Judith Pettersen

Life is made up of goodbyes. The only thing that doesn’t change is change itself. Yadda, yadda, yadda. That we know it doesn’t make it any easier or less shocking.

Like most fans of CBC radio, I was enamored with Jian Gomeshi, the cultured, soft spoken host of Q. I admired his courtesy. The thoughtfulness he showed his guests and listening audience. Famous people like Barbra Streisand were drawn by the considerate, almost tender way he conducted his interviews. I loved his voice, his smartness. The way he flipped between languages, speaking Farsi, French and English, while discussing books, music and movies with enviable ease. He seemed suave yet sincere. 

Bill Cosby reminded me of my dad. Of everyone’s dad, really, but a much cooler version than the ones I knew. Someone who was never lost for the perfect answer. No one was funnier, especially when he talked about Noah. The Cosby show was a role model for the ideal family. Perfectly funny. But Pandora’s box has been opened and the truth is out. Goodbye, Jian. So long, Bill. Get down from your pedestals and out of our sight. The nations need time to grieve.

Dear Stuart Mclean, my hope rests with you. With your wacky Dave and Morley stories, your quirky and talented musical guests and even the letters you share, sent by regular people like me. Everything about your show is Perfectly Canadian. Please, Stuart. Don’t let me down. You alone are holding up the CBC broadcasting company. I have selected you as my new comfort blanket. Bill and Jian were frauds, and I have never cared for the Kardashians, the Brangelina’s or any Hollywood celebrity, really.(Bill Cosby wasn’t a celebrity, in my mind. He was a kindly relative that I happened to visit with whenever he was on TV.)

I’m not expecting you to be perfect. Just don’t molest anybody. Be the nice guy you seem to be and keep making me laugh. Keep that kindly, Canadian persona going that every listeners identifies with, even if they are American. So, do we have a deal? I’m going to assume we do. Good luck with this Sunday’s show. I’ll be listening, as usual. Your faithful and devoted fan, Judy

When Mari was three years old, she slept in the bedroom across the hall. We had an open door policy, which meant if any of our kids got sick, had a bad dream, or needed a cuddle, they could crawl in with mom and dad.  Our bed was king sized, and we kept our bedroom door open. Theirs were kept closed at night for reasons of fire safety and  parental privacy. We should have kept ours closed too, but for some reason, I felt the need to hear EVERYTHING that went on in the house. Was somebody walking through our yard at night? I would know. Could the hamster escape from her cage? Yes. In fact, she ran under the dishwasher with two weeks worth of stolen dog food. It was the chewing that woke me up. My point is that I was tuned in to every creak, every cough, every single thing happening inside and outside our house. I was always on the job.

Except for one night. With the desperation of parents with three children and a busy life, we happened to wake at the same time, with the same idea. Let’s fool around. Happily preoccupied, we didn’t hear the door across the hall opening, or the small sound of a person breathing nearby.

We kept our bedroom dark. You could barely see a hand in front of your face, never mind a small child standing beside the bed, her head resting on her mother’s pillow. It was only when she started to play with my hair that I screamed in fright. Quickly snapping on the light, I don’t know who was more horrified; Mari, Clarence, or me. It was probably a tie.

The difficult conversation came next. “Did mommy and daddy scare you?” She nodded, climbing up on the bed and tucking herself between us. “Did you wonder what we were doing?” She nodded again, looking forlorn rather than traumatized. Clarence and I could barely make eye contact, both experiencing the shame of first world parents. Most of earth’s human population is crammed into one or two room dwellings, and often one bed. They tend to be prosaic about these things. Nevertheless, I quickly conjured up an alibi.

“We were wrestling,” I said, inspired by an idea that would perfectly fit the situation. “Practicing our ninja moves.” I did some ludicrous arm chopping and nunchuck wielding imitations, just to hammer home the point. She seemed to buy it, but I apologized anyway. “Mommy and daddy are sorry for scaring you.” This was true of mommy. Daddy had already gone back to sleep.

The lesson was learned. Since I wasn’t comfortable tying a bell around Mari’s leg every night, I figured it was better to close, and even lock, our bedroom door. Not always. Just when we felt like being Ninjas. As parents with three kids and a busy life style, we didn’t get as much practice as we wanted. But over time, we definitely earned our black belts.

Like our old board game, Clue, this story has been stashed away for many years.  I’ve picked over the memory from time to time. Shared it with a few friends. But with Clarence’s Brandon University reunion happening this weekend, I’m ready to take it out of the closet and hold it up to the light of day. Is it shameful? Not really. Foolish? Yep.

Please join me on my walk down memory lane. And I hope you learn from my mistakes. Like, always look before you leap into the elevator. Or at the very least, take heed of the Georgia Satellites song title, ‘Keep your hands to yourself.’

We got married in our last year of university. A few weeks after the wedding we left our tiny attic suite and drove over to McMaster Hall for a visit. I greeted my friends like I’d been gone for a year. Hours later I waved goodbye to everyone and followed my husband into the elevator. I felt bathed in the happiness of married life. We’d be finished school in a few months, then apply for teaching jobs and spend the rest of our lives together in blissful harmony.

Since we were alone, I scooted backward, pressing myself against my sweet husband. Feeling a little playful, I reached behind me and. engaged in…well. You know. But as I peeked upwards with a cheeky grin, my eyes met those of a complete stranger. It was not Clarence. It was a fellow by the name of Guy Thornton. Yes, that’s his real name.  And though he lived in my residence, I had never met him before this intimate and mistaken occasion. In that moment I felt like the worst version of myself; the one who wiped out crowds of skiiers on the bunny slope. The one who went right instead of left and fell off the stage during a ballet recital. But those occasions were merely humiliating. This was embarrassment on a whole new level. As if embarrassment had decided to smoke crack and reinvent itself.

“Oh my God,” I said, clasping my hands together like a Victorian maiden about to faint. “I thought you were my husband!” His reply may not be exactly as follows, but the meaning was clear.

‘Uh huh.’

“No, really. I thought you were Clarence. Why are you wearing the same pants and sweater?” I asked this in all sincerity. He ignored my sputtered words, continuing to smile down at me in a rather heartless manner.

“Sure,” he said, mockingly drawing out the single syllable. Was he teasing? I had no idea, but he seemed to be hinting that I’d planned the whole thing. Which made me wonder if the problem was my reputation or his ego.

The elevator doors opened then, and I fled to the lobby area where I found Clarence waiting.

“Where were you?” He looked puzzled  and irritated. I remember that part very clearly.

“I…. I… I…” I decided to lie. Well, not really. “I got on the wrong elevator,” I said. Part of me felt extremely embarrassed and remorseful. The other part, the one that insists on writing this blog, was having a good laugh at my own expense. I never told Clarence about what happened for a loooong time.

“I invited him to our wedding!” he said in response to my belated tale, not appreciating the humour of the situation. As if the invitation made my behavior even sketchier. “How did you get on the wrong elevator?”

“I backed in and he was wearing the exact same pants and sweater as you. I don’t think he believed me when I said it was an accident.” Clarence didn’t want to discuss it. So we put it behind us like it never happened. But it did, and I longed to restate my case in a calm and convincing manner.

I’ve had no opportunity to say this on national television. The breakfast shows where I’ve appeared on behalf of my babyTrekker carrier just weren’t the right venue. So  let me state here and now, almost forty years after the fact, that I truly didn’t know it was you, Guy Thornton. And that’s the truth. I also need to thank you. Because you might have been heartless and disbelieving, but at least you weren’t creepy. Happy reunion. Whew! I feel so much better.

I was hanging upside down cleaning the bathtub when I happened to catch sight of my face. It was sagging the wrong way and looking very red. Think Arnold Schwartznegger in the end of days. Not the movie. His real end of days. Especially if he is constipated on the way out.

I was startled. My husband has never mentioned seeing me like this. Having had a relatively long married life, chances are he has. His ability to not notice these things is my new definition of sweet love. He is also oblivious to my back fat. I hadn’t notice any either until I caught sight of it in a three way mirror. His assurance that I was just imagining things can be grouped in the same category. Sweet Love.

Savage love is another thing entirely. When I find yet another hidden item from Value Village, (a turquoise vase, honey!) and go into a rage filled rant, I can last for a good ten minutes. Afterward, my husband will exit whatever room he was in, give me a puzzled look and say, ‘Were you talking to me?’ That, on my part, is Savage Love. Still sweet on his side. However.

Let me throw away a moth eaten, stained pair of woolen winter pants and he will transform into a version of me. It is a monumental thing getting him to part with his clothes or any item in his ‘collection.’ Others are not oblivious to the situation.  “I can have a team here in an hour and clean all this shit up,” promised a mutual friend of ours. “One hour. A whole team!” As she walked away, I felt vindicated. I was not the only one thinking our garage was overfull. On days when we leave the door open, people pull into the driveway thinking that we’re having a yard sale.

My short temper and his latest turquoise vase collection have led to some humdinger arguments. The warmth in the room disappears while we sulk in our respective corners and contemplate divorce. A half hour later, we’re snuggled in bed reading our books (because God forbid we don’t read every single night!) while playing footsie. After a good night’s sleep, sweet love reigns again.

There is an art to a lasting marriage. An ability to take the long view and not let a hissy fit, (mine) two speeding tickets in a row (his) and a disagreement over how to weed the garden, take away all the good stuff. Like the fact that he is the kindest person I know. That he is passionate about family and community and never tries to be anyone but himself. I know, because I’ve tried to make some changes and they haven’t taken very well.

So, even when I’m building a full head of steam over his latest find, I appreciate very well what we’ve got. Between us we juggle this glass ball of delicately beautiful, sturdily complex love. We remember how we looked when we were young, and that’s pretty much how we view each other. We know all of each other’s stories. He excuses my bad mood and Arnold Schwartznegger, end of days, expression. I forgive his cupboard full of bargains. Because the truth about marriage is this. Forgiveness soothes the savage days of love, turning them sweet. The bad moments are lost in the colourful tapestry of our life together, becoming just another piece of the beautiful puzzle we call marriage. 

Last week, very, very early, a fire alarm went off at our place in Winnipeg. Since we live on the 20th floor and Clarence had just had surgery, this was worrying.  What if it wasn’t a drill? The elevators were locked so I started down the stairwell to check things out.

I had reached the 3rd floor when a voice came over the intercom. ‘Please stay in your suite,’ it said firmly.  ‘Remain in your suite until further notice.’ Oh, the timing. My legs were shaking from leaping out of bed and rushing down 17 flights of stairs. My heart was tight from lack of exercise and panic. There could be a fire. And the 20th floor is unreachable by ladder.

I headed back up the stairs, holding onto the rail and feeling like a ninety year old. At the sixth floor it became apparent that a cooking fire had set off the alarm.  My sense of relief morphed into bitter self pity. Pulling myself upward, I cursed my ill luck with some colorful language and small bird like sounds of exhaustion.  Clarence was still awake when I stumbled into the bedroom.

He said,  ‘I told you not to go.’ While technically true, this is exactly what a person who has taken one for the team does not want to hear. But the words, ‘ I told you so,’ are an unavoidable part of most relationships. That does not mean I took them in the right spirit.

‘But there was a fire,’ I said. ‘On a stove in an apartment on the sixth floor.’ I was on the defensive, presenting my own version of, ‘No, I told YOU so.’ I went back to bed, feeling very hard done by. 

A few days later, one of my sisters had an accident, breaking her wrist and bruising herself badly. Later, when I was in the middle of retelling my story, “I can’t believe I climbed ALL those stairs,” it suddenly hit me. I’m a cry baby. There was my husband, the staples in his stomach catching on the fabric of his shirt. My sister, her small wrist wrapped in a cast, supporting herself with the help of a cane while gazing at me sympathetically.

‘Fine,’ I muttered to myself, feeling the weight of my own shame. It was time to re-embrace the gratitude mantra. After all, Clarence had had a successful surgery. My sister would get better. And I would take my physical fitness more seriously. Especially since, part of the time, we lived on the 20th floor.

This small life lesson is like a mirror. Instead of good intentions, it revealed me as a self indulgent mini martyr. And if I’m too thick minded to see the error of my ways, I suspect another lesson might come round again. It may not involve twenty flights of stairs, up and down. It may be something even more formidable. So I’m saying right here and now that I get it. There are a lot of people having a tough time. Most of them are stoic individuals silently bearing all that life throws at them, and still greeting the day with a smile.

They are my heroes. And I will run up and down many flights of stairs if I can help them in any way. I just might have to duct tape my mouth shut afterward.

I went for a walk the other evening in our Osborne Village neighborhood, heading down Nassau and turning left at the corner of Wellington Crescent. There is a building right there that I have always admired. Impulsively I headed up the driveway, and wouldn’t you know it, the door swung open like it was expecting me. The small foyer inside showed beautiful and wonderfully clean glass doors. Through the doors there were statues tastefully placed around the room. On my left was a man seated in a cubicle. He had one hand hovering over a phone, and seemed frozen by indecision.

“Is this an apartment building?” I asked excitedly.
“It’s private,” he said, like he was going to the bathroom and I was  being rude enough to watch. Which reminded me. I really had to go.
“Can I come in and look around? I’ve always wanted to see this place.”
“You’ll have to leave.”
“May I use your bathroom?” In retrospect, I can’t believe I asked this, except that my bladder was overtaking my brain.
“Absolutely not,” he said, as if a simple no would lead to some persuasive arguing that would wear him down.

Continuing on my journey, I passed an Anglican church that rings actual bells on Sunday morning. They play ‘Ode to Joy,’ making me feel like I’m in the movie ‘Sound of Music,’ and have just gotten married in a beautiful cathedral. It inspires me to sing, ‘How do you Solve a Problem Like Maria?’ I can get away with that kind of thing in Winnipeg, because no one knows me and anyway, Clarence is impossible to embarrass. 

But back to my bladder. Since it’s the size of a soy nut, I decided to stop at the Safeway across from our building. The small bathroom at the back is tucked between the egg fridge and the meat counter. A strong odor of cigar met my nose when I stepped inside. As I exited, a guy in an apron was standing there with a frown on his face.

‘Someone’s been smoking a cigar,’ I tattled helpfully.
“It’s not allowed,” he said, glaring at me.
“I know. I’m just reporting it.”
“Especially cigars. They stink up the whole place.”
“I know. I…” He walked away, leaving me feeling as if I really had smoked a cigar in the bathroom. As if I’d just forgotten it. His certainty was very unsettling.

Feeling disoriented, I headed home. Why, I wondered, can’t we have real way stations? Ones with helpful attendants, convenient bathrooms and guides willing to satisfy one’s curiosity? Wouldn’t life be wonderful if, every day, we were met with snacks, hot towels and comfy chairs wherever we went? I’d like that. For now, though, I’ll settle for my friendly apartment building, where nobody knows my name, but where people will hold the elevator and even say hello. It’s a start.

At four in the morning, there is not much to do around my place. Especially when the house is full of people, including a toddler who wakes at the slightest sound. Exhausted, bored, and fearing the appearance of a rambunctious one year old, I hid out in the bathroom.

After styling my hair in a variety of fashions I would never wear publicly, I decided to try on my youngest daughter’s discarded make-up.  Sleepless night lesson number one:

 I can never use a black eyebrow pencil.

My eyebrows bec0me exaggerated question marks, as if pondering the fate of the world during a zombie apocalypse. I look like Joan Crawford, the later years. Much, much later.  Or someone creeping through a darkened hallway in a horror movie. Possibly a zombie movie.

Red lipstick is also a mistake. The bold color on pale, tired skin says crazed prostitute with a chainsaw behind her back.

There should be a hotline installed in bathrooms for people who can’t sleep. It would connect us to others suffering the same problem. A therapist could be on hand to answer the questions one ponders in the darkness of the night. Overblown, fueled by sleeplessness, they weigh on you like an anchor from the Titanic.

It’s not even the serious things that occupy my mind at three am. It’s my deceased in-law’s slide collection, at least thirty carousels worth, that sits in our back garage. Or the fact that I live in Manitoba and winter is coming.   And I don’t know how to use our snow blower, and my husband spends part of his time in Winnipeg. And won’t teach me because he thinks I’m going to cut off my foot. It’s all completely ridiculous. But that’s the working of an illogical, sleep deprived mind.   

Does a sense of aloneness creates a feeling of desperation? Or is it the fear of tiredness, that next-day-ache that settles into your bones? Whatever it is, while you were sleeping, I came to terms with a few things. Like, it is better to try on make-up in the middle of the night than lie there cursing the darkness. Or my messy garage. Or snow.

I hear the babbling of little voices. Time to creep back to bed.

I hate being short. When my younger sister, Susan, shot past me in childhood, the unjustness of it hit hard. Now I’ve become invisible, and the self pity party is back in full swing.

It seems the automatic sensors on towel dispensers and toilets can’t see me. I stand waiting, my wet hands raised in the air like a prepped surgeon. Nothing happens. I wave. Nothing. Tap it. Same lack of response.

Unlike the paper dispenser, the toilet needs to see that one has left the building. But flattening myself against the cubicle wall doesn’t work. I don’t want to leave without flushing. Doing a funny dance in front of the sensor doesn’t work either. It gets complicated when the bathroom is busy and there is a line-up. ‘I think that woman is tap dancing,’ I heard a woman say during a recent visit to Calgary.

‘I can’t get the toilet to flush,’ I replied defensively.

‘Stand to one side,’ she suggested. Like, duh, I didn’t just try that. Sometimes I’ll leave the stall and wait, one hand on the door so that no one goes in. I begin to feel like the grade ten version of myself. The one who was too short to make the volley ball team.

But it’s not really about size. It’s about being part of something. Being visible. I want the toilet to know that I’m done, like it does for other people. That I’m exiting the room. ‘There you go!’ I want the toilet to say. ‘Good job!’ Accompanied by a flushing sound.

My joyful response to the rare flushing toilet or automatic towel is usually a little over the top. ‘It worked!’ I’ll say to the other bathroom occupants, expecting a high five or, at the very least, a congratulatory smile.

‘Uh huh,’ they’ll reply. I forgive them, knowing that they occupy a different universe than me, perhaps breath a more rarified air They don’t really understand the difficulties of trying to measure up. Of hoping to be tall enough, or good enough  to make ‘Team Human.’ When the toilet finally does notices me, it’s like an invite to the club. ‘Welcome,’ it says, and the flushing away is like the secret handshake of acceptance.    

In life, sometimes a person needs a behavior check. Or a mood check. Usually we don’t even realize it. Thank goodness for friends. Or in my case, siblings who don’t wait for friends to speak up.

The first hint of their concern is a gentle tone of voice. Susan and Linda are masters at this. “Am I going around the bend?” I start to wonder. “Am I the last to notice?” My other sisters, Jen, Cindy and Joni, are sympathetic, but have a harder time suppressing their panic. They have no poker faces. Or voices.

Living mostly in different cities, we stay connected with phone calls and yearly reunions. The latter can involve up to thirty-eight people or just a small group of twelve or so, depending on spouses and kids. The feeling shared by all is a slippery combination of anticipation and dread. Individually, we are benign. An opinionated set of individuals with a flair for dramatics and a deeply imbedded sense of family placement. (I’m number two. It’s very hard.)

Together, we are the perfect storm of deep, deep feelings. Two weeks of fun amidst loud and incessant conversation translating into a kind of boot camp therapy, starting with a ‘he said, she said,’ tell all that occasionally ends in tears. (Though usually for just one person.) Strange mutterings may be heard at family dinners. A kind of, ‘Its’ not going to be me breaking down, dammit,’ confession. Sure enough, at the first sign of moodiness, everyone else relaxes, knowing its not going to be them cracking up this particular year.

 Some siblings attempt to sneak away from family gatherings, to find a quiet corner in which to read a book or simply enjoy some peace. (We are all readers, thanks to our parent’s fruitless attempts at keeping us quiet.) Alone, we are each friendly, fun loving and sensible. Grouped together, we are a loud, singing, verbose, mighty wind.

Some would say we resemble the mafia, except that every one of us wants to be the Godfather. In terms of siblings, it should be Linda, the eldest. She’s been resisting the role since my brother Billy became baby number four. Hiding in her room, (yes, she had her own!) she would pass the time reading.  In high school she shared a room with Susan and me. We became fans of her Gordon Lightfoot collection as well as the many hits of K-Tel, including the ever famous song, “Winchester Cathedral.’ It was fitting, because for certain, we were always bringing her down.

Now that we’re older, Susan, number three, is the real boss of the family. Not that she’s bossy. She’s too subtle for that. But she has a way with words, a kind but firm tone that we all respond to in a mostly positive way. She notices things that the rest of us don’t, being either too distracted or too self indulgent. I can’t throw any stones. I’m the last one to see that the dishes need doing, or the table set. Okay, maybe the second last.

Brother Bill is locked in the middle … three girls older than him, three younger. This position has helped him considerably in his life. He’s learned all kinds of skills, like how to wear tights, how to fight off a wild pack of girls chasing him down for a kiss. That kind of thing. He’s a guy who could build a shopping mall with a nail file and some lego, or escape from a prison camp in the middle of the wilderness. I know the last is true because I was one of his jailers. It’s one reason why you hardly ever see him without his tool belt.

Cindy came out of the womb knowing exactly what she wanted. She was a ‘mama’s little helper,’ type of kid with hair that was really hard to brush. I remember because somehow it ended up being my job. She treated school work like someone was paying her a million dollars to do well.

Joni was everyone’s darling, and over the years, nothing has really changed. If you ever travel with her, be prepared to hug strangers in an airport because she knows everyone in the world. Everyone. I’m not even kidding.

Jennifer, as number seven, had to fight hard to be heard. As a child, she had an extremely loud voice which she somehow managed to translate into a successful career. It all came down to survival. As the baby, we had to take care of her. And it was her job to make sure that we did it in the most fun way. Even when it was very inconvenient. Picture a Saturday morning, possibly 7 am. Jennifer is three, and very precocious for her age. I am eighteen, and possibly hung over. She would climb the ladder to my bunk with a large bag of books, slapping them down on my legs and reading them directly into my ear. Things have not changed a whole lot, though now she brings witty conversation and interesting drink recipes.

I’m not sure who I am in this crazy mix-up of a family. But what I do know is this. There is a secure fortress surrounding me at all times; a wall of people who have my back. It is made up of love, history, and the steely resolve of children who could crack the most stoic parent.
So you can take me or leave me, like or despise me. Just don’t mess with me. Because you’re going to have to answer to them. And it won’t be pretty. We are family, with a capital F.

Mario Puzzo said in his book, ‘The Godfather,’ “The world is so hard a man must have two fathers.” I say, for extra protection, have siblings.

There is a new product on the market called ‘The Butterfly.’ It is a subtly named  body liner designed to prevent ‘accidental bowel  leakage.’ And no, I haven’t started using product placement in my writing, though given the contents of my April blog, I’d probably do well to buy some stock in the company.

Allow me to be a little more high brow than that, please. The ad got me thinking about all the ways our bodies give out as we age. Though our knees can ache and other parts drift southward, nothing leaks away faster than the stiff upper lip.

I’m not sure what the trigger is for men, but for women its mostly menopause.  I didn’t even know I was stoic before until, suddenly, I wasn’t. The problem started in my late forties. First, I was crying during a poignant television commercial. Then the news that an acquaintance was moving away made me morose for days. I stayed away from sad books and learned to watch a lot of comedies.

However. What the body wants to spill, it will spill. The things that have made me grieve have been so minuscule, I feel embarrassed to admit them, even to myself. Thank goodness for this handy blog.

 Here is a short list of sadness triggers for me:

1. Bird song late in summer, (because its a mating call that was never answered.)
2. PBS’s nostalgic Saturday night concert series; anything from doo wop to John Denver. It’s always a two Kleenex event.
3. Reunions. I once had my eyelashes dyed so I could cry freely.
4. Seeing other people cry. This is a guaranteed trigger, even when it happens in movies. Maybe especially in movies.
5. Songs like K’naan’s ‘Waving Flag.’ I’m not sure if its the combination of rap and choir, or the fact that it was the first song our town danced to in the very first Culture Days. Weepy, weepy.

The list is fairly short, but you get the idea. One thing I’ve noticed, though. When life became harder and things happen that are more serious than a sad songbird, heavy, depressing literature makes a come back in my life. A well written, deeply moving and morose novel can cheer me up immensely. I have no idea why, nor do I care.  This also applies to sad movies.

My aha idea is this. When serious leakage begins, forget the butterfly application, the cheery slogans and uplifting comedies. Instead, lean into it. Indulge yourself in whatever manner is required. For me, it is giving myself permission to watch Romeo and Juliet (the 1969 version) or reread a real downer, like ‘Tess of the D’Urbervilles.’  Perhaps misery loves company. I think its all about perspective. A thirteen year old stabbing herself to death for love makes my John Denver concert seem pretty chipper. The worst of situations is a walk in the park when compared to Cormac McCarthy’s ‘The Road.’ Things might be tough, but at least I’m not being chased by cannibals.

For minor leakage, please insert the butterfly. For major events, lean in and let ‘er rip. You’ll feel a lot better. I promise.