Author Archives: judithannepettersen

Murder, She Wrote

A few weeks ago we harvested our generous tomato crop, set the produce inside the house and left town. Upon our return, a problem emerged in a very literal way. As I stepped into the upstairs bathroom, a cloud of fruit flies mistook me for a rotten banana and swarmed like a death cloud. “Fruit flies in the bathroom!” I gasped to my husband.

‘Uh huh,’ he said, not looking up from his magazine.

“Seriously, we’re being overrun. They must have come in with the tomatoes.”

Not drawing a smidgen of interest, I asked myself several questions. Why the bathroom? Why not the dining room, or even the kitchen? I hadn’t left any fruit out, the garbage had been emptied. There was truly only the tomatoes to feast on. Yet the flies clung to the bathroom like those creepy, haunting children in horror movies. Not that I’ve seen them. I’m way too chicken for that.

First, I tried to lure them with a cheap solution: apple cider vinegar. A few flies went for it, but most just danced around my head. Obviously a bigger sacrifice was required. Opening a bottle of red wine, I poured several glassfuls and placed them strategically around the bathroom. Over the next few days, the flies began to drown themselves. The trick was to not reward them with wine streaking the sides of the glass. They had to swoop down so the intoxicating smell could lure them to their deaths.

Every time I do something like this, I find myself thinking, dear God, don’t let reincarnation be true. Because then, I’m a serial killer. I find myself whispering, ‘Grandpa, is that you?’ when I see a fruit fly trying to swim for it. That’s the problem with being a writer. No scenario is too implausible. I have mixed feelings about killing bugs, anyway, except for mosquitoes. When carrying a spider out of the house I’d say to my kids, ‘When they take over the world, they’ll remember their friends.’ (Note to self: a crying four year old does not understand this kind of joking.)

Anyway, back to the mercenary task at hand. We were so overrun, it took a whole bottle of wine to do the job. When there are too many dead floaters, the other fruit flies catch on, so you have to keep refreshing their drink. I tried placing the glasses in certain spots, but kept them away from the toilet for reasons stated in a previous blog; I don’t like interruptions to my mini-vacation and reading time.

It’s important to use a drinking glass instead of a wine bottle, because people have been known to accept the open bottle invitation and take a swig. On the other hand, it’s another way of letting your partner know that fruit flies are a problem.

Risky Business

In our mid-twenties, my husband suggested we quit our teaching jobs to travel through Asia from Turkey to Nepal. The Encounter Overland company would supply the tents, food, converted army truck, and eighteen more people from all over the world. I pictured myself on this exciting new adventure, tanned and fit in my new hiking books and British army wool sweater.

I got the boots, the tan and the sweater, but while lying in a tent somewhere in India with a rampant case of dysentery, I truly began to understand myself. I hate being uncomfortable. It wasn’t the cold, or the rats (which came later in the Himalayas) or the camping. It was the unexpected twists in our journey that kept taking me by surprise. I’m someone who enjoys a well ordered, nine to five kind of life. But every other person on the trip was exactly like Clarence. ‘Bring it on!’ was their attitude, though we all did our fair share of whining. How many times did we push that army truck out of the sand, ditch, field, etc? I truly don’t want to know.

As I lay feverish in the tent, wearing my tenth and last pair of underwear, I realized that I was a fraud. I was there simply because I married a very adventurous person. The kind of guy that rests on the ground under a tree in the Canadian bush, closes his eyes and goes to sleep. Meanwhile, I apply bug spray and sunblock, find a mat and cushion, have a good book to read and plenty of snacks on hand while being on constant alert for bears.
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But here’s what I gained from our Asian journey:

*Seeing the stars in that same field in India, so thick that the black velvet sky could barely peek through.

*Kissing my husband in front of the Taj Mahal at sunrise.

*Rowing on the Ganges river while Hindu people in colourful clothing scattered the ashes of their loved ones.

*Seeing the Bamyan Buddhas before they were blown up by the Taliban, then taking a horse and carriage ride through the valley where Alexander the Great once traveled.

*Watching Clarence perform the chicken dance when trying to procure dinner at various shops. Every now and then we’d get some kind of meat, but first there was plenty of laughter from the shop owners.

* Being banished to the back of the truck when leaving Kabul because of a stomach ailment we called ‘The Egg burps,’ a truly foul type of belching that affected myself, Bill, and a few others. This was before the dysentery and should have clued me in about eating street meat.

*Seeing the Golden Temple in Amritsar. Floating around misty Srinagar Dal Lake in Kashmir on a small boat.

*Hearing someone mention Paul Bergman of Flin Flon, while sitting on the floor of a restaurant in Kathmandu.

*Hiking to the base camp of Mount Everest and staying in the simple huts of the Nepalese people. My best tip? Never sleep in the kitchen, because like I said before, rats. Although I’ve heard they have hotels there now, which kind of breaks my heart.

*Watching the sun set on the Gulf of Thailand like a giant orange ball after recovering from sun stroke that was so bad, I couldn’t walk. All I can say is, don’t fall asleep on the beach in the middle of the afternoon.

*Hiking the golden triangle of Thailand, Laos and Burma and seeing a sign that said, ‘Please watch out for the murder maybe.’

*Experiencing Asia at a time when it was still relatively safe to do so. Following on our heels was the Iranian revolution, the Russian invasion of Afghanistan, conflict in Kashmir, and political instability everywhere else.

*A respect for people like Clarence, whose ongoing curiosity about the world and its citizens keeps them traveling to distant shores and making friends around the world. I pretended to be one for eight months and experienced an awesome adventure I will never forget.

*Meeting strangers who became dear friends. Going through crazy, sometimes dangerous circumstances, and still laughing about it when we’re together. I salute you, my intrepid adventurers. I know you’re having a wonderful time at the reunion in Brighton, England. For some reason, I picture you all in 1920’s bathing suits, cavorting, drinking wine and probably doing the Charleston. May God bless you all. And please live through the reunion so you can tell me all about it.

Got Culture?

Culture Days, an end of September cross Canada celebration, is a wild weekend party and an endurance test that I have failed. I’m down with the flu, but Crystal Kolt has to be feeling even tougher. She spends the whole weekend running through the streets of Flin Flon shouting, ‘You’ve got culture! You’ve got culture! You’ve got…. Well. You get the idea. She’s like Oprah with the car giveaway, only she does this with five thousand people plus. I can’t list all the events because there was 120 of them, but every year she manages to persuade people to host yet another one. Be a mime! Wear a costume and parade down Main Street while telling stories! The only person who can match her energy is her husband Mark, who travels from venue to venue, toting his piano and sound equipment, his jaw set like a hero in an action movie.

I spent Friday morning at Culture’s Kool for Kids. And the kids really do think it’s cool. After recovering, I went to the Hooter at 5 for for some live entertainment. I haven’t been there since my twenties so I had a gin and tonic with sister Linda, to celebrate. We sat in front of a big wooden bench with an owl on it, carved by local musician and artist, Wayne Deans. There were a number of talented performers, and my youngest sang a couple songs while I tried not to pee my pants out of sheer nervousness. She sold it. (Insert motherly pride here.)

I never miss the Talking Books event at our local library. Basically, the librarian clears the counter with one arm and starts loading on the wine and cheese with the other. Like every other year, the speakers tucked in various corners of the library were fascinating. Pat Bruderer carries on the ancient tradition of Birch bark biting with pieces so lovely and thin, you can see through them. When I asked if she could bite the bark and watch TV  at the same time, she said no. Then she paused. ‘Yeah. I probably could. The design work happens inside your brain.’ By this point my friend Kate was pulling me away while mumbling things like, ‘She can’t help it.’

Our new dentist, Tarun Babiani, sings and dances, sometimes combining the two to the delight of his patients, and is one of the loveliest people to ever move to this northern town. He’s from Dubai, but he likes the cold. Yes, it’s true. Long time Flin Flonner Randy Whitbread is a fantastic photographer whose Northern Lights series makes you feel like God took the picture.  Kristy Janvier has traveled the world as a Disney princess and a dancer. There were other speakers, and everyone had a large audience of cheese and cracker munching listeners.

I missed the three drummers jamming at the Rotary Wheel and a ton of other events on Friday.  But I could feel a tickle at the back of my throat and wanted to pace myself. Ha! Saturday morning started with all kinds of events at the Rotary Wheel, first with a blessing, some hoop dancing, Aboriginal crafts for kids, and an appearance by our Community choir. We sang the Beach Boys ‘Good Vibrations’ while Crystal urged others to conduct us. I couldn’t see so I made a lot of mistakes in spite of our local optometrist and fellow singer holding my book for me.

Have you noticed a theme here, people? It’s hard to move to Flin Flon and not join the choir, or Ham Sandwich, or any artistic and sometimes athletic endeavors that flourish in this town. I like to approach new people like a spy seeking new contacts.

“Can you sing? ‘
‘A little,’ the newcomer replies, looking puzzled. Slightly fearful.
Okay, you’re in.’ Unfortunately, some people now run in the other direction when they see me coming.

A singing group called Borealis put on an event at a church which featured a children’s choir. The kid’s sound was tight and their expressions hilarious. But Borealis blew me away. As I drove home, I had a dream. (The kind where your eyes are open because, you know– you’re driving.)

I dreamt that Borealis was going to follow me home, live in my house, and interpret my every mood with a song. I can just see them huddled in the upstairs hallway, all twenty-five of them holding whispered conversations.

Tim: ‘Is she feeling nostalgic?’ (Wearing his most interesting and enthusiastic expression. Everyone in choir knows what I mean.)
Penny: I think that’s her pissed off face. Let’s sooth her with that song about the woods.
Angela: I know she really appreciates the sopranos, (I do!) so let’s sing something high.’
Susan: Oh, for heaven’s sake. We’re not living at your house!’ (She’s my sister, so she gets to be a little testy.)
I would love having Borealis on call at all times. I can picture its members reading this, hastily packing their bags and leaving town.

The Wild Things outdoor market at Creekside park was a hit. The day was beautiful, the trees glorious shades of orange and yellow. I spent way too much money buying art, pottery and several food items. I could take out Andre the Giant with my pail of honey. My daughter Mari and her friend, Andi, had a vintage clothing tent where they sold things like old trunks (from our messy garage! Yaaay!) and 70’s disco dresses. They worked like dogs before the show but it was worth it.

Saturday afternoon, I went to Raphael’s zany play, Waiting for Trudeau. I felt like I’d dropped acid and then fallen down a rabbit hole, which may account for all the giggling. For anyone who remembers the seventies, it was reminiscent of Firesign Theater.

I worked behind the bar at Wild Rice Night. Here’s the thing about all 24 entertainers and the musicians. They were racing through the Culture Days weekend like their hair was on fire. Most of them had more than one gig and by Sunday, were lurching around like zombies. We take our artists for granted. It’s because they never let us down.

I saw many of them at the heart of our Culture Day’s weekend, the Dance Down Main Street. Kristy Janvier taught us the moves to Buffy Sainte-Marie and Tanya Tagac’s latest tune, You Got to Run. We followed  the children and the Flin Flon Bomber’s down the street, and I have to give those boys credit for their moves. I was directly behind them and they kept me on track. By the time the dance ended, I was done in.

Sadly, I missed the Tiff movie, Maudie, which everyone’s been raving about, and Mark’s playing at Norva with Tarun singing and Kristy Janvier performing interpretive dance. I was already feeling feverish, but I have no regrets. Culture Days is an experience not to be missed. I’m going to steal some photos from my friend Noelle, a  fantastic photographer, and post them here. Please share your best memories of the weekend, friends. And here’s the song.

Image may contain: 6 people, people smiling, people standing, crowd and outdoor

Image may contain: 2 people, child and outdoor

Break Down

While traveling through Asia in a converted army truck with a group of zany folks from around the world, we were almost through Turkey when we broke down in a small Kurdish village called Yuksekova. The guidebook we used said not to stop there. Not for lunch, not for tea. It’s larger now, and more cosmopolitan, but back then it was a scary place to spend seven days.

We pitched our tents in a circle around the truck to avoid having any of our gear stolen. Clarence and I thought we were prepared. No. In our summer sleeping bags and thin rain jackets, we froze as the temperature went below zero Celsius every night. I’ve never been so cold, and I’m from northern Manitoba.

We actually invited another couple to sleep in our tent, for the shared body heat. Clarence and I put his sleeping bag over mine and squeezed into that small rectangle together. Our tent cot collapsed, of course. But it was actually warmer on the ground. To this day I’m an inveterate night time pee-er, so of course, around 2 or 3 AM, I’d have to go outside the tent. All the villagers were sleeping, but the packs of wild dogs that roamed the countryside were not. They would circle the village, growling and barking. Clarence would come outside with me and count down. “They’re about fifty feet away. Forty, thirty…hurry up. They’re almost here…hurry!”

Do you know how hard it is to pee under that kind of time restraint? I remember diving into the tent with the dogs snapping at our heels. We’d laugh out of sheer terror, then try to go back to sleep. It was so cold! When traveling, it was nothing for us to get up at 4:30, shiver as the cooking crew of the day made breakfast and then squeeze together in the back of the truck, our laundry hanging above our heads.

Meanwhile, in Yuksekova, every day a crowd would gather at the wall behind our truck for their favorite entertainment: Us. At first, the people seemed fairly benign. The kids would jeer and the old men cat call, but we weren’t too worried. All the women on our truck were wearing scarves so as not to offend the locals. But it soon became apparent that we could not walk around freely. We had designated bathroom breaks where the guys from our truck would encircle us as we walked over to the local outdoor biffy. This was a shack with a set of footprints on the cement that you crouched over and did your business. Unfortunately, many people had poor aim, so you had to watch where you stepped. While we walked inside our circle of men, the people of the village would throw things at us. It was very discouraging.

There was a fellow we took to calling Omar, (he reminded us of the actor, Omar Sharif) who would ride up on a big white horse and stare at us with a very intense look in his eyes. It was the children that were the most annoying, and through sheer boredom, our behavior became quite childish as we started hollering things like, ‘The Kurds are turds!’ Etc. On behalf of myself and my husband, I would like to apologize to the Kurdish people. They’re a brave lot and none of us were at our finest that week.

It’s weird when someone perceives you to be something you are not. All the women on our truck were thought to be hired prostitutes, because what self respecting woman would travel around like this? I’m careful with how I think about people from other cultures, now, because I know what it feels like to be misunderstood. That’s the great thing about travel. You think about Canada, and feel so deeply grateful. Hot water. Peace. Acceptance. No wonder refugees want to live here.

Anyway, one evening after supper, except for the guys who went to phone the British Embassy and the other guys who were scouring the country side for truck parts, the rest of us were sitting in the truck feeling very sorry for ourselves. Suddenly, all the men from the village showed up and started to rock the vehicle from side to side. Clarence was there with us and I remember standing in the middle, clutching him and crying, ‘We’re going to die in Yuksekova! Oh my God!’ I’m sure that was another instance where my mother was praying. Eventually they tired of scaring the crap out of us and went on their way. We tried bribing the village police with whisky, etc, but aside from accepting our gifts, they weren’t really all that much help.

On what I remember as our last night there, some local teachers from a nearby boarding school came and offered to host us for the night. We were thrilled! We folded up our sleeping bags and brought everything we owned so it wouldn’t be stolen. Clarence and I were offered a ride which we gratefully accepted. My husband got in the front with the driver, and I was ushered into the middle of the back seat. Two teachers sat with me, one on each side. I felt completely safe and comfortable until they attacked me. They were literally ripping my clothes off and Clarence had to shout at them and tell them that I belonged to him. He didn’t bother saying I was his wife, because they’d never have believed it. But they stopped. I kept thinking, these guys are teachers!

Culturally, we might have been from Mars. When members of the Iranian army drove into the village to take us across the border (a tale that needs its own post) I remember how courteous they were. They were all young, like us, and seemed happy to meet us. The Shah was about to be kicked out, and the country was going to change, but that day was wonderful.

Turkey is a beautiful country and Istanbul was very modern at the time. Women often wore no head covering at all. We went to Turkish baths where stone lion heads gushed water and where we reclined on a large marble dais in the center and were washed by women wearing loin cloths. It was very biblical.

When we went to another small town and asked if they had baths for women, they said yes! Very excitedly. We arrived at the baths (wearing our bathing suits, just in case) and every man in town was there, lining the walls and awaiting our arrival. Our guys stood in a circle behind us and held up their towels so we could have a semi private wash. Good times.

Other highlights from Turkey:

Clarence jumping into Peter’s arms in Lake Van when he saw an octopus in the water. The beauty of it was how gracefully Peter caught him.

A hail storm that delivered hail the size of hardball’s and sent us into hiding with pots over our heads.

Our friend and fellow traveler, Lynn Olson, being chased down the beach by an old man brandishing a burning piece of wood (He wants to kill me! she said. No one has ever screamed that loud, since,) because we didn’t know all the driftwood was his.

Turkish bazaars, (lovely!) Turkish Delight (yuck!) Fantastic scenery and an unforgettable experience. No breakdown will ever be as memorable. So, dear friends who are gathering for another reunion, here’s to great memories. I’ll write some more, soon. And here’s a couple photos.

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Total Eclipse of the Heart

A month ago, my husband had a heart attack. It was completely unexpected and taught me something I didn’t know about myself. (Yes, I’ve made this all about me.) I realized that when life takes a dystopian turn, I don’t panic. I just become very stupid. Uhhhhhhhhhh, is what goes through my head. Or something like it.

I remember calling for an ambulance, clearing a path for the paramedics through our garage, and trying to calm my husband who was busy barking out orders. Stressful situations bring out the sergeant in him, the strict kind. Think Lou Gossett Jr. in ‘An Officer and A Gentleman.’ While he bellowed from the basement sofa, I was being prompted by the 911 operator to ask him questions. ‘Are you clammy? Where is the pain? How is your breathing?’ Meanwhile, he’s trying to grab the phone and holler, ‘Just send the damned ambulance!’ They were already on their way, but try telling that to Lou Gossett Jr.

We got to the hospital and the questions continued. ‘How bad is your pain from a scale of one to ten, with one being the weakest and ten the strongest?’ The air turned so blue, I thought about opening some windows. They asked this every five minutes. When he realized it was protocol, he settled down.

Meanwhile, the doctor in emergency  asked me about my husband’s medication. Proudly, I opened my purse. While they were loading Clarence into the ambulance, I’d calmly walked around and packed up the necessary items. So when I unzipped the top, I was dismayed to find only the creature comforts I’d brought for myself: my kindle and some dark chocolate. ‘I always carry these in case of an emergency,’ I said. ‘You know, in case I’m waiting and I get bored or hungry.’ Dear reader, do you ever listen to yourself and think, I’m a total asshole? It was that kind of moment. Fortunately, they had his medication info in the system.

On the air ambulance to Winnipeg, my husband discussed politics with the nurse the whole way. Finally, about fifteen minutes out, the guy turned to me and said, ‘I’ll give him some fentanyl just to shut him up.’ We exchanged a look of understanding and I went back to reading my kindle. You see? Always bring one with you! I may have secretly nibbled on some chocolate as well.

It took a while for them to put in the stents and by the time he was settled in bed, it was late. Clarence was was positively cheerful at that point. I left with my sister, Jennifer, part of my wonderful built in support system, aka The Hanson Family. It was the next morning that was an eye opener.

I got there late because I felt like I was moving through molasses. You know the feeling when you can’t seem to speed up, even though you’re in a hurry? Then, I couldn’t find the right parking lot. I had a panicked feeling in my chest, and when I walked into his room and saw that he was in a world of pain, I completely lost it. As it turned out, that wasn’t a bad thing. Standing in the hallway crying to a nurse didn’t hurt. They got an anesthetist to come up with a pain plan that worked very well.

But that morning I faced the realization that my husband might die. The thought of living without him blocked out every other good thing in my life. It was a total eclipse of the heart. My heart, not his. I’ve faced this before, as he continues scaring the crap out of me with all his health related shenanigans.

I’m a little bit like him when I’m stressed. “What’s next,’ I asked him, ‘leprosy?’ I guess I sounded a little testy because I got a few strange looks from the nurse. It reminded me of Clarence’s auntie Gladys when her husband stopped breathing one night. They didn’t know about sleep apnea, back then, but she walloped him one and said, ‘You’re not dying and leaving me with this mess, you son of a bitch.’ Which is the Krysowaty way of saying, ‘I love you.’

All is well at the moment. We’ve battened down the hatches, we’re gearing up for winter, and praying for all this damn smoke from forest fires to go away. Things could have been worse. He might have had his heart attack in Houston during all the flooding. As we sat in my sister’s comfortable house, I remember feeling so grateful for it, and for her.  In life there will always be chocolate, but also aggravation. Those small and big moments that make up everyone’s story. If we’re lucky, we’ll experience things that are so awesome, they should be accompanied by a carload of screaming cheerleaders.

And the dark times, those moments of total eclipse where the world is dark and we’re uncertain about what will happen next? We all have them. The days when life hands us lemons and we cannot bring ourselves to make lemonade. We let those suckers rot on the shelf because doing the necessary work feels like rolling a boulder uphill. But. We can live our lives in small moments. In pockets of joy that spring up constantly, if only we choose to notice them. To paraphrase Eckhart Tolle, “Always say yes to the present moment. Always dwell in the now.” So if you see me standing somewhere with a goofy look on my face, know that I’m there. And I’m willing to share my chocolate.

Two Shots of Happy

When Clarence and I were traveling through Asia with Encounter Overland, we camped in a field in Turkey across from the Greek island of Lesbos. We were new to the group, maybe a week in, and as we set up our tents and built a campfire, someone brought out a bottle of Turkish vodka.

Another someone found a package of tang and we started mixing drinks. It was on this particular night that my friends Lorna, Lynn, Peta and I started singing together. We were promptly dubbed the Lesbos sisters, and continued annoying the whole group for the next three months.

But on that night we were in fine form. As we drank our way through the bottle, we gradually ran out of tang. ‘It’s so smooth!’ we said. ‘You don’t even need mix!’ Some of the more sensible campers went to bed, but the Lesbos sisters remained behind, serenading anyone who happened to be in the area.

To quote the bible, there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. Like the sheepherders of old, they were drawn in by some angels singing; ie: the Lesbos Sisters. I can’t remember exactly when they joined us, but I have a pretty good idea why.

Folks,when I was twenty-four, there were some things about the world that I didn’t understand yet.

1. I have a meagre capacity for drinking alcohol.
2. I would miss these singing sisters for the rest of my life.
3. Drinking straight vodka makes you blind for a day.
4. Shepherds who want to show you their sheep are just like guys who invite you over to see their etchings. Or, in the case of my husband, their aquarium.

Fortunately, my sisters were watching out for me. I think it was Peta who dragged me back from the edge of a field and out of the clutches of some eager shepherds. And I’m sure that back in Flin Flon, my mother was sitting up in bed, crying, “Save her, God! She’s a bit of an idiot!” Apparently both she and Clarence’s mother wore out their knees with all the praying over our eight month vacation.

The next day, the others in the group got very tired of hearing me whine, ‘I’m blind! I can’t see!’ I’m almost positive there was some serious mockery going on right in front of my face. And who could blame them? For one thing, we drank all the tang. And I’m fairly sure the vodka was meant for bribing border guards and not for gilding the throats of our girl’s group.

Folks from that trip are having another reunion in England this fall, and I’m grieved we won’t be there. But expect more stories to come your way, my intrepid, beloved friends. They’re my way of saying that I miss you all.

And now, a photo of the Lesbos sisters follows this very appropriate song.

 

Lesbos sisers

Game of Thrones

Our upstairs bathroom toilet has been breaking my spirit for over a year now. Nothing ever flushed on the first try, or even the second. No problem if the contents were yellow, because we’re kind of mellow people, anyway. But when it’s brown…well. It’s a big faker, that toilet. Lots of swirling, then nothing. ‘Just kidding,’ it would sneer. You’d stand there, finger on the flapper, and feel your life slipping by.

We had to remember to tell our guests about it. Otherwise we’d end up standing outside the bathroom door saying things like, ‘Don’t be alarmed, but…” Yeah. Once, I was at a gas station washroom with a long lineup of people waiting outside the door. The toilet would not flush. I took the lid off the tank and tried fiddling with things. Nothing. Finally, I had to leave and naturally, I blamed the person who went before me. ‘Some people,’ I said while scurrying to my car.

Our toilet needed constant scrubbing. My rubber gloves and environmentally friendly cleaner had a permanent place on top of the sink since there was no point in putting them away. And I had to run in there every time someone dropped by and give it a going over.

Finally, my wish came true and we ordered a new one. I decided I wanted a super deluxe toilet with two environmentally friendly flushing buttons and the sucking action of an inverted tornado. We were going over budget, skipping the American Standard for a different kind whose name I don’t know because we accidentally threw out all the packaging. It started with a C.

Enter the super flow all in one toilet with a lid that floats down to touch the seat with a gentle caress. It has a wide neck that can swallow a T shirt with no problem. My only concern was how high the thing looked in the picture. We measured me from the knee down and discovered that my feet would touch the ground with about an inch to spare. We ordered it and waited semi-patiently for it to arrive. It took a while.

The day it came, I crooned like a Disney princess dancing in a meadow with a back up chorus of mice. Once the singing was done, it was time for installation. Afterward, I stood back and admired it. Compared to our old toilet, it looked like the Starship Enterprise, but with a different theme song. Randy Bachman’s ‘Taking Care of Business,’ fit nicely.

After the toilet glue had set, I sat down to see how it felt. It was different. The bowl was a big oval, and the beautiful seat that lowers in a timely but majestic fashion was a little thicker than normal. The result? Only my toes could touch the floor.

Well. I loved the new toilet, but for comfort’s sake, I’d have to read my magazines somewhere else. And how could I possibly do that? Everyone knows that time in the bathroom does not count as sloughing off. It’s a human need. Plus, we have a furnace register right beside the toilet. Since I like to keep the thermometer low to save money, the bathroom is our cozy winter retreat. Our Florida mini-vacation.

I didn’t want to complain about it, so I told my husband, in a very chipper fashion, “I’ll just have to get used to it!” As the first week passed, we became even more enamored with its strong flushing ability. And it’s pristine-ness. Apparently, it came with its own maid who washed it at night while we’re asleep.

But part of me mourned my years as a bathroom magazine reader. All the tips from Writer’s Digest, the mood boosts from Oprah. The informative articles from Macleans and strange fiction from the Walrus. Our weekly newspaper, the Reminder, so I’m up to date, locally. Could this affect my mental well being? Would I become like a Trump supporter, ill informed and full of doo doo?

Then, something magical happened. I sat down one day, accidentally slid to the back of the oval, and immediately felt the change. The back was lower than the front! My whole foot could touch the floor! I shouted out in joy to my husband who never answered because he hates it when I try talking to him from another room. (For some reason, I never seem to learn this particular lesson.)

Now, my life is better than ever. I’ll have the warm furnace air in the winter, the conditioned air in summer. At hand, my vast library of magazines and a throne worthy of a queen. My only problem now is leaving the room. Fortunately, Clarence has started using our other bathroom downstairs. It’s small and cluttered with paintings, a sword and a number of large seashells. But since he was the decorator, he’s fine with it.

FYI: If you ring our doorbell and don’t get an answer, we may indeed be home. Chances are, we’re catching up on the news, or reading the latest book reviews and the goings on about town. One of us may decide to cut things short and rush to get the door. But my guess is, you’ll have to come back later.