We Stand on Guard for Thee

 Women in Canada were finally allowed to serve in the armed forces in 1982, when the Canadian Charter of Rights said it was okay. By then I was pregnant with my first baby. I salute all the ladies who jumped into those careers, though I never wanted that life for myself.

But not for the reasons you'd think. For example, my new son-in-law was a soldier in Afghanistian for four years and the things he told me would curl your hair. Like, if you have to stand on guard, they feed you the kind of bread that is so constipating, you can't poop for days. Just the thought gives me a belly ache. 

Then there's my inability to understand covert hand signals. 'You mean I should go over there?' I'd call out in a loud whisper. 'Like, past the bathroom and over by the window?' Another reason is, I can't remember where things are in the dark. I can only drive in the city of Calgary during the day, because at night, it feels like someone has moved all the buildings and roads around. I'm always in a foreign country while driving in any city after dark.

I can see me rushing into a building in a 'search for Bin Laden' situation and finding myself alone. Because I went into the wrong building. Logistically, I'm not that good. Also, I can be a little oppositional. Not sure how I would respond to someone barking commands at me. Even though I was married for a long time.

Speaking of marriage, my husband loved war movies. We both enjoyed the Deer Hunter, but one of our favourites was Coming Home with John Voight and Jane Fonda. John's character came home from the Vietnam war unable to walk. Jane's husband had just gone to Vietnam and Jane and John started an affair. But because of  his situation, they had to find new ways to have sex. This inspired many negotiations between my husband and me on those nights when we were both tired but still wanted to have sex. 'It's my turn to be the cripple,' we'd argue. (Forgive us for not saying 'differently abled...it was the seventies.) 

But I digress. What I really want to talk about is loyalty. This is something you have to have if you're going to war on behalf of your country. And now, all Canadians are in the strange position of not being at war, but feeling like we're under attack. Not in a subliminal way (because there's nothing subliminal about Donald Trump) but more in a WTF is going on, way. 

It's hard to know how to feel, so we've taken an initial stance of standing close together with our elbows up. Because one thing we all agree on is that however we vote in our next election, we're not about to become American citizens.  For one thing, we have different standards of politeness. If you step on our foot, we tell you we're sorry. We're not American sorry...we're Canadian sorry. I remember watching the series, 'Sex in the City' and you know what shocked me? How rude the ladies were to the wait staff in restaurants. We don't do that. 

I know there are many Americans who are horrifed by what's happening in their country. We stand with you, too. Against tyranny, against authoritarianisn, and yes, against bad manners. 

We are Canadian. Don't mess with us. We are standing on guard for the country we love and the life we have here. Are things perfect? Nope. But we stand on guard for everything She stands for. I'm with every ride or die person in this amazing place we call home. (Just as long they don't use hand signals.) Elbows Up!

The Box

 I wish the title to this blog post was 'The Boxer' and, like Simon and Garfunkel, I'd have written one of the best songs ever. But no. This is about a box.

Rather, it's about how to lose your mind while trying to assemble the thing. I'm the chair of our church board (I know... what were the thinking?) and fortunately, most of the  care and common sense decision making happens with the rest of the board. But I'd offered to collect what we needed for our year end, then box it up and take it to the accountants. So I bought a box.

Or should I say, a collection of three flat, folded banker's boxes. I used them in the past when I ran my own business. How hard could they be to assemble? 

Look. I know that somewhere there's a guy who came up with the idea for the box diagram printed on the bottom. But as far as I'm concerned, he might as well have used Egyptian hieroglyphics. (Yes, I had to google the spelling of that word.) I tried to figure it out...finally got the box lid done, but could not understand the rest of the instructions.

 So I did what I always do when I need help with a project. (Pitiful right? Folding a box is now a project?) I turned on the ancient computer in the church office and, disregarding the 400 icons on the desk top left by every administrator since 1995, I found the internet and YouTube.

There, I located a video of a man holding a flattened banker's box. He carefully demonstrated how to bend the box, where to tear on on the dotted lines, and what needed to be folded. The video was three minutes long and I had to keep restarting it. I kept missing the part where you have to shove the bottom through and then secure it with the sides. Because if you do it the wrong way, the bottom flap falls away.

At last I figured it out, realizing once again that Mensa will not be inviting me to be a part of their elite club where every member could put that thing together in 30 seconds. I would also  be the first voted off  the reality show, Survivor, if the players needed to unfold a box.  

 Perhaps I was wrong about the Boxer's lyrics. Some of them might apply here if I tweak the words like this:

                                    In the office stands a boxer
                                    Not a fighter by her trade
                                    And she carries the reminders
                                    Of every box that laid her down
                                    Or cut her till she cried out
                                    In her anger and her shame
                                    "I am leaving, I am leaving,"
                                    Oh, I got it! Never mind.

                                    La La La La La La La. (Did you sing along?)

And now, for your listening pleasure, here's the Boxer.

The Swedish

 We had a hot tub in the house we moved from in 2005. It fit eight people and we used it regularly as a family. When winter rolled around, my husband Clarence liked to take what he called, 'a Swedish.' By this he meant that he was going to run naked around our back yard. Only at night, of course.

Now, we had no neighbors behind us because we lived by the bush. (That's a forest to you non-northerners.) But we had neighbors on each side, and I worried they'd spot him dashing around. 'It's dark out!' he'd say. 'No one can see me!' He also applied this logic to the times when he'd forgotten something in the living room and ran quickly while naked. 'I was fast,' he'd say. 'No one saw me.' 

'Every car driving by saw you,' I'd say. He'd just shrug. 

Needless to say, I never bothered with the Swedish myself. That is until a few days ago, when I had a head cold, (the one sweeping across Canada.) I'd been sitting in our steamshower (no hot tub in this house) until I couldn't take another moment—it gets really hot in there—and as I stood in the bathroom wrapped in a towel, I had a thought.

What if Clarence was right? What if all I needed was a good Swedish? That hot-to-cold moment that shocks your body and lets the healing begin? I wouldn't even have to run through my backyard, because I have an attached garage.

I put on some socks and leather slippers, tightened the towel around myself and headed for the garage. It felt wonderful out there! I inhaled deeply, letting the frigid air enter my sinus cavity and chest. I stayed out as long as I could...maybe four minutes. I took a photo of myself and sent it to my kids, saying, "I'm having a Swedish in the garage! Your dad would be so proud!"

Then, as the cold began to seep into my bones, I'd had enough. I pressed on the door handle, but it didn't give. I'd forgotten to unlock it before I went out. No problem. I quickly punched in the code. Nothing happened. I tried it again. Still nothing. It had worked just the day before, but overnight, the batteries had died. 

Dear reader, I'm sure you can imagine the panic filling my brain as I stood there shivering. My back door is inaccessible in the winter. That left only the front door, the one facing the street, where buses run every half hour and cars drive by, and people go walking. It was around ten in the morning, and cold. Very cold. 

I pushed the back garage door open, and stepped onto the sidewalk. My first steps were safe ones, then I almost wiped out on some ice hiding under a skiff of snow. I laughed hysterically but caught myself by grabbing onto a drainpipe. 

It was time to run across the front of my house and up the stairs. I looked around and tried to time it so no cars were passing. Then a horrible thought landed.

What if it didn't work? What if my front door keypad batteries were also dead? I pictured myself hailing down a passing car. "Can I have a ride to my friend's house? I'm locked out!'  The neighbors next to me were out that morning, and I didn't have the nerve to knock on the door of the bachelor down the street, or the fortitude to make it down the Queen Street hill and scurry down another block to my friend, Gaye's house. I mean, what if she wasn't even home? And what good was my phone? By the time the 911 people got there I'd probably be dead from the cold.

In a panic, I rushed up to my front door, my head swiveling in every direction like that little girl in the Exorcist, and quickly tapped in the code. It worked! I rushed into my warm house and headed for the steamshower to warm up. I remembered to text my kids to say I was okay.

These are the 'It's a Wonderful Life' moments. The ones where everything turns out. I'd had a Swedish, and I didn't die. And as far as I know, nobody saw me. Will I do this again at some point? Maybe. But I'll change the batteries first, and make sure it's not so cold out. I mean, as it was, I could have suffered the most terrifying end, ever: Death by Embarrassment. Fortunately, all is well. So Happy New Year to all of you. Stay warm, and remember to think things through. Because you don't want to end up outside your house dressed in a towel in the middle of winter. I mean, who does that?