The Life and Hard Times of Inanimate Objects

 I was busy rebuking my toaster yesterday when I had a revelation. It had burned my single piece of gluten free bread, an item expensive enough to make me swaddle it in butter and honey and eat it anyway. Our friends may recognize us for who we are, our family even more so. But nobody knows us as well as our household goods. This includes walls, floor and ceilings, but most of my vitriol seems to be aimed at my appliances.

I try to be the kind of person who thanks them for their service as recommended in that Japanese book about not holding onto crap. But I’m more like an ungrateful girlfriend. I fall into abusive verbal behavior very easily. And for my poor vacuum, there’s not a court in the land that will hold me to account. ‘You clean my floors well,’ I say to my Dyson. ‘But why does your cord insist on getting caught in the furniture feet? Why do you always make me walk across the room to bend over and untangle it?? Why, Mr. Dyson? Isn’t that your job? Things seemed to be going so well when I first bought you. But lately your attitude sucks.”

Next, I give my drill a serious lecture. ‘Why won’t you hold onto the bit? My job is to hold you. Yours is to grip the bit and let me get this screw into this board!’ As I holler, I can sense all the tools in the house shivering in their poorly organized cases. The walls hear everything. And I am not a silent whiner. Even before my husband became a landed resident in heaven, I was very vocal about the shortcomings of our possessions. 

And yet, I consider myself a grateful person. I am continually giving thanks, aloud, for things like my comfortable bed, warm home, family and friends. Anyone overhearing me would be inclined to think that my character is above reproach. Sadly, as my mangled can opener will tell you, this is not true. 

I’m confessing publicly to appliance abuse as the first step in my self made program I’ve taken to calling ‘Inanimate Objects Anonymous.’ Before you get any ideas about joining, let me tell you up front that this is a one person group. I’m all I can handle right now. I kneel apologetically before my kitchen stove (something I’ve picked up from all those Korean Dramas on Netflix) and tell it I’m sorry for swearing at it last night. I must have programmed the oven incorrectly. (See how I’m owning up to my mistakes? This program is working!) 

And then I notice the pot of soup I left simmering on a back element. Most of the broth is gone and the mushrooms and vegetables are sticking to the bottom. An almost burned smell is rising through the kitchen, along with my temper. “That damned pot,” I mutter, trying to be quiet so the stove won’t hear me. Is this a step backwards? Perhaps. I might have to give back the coin I gave myself for one whole day of nice behavior.

It’s Covid 19’s fault. Okay? There were white and black birds singing on the lake this summer that were less loony than I’ve become over the last six months. Besides going for a walk, I try to do one thing per day that gets me out of the house. Mail a letter. Buy groceries. Drop off some books for a friend. Little make-work jobs meant to shorten the day. But there are mornings when I wonder if I should even bother washing my face. Because, who cares? I’m wearing a mask everywhere I go. I could have spinach stuck between every tooth and no one would know.

I feel better getting this off my shoulders. And I’m sure I’m not the only one with a bit of a temper problem. Maybe other people don’t take their frustrations out on their household appliances, but I think it’s better than yelling at the postal worker for not giving me mail two whole days in a row. 

Last night I heard strange whisperings and rustlings coming from the basement. Since my deceased husband Clarence and I have a pact that he will check in now and again, but without being creepy, I knew it wasn’t him. And I realized that if I’m not careful, the neighbors could come in search of me one day and find me at the bottom of the stairs, the vacuum posed innocently at the top, and a pot in my hand with a strange dent in it. Okay, time for another meeting. I really need to earn back that coin. 

I’ll Make Love to You (Like you Want me to)

I was clearing out a cupboard in the basement when I came across a zippered case full of cd’s from my daughter’s high school years. I tossed it onto the passenger seat of my car and started going through them. The first was the Boy’s to Men song of the above title. And I thought, aw, that’s so sweet. How woke of them! It’s like they looked ahead and saw how things were going to change in the world. Well behaved men would ask permission before making a romantic move. Though I should really credit Babyface, aka Kenneth Brian Edmonds for the foreshadowing–he’s the songwriter. But still. The boys did a lovely job. I assume they’re all men now. 

It got me thinking. Things are changing pretty quickly, and I’m having trouble keeping up with the movements of the day. And the language of the day. (I can picture my sister Linda reading this and jumping to her feet. ‘No! Don’t go there! We’ve talked about this! (We have, indeed.)

It’s true that I often suffer from hoof in mouth disease, and why should my writing be any different? But one thought led to the next and suddenly I was immersed in the bewildering world of political correctness. Don’t get me wrong, people. I don’t want to find myself bombarded by posts from incels high fiving me because someone is finally validating their belief that women owe them sex. Because, you know, women are alive. And they owe them this. Nuh uh. (Although, I do feel sad for people who can’t find love. But that’s a whole other story.)

I’m talking about the rush of the world as it speeds toward a more compassionate way of being. The way that boys are now being raised to be considerate, to ask for permission before kissing a girl, and to view women as deserving of the same jobs, the same pay, the same respect. This was not always true when I was little. As I said in the first paragraph, this also applies to sex. The whole song is pretty racy, and I don’t want to break any copyright laws, so go check out the lyrics. Okay. They’re not THAT racy. But I’m the woman who took many decades to realize that so many songs of my generation were actually about sex and that’s what all the background moaning meant. Who knew?

Anyway, back to the point I was originally going for. Some of us are afraid of making mistakes in this kinder, gentler world we’re all aiming for. We don’t want to call people of other colours and races by the wrong names, we don’t want to mislabel others of various sexual persuasions. I worry that we (meaning I) will turn away from a conversation simply because I’m afraid I will say something wrong. Perhaps those of us who err on the doofus side should wear signs like those carried by cars with new drivers. Something like, I have a kind heart. Forgive me if I hurt you. Tell me what I did wrong and I’ll do better next time.

Okay. That’s a bit long for a sign. But you get my meaning. 

There are also people offended by those who practice cultural appropriation by doing some of the following: Wearing blackface. (Justin!)  Copying someone from another race, like how people dressed up as Beyonce before the word got out that it wasn’t nice. Guys dressing up like Dave Gunn (from Flin Flon) for Halloween. Does Dave mind? Weigh in here if you do, Dave. We need to know.

There are those in hot water for writing about someone else’s cultural/racial experience. Like author Jeanine Cummins. Her book, American Dirt, is about a Mexican woman and her son escaping to the US because their lives are in danger. I don’t want to give too much away, except to say that it’s a terrific read. Some Hispanic readers were upset because they didn’t see this as her story to tell. As an author, I can’t buy into that argument. If we only start telling our own stories, the world will be a very boring place. Think of Communist China under chairman Mao, where everyone dressed the same and ratted on their parents if they weren’t walking the party line. It feels dire, that kind of censorship. I might feel differently if the book was terrible, but the writing is stellar, and the story a real page turner. It doesn’t mean that someone else can’t their own version of what it’s like to ride the Beast across Mexico. But why should the world not get to read this book? I’m backing Stephen King on this one. 

I’m happy that the world is moving in the right direction. I especially hope for a really big change on Tuesday, the day of the American election. There’s nothing like the leader of the country next door bragging about how he doesn’t ask have to women for permission, he just moves in and grabs them by the you know what. Does that set the world back about 75 years? More? Sigh. Here’s a good guideline to follow. If he does it, it’s probably best not to copy him. 

In the meantime, I love you all, dear readers. Forgive me when I hurt you or disappoint you. I’m trying to outgrow my cluelessness, but it’s taking me a while. And finally, I’ll respond again to the title of this blog post by saying this: I’m old fashioned! Go ahead and kiss the girl! Okay, I’m being heavily influenced by the Little Mermaid here. Wait…is that bad, now?  Sheesh.

My Secret Romance

I have fallen down a rabbit hole so deep, I may end up on the other side of the world. It was a friend who suggested the trip, and now there’s no going back. It’s not a garden variety descent into obsession, either. In fact, I’ve never done anything like this before. What’s driving this deep dive? Korean Dramas on Netflix. 

They have taken over my television experience. I find myself checking in throughout the day. What’s Kang Joon up to now? Has he stopped brooding and allowed himself to fall in love with the girl who literally fell from the sky? At first I worried they’d be just like Hallmark romance movies, or even worse, the Christmas ones. Thin plots, fake problems, too much decorating. But no. These people are beset by all kinds of serious situations and heartbreak. For example.

The first one I watched was ‘Crashing Down on You,’ about a rich South Korean girl who accidentally paraglides into North Korea. Enter one handsome soldier and his cadre of funny sweet sidekicks and the drama builds from there. These shows are almost Austen-like in the making. It takes a while for anyone to even hug. And when they do, it’s always accidental. She stumbles and he catches her around the waist. The music swells (with the help of a dreamy Korean pop song) and they gaze into each other’s eyes. I don’t know how they do it, but they seem to nail the chemistry every time. After 16 episodes they may have kissed only once or twice. 

Their success is guaranteed by one thing: yearning. It’s the star crossed lovers gazing longingly but never able to seal the deal, trope. Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy, Bella and Edward, Laurie and Jo. They’ve tapped into our teenage selves and shown us that for some people, it works out. Because let’s face it. Most teenagers yearn for the impossible, and we all carry those hopeful 16 year old idiot beings within us. Yes, we do, so stop denying it. 

Another aha moment: I find people of other ethnicities more attractive than white folks. It’s like opening a coloring book and instead of seeing bare spaces, the pages are filled with rich hues and physiques that do not seem inspired by the MacDonald restaurant. (Though a MacDonald’s lover by the name of Clarence still holds my heart tightly in his deceased but heavenly fist.) 

Another surprise: Like characters on the run in any of my novels, these people love to eat. Like, all the time. They must be paying homage to the basic human need for sharing meals. And Koreans eat differently than we do. They tend to slurp their noodles loudly and put far too much food in their mouths. This is to show how much they’re enjoying the meal though it’s usually the female characters doing this. It demonstrates that they’re just regular girls not out to impress anyone. 

One of the characters is always rich, (not necessarily the guy) and one is of modest means. In this way, the wealthy character can gift the poorer one with a new wardrobe so we can all enjoy their Cinderella experience. So the love interest is both the prince/princess and the fairy godmother. It’s extremely satisfying. 

If you’re interested, try Crashing Down on You first. Then step into a more gothic take on love and family life with ‘It’s Okay Not to be Okay.’ I really loved that one and cried all the way through the last episode. I won’t share any more titles because I’m not willing to admit how far down the rabbit hole I’ve traveled. In terms of distance, I may already be in Korea. And if you decide to join me there, let’s get together for some noodles. 

Can I Get a Witness?

Musically, I’m all over the place. There aren’t many limits to what I like, though once upon a time, I couldn’t handle loud music at all. As the years passed and heavy metal came into being, I realized that I really didn’t mind ACDC, or Metallica. It’s the volume that’s an issue. My older sister feels the same. Once when I was playing my Led Zeppelin II album, she came screeching into our room. “Have we died and gone to hell?” (When stressed, we all tend to quote my mother.) For some reason, Led Zeppelin gets a pass from me. I think it’s because Robert Plant’s voice is so agile and almost feminine at times. 

Linda and I are not alone in our response to loudness. Some years back I went to a movie with my five sisters. The moment the music swelled and the violins/whatever the hells/ were screaming, I looked around. Every single one of us had our fingers stuffed in our ears. We’re all a bit like Dustin Hoffman in the Rain Man movie. If the sound gets too loud, we have a tendency to slap ourselves about the head. Or slap those responsible. So in spite of all the talented screamers out there, this disability prevents me from appreciating them.

I like rap music, but during the rapping part, I’m always secretly wondering if the artist can sing. It feels like cheating if they can’t. The notion that rhythmically chanting poetry is an easy thing to do is obviously wrong. I can recite a poem or two…maybe even write one. But I truly don’t know how these artists squeeze all the words together, convey a message and still make me want to dance. And yet in spite of my growing appreciation, I feel comforted when the rapping stops and the crooning starts. “Ah, okay. They deserve to be famous, because they have a really nice voice.” Silly, I know. And probably an age thing.

I’ve always loved gospel, which is different from the usual ‘hymn sing’ type music you hear in your average mainstream protestant church. Because we’re not allowed to sing during Covid, my minister has been playing taped music. This last Sunday, he took a real chance and played a gospel version of a hymn we’ve sung many times. It got off to a good start and then quickly went off the rails. It was fine until one of the singers started screeching, ‘Can I get a witness!’ about thirty times in a row. First, let me set the stage. No. In the United Church of Canada, you cannot get a witness. Not the kind that will jump to their feet and shout, Amen, sisters and brothers! Preach it!’ We do say Amen, though. After someone has prayed, or maybe after a hymn we really enjoyed, you can hear some muttered Amens. To give Steve credit, he’s really trying to mix it up and have some fun, because we’re all just sitting there, not able to pray out loud or sing, or even stand. I myself plan on trying out a gospel song when I do a service in a few weeks. However, thanks to Steve, lesson learned. I will not ask for any witnesses. Especially ones with loud, high voices. 

I grew up listening to two kinds of jazz. The stinky kind (Stan Kenton, Miles Davis) which had my mother repeating the phrase about dying and going to hell. Then there was the other kind… a light, loungy jazz like my sisters sing. Dad played big band music, with guys like Glenn Miller and Duke Ellington. I also love any kind of World War II era songs, like White Cliffs of Dover or I’ll Be Seeing You. (Billie Holiday!) It’s good they don’t play these in grocery stores anymore. I’d be found in the produce section weeping into the bananas. It gets me, that music. 

Everyone loves pop. I know there are many of you out there climbing up on your high horses and saying, ‘No way! I’m too good for that crap!’ No you’re not. We know you secretly listen to Lady Gaga or Shawn Mendes. But don’t worry. It can be our secret. I remember lying to a friend about liking Donny Osmond, because it wasn’t cool to admit it back then. But I loved his voice, and wished only that he had better material. 

I learned to like classical music in university when I shared our dormitory bathroom with a music major, Shari. She scoffed at my small Strauss collection, who I considered the pop star equivalent of his day, and introduced me to Prokofiev and Debussy and some others that I can’t remember. When I joined our community choir, I fell in love with Mozart and Beethoven and all the guys who wrote really great requiems or symphonic pieces. 

And then there’s Country Music, which wasn’t allowed in our house when I was growing up. I think this was the greatest barrier between Clarence’s parents and mine when they first met. My mother liked Julie Andrews and Harry Belafonte. His mom loved Loretta Lynn and Hank Snow. I remember the first time we all gathered in his parent’s rec room and had a drink while listening to Vic’s favourites, ‘The Moms and Dads.’ My parents looked shell shocked when we got home, muttering to themselves and asking me if I was really sure about this guy. 

I learned to enjoy some country music, even Tammy Wynette, famous for the D.I.V.O.R.C.E song. Although, who did those parents think they were fooling? You can spell things out all you want, but you can be sure little J.O.E knew about it already. Country music is like a Hallmark movie that’s been twisted a bit. It seems pleasant and melodic, but the siding keeps falling off all the houses in town. That’s Country. 

My all time favourite music, besides the gold standards like the Beatles or Simon and Garfunkel, is emo. Give a whiny guy or girl a guitar and set them loose. There is not a sad, slow song that I won’t listen to on repeat, unless I’m with one of my sisters. ‘Shut it!’ is their usual response. Anyway. 

My least favourite music is really about the performer. I should not throw anyone under the bus, because God knows, my voice would not soothe anyone’s soul. But there is something about the artist, Daniel O’Donnell. Every song he sings sounds the same. Irish lullaby’s, hymns, dramatic songs like ‘The Impossible Dream.’ They’re all very…pleasant. If you’ve ever watched one of his concerts on PBS, you’ll notice that his audience is white haired and elderly. (And now it seems like I’m throwing seniors under the bus. I’m not! I know that many of you are at home right now listening to your Black Sabbath albums!) Daniel O’Donnell fans definitely offer a different kind of witness. “Wasn’t that lovely, dear?” 

Thank goodness there’s something out there for everybody. If only politics was so easy to navigate. Come November, we’ll finally know the results of the US election.  We all get to be witnesses for that momentous event, and even if we can take the tension of the next six weeks, we’ll all feel the fall out, whoever we’re cheering for. If things continue on the way they have for the last four years, I’ll probably find myself in the mood for something like this. 

A Loon Walks Into a Bar

Well, not really. More like I met it out on the lake, shortly after dropping my butt into my kayak. That’s how you do it…you put in a leg and then drop your bottom. It doesn’t matter what your other leg does, because you’re already secure. Anyway, I was paddling merrily along the shore, staring at the rocks and belting out the Christian standard, ‘How Great Though Art.” For those who love to sing, there is no better place during Covid than being alone on the water. First came the hymn…I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder…and then I met the loon.

Immediately, the lake, rocks and forest around me were transformed into a smoky lounge. Think Rick’s Café in Casablanca. Grabbing a barstool, I silently wondered if the loon came here often, but since I’m writer, I try to avoid such clichés. “Did you come here alone?” I said, knowing they like to travel in pairs. 

“Did you?” it replied with a languid but lonely look. 

Pointing to the spot where I’d scattered my husband’s ashes a month before, I took a second look at the bird. It seemed melancholy, and gave a forlorn wail as proof. “Did you get left behind?” I asked. It nodded. “Yeah?” I said. “Me too. You’ll be okay.” We chatted about the lake, how empty it seemed and how all the beavers had disappeared. I’d gotten used to the steady sound of their slapping tails. It seemed eerily quiet without them. 

“Beavers are just so bitchy,’ the loon said in a low voice. “Always in a bad mood. Like, no one else is allowed to swim around? I raised my glass, saluting its bitter sarcasm. 

“Here’s to those who love us, and bugger all the rest.” We toasted and sipped. I must mention that while we were deeply engaged in this conversation, the lounge was growing darker and more intimate. As we leaned our elbows on the counter, I tilted my fedora…(okay, Clarence’s Tilly hat) and said, ‘Of all the gin joints in all the world…”

“You had to walk into mine,’ the loon finished with a heavy sigh, just before we heard a booming sound. We looked up. Dark clouds crowded the sky, and in the distance, thunder rolled across the heavens. Oh, the irony. I’d just been singing, “I hear the rolling thunder,” before I met the loon. Sadly, its meaning had not registered. 

Quickly the loon flew upward and the lounge disappeared, leaving me to desperately paddle back to my car. As lightning teased the sky, I asked myself this. Would my rubber soled Keene’s ground me? Was my paddle just a lightning rod in disguise?

There are different kinds of prayer. Singing is one type; a celebration of being alive and able to breathe freely. Ordinarily when paddling, I sing a lot, gazing at the fallen trees, (compliments of the beavers) lying beneath the waves like ship wrecks and the gray boulders resting on the bottom like sleeping dinosaurs. As I paddled swiftly, the loon disappeared from sight and I practiced the desperate person’s prayer. (Many of us know it.) ‘Please don’t let me die here. My kids will kill me.’  

Life holds all kinds of lessons for us. Like, remembering to put a foot in your kayak before dropping your bum. Like understanding that time spent with Mother Nature is like applying lip balm to a chapped soul. And then there’s this. If you meet a loon in a bar, don’t be seduced by its pretty feathers or lonely wails. Just doff your Fedora, wish it well, and leave. But feel free to call over your shoulder like I did before paddling away. “Loony, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” 

A tremulous answer came from somewhere far above me. I took it as a yes.

Dear Clarence, Who Art in Heaven

It’s been a month since I’ve written a blog post. And in case you didn’t know it yet, we’re in the middle of a pandemic. You’d laugh if you could see me heading into Walmart or the Co-op. I adjust my mask…yes, I said mask…looking like I’m about to rob the place. This is the new normal here in 2020. 

When I go inside a store, I say hello to random people in case I know them. It’s very hard to tell. We’ve been isolating from each other since March. Happily, summer finally came along and saved us all. It’s been thrilling just working in the yard and kayaking every day. Remember last summer, when I thought you were the dragon fly I saved from the water? I didn’t know for sure. But you’ll be glad to know I’ve been a little less nutty this year. I think.

Our daughter Michelle got married on August 15th. Thankfully, you met her fiancé, John. The day was lovely in every way, but small because of the whole Covid 19 thing. The wedding party was large: six bridesmaids, six groomsmen, but the guest list was tiny. Just family, with a couple extra people. I performed the ceremony and you’ll be relieved to know I stayed dry eyed. I’m not sure how I did it, and I worried about sobbing through my Welcome to the Family speech, later. Fortunately John’s best man Dave cried during the wedding, and this saved me. I felt completely calm speaking because I mentioned his teary face about five times. 

John’s parents, Gerry and Pat, offered their back yard for the celebration. They’d worked so hard on it, and it was stunning… like something out of a movie. Think Meet Joe Black, but on a smaller scale and nobody dying at the end. (Not even of covid… we’re all okay!)

Michelle placed one of your Hawaiian shirts on a chair during the ceremony. After it was over,  everyone toasted you with a tot of Irish whiskey while John, his parents and our family sang The Wild Rover. I might have cried a bit during that part. It felt like you were there.

I’ve had vertigo again this summer, and not the light kind, either. It’s the tougher variety, where I lift my head to look at the sky and the earth tilts. I had to paint the pillars in front of our house, they were long overdue. I stood on the ladder, weaving like a drunken sailor and gripping an overhead nail to steady myself. I also, ahem, cleaned the front eavestroughs, which used to seem so scary. There were three small trees growing inside them. All maples. They’re gone now, and the water definitely flows better.

Because of the vertigo I didn’t have a drink until after Michelle’s wedding. During supper I had some wine, which might be why I mentioned Dave in my speech, referencing his sweet tearstained face. I talked to him about it later. He didn’t seem to mind. Some of the bridesmaids were tearing up, too. Just more quietly. (Sorry again, Dave.) 

Fall is definitely here, but friends and neighbors are all still out and about, boating and doing yardwork. But as they say in Game of Thrones, winter is coming. Fortunately, Michelle is already married, so there’ll be no Red Wedding. (Another G.O.T. reference. I can’t help myself.) 

Our former neighbors Rick and Pat paddled with me onto one of the many lakes around Flin Flon and together, we scattered your ashes. It was time. We sipped Amaretto from tiny plastic bridal shower glasses, told stories about you and sang the Hockey song in memory of all the things we used to do together. You’d love the location. I plan on joining you there someday.

So, that’s me, done for now. I’ll catch you up again someday, but I want you to know that in spite of this strange pandemic down here on Earth, I’m living the best life I can. And I love you forever, honey. I’ll see you in my dreams. Now here’s a few photos of of my summer life.

Bug City

According to the Dalai Lama, or any Buddhist worth their salt, I have become the moral equivalent of Hannibal Lecter. In my previous life (ie: last summer) I was in total agreement with the dharma of interdependence and compassion regarding all beings. For example.

I have a bug catcher from Lee Valley and it has been invaluable. I trap as many insects as I can inside my house and let them fly free outside. Partly because, why kill them when I don’t have to? Also it saves me from squishing things against my windows, walls and ceiling. Whenever I open the door to let a housefly/spider/weird unidentifiable bug outside, there’s a pleasing sense of being one with the universe. That ended this year.

 

Since Covid 19 arrived, my temper is not as easily calmed. Little things get me down more readily than usual. Also, it rained for the last three months and the bugs are now the size of cars. All of the bugs. When walking outside in sunshine or gloom, I Am Legend in a land of vampires. I must keep my eyes rolling around in my head at all times because those suckers are everywhere. The tiny black ones are the worst. The smallest come through the screens, and all of them seem to head for the back of my neck, or my scalp. Obviously my hair is like a forest to these tiny creatures, and each strand is like a well spaced tree. They just zoom inside and make themselves at home. For all I know, they’re building nests and planning to take over the world. Before Covid 19, I would have laughed at myself for having these thoughts. For writing about the craziness that has taken me over.
But let’s face it. All bets are off. The world as we know it is undergoing some unthinkable changes. President Putin has his hand so far up Donald Trumps rear end that he can wave at the world through the guy’s mouth. He’s busy running Facebook, too, by the sounds of some of the crazy memes that a lot of folks buy into, and for all I know, the Chinese are working their hands up Mark Zuckerberg’s butt even as I sit here, slapping at the vampires lurking around the room.
I will still protect the insects that help the world. Bees and wasps and all who pollinate. Good for you. You are untouchable in my yard. Spiders, my friends, remember when you take over the world that I was always on your side. My Lee Valley bug catcher is a testament to that. But mosquitoes and all flies of the biting kind, prepare to be flayed and have your livers eaten for dinner.
My Christianity is veering toward the Spanish inquisitor variety. See things my way or take a gander at my heated metal pincers. This is only regarding the biting variety of bugs. And yet, right before I swat, slap, pinch, scream or smack a bug, I tend to holler, ‘That better not be you, Uncle Walter!’ (And I’m not even Buddhist.) But it wouldn’t be him, because he would never bite anyone. Although my favourite bachelor uncle did have a thing for blondes, come to think of it. Anyway.
If you drive by my yard and see me whirling like a Sufi Dervish, please realize that I have not changed religions. And I am not dancing ecstatically. I am in the process of:
a. Fleeing
b. Avoiding
c. Trying to trap bugs.
Feel free to stop and say hello. I’ll be friendly, I promise. But if all my whirling is accompanied by maniacal laughter, just run.

If It’s Wednesday, I’m in Albuquerque

I’m not really in Albuquerque. By the time I post this, it might not even be Wednesday. I wouldn’t really know, because I am losing track of the days. At the beginning of the pandemic I should have started scratching them out on the wall of my cave like Tom Hanks did in the movie, Cast Away. I have an iPhone and a computer, but in the early morning when I’m making breakfast, it does not occur to me to check the date.

In these pandemic times, maybe it’s only the retired, unemployed or childless who feel like their brain is in resting mode. Previously, we’ve had events in our lives that let us know what day of the week it was. For me, that was gym class. I always knew that leg day was Tuesday because I would wake up filled with dread. And now, I never know it’s Tuesday. Not until Wednesday, at the very least. And my legs are getting very fussy at the lack of attention. Come fall, I’m going to have to do something. No, really.

For now, I’m like a vacant lot with no building prospects. No fence, no tools to indicate that creation is about to take place. I work in my yard and garden every day, but I’m getting to the point where I would like someone to come over and boss me around. (This is conjecture. Don’t any of you do this.) But I obviously need direction of some kind. I am so tired of my own pep talks. Some mornings while I brush my teeth, I’ll stare at myself in the mirror and say something like, ‘Today is going to be special!’ Spit. Rinse. And then I’ll say, ‘You know you’re full of crap, right?’

To emphasize the feeling that we’re truly in a pandemic, the bugs are in the middle of a full speed ahead, evolutionary process. They’re bigger, faster, sneakier and they bite like they want you to remember them for the next month. People meet on the street and compare battle scars. ‘I made the mistake of gardening in the morning,’ they’ll say, throwing their hands in the air sheepishly. And really, what are any of us thinking? Never mind Covid 19, we need full body suits to combat the mosquitoes and all the tiny variations of black fly that seem suspiciously new to northern Manitoba.

I know, I know. We’ve always had them. But like everything else, even the bug world is freaking out. And like a two year old trying to be the boss of everything, I want everyone, including mother nature, to stop doing things I don’t like. Yes, some of the world’s craziness has been brought on by ourselves…we’re not guilt free… but the toddler in me doesn’t care about that. Like a contestant doing badly on a reality television show, I want to ring a bell and quit the game. Get off the island. Tell the bachelor/bachelorette that frankly, I just don’t give a damn.
On the other hand, the sun is shining and my kayak awaits. I have bug spray in my bag, and a bottle of water that I could exchange for gin at a moment’s notice. Maybe the toddler in me just needs a time out. (I’m stomping one foot, now.) Ahhhh. It’s lovely outside, with the sunshine and the gin…er, the water. Today is going to be special! (Oh, shut up.)

Everyone Shut the Hell Up

Some people find their gardens restful. In the summer I feel the same way, but in spring, I find my plants to be very whiny. Think kindergarteners crossed with junior high kids, with a few immature high schoolers thrown in for good measure.

It starts with the potted plants. I’m planting petunias with a couple dahlias, zinnias, some trailing ivy’s and a few pansies for good measure. Then, it starts.

‘George. George? Where are you, honey?’

‘On the other side of the petunias! I tell you, Jane, this woman doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

“The petunias! Don’t pay them any attention, George. You know how they are. Such posers. Everyone knows they’re very high maintenance.” Jane sniffs loudly and George grunts in agreement.

As I sit there, spade in hand, bugs nipping at my neck while I push in more plants, add some soil and stick in something else, I find myself agreeing with Jane’s point of view. There’s no doubt that a bunch of cascading petunias are beautiful, but really. All they want is your constant attention. ‘Dead head me, please,’ they say to George and me in a sultry voice. ‘Cmon. Just lightly massage these dying buds of mine.’

‘Don’t listen to them, George!’ Jane shouts from her side of the plant pot. ‘Once you start, they’ll bother you constantly. Stick with the pansies.’ George looks around, but the pansies have already fainted in the mild spring sun. He gives a scornful grunt, wondering what on earth possessed this gardener to put pansies in the same pot as Dahlias, petunias, and marigolds. I later admit my mistake aloud, which satisfies George immensely.

And then, the begonias. They’re quite content spending most of the day in the shade. But lately, with no sun at all, they’ve been complaining and turning slightly brown around the edges.
‘Why is it so gloomy out?’ the showy pink one says. ‘Where is the sun? I just want a few minutes of it. No, I want it lurking in the sky, somewhere around the corner of the house. This is so depressing.’ I find myself agreeing with her.

The other begonias chime in, their voices droning softly like rich people at a boring party. They’re showier than the petunias, and they know it. They don’t usually spend much energy talking to the other plants, other than offering the occasional ‘hush up, now,’ to George and Jane, who are the most vocal dahlias I’ve ever planted. George always listens. Unbeknownst to Jane, he has a secret crush on the pink begonia in the large bowl to his left.

Then there’s the grass. It whispers faintly all day long, filling me with guilt as I survey the patches of clover and dandelions dotting its surface. ‘I think I’ll move over there,” I hear the grass saying, and soon enough, it has infested a flower bed. There are large bare patches on the front lawn, but fresh, green blades grow happily in every other area.

I survey the unconscious pansies, the petunias begging for attention, the snooty begonias, and as I wipe the sweat from my brow, I drop a choice word or two. They don’t care. As I slink back into the house, I can hear them all laughing at me. Even the weeds, who sound like Russian mobsters. Sometimes I really hate my garden.

Assembly Line at the Ninth Gate

A few years ago, after a fraught experience putting furniture together, I wrote an essay titled, The Devil is Swedish, His Name is Ikea. This past week I realized that in the world of furniture assembly, the lord of Hell is still running the show. It’s the same manuals with badly drawn diagrams and tiny Allen wrenches that leave you with either hand cramps or permanent paralysis.

Like childbirth, my last painful assembly experience had been dulled by time’s passage. In fact, as I lugged home a huge box of patio furniture, I pictured myself pulling out two chairs, a love seat and a coffee table and displaying them on the deck. Alas, it was not to be. But laying out nine thousand screws and multiple chair pieces did not discourage me, because this is how the devil works. He lures you in with pretty pictures of a life filled with leisure and plants and good weather. And then you open the instruction manual. After a panicked search for actual directions comes the sinking realization that the indecipherable drawings are it.

With the first two pieces, I discovered another stark truth. The drawings were backwards. I hunched over the furniture like Quasimodo, sweating and turning the Allen wrench four thousand times. That was the first screw. I did a headstand, reaching and twisting in a feat worthy of Cirque de Soleil. But this show was Hell’s Deck, and I, its indentured servant.

After several days of assembly purgatory, my patio furniture was finally done. Next, due to local shortages amidst the pandemic, I bought a sofa bed in a box. Though still experiencing hand spasms and night terrors from my previous experience, I began again.

First, there was a detailed and fruitless search for the various parts. Finally I found the legs nestled in a hidden compartment. But not the screws. Calling the company, I got this cheerful reply.
“You didn’t check the compartment inside the hidden compartment! The large packet of screws is under the Velcro, inside the second zippered area up in the far corner. You’ll barely be able to reach it, but it’s there!” It was. After that I had to take a break because my back was seizing up.
The directions on the outside of the box said the sofa would be finished in thirty minutes. Five hours later, after much weeping and gnashing of teeth, I was done. Or so I thought.

Yesterday, I returned to the hardware store to buy a deck box for storage. It’s funny how things work. You can purchase a very large Rubbermaid bin that’s instantly ready for use. But if you need six more inches in length and a two more in height, you’ll have to purchase a cardboard container filled with a thousand screws and many parts, along with the words, Some Assembly Required. The box will stay in the garage until I work up my courage and get some feeling back in my hands.

The Devil may not be Swedish at all. His name might not be Ikea. But whatever he’s called, he’s sure to stock hell with millions of unassembled items. So make sure you end up in the good place. You don’t want the assembly line at the ninth gate, working beside Donald Trump (who goes by many names and descriptions) and listening to him exclaim about how he’s going to make the place great again.

Now that that’s settled, I need a favour. If you see me out and about, remind me to never do this again.