A Little Don Time

I'm in a funk. It's a beautiful day, but there's a fire somewhere and the smoke is burning my throat. So I put away my garden tools and check to see if the coast is clear. Then I slink into the house, turn on the TV and let Netflix load.

Binge watching TV has replaced afternoon drinking as the way to avoid the boring things in life, like chores. I'm a serious reader with an obligation to my local library, but Don Draper keeps calling my name. His slicked back hair, immobile face and no nonsense tone compel me to drop what I'm doing and tune in. Especially when he says, "Betty, its going to be fine." I know, Don. And thanks for the reassurance.

We have a complicated relationship, he and I. For one thing, I can't trust him. These Mad Men and their lying ways. They spend their days making up stories about products, and their nights lying to their wives. "Just off to meet a client, honey." Sure thing, Don. Roger. Pete. All you lusty, smoking, hard drinking men with your pressed shirts and suave ways.

Supposedly the series is a comedy. Well, I'm not laughing. Neither is Don's wife, Betty. In fact, I think she only smiled twice during the first three seasons. The show was produced by AMC, who also made Breaking Bad and the Walking Dead. Of the three series, this one is the darkest. Sure, Jessie is chained in the basement cooking meth in the first. Zombies are trying to kill off the remaining humans in the second. But still.

Misogyny. People who smoke and drink day and night. (My chest gets tight just from watching.) Men who lie without turning a hair on their brylcreemed heads. Women named Sweetheart and Dear who choose to believe them. Characters so complicated, no therapist can ever sort through the dark closets of their psyches.

Remember this. If you're going to binge watch Netflix shows, make sure you have a plausible story lined up. Grab a dust cloth. Take out the vacuum cleaner. And be careful. Once you fall down that rabbit hole, its very hard to find your way out again. To help kick the Netflix habit, find a supportive group. Once you've shared your concerns and confessed your darkest fears, there just might be time left over for to turn on Netflix and find a new series.

Ode to a '64 Rambler

I was seventeen the first time I drove uptown in my mother's car. It was old. A nineteen sixty-four mint green Rambler with standard steering and brakes. At five foot two and a hundred pounds, I had to throw my whole body against the wheel just to turn the corner. When I got uptown, I remember wondering, "What the hell were they thinking, letting me take the car?" Driving that thing was the equivalent of a chipmunk trying to steer a Tyrannosaurus Rex. "Go that way, dammit,' I'd squeak. Sometimes the car would obey.

My friends and I spent hours in it listening to the radio. When you share the house with six other kids and two parents, you have to be creative in finding your space. My dad would holler through the garage window, "You're running down the battery!" Sometimes I listened. Sometimes I ran down the battery.

Like all cars built then, it was extremely spacious. On family vacations, Linda would sit up front with mom and dad. Joni would lie in the back window. Bill would sit on the floor on some kind of board system, while the rest of us shared the back seat. Any fighting that took place was purely recreational.

My first incident with the Rambler happened on the way to Denare Beach. I was stopped by the RCMP for a reason I can't remember. Probably because I look about ten years old. My friends in the back, each holding a case of beer, wore expressions of such innocence, they might have been preparing for their First Communion.

Meanwhile, I had to follow the cop back to his car for questioning. In the next minute, like a slowed down insurance advertisement on what not to do, the Rambler rolled backward and hit the patrol car. It was a gentle roll. I didn't get charged with anything, just told to fix my parking brake. "My mother's parking brake, you mean." I was quick to grant her ownership of the car when it was convenient for me.

For the next incident, my grade twelve biology class was on a field trip on the North Star road. After wading through weeds looking for God knows what, we were driving back to class when the Rambler left the road, almost of its own accord. The roll downhill seemed to happen in slow motion.

There were no seatbelts, so there was a lot of head bumping before we finally stopped. After a brief moment of hysteria, we found a ride into town. With whom, I can't recall. All I remember is arriving home and seeing my mother's face. Hearing the sound of her voice. "My beautiful car! Oh My God! My Rambler! I mean, I'm glad you're all right but...My Car!"

 Mud along the shoulder of the road was blamed. But if I hadn't slammed on the brake, it wouldn't have happened. We were all fine, except for the Rambler. In spite of its tank like qualities, it was no match for a rocky hillside. Mom, I'm still sorry. The upside is, I became a cautious driver. 

I always swore that if I struck it rich, I'd buy my mother a brand new car to make up for the loss. It never happened. So, God, its up to you. Give her something for racing around heaven. She was an excellent driver and a very good person. And when we meet again, I'll probably want to borrow her new car. I think she'll say yes.

He's Bringing Sexy Back

Once, there was a man in a chair beside a fake fireplace in the Saskatoon airport. He was reading a book. Not a magazine. A big book, and not a Dan Brown novel either, because I checked. His feet were up on an Ottoman, and he was completely immersed in the story.  I watched him for a while, in a non creepy way, and longed to congratulate him for being the sexiest man in the airport.

I have certain requirements that must be filled before a man enters the sexy category. Someone with a big truck, super size tires and no muffler? Not sexy.  A guy with a big truck, a muffler and regular tires who also helps his friends move their stuff? Very sexy. People underrate helpfulness. I find it extremely compelling.

Guys who do stuff for their families and friends definitely up their hotness quotient. Clarence was just home working in our yard and I had to use the garden hose just to cool down. Seriously. So. Reading publicly. Being helpful and kind. And funny. Funny works for me. These are sexy behaviors. But this next one tops them all. Men who Sing.

Now, its become obvious to me that Clarence is not in this category. However, in my defense, he had me convinced that he could. He dazzled me with his funny, charming, sneakily helpful ways. So every single time he opened his mouth, I could hear the back up music to a great song. It wasn't until we'd been married a few years and I heard him howling in the shower that I realized I'd been duped. However, he is saved by the helpful thing, the reading thing and the funny thing. Whew!

But back to men who sing. I don't know why they don't take advantage of their talent. I sat beside a guy on the plane last week who pulled out a Velcro wallet to pay for his drink. I had to turn my face away. However, if he'd started serenading the stewardess, it would have cancelled the dorkiness of being a grown man with a Velcro wallet. This talent opens many doors and possibly more than that, if used correctly. Justin Timberlake figured this out as a child. And look where he is.  He brought sexy back. And, with the right props and attitude, so can you.

What's It all About, Meatloaf?

I was driving down the street a number of years ago when Meatloaf's song, 'I would do Anything for Love, (but I won't do that),' came on the radio. I'd never heard it before. I pulled the car over, growing increasingly irritated that I couldn't figure out exactly what 'that' was. Sex? Lying? Cross dressing? I'm still not sure. It troubles me.

At times, I feel like a foreigner in my own country. The most familiar city becomes strange once I'm trying to drive through it. I need a guide. Possibly, an interpreter. Someone kind, who thinks its all right to misunderstand situations or words. For example. When I was a little kid, I thought being fired from a job meant being tied to a gasoline soaked chair while a hooded man hovered nearby with a lit match. I begged my parents to always be on time for work. Just in case.

 Next, I wondered why the local theater kept repeating the movie, "DOUBLE BILL. "It's in town at least once a month," I said, shaking my head at the craziness of it all. My dad's name was Bill. So was my brother's. Hmmm. It took a friend's kind explanation for me to understand they meant 'Double Feature.' Well, why not say that?

When hearing about a local spin class. (sadly, I was already an adult) I wondered how there could possibly be room for everyone. And what music does one choose for spinning? Does the class glide through the room, their arms spread in a whirling dervish bliss out? Is it ballet style dancing, or does it have more of a Woodstock feel?

Wrong again. There is no spinning. Just stationary bikes ridden like...stationary bikes. Well, then why don't they just say that. Why don't they call a spade a spade, instead of asking us foreigners to learn the language. We can't. We've tried. It just doesn't take.

Go ahead, world. Be like Meatloaf, enigmatic and opaque. Have your inside jokes that more literal people like me never get. Sure, I'll be puzzled. Occasionally, I'll become lost. But I won't feel sad. Like Meatloaf says, two outta three ain't bad.

Les Miserables and Me, Confessions of an Alto

Passion. Faith. Greed. Love. I sit in the Channing auditorium with my alto sisters, mentally echoing Jean Val Jean's shout out to the universe. Who Am I? And why is my memory so dismal? I ignore the larger questions, of course. The ones the characters ponder during this three hour musical extravaganza.

Though, like them, I wonder where it all went wrong. Not with the musical, or our amazing cast who has the choir weeping every night. (At the end of the day, we are out of Kleenex and unable to breath from our noses.) No, the question for me is, why can't I remember words better?

For example, instead of 'chaperone,' I've been singing 'Chapter One.' My alto sister to my right finally convinced me of the truth, but it is hard to change mid stream. Not for our cast members, of course, who remember all their words plus an incredible number of notes about their acting, (turn your head to the right, not the left, and drop your chin as you exit the stage.) Seriously, they should all receive a Tony and an honorary membership in Mensa.

It eats me up, the contrast between our on stage cast and myself. At one point, (Crystal will fire me for sure) I shouted out, "Send the slut away!" instead of 'Sack the girl today!" Fortunately, it was during the dress rehearsal. The choir has received notes on diction, and I must shoulder a lot of the blame.

That's the lovely thing about three performances. There are more chances to get things right. While Javert or Cosette stress about whether they've raised their hands at the right time, I'm praying I don't sing out at the wrong moment. Which happens in choir. We call it 'pulling a Timmy.'

Now that I've thrown another choir member under the bus, I feel a lot better.  I'll prepare for tonight's show with a lighter heart. Don my peasant garb, fill my water bottle and hold on to that last tiny cheat sheet. After all, I'm still in the dark about certain things. The answers to life's big questions. The right words to this musical. I need all the help I can get.

Strange Candy

When I was a kid, I thought about candy every day. If I found a dime in the street or collected a few empty pop bottles, I'd head to Johnny's and peruse the merchandise. I knew what I liked. A crispy crunch bar. A small paper bag of mixed up penny candy. An orange crush soda, or a bag of chips. When you're a kid, candy is your soul mate. Which is why I'm puzzled by some of those childhood choices.

Like, wax lips.  Made from actual wax with some kind of gross liquid inside. Probably the kind of dye that steals your fertility or gives you cancer. But anyway. Once you'd punctured the lips and drank the miniscule amount of mystery juice, all that was left was to chew the lips. Or put them on top of your own. Which I always did. And then chewed the wax and spit it out, because you couldn't actually eat it.

Lickimade. I'm not sure if this is the right spelling, but it was basically kool aid in a small envelope that you slit open and ate. Dry powder with fake flavor and sugar. I hope it was cheap, and only cost a penny. I hate to think I spent a dime on it.

Macintosh Toffee, uncut, in the box. I'm fairly sure it was meant for baking, but every now and then I'd buy some. With the first bite, my jaw would lock and it would take me about four hours to finish.

Pink elephant popcorn. Not the real name, but I remember a white box with pink popcorn that tasted a thousand years old. It belonged in an Egyptian tomb, scattered around the remains of a pharaoh.

Candy necklaces. Small, hard rings of candy, fake tasting and strung together on a piece of elastic. You could wear it, or you could eat it. But you couldn't do both. Because it got sticky and then it felt terrible on your neck.

Why the bad candy choices? I don't know. I like to think that somebody else bought them and I just partook. There's more strange candy on the list...things I've forgotten about. So please. Add your own. Take a walk down candy lane and ask yourself the following question. "What the hell was I thinking?"

Easy Rider

This is not an homage to the movie, which I refer to as the poor man's Breaking Bad. I know about the great reviews and still don't care. Since I've grown up, it just makes me recoil. I'm not sure if its the misogyny or the bad acting. But the soundtrack? One of the best ever made.

There is a time and a place for everything. The time for the song, Born to be Wild, is during a car dance. What is that, you might be wondering. Please, let me tell you. When you live in the far north, as I do, road trips take forever. Hours of long, barren highway leave one with nothing to do but listen and dream. So. Select the music of your choice, and begin moving the muscles in your bum as well as your actual shoulders. Its a matter of multi tasking, really. You still have two hands on the wheel and a foot ready for the brake, but everything else is keeping time with the beat.

Do this alone. For some reason, its off putting to passengers. Ever since I dropped a pistachio while driving, I have to sit like the sphinx when I'm with Clarence and behind the wheel. Also, its just too embarrassing. Because what's the point if you don't get into it? Singing along is optional, but after a few minutes of movement, you won't be able to resist.

Besides helping pass the time and avoiding numb bum, something really wonderful happens during a good car dance. All the forces of the universe come together and make me feel as if I've just:
a: won the lottery
b: found a cure for cancer
c. am discovered by Simon Cowell, who can't stop raving about my wonderful voice.

It can be anything really. And the benefits are many. A good car dance has the same effect on me as meditation, yoga, or running. (Not that I over indulge in any of those.) I get a mind/body high that tells me anything is possible. There is one perfect, synchronized moment when I am born to be wild. I am free. I'm an easy rider. I can do anything I set my mind to. Anything! Which is a wonderful way to feel on an eight hour road trip.

To recap, here are the other benefits.

1. Pass the time. (it flies by!)
2. Save your butt (avoid sciatic nerve damage!)
3. Rev your creative engine. (write that novel! compose that song! knit! (but not in the car))
4. Find happiness. (yes, its this easy.)

Please enjoy your next long distance car ride by employing my suggested technique. And you're very welcome.