologies to those who are not.)That's a social contract I'm grateful for and never want to mess with. Whatever we think is going wrong with the country, there are so many things that are right. Let's shut down the whining (I'm aware of the irony here) and concentrate on taking care of ourselves and each other. I'm here if you need toilet paper or apples, or strange brands of canned soup. But if you're feeling a sudden urge to bite someone in the neck, put a sign on your door. I'll just leave the stuff outside.

John Lennon Will See You Now

I haven't read Mitch Albom's book, The Five People You Meet in Heaven. But just seeing the title in my local library got me thinking about who I'd like to visit in the Eternal Afterward. There's loved ones I'll want to hug right away; my husband and parents, friends and relatives. Then there's people I've always wondered about, like Joan of Arc, Einstein, and Florence Nightingale. But the non-family person I'd really love a conversation with is John Lennon.

My guess is, he's still so popular, he needs an agent to organize his time. Possibly an angel, or some lucky deceased fan.  As I see him in my mind's eye, he looks a bit weary. I didn't think that was possible in heaven. But then, I'm just an ordinary person, and not famous. So what do I know. I have a hushed meeting with his agent before we begin.

"Don't ask him any questions about the whole' 'the Beatles are more popular than Jesus' thing. People think they can joke about it, and frankly, even Jesus doesn't want to hear that one anymore. If you want to talk about their time in India, he suggests you make an appointment with George Harrison.'

I nod eagerly, just wanting all the formalities to go away so I can sit face to face with my grade school crush, John Lennon. Remember the bubble gum cards? Anyway. Is he really as sincere as he seemed on earth? Are his ideals still lofty? Does he truly believe that we here on earth can give peace a chance? I just can't wait to find out.

Finally, we sit face to face. He's not as relaxed as I would like, but since he probably thought heaven would be one long holiday, I can't say I blame him. I smile and before I can stop myself, I say, 'Help. I need somebody." Then I grin. "It's you." His eyes roll so hard, I think they're going to leave their sockets and I'm certain I just blew my meeting with J.L. But then, yaay! He smiles back.

"I'm so glad you didn't say, 'I've got a ticket to ride. That's where I draw the line.'

'As if,' I reply, trying not to look guilty. (That had been my initial, ice-breaking idea.) 'I'm more interested in your song, Imagine. How do you feel, now that you're in heaven? Like, oh no, I never imagined I'd end up here?" I see him barely suppress a yawn and realize he's answered this question many times.

'It was never about heaven being real,' he says. 'It was always about people not making excuses to fight each other. Not using religion to divide the world.' I almost don't hear what he's saying. I'm so in love with that lilting Scouse accent one finds only in Liverpool and surrounding area, that I lose track of our conversation. The agent wanders over.

'One minute left,' he whispers in my ear. I know my bible, so I have a ready reply. 'A day in God's life is like a thousand years.' The angel agent (they had to get rid of the deceased fan...he wouldn't let anyone else see John) replies, 'You're not God." There's barely time for me to shout, 'All my loving!' before I'm ushered swiftly away, still feeling a bit star struck.

Back in the warm hills around my snug hobbit hole (my current dream of a heavenly residence, as long as there are windows) I breathe the fresh air and try to decide who I'll bother next. The possibilities are endless. Einstein? Mother Theresa? Michelangelo? I sigh at the infiniteness of it all and wonder what to do with my time, besides going on tropical vacations with my husband. (It's a thing here.) Suddenly, a bell rings. It's time for the millions strong choir to sing heaven's anthem. (Also a thing.) I change into my long white robe and rush out the door, energized by a brilliant idea. If I hurry, I might secure a spot beside Aretha Franklin. But just in case, I'll check in with her agent first.

A Wrinkle in Time

They come to everyone, eventually, those fine folds in the skin that look like a mistake the first time they show up. You find yourself peering into a mirror and thinking, what is that? I was standing in the fancy shower room of the Yak and Yeti hotel in Katmandu when I first noticed lines beside my eyes. I hadn't heard about sun screen yet, and had just finished a three week uphill walk in the Himalayas. We'd hardly washed our faces, never mind applying any cream.  I was twenty-five years old.

 I like to blame childbirth for my very first forehead wrinkle. Imagine, (if you're not actually in labour at this moment) that you're trying to pass a honeydew melon through your nether regions. For some, it's thirty hours of ongoing physical stress followed by the bearing down part, which is just as earthy as it sounds. I defy anyone to walk away from that without a few lines on their forehead. Then there are the late nights with baby, and the toddler moments that don't end until your child leaves home in the guise of a grownup.

Men who live with women have forehead lines, too. The married ones especially, whose days contain many moments of complete and utter bewilderment. 'Why is she mad? What did I do? Is it something I said?' There are no correct answers to these questions, and men's forehead wrinkles deepen accordingly. Perhaps this is women's revenge for childbirth. I don't know. I'm merely guessing, as I always do.

Forehead wrinkles can have harsher consequences than just older looking skin. They are often the gateway to wearing bangs. Once you've gone in that direction, it's very hard to go back. Growing them out is unbearable. If women had to decide between that and experiencing childbirth again, it would be a close call. My decision, back when I was younger, was an easy one. "You should have bangs," my hair stylist said. 'Okay,' I replied, innocent as a child. I've been in bang purgatory ever since.

Things change as you age. Hairstyle options lessen, and eventually you have to decide if you're going for the old woman from Transylvania look, or giving in to a shorter hairstyle that includes bangs. We're all with you in that one. It takes a village to support those of us who've made difficult choices, and those who have no choice left because they're ninety and its the only way to go, unless theyre related to Snow White.

Wouldn't it be nice if our wrinkles told a story using speech bubbles that floated around our heads? They'd say things like, 'Eye wrinkles? You like to laugh!' You'd get lots of congratulatory looks from passersby, because laughing is always a good thing. But what about the ones that come from worry?

Many of us spend serious time imagining bad things happening to people we love. I've been working on this. (Thank you, Jesus, and Eckhart Tolle's book, 'A New Earth.' You work beautifully together.) But in the meantime, a person of a certain age can look like they've been through a war.

No matter what one does, the passage of time will dragged its clawed feet across your face. Too much wine? Hello, eye bags. Excessive amounts of dark chocolate? Here's a rash, or maybe some zits. Lack of sleep? Add ten years. Whatever it is, gravity and life will drag at your flesh until it raises a white flag. 'Fine. Have your way with me.'
The good news is, this doesn't usually happen until we're older and happier. It's true, dear people in your twenties and thirties. Those in their forties are happier than younger people, and it gets even better after that for most of us. (Google it. Science agrees!)

Perhaps its the ability to put things into perspective. Maybe its because the kids have left home and you can finally afford better quality skin care products. Whatever the cause, it's easier to laugh about everything once you're reached a certain age.

So take heart, young people. It gets better. Yes, the wrinkles come, but most days, you won't care. Because your friends are going through the same thing. And for some reason, it becomes the source of a lot of laughter. And that's a very good look on everyone. Even people with bangs.

Be Yourself!

The first time anyone said to me, 'Just be yourself!' I was in grade nine at Sir Maurice Roche Catholic School. The sisters who taught there were not like other nun teachers who, I've heard, were often strict and mean. These ladies were kind, encouraging and hip. (Do people still say hip? I really don't care.) In our religion classes we didn't talk much about God. Instead, we listened to the Beatles and Simon and Garfunkel, deciphering songs like 'The Sounds of Silence' or 'I Just Gotta Get a Message to You,' by the Bee Gees. I wasn't much help in these instances. I'm a writer who doesn't ever get the theme of a song or a story. I'm too literal. Remember those questions on English exams? "Compare and contrast the themes of the novel." I'm having heart palpitations just writing this down.

Anyway. I remember having a rather confidential talk with Sister Jobin about feeling different from everyone else. I know now that every fifteen year old perceives their place in the universe in pretty much the same way I did. She gave me her time and attention and left me with these parting words: Just be yourself.

Now, I don't know if you, dear reader, remember being that age, but the last thing you ever want to be is yourself. Yourself is the problem. Yourself, with the funny hair cut (mom, please...a better hairdresser!) Yourself with a complete inability to read the room and know who were the sheep, and who were the wolves. You found out the minute they grabbed you by the throat and wrestled you to the floor. Not literally, of course. But often, it could feel like your throat was being ripped out. It certainly left me feeling voiceless.

So, no. The last thing I wanted to be was myself. However. The great thing about growing older is that the more distance you put between the teenage you and your current self, the less you give a...let's just use the word shit, here. I wonder how many of you actually noticed the gradual unwrapping of your true personhood. It's like one of those reality shows where they give you a new wardrobe and a bit of plastic surgery, only you don't even need that. You just need the perspective of time to discover who you really are in order to be yourself.

Even in your twenties, you buy into what other people think you should enjoy. Like long walks on the beach. I used to say, "Oh, I love a long walk on the beach!' And I meant it, because I'd only gone for short walks, and I was young and spry. Now that I'm older, I like long walks on the beach as long as I'm right beside the water and the sand is hard. Otherwise, the sand makes me feel like I'm decrepit, even though I'm not.

Other illusions I used to have were the usual cheesy love song activities. Like in the Pina Colada song. 'Do you like Pina Coladas?' Well, yes. Doesn't everybody? ''Getting caught in the rain?" No, not particularly. Not without an umbrella or a good raincoat. Then, I love it. Otherwise, rain, rain, go away. There's the words, 'I am not into health food, I am into champagne.' Well, I love two organic eggs on a bed of kale, so that answers that. And champagne makes me fall down whenever I'm in England, so no.

Yet another part of the song says, 'If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape, I'm the love that you've looked for, write to me and escape.' People, if you've ever made love on a sandy beach, you already know the truth about that one. Because that sand gets everywhere. You find it days later in the strangest places. Clarence and I both agreed that we'd been fooled into thinking it was romantic when really, it was its own kind of awful. So, no.

I like being myself, now. And I'm at the age where I feel perfectly comfortable telling people what I like and don't like. I'm not at the old lady stage where I've lost my filter and have started blurting things without thinking. (Well, only occasionally.) But for the most part, I like being me. I'm comfortable in my own company. I rarely get lonely, maybe because I'm a writer and have a whole cast of characters who keep me company all the time. And I mean ALL the time. But that's a whole other blog.

The thing is, Sister Jobin was right. The people I know who were themselves as teenagers, like my husband, made everyone else feel comfortable. But even if I time traveled and had a quick conversation with that version of me, I know I wouldn't believe it. It wasn't just that I was clueless about how teenagers behaved. It was my deep feelings of inadequacy that led me to those long talks with the nuns who probably worked to bury their yawns behind their weary hands. Now that I'm older, I've realized that that is a part of the human story. At least, the story of teenagers.

Now, I am always myself. Sometimes I have to have a little self talk before I go out. I say things like, 'Don't be afraid to rein it in.' Or, 'Nobody else wants to talk about books all night. You're not at book club.' But these are just small courtesies. Otherwise, I'm just me. And like Stuart from Saturday Night Live, I'm good enough. (You can check him out here, doing his self esteem building exercise.)

https://giphy.com/gifs/3o7TKnKXMdf5qNtVLi/html5

In case you're not convinced, and you need a better pep talk about just being yourself, here's a little something from the movie, Just Friends.

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

I want my Button to Pop

I was taking my Thanksgiving turkey out of the oven when I was overcome by an intense feeling of envy. The turkey's button had popped. It was done. I sensed an air of congratulation between the oven and the bird. Perhaps a high five, maybe two thumbs up. And I couldn't help thinking, I want that.

Imagine being in grade one again. Your teacher is going over the words on the white board, the ipad...whatever kids use these days. Sat, cat, mat, fat, rat. The child spits the words out and suddenly, a button pops right out of his neck. "You've got this!" the teacher says. "You're all done. Go play in the gym with the others."

Or, you're out on a date. You've been a little nervous about the person you've chosen from the online dating site, "We're Your Last Hope." You walk into the restaurant, see your guy already seated. Your eyes meet, you walk over with a big smile and start talking. After a mere fifteen minutes, the button in your neck suddenly pops. And you can't help noticing that his has popped, too. Your waiter notices and brings you both free dessert to celebrate.

Without the button, you might have needed a lot more time to figure out if this person was right for you. But the button never fails. You can both relax into your new relationship knowing that your search is over!

The button would also be a game changer at the gym. You might have worked out for only twenty minutes when your coach, (let's call her Tracy) walks over and says, 'Put that kettle bell down. Your button just popped!' A cheer goes up from a few friends, with some resentful looks from others as you leave class forty minutes early.

This would also be useful in a therapy session. You've talked until you're blue in the face, and just when you're starting to feel that you'll never figure yourself out, your button pops. The therapist jumps to her feet, checks her watch and says, 'Okay, beat it. You're all better. Don't bother coming back." Perhaps this sounds harsh. But you should feel light hearted because you've straightened out your psyche and are filled with emotional well being.

You'd never have to take anyone at their word anymore. "I didn't do it," says a suspected thief/liar/future politician. But their button is still securely stuck in it's holder. It is obvious to everyone that this person is not telling the truth. Every citizen could be compelled to attend a morals class and the ones whose buttons pop would get to wear a badge showing their ethical purity.

Others would watch with envy and possibly work harder on their own behavior, hoping to get the same result. Yes, it might end up being a bit of a contest. But imagine knowing that youre done with everything. Love, emotional stability, math, and high moral standards.

If only we could figure this out. Maybe we could provide robotics engineers with buttons scavenged from the turkey factory. However we do it, I'm in. The only other thing is, once your button has popped for learning to read and being toilet trained, does the button get pushed in until the next event? And does that mean you're never really done?

Perhaps the robotics engineers could arrange a series of buttons down your left arm (the creative one) that each have to pop in turn. The only downside is, what if you're terrible at math? Or, what if all your friends are walking around with their love buttons popped and you alone have not met your match? Or, maybe you're a decent enough person, but not perfect. Your moral code button may stay firmly stuck in its holder. And yet, you say to yourself, 'I'm not a serial killer. I'm a bit rude but there are worse people out there than me.' This could lead to a two tier society. Those who've popped every button, and those sullen, left out folk who are forced into anarchist behavior because they just can't take it anymore.

So, maybe it won't work. I guess some things that look very utopian to some, like the 2016 US election, can become dystopian when they don't live up to their claims. Maybe even turkeys are feeling bad about their buttons. 'Why can't I decide when I'm done," they complain as they lie together in the grocery store freezer. On second thought, that's too creepy to even contemplate. So never mind. I don't need a button to tell me that this blog post is done.