One Cake Over the Line, Sweet Jesus

Most days I do pretty well managing my wheat free, low sugar diet. I hate suffering through the hives, aching muscles, nausea and brain fog that accompany foods that don't like me. It's not just wheat. Gluten free crackers, cookies, and basically anything fun and well sugared also makes my body sad. Especially if I have more than one serving. Which, of course I do.

We had some delicious all natural chocolate truffles last night, along with chocolate chip, gluten free cookies. My body is busy slapping me upside the head today. Not that my brain will notice. It's too busy wondering what the hell is happening and where I'm supposed to be and...what?

This has left me wondering about the following. How on earth do people smoke crack? Don't these people have back aches the next day? Don't they wonder if waking up in a Hell's Angel's clubhouse is worth it? Do addictions even allow us to ask any of the right questions, or do we have to follow blindly until we're so sick that we can't possibly shovel in another bite, or lift the pipe to our lips (if that's what you use to smoke crack. I'm just guessing, here) or, if it's internet porn, then...well.

The apostle Paul says in one of his letters,  "I can't seem to do what I want to do. I keep doing things I don't want to do!' I know, Paul. I'm feeling your pain right now. Literally, I'm feeling your pain. We are all drawn to the dark side from time to time, whether it be food, drugs, video games or just fill in the blank.

The power of not being able to have, eat, or do something instantly makes the thing immensely attractive. Hanging out with people who are very strong willed helps, but my three year old granddaughter can only do so much for me. She can't have wheat, either, but so far she seems to be okay with it. She's too busy lobbying her parents for a pony.

We are all tempted by things that aren't good for us. Perhaps if we were followed around by people holding 'I Told You So' signs, we'd at least put a little effort into some kind of resistance. What helps occasionally is when I think about all the times in the past when I was wrong.  It goes something like this.

Dear Mr. Sims, (my high school biology teacher, unfortunately passed away) you were right about tequila. Just say no. Well, you'd be glad to know I do that. Mostly.

Dear Dad, You were right about some teenage boys. Let's just leave it there.

Dear friends who bug me to join yoga: The stiffness in my joints and back is seconding your argument. My resistance, along with my whole body, is weakening. Though I may be too weak to join. We'll see.

Dear Donald Trump: Ha ha. Just kidding.

You need a multifaceted plan for resisting temptation. Like a team of supporters, or even shamers. Whatever it takes to get you through. Keeping all the forbidden fruit out of the house is usually a good idea. It would help me considerably if there were no birthday parties, no Christmas, Easter, Valentine's Day, or Halloween. OMG. I've just realized I may have to change religions.The United Church is just too celebratory for my delicate constitution.

But onward and upward. I'm back on the food wagon, as of today, and feeling more convicted than ever. And for those of you who also let yourselves down, please feel free to join my pity party. Just don't expect any cake.
I'll celebrate the moment, instead, with this iconic, sadly unironic, moment from the Lawrence Welk Show. Thank you, John Scott, for this.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t8tdmaEhMHE

For Those Who Can’t Get It Up

I was reading the editorial from Maclean’s September 26^th issue regarding online trolls, when I had a revelation. Since I’m Canadian, I'll form it as an apology. I’m so sorry you can’t get it up. Maybe you never could. But perhaps a little encouragement, or even some information, will help you find success. 

Let’s begin with those ultra-scary, sometimes annoying words, political correctness. Many don't get it, never mind get it up. Others believe that behind those words lurks a monster so powerful, it will strip away everything great about you and your country. Allow me to provide a medication-free aid.

First, let's clear up a few misunderstandings. I know you’ve avoided that fearful beast all your life, but here's the good news. Political correctness is only about manners. Not your everyday manners, either. Go ahead and slurp your soup. Blow your nose on your shirt tail. This isn't about that. It's the behavior you show to others. The manners that allow you to disagree with someone's opinion, lifestyle, religious/ sexual persuasion, or otherness, yet leave them feeling like you haven't chopped off a limb. You leave them whole. ‘But I don’t want to!’ you might think. And I know. It’s hard. 

Perhaps you're remembering a time when it was just fine using words like bohunk, chink, or fag. Maybe you told lavish jokes about people with disabilities. 'It's my wacky sense of humour!' you'd say, feeling nostalgia for those days. You know, back when your country was great. 

‘Doesn’t she know what Jesus says?’ you might think. Why yes, I do. But if you slavishly follow the Pat Robertsons, Ann Coulters or others on the hate parade, you’ll derail yourself with such wild emotion that you can’t get it up anymore. Good manners become a bridge too far. But there's a way to get there. 

Take yourself back to childhood. If you were taught to walk a mile in another's shoes, then bingo. You’re back in the game. Even on the internet, where ordinarily you'd act like Attila the Hun wiping out a whole city, you'll find yourself picturing the person on the other end of your diatribe. You'll hear their point of view. You might even feel empathy. (feel free to gasp. It's gasp worthy.) 

You may not agree with the person in question, but because you’re employing your manners, ie: political correctness, you leave that person believing there's still some civility left in the world. When we employ a little political correctness, then like a Christmas morning Grinch, our hearts grow a few sizes. We become greater, and our countries do too, no matter our financial or social position. Because greatness is more about civility and heart than anything else.

For those unable to stop the online vitriol, those who can't empathize with people NOT EXACTLY THE SAME, then again, I apologize. I’m so sorry for your loss. I grieve your inability to get it up, and hope that someone is able to help you. Perhaps you could check in with Jesus, (the real one from the bible.) He has really great ideas. Yes, he floored a lot of people with all that talk about forgiveness, and loving your brother. Your neighbor. Everyone, really. 

But remember this. We’re all rooting for you. All of us who make mistakes and occasionally forget our manners. We understand that the world works better when we behave with kindness and respect. It’s not easy. But at the end of the day, according to Ram Dass, we’re all just walking each other home. Keeping each other company on the journey of life, which is relatively short, and often hard. Strip away all the other nonsense and remember that. You might find yourself rising to the occasion, after all.

Rain Rain, Go Away

Dear New World of Weather,

Please don't be offended by what I'm about to say. We understand that Flin Flonners have done our share in heating the planet. ie: The Mine. But seriously. We are not used to all this rain. We had six days in a row in July, and that was very hard to endure. People couldn't fish, except for the really hardy folks who own those special jacket and pants outfits, or have a party  boat with a built in roof.

We didn't have our new lawn yet, so all that water just went to waste, thumping down on the clay in a sad, end-of-the-world scenario. It's bad enough that we've started getting crazy bugs in town, certainly encouraged by the longer summer season, (which frankly feels like a bit of a joke.) But mosquitoes with barbs on their stingers and those lawn destroying cinch bugs are a bridge too far.

I realize we have it pretty good up here in the north. If it snows heavily, we tend to think of it as a storm. Having lived in Southern Manitoba, I realize that's a bit of a joke. It's true that anything hotter than 28C has many of us complaining. (Heat and northerners, a complex combination--some actually like it.) I have no problem, though, with the -30 weather in winter, as long as it doesn't go on for six months like it did a few years ago. We're still recovering from that one.

It's feeling a lot like fall, and I would like a little dryness, please. I need to bring in the garden, and Clarence needs to continue bricking around our new lawn. (A subject for another blog post.) So please. Help us out and bring back the weather from, say, 1967. Thank you. ps. The smelter is shut down, so please reward us with a short winter.

sincerely,

Fed up, but trying to be nice,

 in Flin Flon

Father Knows Best

In our family, the one most likely to brag about his clothes is my husband. Never mind that our youngest daughter took fashion design. He is a man of serious fashion conviction.

So one day last week, my daughter was reading her book and I was working on my novel, when Clarence sat bolt upright and called for everyone's attention. His tone was urgent, and I became mildly alarmed. Mildly, because...well. We've been together a while.

My husband had just read a fashion article that begged sharing. He was resting on the sofa, his retirement beard rivaling the Una bomber's, Hawaiian shirt half unbuttoned, and his relaxed fit, twelve pocket, khaki shorts sporting a  hole in one leg, when he proceeded to share Jessica Alba's fashion tips for success.

Excitedly, (because, for mind boggling reasons, he finds this stuff interesting) he read the following list aloud.

 #1. Sometimes, a statement coat is all you need. Michelle's eyes met mine. We both thought about the ancient postal worker's parka he'd bought at a Thrift Store, saying, "It's so warm! And rare!"

#2. A little leopard print never hurt anyone. Really? At my age, it might be mistaken for cougar print.

#3. Bare a little skin but wear your hemline low. Yeah, I'm not baring anything but my feet. Maybe in summer, my lower legs. And a calf length hemline makes me look like a cult member from Texas.

#4. A hat helps everything. Well, not me or my brother. We  tend to look like we have double digit IQ's and deliver flyers for a living. I wear one gardening because I burn easy, but that's pretty much it.

#5. Traveling is no excuse not to look stylish. Yeah? Try a fourteen hour car trip from Calgary to Winnipeg. My idea of stylish is bringing a bib ,so if I spill my smoothie, I don't have to change my clothes and end up with no underwear like that other time. You know which one.

Thank you, Jessica Alba. In a perfect world, with thousands of dollars to spend and with a completely different body, these tips would change my life. Except for the fact that I don't care. I want to, kind of. But not really. On the other hand, father may not know best about fashion, but he certainly knows how to make me laugh. I have to thank Jessica for that, too.

Small Town Gal

(Full Disclosure - I wanted to title this blog 'Small Town Girl,' but grown women aren't supposed to use those terms. So in support of political correctness, I'm going with the aging cowgirl description. Anyway, onward.)

I love Winnipeg. I love Calgary. The cities of Manhattan, London and Paris have all filled me with joy. But Flin Flon holds my heart tight in its hockey mitted, art infused, fist. For those who live here, no explanation is necessary. For my out of town readers, please. Allow me to tell you why.

When my children were young, I ordered large boxes of dried soymilk from British Columbia and sold the surplus. With my white, powder filled baggies in hand, I headed to my local post office. "Kirsten,' I said, to a longtime employee everyone knows. "Would you weigh this product so I can figure out what to charge?' Raising her eyebrow just the tiniest bit, she did. It didn't occur to me until much later that a stranger might have found the whole activity suspicious. But we have an awesome post office, as everyone with any kind of business knows.

On another occasion, my family arrived at the drive-in movie theater without any money. Bill Leafe, the owner, waved us in, and the next time we went, wouldn't let us pay him back. The same thing happened to my dad and father in law. They were excited about the movie, 'Titanic,' and Bill  was so happy to see them there, he wouldn't take their money. Later, he had to go and wake them up because it was over and everyone else had left. They missed the part where the ship went down, so he took some time to explain the whole, 'I'll never let you go,' love scene.

I don't have to dress up for anyone in Flin Flon, which is a really big deal to me. I can if I want to. But I don't have to, except for weddings and events like the Royal party where we all wore fancy hats and celebrated the Queen's Jubilee. As we nibbled on dainty sandwiches and drank tea, we waved to each other with gloved hands. The local cadets, scouts, and Knights of Columbus dressed to the nines and waited on everyone. It was a blast. But seriously, people only comment on an outfit if it's really cold outside and you don't look warm enough.

We have a lot going on in town. Hockey games, community social events sponsored by various service clubs like Rotary, Kinnettes and more. The arts council brings in plenty of entertainment and there are Home Routes concerts, Community Choir musicals and so much more that, frankly, my card is always full. As I said, I love Manhattan. But because I'm from Flin Flon, I don't just go there. I sing there. At Carnegie Hall. Or Lincoln Center. With my choir, of course, but still. No way would that happen if I lived in Winnipeg, because then I'd have to audition. No thank you.

It's the little things that add up to a great life. Just ask the people who had to move away. Most would come back if they could. After a vacation, I love driving down the hill into Creighton or heading into Flin Flon on number ten. Everything is just as it should be. There's the Hooter. The Flin Flon campground. The main streets with most of the same old stores and faces I've been seeing my whole life.

It's not that I don't celebrate new things. I do. I just like the old things better. But then, I already confessed to being a small town girl. Gal. That's the just way I roll.

A Hail Mary Pass

Since I started complaining about my lack of sleep, the suggestions have come pouring in. First, I'm amazed at how many of my friends meditate. It's not something we've ever talked about, but now that we're all learning to live in the moment, it's a discussion waiting to happen. Meanwhile, I'll share another friend's suggestion.

I grew up Catholic. When I was twenty-five, I changed denominations, but you know what they say. You can take the girl out of the church, but.... Yeah, that's right. Anyway, my friend Maureen read my last blog and had an interesting idea for me. She suggested that I say a part of the Rosary every night before bed. Unbeknownst to her, I had purchased one while at Salisbury Cathedral last fall. I'd been browsing in the gift shop after being softened up by an enthusiastic tour guide who led us up to the highest possible tower where we all peered down and thanked God for sturdy carpentry and conscientious Brits who restore their buildings faithfully.

As I stared at the Rosary, (it was pink, like the one from my childhood) I was seized by a nostalgia so strong that I almost burst into tears. I had left the church, but I still carried that child inside of me. We all do, right?
The Hanson clan was not casual about attending Mass. If we were out of town, we found a church. I remember my dad driving all over these small Saskatchewan hamlets on a Sunday morning, my mom having pulled some decent clothes out of the dress box that accompanied us on our trips. We never missed Mass, and a bedridden teenager in our house had better have a fever and not a hangover, because there were no excuses.

This has stood me in good stead for many reasons, which is probably why you should go to church each week, if you're into that kind of thing, which I am. But, I digress. I took my Rosary down from the mirror where it's been hanging since last fall, and stuck it under my pillow. That first night I pulled it out and closed my eyes. I started off with the beads under the cross and said my usual prayers for my family, community, etc. I continued on with the Lord's prayer and then started saying the 'Hail, Mary,' which I remembered, word for word. (If its been updated or modernized, please don't tell me.)

Anyway, I barely got through three prayers before I fell asleep. I'm not sure why that is, frankly. Is saying the rosary a form of meditation? Was it the connection to my childhood? I don't think so, because I was a bad sleeper in those days. Perhaps it was because my faith has deep roots, and has always anchored me to the best part of myself. Which isn't really me, but that part of the Creator that flickers inside all of us, whether we know it or not. 

The desperate long shot Hail Mary play has paid off. It has carried me into the land of sleep for many nights, now, and I am grateful for it. I'm indebted to every person who has shared their sleep secrets with me, and even their despair over their lack of sleep. In these hectic times of social media and late night television binging, we're messing up Mother Nature's sleep recipe. But as a community, we can help each other by showing the way back. The word hail means to rejoice. So, hail, all you restless nighttime sleepers. I'm so glad we're in this thing together. And can I have an Amen?

These Summer Nights

I don't know if its the long days, or the pile of stuff in our garage that we moved from Winnipeg, but something is keeping us up at night. We've been taking turns getting out of bed. Clarence covers the two to four shift, I take over until six. After that, we try to get some sleep. This is a relatively new thing, because in the past we almost never had insomnia at the same time.

We know all the tricks. Don't turn on lights when you get up to pee. Don't think about anything as you stumble back to bed. And never talk to your partner. This is my husband's idea, because I am more than willing to let the complaining portion of the night begin. Faking sleep sometimes tricks my brain, but not lately. We're thinking of trying my friend's trick, where you and your partner switch sides. For Sonia and Tom, this is a completely normal thing to do. To me, it's the wackiest thing I've ever heard. And yet, I will probably give it a try.

We've had a busy time, lately. That might be part of our problem. Come the fall, I'll be more than ready to settle into a new routine. The garage, by some miracle, might be empty. Ideally, we'll turn off all our devices by nine, be in bed by ten. This will leave us a good hour for reading. I know the feng shui-ers frown on books in the bedroom, but it's a childhood habit I plan on keeping.

The worst part about not sleeping is that every problem gets blown out of proportion. Even the stuff that's not a problem. Gardening, dentist appointments, weight gains, worrying about weight gains because you know that lack of sleep is a contributor. The brain starts looping from one thing to the next until life begins to feel like a dystopian novel. As John Travolta sings, 'Summer dreams, ripped at the seams.' That's for sure. I can't even go outside and stand in the middle of our lawn to stare up at the starry sky. It's always been my favorite thing to do when I can't sleep. But that's been stripped away and we haven't got our new sod yet. Sigh.

The minute the sun goes up, though, I'm able to shake off all the night time wackiness and revert to normal thinking. 'What was that about?' I ponder as I prepare my morning cup of tea. The oceans aren't rising all that fast. Clarence does not have to start building a raft from our left over deck lumber.

Today we started meditating with Oprah and Chopra, free online and very relaxing. I sat in a yoga like position while Clarence rested on the sofa. He started snoring about half way through, but I'm assuming that's because he was really into it. As we chanted quietly to ourselves, I pictured us having a restful night.

Yes, I'm willing to change from my side of the bed to his, if that's what it takes. But I'm hopeful that Deepak Chopra is right. Staying in the moment will 'unstick' me from this restlessness, sending me into the child like sleep I often experience in winter. As for you, dear friends, I wish you no ripped seams, or floods, no nights of dark planning. Just pleasant and restful sleep. So be quiet, now, and please, don't turn on the light.