A few months ago I was taking my Thanksgiving turkey out of the oven and was overcome by an intense feeling of envy. The turkey’s button had popped. It was done. I sensed an air of congratulation between the oven and the bird. Perhaps a high five, maybe two thumbs up. And I couldn’t help thinking, I want that.

Imagine being in grade one again. Your teacher is going over the words on the white board, the iPad… whatever kids use these days. Sat, cat, mat, fat, rat. The child spits the words out and suddenly, a button pops right out of his neck. “You’ve got this!” the teacher says. “You’re all done. Go play in the gym with the others.”

Or, you’re out on a date. You’ve been a little nervous about the person you’ve chosen from the online dating site, “We’re Your Last Hope.” You walk into the restaurant, see your guy already seated. Your eyes meet, you walk over with a big smile and start talking. After a mere fifteen minutes, the button in your neck suddenly pops. And you can’t help noticing that his has popped, too. Your waiter also notices and brings you both free dessert to celebrate.

Without the button, you might have needed a lot more time to figure out if this person was right for you. But the button never fails. You can both relax into your new relationship knowing that your search is over.

The button would also be a game changer at the gym. You might have worked out for only twenty minutes when your coach, (let’s call her Tracy) walks over and says, ‘Put that kettle bell down. Your button just popped!’ A cheer goes up from a few friends, with some resentful looks from others as you leave class forty minutes early.

This would also be useful in a therapy session. You’ve talked until you’re blue in the face, and just when you’re starting to feel that you’ll never figure yourself out, your button pops. The therapist jumps to her feet, checks her watch and says, ‘Okay, beat it. You’re all better. Don’t bother coming back.” Perhaps this sounds harsh. But you should feel light hearted because you’ve straightened out your psyche and are filled with emotional well being.

You’d never have to take anyone at their word anymore. “I didn’t do it,” says a suspected thief/liar/future politician. But their button is still securely stuck in it’s holder. It is obvious to everyone that this person is not telling the truth. Every citizen could be compelled to attend a morals class and the ones whose buttons pop would get to wear a badge showing their ethical purity.

Others would watch with envy and possibly work harder on their own behavior, hoping to get the same result. Yes, it might end up being a bit of a contest. But imagine knowing that you’re done with everything. Love, emotional stability, math, and high moral standards.

If only we could figure this out. Maybe we could provide robotics engineers with buttons scavenged from the turkey factory. However we do it, I’m in. The only other thing is, once your button has popped for learning to read and being toilet trained, does the button get pushed in until the next event? And does that mean you’re never really done?

Perhaps the robotics engineers could arrange a series of buttons down your left arm (the creative one) that each have to pop in turn. The only downside is, what if you’re terrible at math? Or, what if all your friends are walking around with their love buttons popped and you alone have not met your match? Or, maybe you’re a decent enough person, but not perfect. Your moral code button may stay firmly stuck in its holder. And yet, you say to yourself, ‘I’m not a serial killer. I’m a bit rude but there are worse people out there than me.’ This could lead to a two tier society. Those who’ve popped every button, and those sullen, left out folk who are forced into anarchist behavior because they just can’t take it anymore.

So, maybe it won’t work. I guess some things that look very utopian to some, like the 2016 US election, or the Russian Revolution, can become dystopian when they don’t live up to their claims. Maybe even turkeys are feeling bad about their buttons. ‘Why can’t I decide when I’m done,” they complain as they huddle together in the grocery store freezer. On second thought, that’s too creepy to even contemplate. So never mind. I don’t need a button to tell me this blog post is done.

Anyone wandering into Tracy’s gym for the first time might wonder, where’s the gal? The one who’s going to whip me into shape? Then you see her. A woman who’s so tiny, if you stuck a pair of wings on her back and set her on the branch of a tree, she’d look right at home. I remember gazing at the whiteboard with it’s strange set of instructions and wondering, what’s a thruster? Is it appropriate for public viewing? How about a deadlift, a man maker, and a Turkish get-up? Is this a gym class or are we doing some work for the mafia?

I watched Tracy skip lightly over to a set of parallel bars on the floor and raise her body in the air until she was upside down. Still talking, of course. “I’m not doing that!” I yelped, forgetting I was supposed to just shut up and listen. It’s a lesson I’ve yet to learn. “Oh, you will,” she said airily. I stared at my friends, the ones who’d talked me into joining the gym. They didn’t look any more convinced than I.  But they were smart enough not to complain.

Whiners get handed extra weights, so wearing a pitiful facial expression is key. Channel your inner pillaged villager and you’ll have it about right. There’s no such thing as appearing too defeated, unless you want to add a hundred extra lunges to your day. Friends reading this are thinking, ‘Quit telling her all our secrets!’ I think she knows.

It’s also important to say how much fun you’re having, but without sounding sarcastic, which is much more difficult than it seems. Tracy loves it when we’re having fun. Because she’s always having fun. You can’t wipe the grin off her face as she hands you two kettlebells and watches you hoist them and squat like a constipated gorilla.

On the other hand, I’m stronger than I was at half my age. I wish I’d been working out like this before I gave birth, because that’s what it feels like when I’m shoving a kettle bell into the air and grunting like a cave woman. As desired by wicked Maleficent the kettle bell fairy, there are many who leave class smiling, their elegant muscles and endorphin highs an example to all. I’m cheerful, too, but more like the guy who just escaped from Shawshank. And yet.

I love the way I feel the rest of the time. I like my arms, and I’m at an age where no one likes their arms. I like my legs, and ditto. Mostly, I like the way they work and keep me balanced. As I mentioned before, I’m more ungainly than I look so I need all the help I can get just to stand upright.

I remember telling Tracy that I didn’t want to have ‘one of those weight lifting bodies.’ After much laughter at my expense, she said, “Never gonna happen. This is the wrong class for that.” I was relieved, but also puzzled. I felt like I was working as hard as humanly possible. Not only that, but I still had to listen to my muscle’s ongoing debate. My butt, for one, is a serious whiner with strong opinions.

“Look, Tracy said don’t use your glutes!” my butt says bitterly. “I wish that effing core would show up for once.” My glutes are right to be cranky. Though my core has returned from the Haufbrau House in Germany, it’s still as self indulgent as a hung over teenager. When Tracy says, ‘Tuck in your belly button,’ it replies lazily, “I don’t know how. Just leave me alone.” My rhomboids, trapezius and deltoid muscles also use the F word a lot. “Shut up!” I scream back, startling my fellow gym members. It’s very hard to do all those swings and deadlifts when your muscles are deeply engaged in arguing.

The gym is a loud place, anyway, what with all the grunting and the heavy music telling us we can’t do it. Or reminding us to go balls to the walls. (Seriously. That’s a thing.) I can’t get over how Tracy never gives up on us. I’ve tried to convince her I’m a lost cause, but she just won’t buy it. Based on her optimism, some things I might try in the future are:

1. Take part in a bar fight and win. ( Although I’m not really much of a fighter. The last time I even went to a bar was in Liverpool, England, where I tried to convince all the Scousers to emigrate to Canada. Though my success was limited, I made sure to let my fervor show. My fervor has increased along with my strength.)
2. Save someone. Even if they’re not in danger, I’d just like to try it. I don’t care about the situation, either. Burning building, someone trapped under an anvil. I’ll use all my skills to save them. I’m still clumsy, but also stronger than I look.
3. Do the Turkish get-up. This is an exercise where you get up from the ground without using your hands. My son in law, Bob, can do it with his tall, nine year old daughter clinging to one arm. When I told Tracy about it, she said, “Oh, you’ll do that, too.”
No, I won’t. I’m not that ambitious. I just pray for the day I can get up from the floor hands free.

Tracy is starting a class for beginners, in January. In spite of my bellyaching, I can honestly say that anyone who joins will have their lives changed for the better. It doesn’t matter if you need a hip replacement or had a hip replacement, have bad knees, shoulders, walk with a limp, or are in your eighties. We already have people that age in class, and you will only be stronger and healthier for the workout. (Going for coffee after and whining about everything is an important part of the routine.) There is no gun to my head as I write, but I’m hoping this earns me ten less squats in my first workout of 2020.  Happy New Year, dear readers. And you too, dear Kettle Bell Fairy. Besides brimming over with dread and excitement, I’m filled with too many chocolates, glasses of wine and servings of turkey. It’ll take some heavy lifting to get this body into shape again. And that’s no joke.

There are some hallways I will never enter. Strange doors I will never step through, and belief systems I cannot embrace. I’m not talking about scientology. It’s the appeal of the Hallmark channel with its 24/7 Christmas movies that I cannot understand.

I know full well their popularity.  I have close friends and family members who wait all year for Christmas and the magic of Hallmark. These movies are a monetary success story, not just for the card company but for actors, writers and many who work in the business. Yet there’s something almost subversive about them. The characters don’t stare blankly like the women in the Stepford Wives movie, but still. I find their steady cheerfulness and unusual prosperity just a little creepy. There are other unexplained phenomena. Like the constant baking and the drinking of multiple cups of hot chocolate, yet no one is overweight.

As I write this, I’m eyeballing a movie called ‘Christmas in Evergreen: The Tiding.’ Perhaps they’ve done many shows in the fine town of Evergreen, and this is the latest rendition. I have no idea, because the only time I watch them is when I land on the channel accidentally. Still, I have to confess. There’s something mesmerizing about the way they capture their audience.

The first thing I notice is the clothes. Everyone is so well dressed, like they’re ready to attend their own wedding. Even the children look fresh from the hair salon. Toques (that’s Canadian winter head gear) are accompanied by matching scarves. Boots gleam, and fun mittens adorn every pair of hands. All this fashion finery is backed by elaborate decorations that make Rockefeller Center look small time. Lights everywhere, wreaths on all the doors and even the smallest store is wrapped up like an extravagant gift. Nobody ever frowns in Christmas movie land. Well, nobody except for a child whose mother, (let’s call her Amanda) is just too busy.

Amanda has an immaculate, amazingly decorated house, works full time and is always home for supper. And yet, little Jenny feels neglected. She needs a Christmas miracle–one that will have her mother come to her senses and get her priorities straight. Amanda loves to shop. That could be the problem, except everyone in town is constantly shopping and strolling around toting beautifully wrapped presents. By the end of the movie, Amanda has found both love and more time for her daughter.

Then there’s little Jimmy, who needs a new mother. His handsome father  is too heart broken to date the boy’s gorgeous teacher, though she’s funny (Hallmark funny, not Tina Fey funny) and smart and perfect in every way. Jimmy’s father looks off into the distance as he speaks about his wife. He was too busy working when she was alive, and now he is filled with regret. Jimmy can’t act as well as his father, but we’re supposed to root for them both.

The men of Christmas are as well groomed as the women. They look like Ken dolls, with hair that stays put no matter what winter sport they’re playing. Usually it’s something light, like skating. Or shopping. Even if their car broke down on the highway and they had to spend the night in a village resembling Santa’s workshop, they still look like mannequins. Their fastidious appearance leads me to believe that these men are all gay. Except I don’t think they have any LGBTQ people in Hallmark movies. Not any who are out of the closet, anyway. Please let me know if I’m wrong.

There are no drunk uncles in a Hallmark Christmas movie. No one ever confesses to cheating on their spouse. If they have a child and they’re a single parent, they’re never divorced, they’re a widow. Or widower.

I hate to diss the company, because I’ve been known to wander through Hallmark stores, reading cards while sitting in the aisle and weeping. After a good half hour of this behavior, I’m usually approached by a clerk with a strained look on her face. “May I help you?”
“No thanks. I just like to read the cards. This is the one,” I say, holding it up with the solemnity of a woman buying herself a $10,000 ring. I’ll spend $8 because this clever writer deserves the pay.

If these movies were cheesy novels, (which, maybe they were, once) there’d be a bare chested cowboy leaning over a beautiful girl while doffing his Stetson. But TV Christmas movies require clothing. Well fitted, stylish, fake casual. Young couples strolling down snow covered streets, flakes drifting softly past their faces, a church spire or an old brick bank that needs saving, in the background. Maybe a dog. I haven’t seen one yet. There must be a Hallmark dog movie out there somewhere. Dogs are emotionally available, and therefore popular.

No one in a Hallmark movie is Charlize Theron beautiful, just very good looking for regular town life. Even the old people look fit and attractive. There’s a lot of botox and filler, but its subtle. I can’t help thinking, oh, please. Give me one heroin addict dying in an alley while people wander by, unseeing. An old person neglected in a neighborhood of uncaring young people. Any touch of reality that acknowledges the messiness of real life. Our houses may look nice for half a day, but who can keep it up longer than that unless they have domestic help?  Especially if there are kids around. I want to see a Hallmark character step on a Lego piece and yell, ‘Fuck me!’ It will never happen.

I’d love to see a guy say, ‘Want to hook up, just for the night? Nancy next door has been talking about a three way. You up for it?” Wouldn’t that shake up the audience. As their Christmas movie coma fell away, the viewers would blink their eyes and shake their heads. “I have to get a life,” they’d say, getting up from the sofa for the first time in eight hours.

And yet. The people I know who watch and love Hallmark movies are busy with their own jobs and kids and full lives. At the end of a hard day, they long for the comfort and dazzle of a well decorated town. A simple story line where love waits for the pretty, and kids have small, easily solved problems. No one’s parents have dementia, no one’s dad is trying to kick his drug habit. Small problems, magical fixes. Yet watching these movies makes me want to try heroin, or lie down in a back alley with a bottle of 90 proof home brew.

I guess what I really want is to burst people’s bubble. Apparently this is the reason I can’t stand the movies. I’m a bubble burster. A Christian scrooge. Bah, humbug. Christmas for me is about Jesus, but I can’t stand the church people in these movies, either. Anyway.

Wait a minute. They just kissed. Why is she leaving? Is she driving away? I thought they were going to get married! What the…?? Dammit. Now I have to watch to the end. Sigh. At least I’m dressed badly. My old flannel bottoms and torn sweatshirt represents the realities of regular people’s lives. Because someone has to keep a firm grasp on… Wait…she’s back! She’s getting out of the car with a string of lights in her hand! Oh, for the love of God! Stop decorating, already.

Beware of overconfidence. It can turn around and bite you in the derriere, or at the very least, leave you feeling betrayed by yourself. Here’s a small example. I am an excellent parallel parker. My mother taught me, as well as my driver’s ed teacher, and I got pretty good at it.

I’ve learned to be patient, and not pressure myself just because cars are waiting behind me on the street. I use my mom’s technique and can squeeze into the smallest spaces. I’ve been bragging about it for a few years. My daughter and I had to exchange vehicles for a week so she could haul some furniture. Our cars seem similar, but that doesn’t mean a thing when it comes to parking. My first attempt with hers put me up on the curb. My second left me a couple feet away from it with my car angled strangely. I felt shaken by this. What was happening? It turns out I was only good at parking MY car.

I tell you this as a lead up to my first unfortunate event. It started small, with my favourite backpack breaking just as I entered the Winnipeg airport. No big deal…I anchored it to my suitcase with a strap and was on my way. My next unfortunate event was a bigger deal. I was heading to Surrey for an International Writer’s Conference and my plane was due to leave at 11:50. My sister Linda watched me having a leisurely breakfast…it was just after nine…and said, “Why aren’t we driving to the airport! You’re going to be late!”

“I’ve already checked in. I’ll get there an hour ahead and be fine. I’ve never missed a flight in my life, so chill.” In this way I was reminding her that while she’s still older, she’s not the boss of me anymore. I got to the airport 70 minutes before my flight time, and went to print my luggage tag.

‘You cannot check in for this flight,’ was the message on the machine they make you use because they prefer to hire less people and have lots of cash left over for their shareholders. The same reasoning applies to the tiny seats all regular folks are obliged to sit in. It’s today’s version of traveling steerage at the bottom of the ship. Anyway.

I headed up to the counter and was told that my flight was leaving in a few minutes and I had missed my chance. I pulled up my phone to show the man behind the desk that he was wrong, and I could prove it. I showed him the flight on my phone, and he said, “Yes. Like it says, your flight leaves at 10:40.” My first words to him?

“Oh no! My sister was right!” I said, and continued babbling hysterically. “Now my children will lose faith in my ability to run my own life!” I had been proud of how I’d been doing without my husband, who always took charge of our travel itinerary. It was true that he’d missed a few flights himself, but in that moment it didn’t matter much.

We exchanged looks, him absolutely certain I was going to cry and me also certain I was going to cry. I fought the tears to make it easier on both of us. My daughter, Hilary, would soon be waiting for me at the Vancouver airport. I sent her a quick text telling her to head to the hotel without me.

The ticket agent found me a new flight, though it cost me some more money, but he didn’t charge me for my suitcase. He also told me to lie to everyone and blame Air Canada, which I thought was very noble. “This happens all the time,” he said.

“Not to me,” I replied.

“It has now. But it won’t again.”

He’s right. What a life lesson. Somehow I’d convinced myself of the wrong time, and my sister, whom I’d correctly informed a few months before, had stored the info in the reptilian part of her big sister brain. Linda was right. Apparently, she’s still the boss of me after all.

But then he said this. “I guess the Force just wasn’t with you today.”

“What?” I asked this very loudly. “The Force is always with me! Don’t mistake stupidity for not having the Force! Sheesh!” His hands went up defensively, and then he gave me a better seat for free. Anyway.

All went well after that, until day one of the conference when I had to pitch my novel to an agent. Now full of self doubt, (I can’t park, I can’t get to the airport on time) I didn’t know what to do. Ordinarily, I wing my pitch, outlining the theme and storyline plus giving a short bio. This time I headed straight for the bar, ordered a shot of tequila and wrote the whole thing out. I felt a little better as I marched into my appointment. The first thing I said was, ‘I’ve had a shot of tequila and written my pitch out. Can I just read it?’ She said yes, not changing expressions. These agents have to be fearless…they never know what kind of kook will be standing in front of them, begging for a chance. In the end, she decided to take a look at my novel, upping my chances of representation from zero to 1%. Filled with joy (but not self confidence) I hastened to give my daughter the good news.

That night would be a celebration. There was a banquet with the theme, ‘It was a dark and stormy night,’ and apparently everyone would be wearing costumes. I’d brought the one I’d used for the Rocky Horror Picture show, thinking I could make up a suitable story about my character. In the end, I looked like a vampy hooker having her own dark and stormy night, because less than a quarter of attendees dressed up. The ones that did were wearing raincoats, or carrying lanterns. There was the odd cute mask, and some cool vintage costumes as well as one woman who dressed like a crow. It was very Moira, ‘The Crows Have Eyes,’ from Schitt’s Creek. My daughter wore a cape and mask, and there was I, looking like someone who couldn’t charge much for her services. Ironically, this was the outfit that spawned my last blog, ‘If Bras Could Talk.’

We were not staying at the host hotel and I couldn’t change my outfit, so I just barrelled through dinner and the cocktail party that followed. Fortunately, writers are a quirky lot and I can’t help feeling at home with them. Agents are basically the same. Many of them are writers or deal with them every day.

The last unfortunate event ( at least I hope so, I’m still on the road) meant missing all of Sunday’s events because I’d booked my leaving flight too early. So consider me humbled and feeling like I’m thirteen years old again. But since I write young adult fiction, that might not a bad thing.

I was trying to pick an outfit for an evening out when I overheard a conversation not meant for my ears. Before I tell you what was said, I need to revisit my past relationship with undergarments.

There was the time I purchased my first bra from the Blue and White store in Flin Flon. I was twelve, maybe thirteen. I’m unsure because I usually repress this memory. The saleswoman who had handed me a size 30 A had to be called back so I could ask for a smaller size. Do you remember what it felt like to be that age, how you already thought the whole world was watching you? ‘Nobody cares,’ my mother would say, which might have been true. But it wasn’t the caring I was worried about. It was the laughing. The saleswoman hollered across the store, ‘Judy Hanson needs a 28AA!’ As I tried to crawl inside the wall and disappear forever, I pictured the conversation this little cotton bra was having, one cup to another.

“Easy gig, right? Not much heavy lifting, ha ha. Let’s just sit back and relax!” When you’re a kid, even your clothes make fun of you. But I never expected that to continue into adulthood.

Today I was wracking my brain (which should be left alone, it’s suffered enough over the years) about what to wear for a Johnny’s Social Club event, ‘The Rocky Horror Picture Show.’ I dressed up the last time and it made the evening that much more fun. Fortunately, my youngest had left a bag of cast off clothing behind, and she has a strong preference for black. Sure enough, there in the bag was a garment that could have looked cool if I was young enough, but now would appear kind of silly and therefore perfect for the evening.

I tried the outfit on and realized I needed to wear that bra. The kind that sits in the bottom of the drawer because it’s not your friend. The two of you never talk. It’s not comfortable and you can’t forgive it for the money you spent on its behalf. With a heavy sigh, you pull it out into the light.

Mine was bought in the kind of shop where the saleswomen follow you inside the tiny change room. I felt like an inadequate thirteen year old all over again, even though the sales person herself was barely in her twenties. She handed me her version of the perfect bra and I just knew it wasn’t going to be comfortable. However, like Fantine in Les Miserable, I dreamed a dream. Hope was high and life worth living, so this time would be different and that lovely piece of lingerie would fit and make me feel good. It’s only when I returned home that I realized I’d purchased another expensive mistake. There should be a bureau one can turn to regarding buyer’s remorse, or some kind of bra complaint department.

In the meantime, this bra had to step up and be worn. I managed to wrestle the thing in place and that was when it started talking. The cups totally ignored me in favour of a team meeting. I’m not sure where the other speakers came from, but there were quite a few. One appeared to be the leader.

‘Look,’ he said, (of course it was a man, smug, patronizing  and fortunately, no one I recognized) ‘we need a whole new plan here. Things have changed since the last time we left the drawer.’ Another voice pipes up, ‘You’re not kidding. We need a crane for the whole lifting and separating thing. My God, how much weight has she packed on? Does she even fit us anymore?’
‘Look, you stand over there and do the necessary, I’ll…’

‘Shut up,’ I said sternly, pushing things in place, prodding and poking and then doing that horrible reach back for the clasp, which gets no easier with age. A woman needs monkey hands for that kind of business. Or a spare person. Anyway, I finally pulled the outfit over top and this seemed to quell the voices a bit. I heard a bit of mumbling, ‘We’re never going to make it,’ but decided to ignore them.

This is what happens as we grow older. It’s not that we get smarter, or wiser. We just stop caring about critical voices, ours and those belonging to our lingerie. We’ve been to the beach and back and have the broken elastic bathing suits to prove it. There’s not much we haven’t seen, and really, we paid good money for these contraptions and need to wear them more than once, so we refuse to be shamed. I stand back from the mirror. Yes, I look a bit silly, which means I’ll fit right in. Oh, shut up.

There are a lot of men in trouble these days. Donald Trump, for anything you can think of, Boris Johnson for emulating him, and Justin Trudeau for brown-facing and enjoying the dramatic life just a little too much. There are others who’ve been caught harassing women, men, and children. Some out there are thinking, why is nobody pointing the finger at Mick Jagger? I’m sure he’s done something. Every rock and roll band from the seventies has to be guilty of SOMETHING. Anything went, back in the day, if you were rich and famous. Even if you weren’t. But nobody cared. Nowadays, men are always in trouble.

The married ones, anyway. Since my husband died, I am exercising my ‘man chastisement’ muscle on my brother in law, Bob. He’s a good sport, and since I often stay at their apartment in Winnipeg, I have plenty of opportunities.

One morning, I entered the bathroom and drew back in horror. In a small dish by the sink were two shrivelled brown things resembling:

a. Preserved and shrunken (but not by much) penises
b. Two cooked hot dogs left over from last summer.
c. Something the witch from Robin Hood, (the Kevin Costner version) would use to cast a spell.

I was informed that this hideous couple of lumps was once soap on a rope. Bob is thrifty, and also sentimentally attached to the thing. It looked like wood, he said fondly, but now the bar had shrivelled into a left over body part from Night of the Living Dead.  Bob’s defensiveness made me nostalgic for the days when my husband was in trouble.

There were the clothing offences, like his penchant for high tide pants and loud shirts. There was his sense of humour that was almost always fun until it wasn’t. Like the time he was the MC for a Chamber of Commerce dinner. The trick with Clarence, who was not generally a big drinker, was to keep him from imbibing BEFORE he had to speak. This time he decided to warm up the crowd with a story about a man who was well known for his moose calling skills. After setting up the scene nicely (a cold fall day, breath in the air, the sense of anticipation) my husband leaned into the mike and said:
“Come here, you fucking moose.”

By the stunned silence that followed, he came to understand that perhaps he’d misread the room. I can’t remember much about the rest of the evening because of my shock, but I know that a wifely smackdown took place once we got home.

It doesn’t need to be a thing of this magnitude to make wives feel irritated. Hearing from friends and strangers, I’ve realized that any of the following may get a man into trouble at home:

1. Loud throat clearing or nose blowing, especially over the phone, as well as excessive coughing. Having a cold is generally not considered an excuse.

2. Pretending to clean out the garage while basically farting around and rummaging through all the old junk lying about, then simply moving it across the room.

3. Disregarding our health advice, no matter how good it is is or how long we drone on about it.

4. Being gormless: ie: bewildered by our ongoing and ever changing expectations and their own constant failure to live up to them.

5. Walking around with stunned expressions. Not knowing they’re walking around with stunned expressions.

6. Snoring, having sleep apnea and not believing us. Telling us we snore too, which we never believe.

6. Basically, whatever gets under our skin on any particular day. They won’t know what it is until we tell them, which we don’t often do, choosing instead to make them guess. They never get it right. (Is it the socks? Wearing my underwear two days in a row?) We turn away, disgusted. Why can’t they read our minds like they’re supposed to?

Dear women of the world, (and gay men who feel the same way) I’m not defending the other team, or making excuses for the things men do that drive us crazy. I’m just saying, mine would be in a lot less trouble with me now than he used to be, if only he weren’t dead. Though now that I think about it, he’s still in trouble for that.

I woke this morning with a very high self approval rating. This is not usually the case. Ordinarily I’m castigating myself for eating late at night and then not being able to fall asleep. Or for forgetting to brush my teeth, which is rare because I’m a very strict taskmaster. I’m like my own S&M club, where I work both ends.

But this morning I looked at my tired, aging face in the mirror and said, “You’re doing okay. There is nothing you can do to reverse this morning look, unless a genie comes along at this very moment (I look up in the air at nothing) so bloody well relax already.” And for once, I listened to myself. “What wise advice,” I said aloud, being very comfortable with audible conversations between me and me.

This is the curse and pleasure of living alone. Now that my husband’s witty banter exists only in my head, I’m fielding discussions that should be internal but are more like a noisy parliament session. My political debates before the Manitoba election were fierce, rivalling Gollum in the split personality department of side taking. Now that the federal election looms, I’m back at it.

I wonder how many of us succumb to the eeny, meeny, miny mo form of decision making. My husband was a politician so I’ve seen, nay, walked through the grass on both sides of the fence. So even with the people I’d never vote for (no matter how much my contrary Gollum side likes them) I’m still able to view them as wanting the best for their country and themselves. And yet. Am I doing what I always do, voting ‘same as usual’ or will I pick the best one for the job?

Dostoyevsky said, ‘You can judge a society by how well it treats its prisoners.’ Nelson Mandela and Churchill both said you could measure the degree of civilization in a society by how it treats its weakest members. Mahatma Ghandi said the same thing about how society treats animals. And Margaret Thatcher said ‘The problem with socialism is that eventually you run out of other people’s money.’ Then there’s climate change, harder to ignore if you live on the East Coast.

Choosing the right politician generally comes down to addressing one’s own anxiety. Am I bothered by other people’s pain, or by the idea that my country’s debt is growing too large? Do I see immigrants as an economic boon or as people who cost the taxpayers a lot of money? Do I believe people should pull themselves up by their bootstraps, or is it just easier for those with stable home lives, safe upbringings and/or white privilege?

Whichever politician we pick, and however we choose to address our anxiety, we’re all in this together. As Canadians, we share a social contract that agrees on many points. There’s the unique culture we share, with each province offering it’s own flavour. We really are a people who apologize a lot ( I have a video of myself in childbirth, and mid scream, I stop to say sorry to my midwife.) We pride ourselves on being nice, and for the most part, I believe it’s true. Let’s not lose that. As part of Team Canada, I’ll stick up for you, and you stick up for me.  Okay? Now let me check in with my other half to see what she thinks.

“I concur!” she says. I love it when we’re both in agreement.