She used to have a carefree mind of her own

 Yesterday I cried long and hard. I shouldn`t be able to cry. I shouldn`t have feelings. I take medication for that shit. 

I can accept that my mom is irritable sometimes. I can accept that she has forgotten how her family members are connected to her or that she thinks of me as `the girl who looks after her` (very rarely, I might add). I can accept that she asks the same questions, tells the same brief stories and has lost 4 walking canes in two months. 

I cannot, however, handle the terror in her eyes when she looks over at me, wondering where she is and how she got there as twilight falls and we`re still two and a half hours from a place she doesn`t even think is her home. 

During that long drive, I tried to be calming. I tried to put the dots close together so she could come to the decision that she does live in a basement apartment near her favourite grocery store with all of her usual furniture and the same neighbours across the hall. I tried to convince her that no one had moved her things from one apartment to another while we had been on a 4-day road trip (clearly the worst mistake I`ve ever made). I even had to reconstruct (deconstruct?) every metaverse I could remember to try to explain why there was not currently another apartment with all the same dimensions and simulations in another part of the Township as per her adamant assertions. 

I tried to laugh some things away and dismiss her paranoia. 

When we arrived at the apartment, I thought she would have visual proof that everything was as it should be. I was very wrong. Her anxiety tripled as she struggled to understand how this could be. I watched her brain run through every possible combination of events that could put her in this alien situation. 

A week before this meltdown, she called my sister in dismay because her bathtub was overflowing. The neighbour said she had been unable to shower for four days and had not been sleeping. She told me she had been stuck in the bathroom during that time because there were documents shoved down the drain. This story turned into one about tiles that turned black and solidified when she poured liquid on them in the bathtub. Then the police came (unlike the story of Germans who were coming the week before to take her to jail for COVID violations), and "sorted everything out". 

There is no evidence of "tiles" in her apartment. No evidence of a week-long, loo battle. She cannot explain why she would do this with said tiles or what kind of liquid caused them to expand and turn black. But, it sounds like she lives in a hell of her own making. This is terrifying.

In spite of my empathy, by the fourth hour in the emergency department (since I could not leave her in a strange place, nor could I - as a complete stranger - take her back to my home), I was ready to walk out and let her be someone else's problem. She's stubborn as a mule at the best of times and refuses to take any medication because she's no "weakling." Any suggestion of care by another person is met with defiance and accusations of "railroading". 

I am just like her. 

According to the doctor, she was healthy as a horse (or mule, if the shoe fits) and she should see her family doctor for something to help with her memory. It took a dissociative crisis to convince her to go the hospital with me. It will take a half dozen cops on a wellness check to get her to visit a family doctor and, furthermore, take prescription medication. The situation feels hopeless.

I just wanted to get this out in words to document my experience. I feel helpless, hopeless, frustrated, ashamed and angry and I know many, many people who have gone through or currently live in this nightmare. To those of you out there, I see you.

I Saw the Sign... It said, "Not Today, Bitch"

I'm having one of those days. One of those fucking days when the world tells you to piss off. But, I'm not mad. At least not right now as I sit here with my laptop and my instant coffee on my comfy couch. 

There is another shut down, lockdown, stay-at-home order type thingy going on. Sigh. That has been frustrating me for some time because I want to do what I want to do with impunity, without scrutiny and without guilt. I don't blame anyone for this predicament. It is what it is and I am much more fortunate than others during this time because I have two jobs, no young children, I can collect Canada Recovery Benefits if I want, my rent is paid and I have food. And beer. 

However, last week I was driving home from work, shifting into 6th gear to get around some slow prick, as usual, when the Traction Control Light came on. Consequently, my car started acting like it was on roller skates for the first time. Freaked me out a bit. Mostly because one starts to think about money as soon as something goes wrong with one's vehicle. "This is gonna cost me at least a grand," said my negative inner voice.

My mechanic said he could look at it on Monday. It was Wednesday. I'd already delayed visiting my mom for two weeks and now I would have to cancel our weekend Scrabble plans. So, now I have anxiety from unexpected expenses, guilt for not seeing my mom and frustration from not being able to go to a movie theater. Many of you think this is a petty response to the global pandemic, but I disagree and here's why. Just because I know what I've got to do, I'm still allowed to be upset about having to do it. I'm an adult, I know about sacrifices. But, as a human, I have feelings of despair and injustice and I want to throw a tantrum sometimes. You can deal with your feelings by pointing fingers and ridiculing others for their decisions if you want to, but we are all just winging it here and a little compassion would go a long way. Except for that prick driving in front of me on the 417. He/she can choke on a fat dick. 

So, I take my car to the garage early Monday morning. By noon, I get a call saying they dried some wires and cleared some leaves out of the intake or some other nonsense and I was good to go. As a woman, I'm used to mansplaining. I frequently have men explain how a remote control works even though I co-owned a satellite installation business. I've had men try to explain how to change a beer keg when I have seen more couplers and tapped more casks than any greenhorn beer snob. I grew up around cars and I know a thing or two, so when I tell you there's a problem with the traction control and you give me "whirlybirds in my manifold", I feel attacked.

To be fair, what actually happened was my ABS light was not on when I took it to the garage. They fixed what the engine code told them to fix and my feelings of indignation and pride are unwarranted. However, as I turned on my car to go work this morning, I see the familiar ABS light up and my "I-told-you-so" attitude came on. 

I tried to be nice when I called the garage and made another appointment. Then, I had to call my dad because that's what I do when I'm feeling helpless. I'm going to be 48 years old and I still call my dad to fix my life. As usual, he fixed it. He told me to take it back to the garage on Friday because that was the reasonable thing to do. Then I called my mom to reschedule our Scrabble game... again.

At this point, I had been jerking along the road, occasionally pulling over to make another call and deciding how late was too late to go to work. I had turned around twice to go home, but I kept telling myself to grow up and quit feeling sorry for myself. "You'll feel better if you just throw around some poorly wrapped parcels at Canada Post," said my passive-aggressive inner voice. 

I made my way clumsily onto the 417 with my chugga chugga car... and came to an abrupt stop. Apparently, there had been an accident just ahead and "this late" would definitely be "too late" to go to work. The gods had spoken. This was a sign to follow Doug Ford's stay-at-home order and just vent my frustration on the internet. 

"Thanks for listening," from my positive and grateful inner voice.

新年快樂

    First of all, what's wrong with the "new year, new me" statement? And, what's wrong with making New Year's resolutions? What's wrong with aspiring to do things you didn't do before, but would like to? Are we such a group of Negative Nancy's that we hate the audacity of anyone thinking they might try to do things differently in the New Year? Or, does it just put too much pressure on the rest of us if others are trying to be thinner, stronger, prettier, funnier or smarter than they were last year?

    I have so many questions and not enough good answers! As I do every year, I have made a mental list of all the things I haven't done that I want to try in 2021;  Places I want to visit, foods I want to eat, challenges I want to tackle. But, I am starting the year of easy with a little New Year Skate.

    I gained about 40 pounds in 2020. It's not that I wasn't active - I spent a lot of time on my poor, little feet, lifting parcels at Canada Post and delivering plates of pasta at the restaurant. But, I'm getting close to fifty now and my metabolism is not what it used to be. Also, I drank ALOT. Like... polish-off-a-bottle-of-wine-before-noon-followed-by-beers-before-2-and-finish-with-rum-by-dinnertime-during-the-lockdown kind of drinking. It was great! I also ate alot so hangovers were not usually a thing. I would love to lose this weight, but if it means I can't eat sandwiches and cookies... Well, my pants will just have to stretch.

    That being said, nothing wrong with a New Year's exercise plan. So, I got up this morning, drank my coffee with 1/4 cup of cream and bundled up for a walk to the lake. Mud Lake Conservation Area has such a beautiful maze of trails with lots of chickadees, squirrels and bunny rabbits. Last night, I took a late night stroll through the woods for some fresh air and my Blundstone prints were still visible in the crisp snow this morning. 

    I was enjoying the walk, but I really didn't want to go out in the cold. I was dressed in layers, which always makes me feel too confined. As I got more fat, my boobs grew even more and I'm now wearing a 38G. The "G" stands for too Goddamn Gargantuan for me to carry around anymore. My legs were still a little tight from helping my cousin haul brush to the fire pit yesterday. And, my ear buds felt like they were going to fall out from under my headband. Regardless, I was enjoying the Audible version of Neil Gaiman's Norse Mythology (narrated by the author himself) as I trudged to the lake. 

    I sat on a snow covered rock to put on my skates, which was quite a chore as a result of my belly/breast combination. In this low-seated position, it is damn near impossible to reach my shoes. This is why I gave up on yoga in 2020. There was no way of breathing in many of the positions demonstrated by the instructor, particularly with the twists I used to enjoy so much. No more Arda Matsyendrasana for me - I am more like Magikarp than Lord of the Fishes.

    In order to reach and pull on my skates, I had to take a deep breath, hold it, and throw myself toward them, quickly squeezing my foot into the right one and releasing to take another breath. Tightening and tying requires the same amount of effort. I began to think skating on the lake was not in the cards for me. But, I'm nothing if not tenacious, so I got those motherfuckers on and I proceeded to carefully head down the bank to the snow-covered ice, at which time I struggled, slipped and stumbled about 30 feet to the shoveled path created by ambitious, winter-loving, volunteers.

     By this time, my feet were starting to hurt. The strain of balancing 220 pounds was too much for my overburdened pumpers. Again, I was determined to enjoy my experience and so I persevered. There was no graceful gliding. With every push, I feared my skate would get stuck on a stray ice chunk or crevice and I would break an ankle. But, I was not dissuaded. I skated (somewhat) around the lake and followed the path of a lone skater to land... only to find the maker of this path had only gone that way for a piss on the log on which I had intended to sit and remove my skates! Fuck.

    It was all downhill from there. I got home and I'm now retelling my story of woe. My point is, I probably won't lose any weight in 2021, but I like hoping that I can and sharing it with all of you. I might not learn how to speak Mandarin, but I'm damn sure going to try! If you continue to be the same old asshole you always were, just know that I like that asshole and you should continue to be the you you want to be. But, this bitch, she wants to be a different bad bitch every day. One that can touch her toes without straining (or not), one that cuts calories (or doesn't) and one that might someday run a marathon - tits flying every which way (but, probably not).

    Happy New Year! This is literally my year according to the Chinese calendar because I'm an Ox (s/o to all you '73 babies)!.

Don't You Put It In Your Mouth

     I'm never, ever eating Samyang 2xSpicy Ramen again.

     It's not JUST because it's hot. I like spicy foods and that's why I decided to get a package of six in the first place. But, my experience with this particular brand has been forever tarnished by this catastrophe. Listen, children, to my tale of woe.

     I was hungry. It was late. And, I am lazy. So, I decided it was a good time to break out the Spicy Noodles I bought from T&T Supermarket (which is the best place to go if you're bored AND hungry in Ottawa). Easier than Kraft Dinner, I just boiled the water and let the noodles sit for five minutes then added the spicy soup base. 

     Before I relate the embarrassing details that transpired, let me tell you a bit about Scoville Heat Units (SHU). The Scoville Scale measures the pungency of peppers based on the concentration of Capsaicinoids in each. A plain old bell pepper is like a ten, whereas a Carolina Reaper is about 3.2 million SHUs. The shit I foolishly intended to ingest says it is 8400 SHUs, similar to a jalapeno. I eat jalapenos all the time without issue.

     But, after boiling the water to soften the noodles, my soup was too "temperature hot" to enjoy, so I set it down beside my bed and began re-watching Avatar: The Last Air Bender on Netflix. Some fifteen minutes later, I reached down to grab the pot and test it out when I had some kind of seizure and slopped the soup all over my left breast. Jeezus, jeezus, jeezus!! So fucking hot, I thought my nipple was starting to bubble. And, even though I tore off my soaked housecoat, my tit was still scalding because it was laying in a pool of 2X Spicy ramen sauce on my bed and I was still holding the damn pot in an awkward turtle-trapped-on-its-back position.

     I hurried to the bathroom to run my poor, steaming boob under the cold water tap, rubbing off the residue as best I could with my hands and hoping I wouldn't blister. The running water urged me to pee, so I sat down and did my business... wiped, folded and wiped again. As I was checking out the damage in my bathroom mirror (thankfully, I was unscathed), my hoohoo started to burn. I realized quickly the residue from my hands had transferred to the toilet paper, which had transferred to the velvet folds of my labia. For the love of Pete! Will my agony never end? I just wanted some noodles!

     I walked into the kitchen, cold cloth between my legs and cradling my left breast. Surely, the soup was temperate enough to take a bite. I twirled a bunch around a fork with my right hand and, just as I was slurping the last of a long, curly noodle into my mouth, the saucy little fuck flicked up and splashed into my eye! The burning was unbearable. I imagine it was like being sprayed with mace. Or like squirting Frank's Hot lemonade in your eye. So, I waddled over to the kitchen sink, one hand still holding my tit, the other covering my eye and intermittently splashing cold water into it. 

     Samyang is clearly the Asian name for Satan. I left the pot on the counter untouched and it can stay there and think about what it did to me before I flush it down the toilet. I'll get latex gloves first.

Who wants to shake my hand?

     Y'all are not ready for the information I'm about to put down.

     So, recently (basically the last 3 years) I've been trying to use/buy less and less. It started when I moved to London and I decided I wasn't going to have a bunch of stuff. I only wanted what I absolutely couldn't live without, like a bed and sheets, a very small wardrobe, minimal things to cook and eat with, and essential toiletries. I wanted to be a backpacker.

     I think this obsession actually started in 2009 when I watched a movie called Up In The Air. [Side note: Movies really affect me. I stopped eating meat after watching How To Train Your Dragon.] In the film, a corporate downsizer named Ryan Bingham (George Clooney) makes a speech about how we subconsciously carry everything we own on our backs. He says, "We weigh ourselves down until we can't even move. And make no mistake, moving is living." In my opinion, collecting "things" and an obsession with consumerism contributes to my anxiety. So, "things" had to go. 

     There are other anti-consumerism movements that have a similar philosophy. Decluttering and downsizing are all the rage. Tiny houses, tiny cars, KonMari, minimalism... These ideas encouraged me to throw shit out by the cartload. Rodney even rented a dumpster to expedite the process. It felt really good to let things go.

     Since I left Picton, I've managed to move 3 times (almost) single-handedly with one flat-bed truck. I've picked up some other minimalist habits on my journey, as well, although I am by no means an environmental guru.

     First, I got on the "no-poo" bandwagon - a collective term for methods of washing your hair without using commercial shampoo. I started using bananas or other fruits, apple cider vinegar, baking soda; there are so many options. I am not a fan of shampoo bars, though. I've only tried two, but I find they leave a film. I have the same bottle of shampoo in my shower that Santa put in my stocking three Christmases ago. Once that's gone, no more poo for me. 

     This small step encouraged me to eliminate the crazy amounts of garbage I was producing. Recycling and composting are great, but there are criticisms of our municipal programs and, quite frankly, reducing and re-using seems more effective. Zero-waste is the way to go for me and it also saves a shit-ton of money!

     I've never understood the need for straws. My teeth aren't sensitive. I'm not worried about staining my teeth because I folded all my worries into paper airplanes and now they're flying fucks My daughter bought me metal straws to support my interest in saving the turtles and then my son got me a portable, folding straw big enough for even the thickest Booster Juice. 

     Toothpaste is stupid and some say fluoride is unhealthy. I use Calcium Bicarbonate, baking soda, mint extract and coconut oil to make my own. I've since found toothpaste tablets to buy in bulk at NU Grocery in Ottawa that you chew to form a paste and then brush with! They probably taste better than the stuff I make.

     Laundry soap was a tough one. There are lots of eco-friendly laundry soaps out there, but they often come in plastic bottles. There are refillable laundry soaps from places like Terra 20, but they are expensive and I'm not convinced the surfactants in any detergent are environmentally friendly, nor are they required to clean my clothes. I read about making my own laundry soap, but again, the reviews were mixed and the process was a pain in the ass.

Taking a piss at a Jay's game

     Then, I bought some soap berries from the Bulk Barn. It cost me a twoonie for enough to last me at least six months. They are scent free, hypo-allergenic, all-natural and require no packaging to buy. None. To make everything smell nice, I throw a wet cloth with a few drops of essential oil into my dryer. 

     Food is another issue. I like to buy most things at Bulk Barn because I can take my own containers and refill without packaging. I get fruits and vegetables from grocery stores or markets, as long as they don't wrap everything individually in plastic, or worse, pile four or five on styrofoam and THEN wrap in plastic. But, I still really like Oreos and frozen foods, which are packaged, of course. I just cross my fingers that my recycled items don't actually end up in land fill.

     What really, really burns my ass (pun intended) is toilet paper. First of all, $15 for something I use to wipe shit off my asshole? No, thank you, Charmin. That is craziness. Secondly, that Cashmere and Royale shit may be soft, but it also leaves tiny bits of paper all over my labia. I need a tiny lint roller for my cooch after every trip to the loo. Thirdly, how many trees have to die every year for me to dry my bottom? What are the statistics on this? I'm sure alot of this stuff is recycled, but I don't know. 

     It was completely by accident that I learned about the Fillipino tabo. I follow a cartoonist on YouTube, who did a video about how weird it was to use toilet paper, having used a water dipper his whole life. 

     My mind was blown. I always thought I'd have to invest in a bidet to minimize my reliance on toilet paper when, in fact, the solution was as simple as a bucket and a scoop. More sanitary AND zero waste. Haven't officially graduated to using my hand with a number two. I just... I'm not there yet. You'll be pleased to know, a combination of TP and Tabo is required still.

     So, if you come to visit, I will have toilet paper for you. However, if you want to try a dipper, I encourage all you dirty-ass savages to give it a try!

I Wanna Rock and Roll... Not All Night, Though. And, Quietly.

     I was not even a year old when Kiss produced their first album, but I remember walking through the Towers Department Store (fuck, that's a long time ago) and seeing the four painted faces of the band on a poster and wondering why I couldn't always have my face painted like a cat.

     Fast forward 40 years and I'm buying tickets to see Kiss for the first time at the Canadian Tire Centre in Ottawa. I'm not a member of "The Kiss Army", I never bought any of their albums, none of their songs are on my playlist. I just really wanted something to do on a Wednesday night and I had heard good things about their shows.

     I have since been enlisted in the Kiss Army.

This is Rock and Roll

     Yesterday, however, I was really dreading my decision to buy a ticket. Introverts will get this: I like the IDEA of going out, but I hate ACTUALLY leaving the house. First of all, it would be very people-y at a concert. People everywhere, getting in my way and talking to me and expecting me to interact with them. Secondly, there would be loud music, which I normally love. I just don't love it when I don't love it, ya know? I don't really know how to explain my anxiety, I can only say it is there and my brain makes up all kinds of reasons for why it should occur.

     It was very windy and I had just spent $70 on clean hair with fresh layers. That is reason enough to make me want to cancel my evening and stay at home reading, crocheting and learning Mandarin.

     My son drove me to the concert. I didn't want to deal with the nightmare of parking, or rather, exiting the parking lot after the show. It's always a clusterfuck. And, anyway, I wanted to have a couple of four beers. I had to wait outside for a few minutes in 37 km/hour winds in 7 degree weather that feels like minus 4. That was when I started to wish I had driven myself and I could just leave. 

     Can I just say here, though, what a truly Canadian experience it is to attend a concert in Ottawa? Here we were, being herded into a small hallway to pass through security, having stood outside in sub-zero temperatures, and everyone was leaving lots of personal space. There was no pushing. No one cared if you butt-in to the line. There was friendly banter (en francais) about French going first (just like Quebec signage). 

     As I patiently waited to go through the metal detector, there was a young man with his face painted like Ace Frehley being passed over with the wand. For those who've never gone through security, you have to empty all your pockets so you don't set off the the alarm. Well, no one told this guy, I guess. He took out his keys and about 3 pounds worth of change, but he still set off the alarm. The guard told him to remove everything from his pockets, so he started digging out a vape pen and some other shit from his right pocket. He still got a red light. Continued to dig in his right pocket, brought out another pipe of some description. Could have been a dildo for all I know. Big orange, twisty looking thing! I have no idea why he didn't take it out in the first place. Still got a red light. Started digging out his left pocket this time and removed another pipe and more shit! Red light went off again. The security guard finally took matters into his own hands and started digging through this guy's pockets himself and pulled out a couple of glass vials (which required him to wipe his hands on his pants) and even more drug paraphernalia. Finally, Ace is free to go. I told him he needs to bring a motherfucking fanny pack next time. 

     I dropped my phone and keys into the margarine container and went through. No red light. I don't know whether I felt like a loser or a gawdamn saint.

     I climbed to the very top section of the Palladium. Someone was offering a very poor selection of beer and I would rather drink the slush bucket at work than a Canadian or Coors Banquet, so I got a premium Creemore for $14. Guess I won't be having more than two of these golden sonsobitches.

Just can't put this down.

     Climbed another twenty steps to level L where I found a small boy sitting in my seat. His name was Marshall and he was wearing baffles on his ears. I wanted a pair. I found myself being thankful that I was in the section with the kindergarteners and old men wearing reading glasses and enjoying a quick chapter before the show.

     The opening act was a guy painting a picture of Gord Downie. Marshall's dad, who was pretty darn goodlooking, told his son the curtains around the stage were like wrapping paper. He said a concert is like a Christmas gift that we get to unwrap.... 

     Unwrap this, you sexy bitch. That's the cutest thing I've ever heard! Ugh, my ovaries still work!

     The curtains dropped and there they were, larger than life, like Christmas morning. Then, there was so much fire erupting from the stage, I felt the peach fuzz singe off my cheeks! Then, boom boom BOOM! Fireworks so hard and so sudden, the young man behind me spilled his beer onto my $70 fucking haircut. I wasn't mad. This is rock and roll. Which is what the twenty somethings in the row behind me were saying about half way through the show. And this made me very happy that I went. 

     I still left a good half hour early. Had a guy ask me to drive him to Deseronto for $20. Probably a good thing I didn't drive because I probably would have. Crossed the street to wait for my son at the Esso station and came so close to being hit by a car turning left that I got to touch the hood of the car. Good times!

Battı balık yan gider (A sunken fish goes sideways)

     Is there a way I can make myself look more like a serial killer? I'm not asking for a friend. I seriously need to up my game. When I go out, I wear a black jacket, a black toque, a dark hoodie over my toque and dark hiking boots. I keep my hands in my pockets when I'm out and about and I don't usually look up...

Uni-bomber swag

     However, I do that classic small-town thing where I acknowledge people when I pass them on the street. That's the problem, right there! I must never do that. People should get the impression I've just dumped a body in the woods and I'm rushing to hide in my basement apartment until the coast is clear. Otherwise, they seem to think I'm outside so I can make friends. I wouldn't mind really, but at this point in my life, I'm fairly confident that I won't like anyone new and (on the rare occasion I find someone tolerable) I'm equally confident I'll find a reason to think they suck eventually.

     I enjoy my own company - especially at movie theaters. Last night, I went to Bytown Cinema to see "3 Faces", a film by Iranian director, Jafar Panahi, about three female actors at different stages of their careers. Great movie! It features many long scenes done in one shot while documenting a myriad of emotions. It also features some of the most awkward human encounters I've ever seen. 

     This is one of the reasons I, personally, am drawn to movies. I like to study human interactions because (I think) it helps me in my daily life. Like many introverts, I'm horribly awkward. I don't know how to respond when people talk about the weather, or how much they like their new curtains, or what to do about their asshole boyfriend. But, (I think) I've gotten better over the years. 

     Anyway, one of the things I found fascinating about the movie, which is set in the northwest corner of Iran, is how the people interact with one another. Perfect strangers treated each other like long lost friends and then their worst enemies within the course of a couple of minutes! They were always making the main characters a cup of tea and bringing them cushions to sit on, even though they didn't want tea and cushions. In one scene, a man gives his son's twelve-year-old foreskin to Behnaz Jafari (who also plays herself) in the hopes she will give it to a movie star in Tehran. The custom is to have a boy's godfather bury the foreskin somewhere auspicious - like near a hospital or a courthouse - so the boy will grow up to be wealthy and educated. Who just passes their kid's foreskin to a stranger? I mean, why not? I've always found social norms a bit... abnorms. I'm still learning.

     So, I go out alot. It's like my own brand of field research. Today, I decided to check out the local coffee shop and go on a little hike. My new apartment is perfectly situated close to the Ottawa River and several conservation areas. Unfortunately, these spots are all pretty high traffic, unlike what I was used to on the Bruce Trail. People walk their dogs, they bird watch, they bring huge cameras and they bring food; bags of bird seed and peanuts and bread crumbs to feed all the wildlife. This is kind of cool because you can get very close to squirrels and chickadees, if you're not terrified of squirrels like I am. 

This Asshole

     It can also be really annoying to have a greedy chickadee swooping around your head while you're trying to enjoy nature. 

     There is still a good foot and a half of snow on the ground here in the near north of Ontario, so you can't step off the packed snow of the trail or you end up knee-deep (ribbit) in granular snow. With so many people out birdwatching today, there were a couple of times I had to reroute in order to avoid squeezing past others. But, I was distracted by this damn chickadee that kept harassing me for snacks. I was taking some great pics of him when I heard someone say, "Is there a trail leading to the water up there?" 

     A man was addressing me from about fifty feet away. Thinking he wanted more space to pass, I walked back about ten feet to a side trail to allow him to pass. But, when he approached, he started up a conversation about his cat, who used to follow him on his daily walkabouts. 

     I was feeling kid of social, so I listened to this story about a stupid cat that walked through the forest and posed for pics on an old log by the lake, all while I'm swatting at this chickadee like a swarm of thirsty mosquitoes. Then, the guy says to me, "You want to go see the spot by the lake? It's just down the trail and through the bush?"

     Dude, I don't know what fucking rock you crawled out from under, but ain't no way I am following your nature-loving ass through two feet of snow in the bush to see a tree that rotted twenty years ago beside the water treatment plant. I'm practicing to be more serial-killer-esque and I know an invitation to certain death when I hear it!

Do not follow strangers

     "Eeeeeeh yeaaaah, sorry but I'm out catching Pokemon today. There's a Breloom somewhere up ahead and I've only got sixteen, maybe eleven minutes left to catch it before it's gone. For my kids, you know."

     I literally excused myself from an awkward situation using an even more awkward excuse.

     "Pokie mawn! I tell you, I don't need any of that electronic garbage. What I've got? I've got my golf clubs, my tennis rackets and my hockey sticks. That's all I need."

     Dude, I didn't know we were having a dick-measuring contest! Hold on! I'll bring out my ruler! I'll see your fucking golf cubs and I'll raise you an 'I work all day on my gawdamn feet, douchebag. Fuck you AND your weirdy cat."

     I listened to one more story about his dead cat and his encounter with bald eagles. He proceeded to follow me to the next Pokestop, which he further criticized based on location, before he left me to go shave his nipples or whatever. 

    All I'm saying is, whether you're in a rural village in Iran or a city park in Canada, you just can't tell what other people are thinking and it's best to just avoid the whole species.