Girl With The Dragon Tattoo

 My sister Linda is a bit like a character from a 1950's musical—a good girl who likes to sing and doesn't have time for rule breakers. Frankly, the world would be in a better place if she were in charge of things. Like world peace. 'That'll be enough of that!' she'd tell Putin. The Middle East would get such a scolding, they wouldn't know what hit them. Actually, all hitting would cease immediately. 

So, imagine my surprise when I learned she was getting a tattoo. Not any old tattoo, either, but a dragon crawling down her right forearm. It's like she's joined a cult and this was her initiation. She's not a tattoo getting person. Yet, apparently she's been planning it for years. (She's careful like that.)

But now I can't help wondering what she'll do next. Shave her head and buy a studded leather jacket to accompany the gang tattoo on her neck? (She doesn't have it yet...I'm just projecting.) I picture her planning her gang's first book club meeting. (She used to be a librarian) There'd be a lot of shaping up and way less shenanigans once she got involved. (though Gangnam style shenanigans would be fine...she loves Korean dramas and the boy band, BTS.)

She often reminds me of Clint Eastwood's movie character,  Dirty Harry. (As children who attended Scouts and Brownies, we memorized all her expressions, obeying the mantra, Always Be Prepared.) I particularly remember her narrowed eyes asking us Clint-type questions:  'Do you feel lucky?' Or, "In this world, there are two kinds of people, my friend: Those with loaded guns and those who dig. You dig.” Obviously, a tattoo was going to happen at some point in her life. Madam Librarian has flung away her disguise of well dressed respectabilty and shown us her leather wearing, possibly bald headed, dragon self.

I find myself wondering, does everyone long for another version of themselves? Do others feel threatened by that new version? (I feel threatened by this version of my sister. I took her out for lunch just to keep her on my side.)

But truly, must we continue liking the same things, holding the same convictions and maintaining the status quo so that others feel comfortable in their interpretation of who we are? I'm someone who does not like change. But it keeps happening, and life has a way of forcing me to adapt if only to keep my sanity. My husband loved change and grew quickly bored with life's daily routines. I'm really hoping that death has offered him some crazy adventures so when I'm with him again, we can take it easy.

 'We're doing what?' I asked years ago, when he planned our camping trip through Asia and a hike up to Everest base camp. (Meanwhile, I'm challenged by hard pillows in a Canadian hotel.) But I adapted to his free spirit ways, because I knew that one of us had to have some spunk, and it wasn't going to be me.

After my sister joined a cult (kidding...just a tattoo, folks) nothing will surprise me anymore. My brother may decide to take up ballet. My sister, Joni, might choose to lie around for the rest of her life and do nothing, though I can't picture it. Her batteries will never die, and she will continue bustling around and helping people fix/clean/redecorate/stage their houses forever. In between all her travels, that is. 

Maybe I'll surprise myself and do something completely unpredictable. But I doubt it. For now, writing a blog about my eldest sister is as close to danger as I can get. On that note, it's goodbye for now. I need to find somewhere to hide.

Just Relax, Already

When the world feels heavier than usual, I put away my Game of Thrones novel or collected short stories by Virginia Wolfe (I want to love her writing, but no) and pick up something lighter. A mystery novel, perhaps, though nothing too suspenseful. Reading about a woman unaware of the strange man living in her attic is just not relaxing. 

Unfortunately, I chose a romantic comedy that backfired. Why? In spite of suffering from a serious heart condition, the main character ate nothing all day but candy and pizza. 'What about spinach?' I found myself asking her aloud. 'Or carrots?' (Dear reader, her diet caused heart palpitations in me.) So I abandoned the novel, picked up my phone and found a ten minute meditation on YouTube. My friend Penny had given me one, but I used it the night before and wanted to try something new.

Supposedly, meditation stops our thoughts from bossing our brains around. One can spend so much time worrying about things that may never happen that it can provoke a very unromantic heart condition. So I found a new meditation to try. 

A man with a relaxing voice directed me in hushed tones to make myself comfortable. I chose to sit on the sofa, leaning back and pretending that my legs were as bendy as my old yoga teacher's. In reality, I might as well be carved from wood. I closed my eyes when ordered to do so, and let the music wrap around me as I pictured myself standing at the edge of a lake. I was told to breathe, to notice my heart rate and pulse. I opened my eyes to peek at the candle my sister Joni had given me, mostly to distract myself from my heart beat.

Was it unusually fast?  I tried to calm myself by closing my eyes again, listening as the man quoted Winston Churchill. 'When you're walking through hell, keep going.' Excellent advice, but I immediately pictured the Gary Larson cartoon where hellgoers repeat endless leg lifts with the devil and his pitchfork on standby. 'One million one, one million two...

Stop it! I scolded myself, focusing once more on the voice. 'Count the clouds in the sky,' he ordered. And you know what? I didn't feel like counting the clouds. When I'm out kayaking, I take in the calm lake, watch for wildlife, stare at the rocks and peek up at the sky. Not once have I counted clouds. Why? It's boring. And dumb. My irritation made me anxious, so I disregarded his instructions, whispered a prayer of gratitude for my life and turned off the meditation. 

At first I felt a bit bereft, like a Hogwarts student who couldn't do spells and never got to spend time with Harry Potter. And then I started laughing. And I thought, okay. I feel better. 

I'll try another meditation, but not the kind where they aim too high. 'You can do anything!' some will say. I believe it on a spiritual level, but I've already given up on certain aspirations, like my old dream of skating in the Olympics. It was unrealistic anyway since I never took lessons. Besides, such things won't happen no matter how well I control my breathing. Perhaps I could envision myself skating competitively as a form of meditation. But no. My anxious imagination would make me fall, and I'd end up with a Judge's score of five at best. Oh, those Russians!

 You never want to meditate on being a loser. So, feel free to offer other suggestions, dear reader. I'm open to any of your YouTube referrals, so long as I don't have to count clouds.  

 

I Don't Have a Tan

 This title might seem strange for those who know me. Of course you don't have a tan, they're thinking. You avoid the sun like a vampire, wear hats while gardening and stay indoors when it's too hot. All this is true. My eyes tend to shy away from the light, and my skin feels burned even when snowshoeing on a sunny January  day. And yet I've been loving the light tan that appeared on my face over the last year or so.  I've never liked my pale, occasionally mottled complexion which reddens with every laugh and cough. And then I had cataract surgery in one eye. 

This morning I stood in front of the bathroom mirror to conduct an experiment. Shutting my new robot eye (I love the concept...don't disillusion me with facts) I stared at myself and saw the same me I've seen for the last few years. Lightly tanned in spite of sunscreen and large hats. But I closed my unenhanced eye and there was my true face. Wan like sour yogurt, and splotchy from sleeping on my side. 

I wasn't tan. The cataracts had given everything a yellow tint. Well, crap. What happens when the other eye is roboticized? Will I react like my aunt who phoned her daughter and said, 'They did something to my face while I was asleep, and now I have wrinkles!' 

I try to eat healthy, exercise regularly, and keep a positive attitude in spite of the angry trajectory of the world. It's like a boulder rolling down hill--you can't escape it no matter where you run. But still, I  try.  Many mornings I jump out of bed like a really annoying gym teacher and occasionally even clap my hands. 

Perhaps that's why I attempt little fixer uppers like the one I tried yesterday. My eyes have been plagued with a feeling of pressure. I wondered, is it the sagging skin hanging over my eyelids? I'm not at the 'My eyes are dim, I cannot see,' stage, so it seemed best to experiment. 

With the same medical tape I use to keep my mouth shut at night (see former post, Shut Your Mouth) I used a piece to lift the skin above my lids. I'd been walking around like that for about ten minutes when the doorbell rang. Quickly, I ripped the tape off and rushed to the door to find my neighbor holding a chainsaw. (We are both deeply committed to the health our our neighborhood trees.)

"Well, darn," I said. "It's just you...I could have left the tape on." I explained the situation, and, having been my neighbor for sixteen years, he didn't even blink. 

And now I must adjust my view of things as they take on a whiter shade of pale. If I find a cure for eye pressure, I'll be sure to let you know. In the meantime, I'll brace myself for the second eye surgery. It's painless, but the truth it reveals is not. As Jimmy Cliff sang, 'Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind, it's going to be a bright, sunshiny day.' But I still won't have a tan. 

Hi Jinks

 This is a repost. I really want to write about my sister, Susan, who passed away on August 7th this summer. But I'm not able, yet, so I'll set the stage with this family piece.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thirty-five years after my mother had her first baby, Jennifer left home and gave my parents the gift of an empty nest. They did not enjoy the quiet, which was probably the biggest surprise of all. Then there were grandchildren. But that's a story for another day.  For those who need an excuse to cut loose, please enjoy some Spike Jones. My dad played it on desperate days when he needed us to let off some steam. Listen past the 30 seconds of slow music, then hang on for the ride.

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

Talkin' 'bout the Car Wash, Yeah

For my trip home from Calgary - a twelve hour drive after a four hour sleep - I woke at 4:45 AM, bleary eyed and determined to beat the traffic. I climbed into the car and set my GPS for the town of Kindersley, certain that this would take me home to Flin Flon via Drumheller. But it had other ideas. As I drove through the rain, my faulty wipers barely skimming the windshield, I realized that it was taking me on a new route. I turned on my audible book and kept going. 

Two and and a half hours later I stared at the shifting boards of a single car bridge. A semi truck waited on the other side. A standoff ensued but he finally gave in and came across. Naturally, I wanted to see if he would plunge to his death in the river below. I would then turn around and take another route. (I'm certain he had the same plan.) However, he made it safely and I rattled my way to the other side, holding my breath and repeating that kind of 'Oh my God' prayer that even the most dedicated heathen will mutter under the right circumstances.

Things weren't much better on the other side. A narrow gravel road went up a steep hill, switched back in a tight U turn, then continued climbing. Another car came along, driving about four feet from my bumper. It was impossible to go more than 40 K. but in a creepy, possibly serial killer way, this vehicle clung to my behind. I continued with the 'ohmygod' mantra until I was safely back on asphalt with the other car whipping past at 150 K. When I got to Kindersley, my car looked like we'd been on safari, so I drove to the Co-op carwash. To my delight, it was not the kind that moves you along, making you feel really stupid, like you've parked wrong and will possibly end up sideways. 

Instead, it was the stationary kind where the water sprayer and flapping brushes come to you. As I sat inside, I realized that this might be a good time to apply some makeup, brush my hair and change my shirt. By this point I looked like the half dead survivor of an apocalypse. I'd known the day would heat up and had stashed a Tee shirt on the back seat...the fancy kind with a layer of chiffon over the front panel. (Why? I don't know...maybe because it was five in the morning?) Of course my head got stuck in the wrong layer and while I was trying to figure it out, the carwash door rolled open. 

I'd been under the impression that it would stay closed until I was good and ready to leave. Not so. By the time I got my shirt on, I found myself staring at a man in a pickup truck parked just a few feet away. He looked back at me, but not in a 'hey, sexy lady,' kind of way. (That would have been very uncomfortable. Besides, there's nothing sexy about a woman of a certain age in a battle with a multi layered shirt.) Instead, with his brow furrowed and eyes narrowed like Clint Eastwood playing Dirty Harry, his expression said, 'Someone should lock that woman up.' With a shake of his head, he drove away.

 'Thank God,' I muttered. Another common prayer of mine, because these magic moments happen more frequently than I would like. For some reason it reminded me of the time I was parked at the cemetery with my boyfriend and suddenly realized that with his dark good looks, he resembled the vampire in the movie we'd just watched at the Rex Theatre. "But I'm not him," he said protestingly as we drove away.

 Or the moment a few weeks ago when I didn't want to step into all the pollen on the lake and tried to exit my kayak by stretching between it and the shore. 'I'm going down!' I hollered to no one in particular, since I was alone. 'It's happening!' I shouted to a bored looking bird on a nearby tree branch. Fortunately, I mustered enough strength to return home with just a wet bottom. I felt like Arnold Schwartnegger as I brought the kayak in line with the rocky shore using only the strength of my thigh muscles. (They ached like the dickens the next day.)

 I will never see  the man from the car wash again, or if I do, will not recognize him because I have a problem with faces, thank God. And though I may not be good with google maps, or packing the right shirt, or responding correctly when facing a semi crossing a bridge, I will always show gratitude when leaving behind these awkward moments and making it home in one piece. Next time I'll set my GPS for Drumheller. Foolproof, right? Only time will tell. And now, in honour of the blog title, there's this.

Up In The Air

 There are times when I'm pulled from my comfortable life by uncertain events. I'm no longer running on autopilot, which is how we all live when things are going well. 

A few months ago I was flying to Winnipeg and ready for take-off when the flight attendant approached me. She spoke in a low tone, like we were both spies for the same organization and couldn't let on that anything unusual was happening. 

'I'm sorry,' she said. "I need you to move to the very back of the plane. It's a matter of weight.' Let me be clear. There were eight of us scattered around the plane at that point. I stared at the others who pretended they hadn't heard. Then I got up and took the walk of shame to the very back, not my favourite spot to sit, because it gets cold when they open the door.

I wanted to say, 'Why me and not that guy?' But then, that guy was moved from his spot to one across the aisle from me. We exchanged sheepish looks and joked about how we were really trying to get our weight under control but it just wasn't working.  The same thing happened to me on an Air Canada flight where I was the only passenger asked to move. You kinda feel picked on at that point. 

Another reality-altering moment happened after we'd performed our Community Choir's spring production of Mary Poppins. My musician billet had returned to Winnipeg, I'd sorted out my neglected house, and was finally in the middle of a decent sleep when I was awakened by the sound of a Banshee. It was haunting...kind of a high-pitched wail that had me bolting out of bed and spinning in every direction. While feeling discombobulated, I also felt proud of myself for not hiding under the covers. 

The haunting noise went on and on, and once I realized I was alone in the room, I was able to locate the source of the sound. It came from a dresser drawer, top left.  Feeling disoriented (can you blame me?) I bent my head and said, 'Hello?' Then I opened the drawer and fell back to earth. My life slid into place...no Banshee...just an old Sony voice recorder I'd used for recording some of my alto parts for the musical. 

It had tipped over in the drawer and turned on, but the battery was dying so my very high alto part, not pleasant at the best of times, sounded...well. Like a banshee. I was so mad that I'd woken myself up, I couldn't even laugh about it until the next day. 

Something else I'm up in the air about is how I talk to my outside plants, especially the trees. I do it, but I feel a bit foolish. 'I'm sorry I chopped off those branches last summer...did I kill you? Try not to die. You were expensive.' Something along those lines. Or, with a small plant, I might give it a light caress as I pass by, and whisper, 'I hope your day is going well. How is everyone getting along?' 

I figure that plants might be like people. There are those they want to grow next to, and those they'd rather leave behind. It's a lot like politics, which also leaves me up in the air. I meet people who say the kookiest things on Facebook but discover that they're kind and helpful to others. It's discombobulating. Why can't terrible people wear tee shirts that say, 'Bad to the Bone,' to let the rest of us know? But that's not life.

We're all a mixed bag, and though we basically want the same things....peace and safety for ourselves, our loved ones,and the world, we all have different ideas of how to get there. I might not like your way, you might not like mine. That's why being kind is so important. Because, as bad as it is to be a world leader with sinister intentions, its just as bad to be an asshole. That's another tee shirt people should have to wear. Although wer'e all human and we all take a turn at being that from time to time.

I'm not up in the air about this next part. Let's be our best selves, even if we don't vote the same. Even if we don't have the same belief system. I attend church. You might not. That shouldn't make me a kook (I go to such a nice church!) and it doesn't make you any less in God's eyes. Let's wish each other well, be grateful for our good lives, and spare a bit of time and money for those who are not as fortunate. It's pretty simple, after all. And for those of you who, like me, occasionally talk to the trees, here's a song by Dirty Harry himself. I'm pretty sure he was shocked to find himself in a musical. He'd fit in well in Flin Flon.

Shut Your Mouth

 I think of myself as a moderate health nut, eating well and exercising. I never sign up for extreme sports and I won't become a Vegan. (But I should be a vegan. I feel so guilty.)

So when my friend...let's call her S....told me about her new health kick, I was intrigued but a bit skeptical. Here was the deal. Every night before bed, she and her husband would tape their mouths shut. Picture something like this, but less pretty.

The reasons for doing so came from a book called 'Breath,' by James Nestor. I didn't have the book but thought I'd try taping my mouth shut at night, just to see what would happen. I lasted 15 seconds. It was like being straight-jacketed by the night shift staff in a film noir psych ward.  Why would anyone try this? Well, for the following reasons.

Being a mouth breather is a bad, bad thing. It causes bone loss in the face, a narrowing of the mouth, and problems in the throat. So, mouth breathing: Bad. Nose breathing: Good. I got the book from the library to find out why. 

Our nose is like a shield for the rest of our body. It keeps the dust and dirt out and gently warms the air heading for our lungs. The bad side effects of being a mouth breather include asthma, sleep apnea, exhaustion, and crooked teeth.  Also, most of us aren't chewing enough anymore. Our food is too processed. The people who lived three hundred years ago had to chow down on wild boar meat and whatever vegetation was on hand, resulting in much straighter teeth. Scientists have the skulls to prove it. 

There are many kinds of breathing covered in the book. You can lie on the ground and breath hard and fast to induce an experience that replicates taking LSD. I think I'll skip that one. There are exercises that Buddhist monks do, where they can stop and start their hearts just by changing the way they breathe. Over breathing is bad, slow breathing is better. Each breath should be 5.5 seconds in, and 5.5 seconds out. (With your mouth shut.) The carbon dioxide in our lungs plays an important part in our health and longevity. Nose breathers live longer.

Since I'm a moderate health nut, no crazy shenanigans for me. I keep my mouth shut at night by using a small piece of medical tape, placing it in the center of my lips like a lowered Charlie Chaplin moustache. It's quite comfortable and definitely helps prevent mouth breathing. I'm considering it for the daytime, too. Hopefully I'll remember to peel it off before I leave the house.

Did you know you can grow back the bone you've lost by doing this? The guy who wrote the book gained bone the width of six pennies slapped together. I'm hoping that within a few years, you'll see me on Main Street and think, wow. Her jaw looks bigger. Mostly, I hope you notice that I only open my mouth to talk. Which is frequent. In fact, I might have to rethink my whole personality. On the other hand, I"m just a writer standing in front of readers I might not know, asking them to tape their mouths shut at night. In honor of that, here's a song with an appropriate title. Just pretend I'm watching you.

(172) The Police - Every Breath You Take (Official Video) - YouTube

Cadmium and Lead in my Chocolate? Oh My!

 My journey with dark chocolate started a number of years ago with a desperately whispered prayer. As I lay on the sofa, a half-eaten Easter Bunny in hand, (not the live kind...I'm not that bad) and a tub of ice cream resting on my stomach, I said this to God. 

"Please! Help me get off the sugar wagon!"

I knew I needed some kind of 12-step program, because I was the type of addict that would knock you over the head and steal your bag of Halloween candy. And I was tired of putting my kids in that kind of danger.

After some time passed, an odd thing began to happen. (Bear with me if you've heard this story. I sense some eye-rolling from siblings and friends.) I started to break out in hives. At first, there were just a few. But as the weeks passed, I started to look like this guy.

This went on for some months and the list of foods causing the hives continued to grow. Apples, (organic were fine) strawberries, fish, shrimp, and sometimes nothing. As Thanksgiving approached, I was feeling desperate. I called my cousin Sue, our resident expert on all things food related. 

"You're not going to like this," she said. "Your body's reaction has nothing to do with those foods. You're going to have to give up sugar and wheat. Maybe a few other grains." She sensed my hesitation and...okay...my complete disbelief. "Just try it." So I did. In one week, no more hives. 

It took a few months for me to realize that I was finally off sugar. And had no brain fog. And felt great. But still, I cast a few dark looks at the sky. "Ha ha, very funny," I said. But the joke was on me. Still, it ended up being worth it. And eventually, I found my way to dark chocolate. I'm talking 85% dark. The reeeaaaally healthy stuff. Or so I thought. (So we all thought, right?) I've been living in denial about the latest chocolate news because I'm good at that. But when they finally announced the problem on CBC, I could no longer kid myself. I've been eating three or four squares a day for years. YEARS! This explains a few things.

When I go through airport security, I take my boots off. My pockets are empty. I carry nothing but a kind heart and a benign smile for the airport staff. And yet I set off the gatey thing that checks for bombs almost every time. Did it not occur to one of those people to say, "OMG, this woman is packed with cadmium and lead! " I would have really appreciated the heads up. I mean, I take really good care of myself. I eat kale all the time! So now I have to pray, 'Dear God, get me off the chocolate wagon,' and only She knows if there is a decent substitute out there. (Please don't say carob. It is disgusting.)

I'm open to ideas, people. While I wait on God for her next practical joke, I need some ideas that don't include artificial sweeteners (except stevia) and recipes that don't involve wheat, oats, barley, quinoa, or any of those 'we're the original wheat' things like Millet. I can do small quantities of rice flour and corn flour, but I still get a belly ache, even though I like to pretend I don't. 

If you don't have any ideas, that's okay. Just allow me this very pouty blog post. (Especially on Valentine's Day with a deceased husband, no chocolate, and according to recent, depressing studies, alcohol recently added to the naughty list.  Thankfully I will be zooming with friends shortly and can whine to them while enjoying a cup of tea with a wedge of cheese. (Please don't give me bad news about dairy. Leave me something.) 

And if you decide to comment, please don't try to argue with me about God. I get that most people think the Creator is a guy, but it just doesn't ring true for me. God is not a person. And frankly, if someone was going to birth the world, only females would have the guts to say, 'Yeah, I think I can take that on.' Jesus was a man...I'll give you that. And I love Him too, so, let's hope he weighs in on my current problem. I'll inform you all as soon as I hear back. It will probably be something darkly comedic, but good for me in the end. And all I can say is, Amen to that.

How Canadians Dress for the Apocalypse

 I enjoy all kinds of dystopian fiction. Alien invasions, futuristic thrillers...any movie or series where things aren't looking too good. Because no matter how messed up our world is, we're not there yet and hopefully never will be. The thing I don't like about shows like Mad Max-Fury Road, the Walking Dead, or Water World, is those ridiculous leather outfits some characters wear.

Why are people dressing so uncomfortably when the world has gone to hell in a handbasket? It's obvious that the future is overheated. All the characters are either stewing in their own sweat or searching for water. The land is cracked, and rivers and lakes are nonexistent. So why does the Bad Guy need four layers of leather sewn into a cascading cape? What's with the women in tight leather pants, vests and knee-high boots? It's at least 35C (95 to you Fahrenheit people.) Maybe hotter. After all, it's the Apocalypse. You're not supposed to be comfortable. 

But I don't think Canadians would wear those outfits when the world is falling apart.  Any Canuck with two brain cells would scavenge for the warmest jackets. Perhaps a Helly Hansen or a NorthFace parka. (Not promoting...just going for quality.)

And for footwear, we are not going to wear knee-high leather boots. How could we escape the cannibals or zombies? We need high-quality sneakers or hikers and a decent -30 rated boot with a good sole for winter. I can run like a maniac in my sheepskin Uggs. The first thing I did when I bought a pair was run like hell. You should have seen the salesperson's face.

My biggest pet peeve? The masks. Leather (of course) covers a guy's entire face except for the eyeholes. Searingly hot in summer, the wearers would have a constant rash. A better option is a cozy scarf for a cold winter's run through darkened streets. Of course if you're being chased, you'd be better off with an infinity scarf. No dangling ends. And for the Love of God, wear some mittens. They can be leather on the outside, but they have to be lined. 

I have never cared much for fashion. But nobody should worry about it when the world is a dust bowl and strange creatures roam the land. Let the Parisians get eaten by the scavengers as they try to run away in their heeled boots. Let macho guys roast their nether regions with their tight leather pants. And let us Canadians make our way comfortably and sensibly through the frozen, barren terrain as we attempt to outrun a pack of polar bears. Oh Canada, my money's on us.