Desperado, I Ain't Gettin' No Younger

Yet another selfie in Yoho

One of the biggest surprises on this journey from Ontario to BC is that I'm not as comfortable being alone with myself as I once was, or as I thought I was. I believe I can link this to an incident in July.

I was racing to Elora to rent a tube to float down the Grand River through the Gorge. I've done it before, it was no big deal. A very leisurely float. I even assured the ladies heading out before me that it was completely safe. They couldn't possibly injure themselves. But, the attendant did warn them to get into their tubes after the rapids, which are a little further upstream. As I was walking to the river, I saw a couple of emergency vehicles which I assumed were doing routine practice runs for extracting people from the gorge (I was wrong. A man had broken his leg and needed to be lifted out by ropes!)

Anywhhhay, I watched a family go over the rapids we had been warned to stay away from and, although the mom was freaking out (as mom's do), everyone came out the other side unscathed. So, I decided I was gonna give it a go. On closer inspection, this was not just some rapids. It was a drop over a ridge of about two feet. I'm gonna call it a two foot waterfall. So, when I went over the chute, I lost my tube and I was pushed down to the bottom of the fairly shallow river and was unable to get back up to the surface.

Eventually, I was spat out from the grip of the current and bounced along the various boulders on the river bottom for about 50 meters before I could catch my breath and find my feet underneath me. My legs were shaking so badly and I was in so much pain, particularly in my tailbone, that I could barely make it to the river's edge. It was hard to stand, it was even harder to sit... and it was even harder to holler to the two young ladies taking selfies across the river that I needed them to call 911. My pride was hurt, but I had to admit there was no way I was gonna walk out of there.

Smart, capable, interesting young people... and some mountains

The emergency extraction was comical and I'm damn glad I wasn't dying. The regular emergency crew must have been busy with broken-leg-guy because my team (although they looked good enough to eat in their fancy, red, water-gear, uniforms) were unable to get me out of the gorge without significant help from myself. They also had trouble finding whatever attachments were supposed to keep me from falling off the stretcher. When I finally got to the ambulance, after being jostled, tossed, rolled and flipped, the RMTs had the nerve to put a neck brace on me. Bitch, if my neck wasn't broken by now, after all the hell I've just been through, a brace is sure as hell not going to help me on the ride to the hospital. When I did arrive, the nurses asked me how much pain I was in, left me in wet clothes on a bed and rolled me into a utility closet for almost 2 hours. Clearly, I was not at risk of dying in their opinion. So, I got my legs working and signed my broken ass out of there.

My point is, while I was sitting there at the side of the river, with my legs spread out, crotch all pubey, snot dripping down my face because I needed both hands to support my weight and couldn't spare a hand to wipe my tears away, the Park Ranger asked if there was anyone he could call on my behalf. I had to say, "no". And while this isn't necessarily true, I felt at the time that my family and friends were all too far away to be bothered to see me though this trauma. 

Dogs are the best

Fast forward to this amazing cross-country trip where every other road sign explains what might kill me next - bears, falling rocks, runaway trucks, avalanches - and I've realized I don't really feel comfortable being alone anymore. What could be worse than a misanthrope who doesn't want to be alone? Not only is it extremely boring taking selfies in front of every landmark from UFO landing pads to Giant Pierogies, it is also hard to pass the time driving ten hours a day with no radio stations and intermittent cell service during pee breaks. 

But, I still like hiking, right? Well, here's the thing. I chose a difficult, seven-hour hike straight up Whistler's Peak outside Jasper this week. I love a challenge! However, the hikes in the Rocky Mountains aren't necessarily just about strength, stamina and determination. I had my water bottle and my cell phone and my shitty Asshole-o hiking boots, but everyone passing me or coming back down was in full MEC gear, complete with bear bells, back packs and poles. This made me second guess myself. Then, I started to get on the fear train. You know the one, I'm sure. The one that starts out "You didn't bring enough water" "This trail is awfully slippery and/or rocky" "I think I hear a bear" "Is my arm tingling? Am I having a heart attack?" "I'm going to fall head first onto one of these rocks and they won't find my body until spring." CHOO CHOO!! I arrived at Panic Station and was just about to turn around when...

I backed into a gawdamn tree, ripped my moulding off

The motherfucking air raid siren from the metropolis of Jasper starts to whirr, followed by what sounds like forty emergency vehicle sirens. Immediately, I think there's an avalanche and we're all going to die. Well, you have never seen a chubby girl race down some switchbacks as fast as I did that day. Slippery rocks be damned, I was getting the fuck out of mountain country and if I never see another gawdamn view from above the tree line, I'll be okay with that!

It would appear that this trip has forced me to re-evaluate who I am or who I am becoming. Some of my best experiences have been, not quietly contemplating the beauty of my country on my own, but rather sharing knowledge with the people I've met along the way; Swapping life stories over breakfast, jive-dancing with men who have no right to be that limber in their 80s, learning funny Japanese phrases about helpful cats, proudly reflecting on a job well done with a co-worker, and  trying to say "squirrel" in German.

Yes, I'm having the time of my life out here on the road with no one to answer to but myself. However, most of the time I'm thinking about how nice it will be to get back to Ontario and see all my people. 

You can check out any time you like...

        I think I might be to blame for Burt Reynolds death. I was watching Smokey and the Bandit II on the dish last week and I had to give him a Google to see what he was up to. It didn't occur to me that the Bandit would have aged. So, when I saw a recent picture, I thought, "Shit, he's not long for this world!" Sure enough, he was not.

        What bothers me is, I was prophetic in another way, as well. Case in point, while celebrating my father's birthday with a family dinner, I told my step-mom that I was going to pay for some of the meal because I was probably going to need to ask for much more money in a couple of months; and I quote, "I don't need your stinking $20 for dinner, Cheryl. You and I both know I'm going to be calling you from Alberta, crying because I need to be airlifted off a mountain and the bill is $2000."

        Fortunately, I don't need to be airlifted, but I haven't even made it to Saskatchewan yet. My car has a slow leak in the radiator causing it to overheat and my wheel bearing needs to be replaced because it sounds like the screeching brakes of a Go Train through Union Station. It's only going to cost $1300, so my fortune telling is somewhat exaggerated. 

... or the temperature is set to
Holyshityourcarisfuct

    I was panicked today when I saw the temperature gauge of my little Kia creeping up to the H (H for HolyShitYourCarIsFuct). This happened to me just last Christmas, dammit. But, this time, I'm 2500 km from home and CAA does not cover that. So the first thing I did was call my dad. 

        Next, I Googled the address of a local mechanic, who told me to bring it right in. Unfortunately, Google said the Auto Repair shop was in Russell, MB, when in fact it was in Roblin, MB... 40 minutes north of Russell. 

        Now, I'm quite enjoying my stay here on the western border of Manitoba. The people here are never angry. They don't care if you go the 90 km speed limit (on gravel roads, no less!!!) because there's always room to drive around. They always have time to answer your questions or give you a wave and a friendly smile... or a hug. I even had someone stop to see if I was alright within seconds of pulling over to check under my hood.  But, I'll tell you what... Google doesn't know shit about this area. No one has reviewed ANYTHING. This place has two provincial parks, a national park, a ski hill, a huuuuuge lake and half a dozen golf courses, but as far as Google is concerned, "Ain't nothing to see here."

        Anyway, as long as I turned the heat and the fan on, my car remained steady in between the C and the H. I was able to drive to the repair shop without having to turn my car off every 80 seconds, where I received the bad news. But, I did get a hug from a woman getting an oil change who seemed genuinely concerned for my wellbeing.

Me, being terrified of this huge bull

        So, here's the other crazy thing. I'm staying here in Inglis with the most amazing couple. Real go-getters. They work all day at their various day jobs and side hustles, all while inviting strangers to stay in their home (with an excellent WiFi connection, I might add). Rick and Karen have hosted quite a few people from all over the world, including the girl from Poland who fell in love and decided to stay here. I was also introduced to the Australian lad who came last year and just never left. Another young woman came for a month from some other European country and she decided to stay, too. A guy walking the Trans-Canada Trail stayed for a week even though he intended to just pass through.

        I'm not saying Inglis isn't great. I love it. It's beautiful, peaceful, has great, inspiring people and lots of gainful employment opportunities. They have wing night Wednesdays at the bar, the occasional barn dance and beautiful night sky views. But, I can't understand why so many people arrive and just don't leave.

        Then it hit me... they don't have a choice. Suddenly, their car starts to overheat and they can't afford to get it fixed so they're stuck here and they have to hook up with some young farmboy who drives a Dodge and the next thing you know, they are harvesting canola every fall and spreading manure in the spring. 

        Cue the banjoes from Deliverance (another Burt Reynolds link!)

 "Sometimes you have to
 lose yourself 'fore you can
find anything" - Lewis Medlock
 (Burt Reynolds) in Deliverance, 1972.

      As it stands, I'm getting the part shipped from Winnipeg and I should be heading out from here by tomorrow afternoon. I've thoroughly enjoyed my experiences, which include: driving a golf cart, beautiful river valleys, riding in a combine, watching hawks hunt in cut fields of wheat, unlimited access to a well-stocked fridge, driving a Jetta onto a ski hill, seeing a grain of wheat fresh out of the field and seeing five sunrises and five sunsets. 

        I haven't quite decided if I will continue west after Saskatchewan.

PS. Deliverance was a movie about 4 men travelling down the Cahulawasee River before the natural wilderness area of Georgia was to be flooded by a dam. The inspiration for this fictional waterway was the Coosawattee River, which was flooded in the early 70s. The Lake of Prairies that I visited just west of Inglis, was also flooded in 1972, after the 8 year construction of a dam to prevent flooding in Winnipeg. Creepy.

Sherla's Big Cross-Country Adventure

        Some of you who have known me for a long time, or have read my book, will have a hard time believing this, but I had the most amazing childhood. For whatever reason, I strongly feel that providence has brought me to exactly the place that I need to be in the last 45 years and alot of that has to do with the people who have journeyed with me.

        Let's start with my sister, because she's the first one I remember. A girl only nine years older than me. Hard to imagine because I always thought of her as light years beyond me at every stage. My sister was the first person I ever remember feeling love from. Real love. The unconditional kind. The kind of love that means you will ALWAYS have a soft place to land. A true "ride or die" in modern terms. I could never be as strong as my sister, who has given up her own life for so many others. And, when I say she gave up her life, I mean that literally. It horrifies me to know that my sister doesn't even really know who she is because she's so busy being what everyone else needs her to be. We, as humans, often sacrifice ourselves to try to make others happy, losing our identities in the process. I want my sister to know, I remember who she is. I remember the girl who laid down in meadows with the sun on her face, feeling the peace of living in the moment. I remember the teenager who was "high on life". I remember the adventurous one, who tried to find her wings by hitchhiking to Toronto. Your true self is still there - it's just underneath a mountain of responsibility, pain and abuse. You are an angel, as your name suggests.

        Then there's my mom. This woman... she's a firecracker! Nothing will hold her down. I think she's lived in Quinte West for a few years now and that's probably the longest she's ever been in one spot. Haha. She's been called crazy a few times and I wouldn't dispute that. But, my mother encouraged me to question things and experiment. Mix things up and see what happens. Manipulate in some cases. And, no matter what, love like you've never loved anyone or anything else. Every time my mom falls in love, it's like no one else has ever existed before. Love does change, though. It becomes a burden, the noose tightens, and it's on to the next one. It's not like this for everyone, but it is for mom and I. That may sound harsh; it isn't intended to be. What's wrong with loving passionately for short periods of time? Sharing your heart and soul with a person who lights a fire in you and then finding another person, who maybe quenches a thirst? Or, maybe teaches you to fly? Maybe brings you back to earth? Some of us are not wired for monogamy. If that's shameful, well, I'm tired of being shamed for it. No time for self-righteous bullshit and judgement here. I've got a life to live.

        I'll take a brief moment here to shout out all the men who have enriched my life. 

       Jeff, you're a dick, but I know that's not your only attribute. I'm not mad cos you left, but I was at the time. I'm angry because you blame me for how things turned out when I'm the only reason things turned out at all. Now, I'm even more angry because you're abandoning again and I told you not to do that. I'd give anything to get back the person with the other half of my brain (circa 1984). That ship has sailed, I fear. It's been almost 30 years and I still have to consider you. I don't like that much. Thanks for giving me my magic baby. I still hate your guts, you fucking piece of shit. 

      Rod, I wish you had the same dreams for retirement that I have. You don't. But, if you change your mind, you have my number. Bring your own car though. I ain't no wifey.

      The rest of you (and the list is relatively short), you were probably alot of fun at the time. I have good memories and bad. I like that.  It means I have lived.

       Bluh, feelings. This shit is toxic.

       Back to my family now. 

      My dad gave me my adventurous spirit. He teaches me to speak to trees and listen to the wind. To follow my heart and check out every dead end road (there's actually no such thing). I think Dad and I have maps etched on our brains. A desire to photograph and catalogue every species, every vista, every memory. Even though neither of us is very good at remembering why we came into a particular room at any given time. 

     My brother, Gord, who has been gone for 26 years now, is the poet in my head. He still speaks to me through music and words. I don't care if that makes me sound crazy; my dead brother still speaks to me, usually while I'm driving along the highway. He tells me everything is going to be alright and I need to hear that every once in a while.

     Gramma Suzie makes me a good Christian, even though I'm not even remotely Christian. But, I know my bible and I know what Jesus taught through the Good Word. Faith, Hope and Charity, motherfuckers. That's all you gotta know.

    Probably the biggest contributor to the modern day Sherla writing this blog is Bonnie, my step mother. That was a tough relationship because I did not fit her mould. That's my side of the story anyway. Regardless, if it weren't for Bonnie, I would not know how to appreciate art. I would not be interested in culture. I would never have eaten anything but cereal and dry pasta. My life would have been very black and white. She showed me many ways to see the world and to appreciate all the colours of the spectrum.

     My children... I hope I have inspired you to live an authentic life. It doesn't have to be the kind of life I enjoy, it just has to be what's right for you. Osprey, your ability to be happy with so little is so awe inspiring. You are my anchor and my solace and my comic relief. Juniper, gawdammit, too much love for you. You are my saviour, my muse and the best, worst co-pilot. I wish you were coming with me.

     With that, I would like to announce that I'm taking this mess on the road! Looking for a place to happen making stops along the way. I'm going to be homeless for a little while, which is making me very nervous. I'm so far out of my comfort zone, I can't even. The next series of blogs will focus on my adventures with living as a hobo as I travel west, trading physical labour for food and shelter. Tune in next week, when I have come to my senses and realize this is a very, very bad idea.

Don't kill my Vibe, Don't Touch my Weave

Camping in My Car

Let me tell you about my needs. They're quite simple, actually, and they do not include your penis.

It's an odd, one-sided conversation we're about to have, but (apparently) it must be said because I get this question almost daily. "Don't you have, you know, ..... NEEDS?"

Some background: I work behind a bar and I love trying to make connections with people. It's one of my needs, actually. Listening to stories from all walks of life helps me to feel less detached from the world since I chose to move away from my lifelong friends and family. I CHOSE to move away for a reason. My current situation is by design.

Let me explain further: Like everyone else on the planet, I'm dealing with some shit. Some deep shit. Aging. Confidence. Self-Worth. Aches and pains. Matters of the heart. Matters of fact. Matters of alternative facts. Properties of matter. Black lives matter. Plant matter. Christ, I could really write a whole blog about things that matter. The thing is, I feel like a bear who has gone deep into the woods to lick some wounds and, hopefully, come out in the spring with a few scars and a slight limp, but alive nonetheless.

So, part of my job is to talk to people. Find out what they do, what they know, what they think about their lives and if there's anything they are interested in that I might be interested in, as well. We talk about books and politics. Movies and science. Baseball, Hockey, Jazz, Blues, Food and, of course, "What are you up to this weekend?" I learn at least twenty new things every damn day and I LOVE that. Sidenote: Thank goodness for Google, the great equalizer; solving bar room debates since 2016.

Inevitably, we discuss love and what it means to love another human. Love is a many splendored thing. Love lifts us up where we belong. All you need is love. (Moulin Rouge!) The most common thing I hear, though, is that Love is a Battlefield (Pat Benetar), Love Hurts (Nazareth) and Stinks (J. Geils Band) and Bites (Def Leppard). But, not for me. I loved a man for 26 years and continue to love him. It's just a different kind of love now. It's not a passionate, eager, ownership kind of love. It's a fondness, a sad reminiscing, a wish for good things to happen for him... with just a hint of "Fuck that Guy" What? I'm not human? Gawdamn right, I'm bitter. Happy as a tick on a fat dog, though, and that's what counts.

Unfortunately, I can't say this to anyone, because the idea that I am an independent woman, loving her life and not looking to be re-branded anytime soon, opens the door for the most dreaded four words I will ever hear someone ask: "Don't you have needs?"

The answer is, "Hell yaaaassss, I have needs! I need to eat. I need chocolate mostly. And I need to try new foods. Fruits I've never seen before. Spices that I associate with a country on the other side of the world. Delicacies and comfort foods. An amuse bouche and a shit ton of gravy and cheese.

I need intellectual conversation. I need to be cerebrally stimulated. Challenge me. Change my mind. Tell me about numbers, codes, underground movements, the dark web, easter eggs! Teach me how to duggy. Expand my horizons. Open all the fucking doors to the universe.

I need to move. I need to run and jump and dance. I need to feel the wind in my hair and the sun on my face. I need to ride horses and swim in white water. I need to see the four corners of the world in all the seasons. I need Greased Lightning. I don't even know what I mean by that, but it sounds fast.

Finally, I need comfort. This one is tough because I don't want pity. I don't want to be coddled and cuddled. I want to know that someone has my best interests in mind. I want someone to have my six. I want to be able to call someone when I've had a shitty day or when I've accidentally killed someone on purpose and I can't figure out what to do with the body."

Do I need an orgasm? Maybe. Can you give me one? Prolly not. My vagina is inextricably connected to my stomach and my brain and the brick wall surrounding my heart. Regardless, I don't want anyone getting in my way right now. When I'm ready to jump back on that horse, and ride it like the dirty stallion that it is, I'll post it on social media. Until then, let me be free.

My Daughter the Life Coach

Gift from my landlord

My daughter texted me tonight. She was happy about a random event; just an old song on the radio being played at the right time is enough for her, I guess - and she wanted to share it with me. I get that way too, sometimes. Especially when food and/or beer is involved.

In response to her exuberance for a good Adele song, I said that life was shit because I have no heat, I have no hot water, I haven't showered in two days and I have to work in the morning. The landlord gave me an electric heater and basically told me to hunker down until Monday.

So Alex says to me, "You don't play alot of video games, mom, so maybe you don't know: If you're fighting enemies, you can tell you're going the right way." How fucking profound is that!!?? It has completely changed my state of mind. To put it another way, "Kites rise highest against the wind."

It has NOT been a great couple of months for me. I'm pretty lonely here in Cambridge, ON, with no friends, no family... just long hours reading underwhelming library books and checking facebook. I've had three different employers in three months and about seven interviews, including the one wherein I stared at the interviewers crotch the entire time. Who leans back in their seat during a business interview, wearing tight slacks with their legs spread and some serious moose knuckle going on? Needless to say, they did not hire me and it's just as well because I would never get any work done with that kind of distraction.

My crooked pottery

At least my financial situation is such that I can (now) afford a couple of outings during the week. I've taken some pottery courses, I've heard some good live bands and I've even taken a dancing class. Men Without Hats told me, "We can dance if we want to. We've Got all your life and mine. As long as we abuse it, never gonna lose it. Everything will work out right." But they lied. Everything did not work out right.

In fact, someone touched me with clammy hands. Someone smelled like Aqua Velva. Someone, who was an amateur expert in ballroom dancing AND being a douche, said my arms were too limp and my frame was bad. And, quite frankly, I will never be comfortable doing a body roll with someone I have just met. I still had a good time and smiled alot. They were playing salsa music, but I was singing Cardi B in my head, "I don't gotta dance, I make moooney moves."

While we're on the subject people that are douches and being uncomfortable, let me tell you a little about server life. A  couple of months ago, a young friend told me about a man who regularly comes into the restaurant where she works. He makes comments about her beauty, nothing lewd, and then he hands her $20. Keep in mind, she is not serving him food or getting him drinks or performing any sexual acts. He is essentially paying her for brightening his day with her smile.

Now, I've been waiting tables for three decades and I don't ever remember being so pretty that someone would throw money at me. However, in recent weeks, a man comes in to the restaurant where I work and gives me a twoonie with a certain amount of pomp and ceremony... just for being me, I guess. I do NOT take this as a compliment. It is not even remotely the same. The way in which this coin is slid into my hand, makes me want to use sanitizer. There's a well-defined line between respecting me as a person who provides a service by rewarding me with a gratuity versus straight up handing me chump change 'cos you think I'm a charity case who is easily flattered and wants a sugar daddy.

Life repeatedly throws shit at you like this - lonely times, negativity, disappointment, broke ass days, bad poutine, self-righteous pricks and slumlords. All indicators that you are heading in the right direction!

My mother didn't raise no Barbie doll. She brought out the candles when the power went out. She made us bundle up and turn on the oven when the heat got shut off. We had to boil water on Kerosene heaters for a sponge bath on more than one occasion. So, I have all the tools to keep me warm and clean as I sit here spewing out my nonsense... and rising against the wind.

I'm not drunk, I'm just awkward

    So, I'm sitting in my new apartment today just minding my own business. It's a beautiful November day and I COULD be outside taking a brisk walk or running some errands, but as an introvert, I need to spend my entire day trying to motivate myself to go to work at 5:30 p.m.
     As a server, it's important to be outgoing and personable, and heaven knows I try! But gawdammit people are really trying my patience these days. As I mentioned in a facebook post, a person's need to be high maintenance in every single request is exhausting. It has recently become commonplace to request a custom tap water. For example, this evening Seat One asked for water with 4 lemon slices; Seat Two asked for water no ice; Seat 3 asked for water with ice and then asked for a straw after I brought the water to the table; and Seat 4 asked for water with ice and "a splash of bar lime".
     Now I understand that I only have a job because people like to be served and you're out for dinner, you want what you want and you're willing to pay a premium for that privilege. But, it's just water, folks. It's a free beverage to help you wash down copious amounts of fat and sugar and salt. Sort yourselves out or I swear I'm going to cut someone.
     "Well, Sherla, if you don't like serving people, you shouldn't be a SERVER. Get a different job and stop complaining," they say. And, by "THEY", I mean people who insist that their four-year-old say please and thank you with every sentence and yet, THEY proceed to ask me for their meals without ever doing the same.

Self-Righteous Mother: What do you want to drink, Johnny?
Little Johnny: Can I have a Sprite?
Self-Righteous Mother: No. No pop. That's too much sugar. You can have an apple juice.
Sherla: (Under my breath) Why the fuck did you ask the kid what he wants if you're just going to tell him what he can have anyway. Just order for the little prick and let's get this over with.
Little Johnny: Apple juice.
Self-Righteous Mother: Apple Juice.... PLEASE. Use your manners, Johnny!
Little Johnny: Apple juice, please.
Self-Righteous Mother: That's better. And, I'll have the ummm. Hmmmm. I don't want that, or that, or that. Ugh. I had that yesterday. I'll just take a water with four lemons and not too much ice in the biggest glass you have and make sure it's chilled.
No fucking please. No fucking thank you. And, I don't give a shit, honestly. But, don't tell your kid to do something that you aren't polite enough to do yourself.

     Anyway, I DO want a different job and I have plenty of other skills so I've been shooting out resumes for everything I might be able to do for money. Convincing other people that they should pay me for these skills is another matter altogether. I just keep trying. Keep checking the job banks, Indeed, Kijiji, newspapers, death notices... I'm pretty desperate at this point.
     So, I'm minding my own business, watching episodes of Kim's Convenience and thinking about how much I hate listening to the neighbour's dog trying to dig its way out of a crate upstairs, when my cell phone rings. Now, I'm not in the habit of answering my cell phone. I just don't like talking on the phone. I like texts. They're short and sweet and I can respond when I'm good and ready. But, I was hoping this call was someone who received my resume and, of course, thought I was perfect for the position of making scads of money doing something fabulous with great people and unlimited access to donuts.
     The call display on my phone read "Blah Blah Blah LLP" and my brain translated that to: Someone is calling from a Law Firm. Law firms are important. You should swallow that big chunk of granola bar very quickly and answer the call. I ended up kind of grunting out the word "Hello".
     "This is So-and-so from Something Something and Trenton. I'm just reviewing your resume and I wonder if this is a good time to do a brief telephone interview with you."
     "Yeah, yeah now's great. I'm so free right now!" I bolted up from my couch so I wouldn't sound like was laying on my back eating granola bars.
     "Great, it's just going to take about ten minutes. I'll start with..."
     "I'm sorry. Did you say you're calling from Trenton? I don't live in Trenton." I interrupted.
     "No. I'm calling from Something Something and Trenton. That's the name of the company. You sent your resume and I would like to do a quick interview."
     Oh, of course. I sent my resume. I've just sent so many resumes... is this for the... um... legal secretary position?" At this point, I'm starting to panic. I have NO recollection of applying to a company with the name Trenton in it. In fact, I can't think of the names of any of the companies I've applied to recently. My mind goes to mush.
     "No, it is a bookkeeping position that was posted on Indeed."
     "Oh! Of course! Bookkeeping! I remember. Yes. It was a full-time position I applied to about... a week ago?" I still had no clue. Nothing.
     "Yes, so what prompted you to apply for this position?"
     Well I wish I fucking knew!! How am I going to answer this question? Can I change my mind and tell her now is not a good time? Can I just hang up and pretend I lost the call? I'll say I dropped the phone in the toilet and just call back later. No, Sherla, just be an adult and answer the questions the same way you would if you knew what law firm she was calling from.
     So I did. I answered all the questions as though I was interested in working for a law firm as a bookkeeper. I even asked whether I would be working with other people in the financial department or if I would be on my own. And, when I got off the phone I felt I had done ok.
     Until I looked up Something Something and Trenton... which is not a law firm at all, but rather an accounting company.
     I had not humiliated myself enough at this point. I decided I would send an email to So-and-so to explain my silly mistake. She would read my witty story of confusion and have a little chuckle before calling me back to offer me the high-paying position of Jolly Bookkeeper, featuring my own corner office and morning coffee served by my assistant, Sergio.
     I was daydreaming about all the perks my new job would feature when my thumb accidentally tapped the scroll bar while hovering over the send button. I had just sent an explanation email that stopped mid-sentence and would make no sense at all.
     I didn't know whether to laugh or cry so I did both. I contemplated sending another email insisting that I was not on drugs and to, please, not call the cops. Instead, I sent the following:
   
And now I have accidentally hit SEND in the middle of trying to explain that I am not a complete idiot. I'm so so sorry, Ms. So-and-so. I hope you can find this story as hilarious as I do at this point. Good luck in your search for the right applicant

   
     She has since sent a very polite reply regarding the hazards of calling out of the blue for phone interviews, which puts my mind at ease. In future, I will not answer my phone until the caller has been fully Googled.

Move over Chris Pratt and Anna Faris...

I'm getting a divorce. I didn't see it coming and, apparently, I should have. Everyone else saw the path I was on, except me. Which is not uncommon, I'm sure. Hindsight being 20/20 and all.

I had originally hoped to write this blog on all the fun I've been having. Summer concerts in Toronto. Hiking the Bruce Trail. Serious late night discussions regarding the word "poop" and all the different movie titles that you can use it in. Eg. "Raiders of the Lost Poop" "The Poopfather" "To Poop a Mockingbird" etc.

But, the one thing I feel about this, is that I should be doing something about it. And, there isn't really anything I can do or even that I want to do. Except write about it. So, there it is in black and white. My marriage is over. Kind of.

My relationship with Rodney started when we were kids, riding bikes around town in the 80s. I had a secret crush on him in high school. Then, we became a couple in the early 90s. I got pregnant six months after we started dating, I went to college, the kids were growing... it just made sense for us to get married. So, after several years of pressure from me, he asked me to marry him. Actually, he just gave me a big box with a ring in it and said, "There's your rock." It wasn't romantic. It didn't need to be. It was just what we were supposed to do.

Although I liked the IDEA of being married and working towards a common goal, I was much more interested in travelling, trying new foods, learning different things and talking to people about big ideas (like poopy movie titles). I wanted to own chickens, but also to open a bakery and to learn seven languages. Maybe become a lawyer. Maybe move to the Yukon. I wanted to live a thousand lives and the married life was just one of them. Rod was instrumental in making many of these dreams a reality. He also protected me from squirrels and nightmares, he drove 16 hours straight when I tried to hike the Appalachian trail (and failed), he even spanked me through my S&M phase. He is still my best friend.

As for his dreams, I think Rod wanted a nice home with a steady income, roast beef dinner every night and barbecues on the weekend. I think he might have wanted to fly to Cuba in the winters when it was too cold to snowmobile. I know he wanted to become a cop at one time. I could not help him with any of these things because I didn't care what the house looked like, I wanted to eat sushi and curry every night, and I sure as hell was not getting on a plane to go south where it is too sunny and hot. So, we lived separate lives together for almost 25 years. 

Now, we've discovered that it's much easier to live separate lives apart and we're both okay with that. I certainly don't feel that I've wasted the last 25 years with my husband. I've often heard people say, "I wasted 10, 15, or 20 of my best years on that asshole." Well, no you didn't, you idiot. You presumably spent those years richer and poorer, sick and healthy, laughing and crying and screwing each other's brains out (I hope). You lived, for goodness sake. It's not Disney. It doesn't have to end with you dying in each other's arms at the ripe old age of 95. #relationshipgoals

In our marriage, we talked about everything, we argued, wrestled until I couldn't breathe (he's a much better wrestler), laughed until we cried (America's Funniest Home Videos!!), protected each other against the world (or snakes) and most certainly disappointed one another. I hope we can continue to do those things on some level.

I think the most painful part of any separation is what comes next. The hurt feelings when you find you've been replaced, not only as a wife, but as a sister-in-law or a friend. People have to start taking sides when there's a break up, even if the break up is no one's fault. For example, some people are going to think this divorce is my fault because I left the marital home and I need to sort myself out. To those people I would like to say, "Nope. You can't pin all this shit on me, fuckers. I may not be conventional, but I am happy and so is he. So jam that in your rectum and tug on a bent prick, you self-righteous, cornholes."

I am left with the feeling that we've somehow failed everyone and now our children are from a broken home and we've brought shame to our families. Which is kind of silly. We are just two people who miss being individuals. And, yes, it's sad. Yes, I cry about it. I may even stomp my foot and pout because this isn't what I wanted. That's when I will turn on the sad songs and remember all the reasons I loved being married to that dick.