You Know When...

You know when you've already mixed a few ingredients and then remember your Grandma's chocolate cupcake recipe requires a cup of coffee and you don’t drink coffee and the only way you've ever made coffee is with those one-step Keurig cup-thingies but after an extensive (man-eyes) search you realize you're out of those handy microplastics-laden pods so you make eye contact with your coffee machine which looks as though it's time-traveled from the future and also it's looking back at you all hostile (insert The Good and the Bad and the Ugly whistle here—stay with me, I'm going somewhere with this) and let's be honest, we all think we're smart until we have to use someone else's coffee-maker (or microwave) and to complicate things further, your coffee-loving spouse is out of the country and your recipe absolutely requires coffee because there's no substitute for the delicious alchemy of chocolate enhance by brewed coffee (again, thanks Grandma) and the indifferent internet says just go ahead and make cowboy coffee as if at some point in your past you've freelanced as a misfit horse-riding posse member hell-bent on revenge who just drinks off the top of the coffee cup and spits out the dregs and so whatever focus you're wasting time with your incessant pea-brain (borderline pathological self-amusing) inner brainstorming nonsense so stop being a dork and so you finally focus and get to fixin' some joe and grind some pantry coffee beans and then you discover coffee filters so you rustle up your own more refined version (not really) of cowboy coffee by scotch-taping the filter into your favourite mug and you wonder if cowboys had scotch tape and the indifferent internet says scotch tape was invented in 1930 well dogies suddenly there it is: your version of cowboy coffee and holy shit it kinda worked and as the cowboys say, what in the tarnation? And that, dear friends/ cowboys/ cowgirls/ cowfolk, is how you brew it. 

Start Fresh?

scream start fresh

It seems to me that children typically start fresh every day. And we adults...do not. And it seems to me that in restoring ourselves, it helps to be like a child, to assume the necessary disposition—open, curious, unfettered, and, er...not so damn uptight?

Dear friends, I know I have been whining about this for weeks now, and I apologize for that, but I think I think I THINK Spring is finally ready to get on the fucking dance floor!

(Sorry...still a tad pissed off.) 

Sure, today's forecast high is a mere -5C / 23F...and yes, that's still a heap of smoldering garbage BUT, if I adjust my disposition to childlike pep talk mode, I must admit that it's SO MUCH SUNNIER here FINALLY the sun the sun the sun. Despite the temperature, there's (almost) melting! That's a win! Plus, I HAVEN'T SHOVELED SNOW FOR (nearly) 24 HOURS. 

What I'm saying is this: I've lowered my expectations and it's embarrassing but I'm actively summoning some version of childlike ignorance to cope with this interminable transition aka I'll take what I get and pretend the recess bell just rang and call it STARTING FRESH and if you live in northwestern Canada, that the best one can do. 

If being less uptight doesn't work, does anyone want to meet up and scream? 

Going

"I walk in the world to love it." 
Mary Oliver

Angry? Go for a walk. 

Confused? Walk. 

Overwhelmed? Walk. 

Stuck? Walk. 

Worried? Walk. 

Low? Walk. 

A walk has a way of thawing what's frozen within. Keep going. 

For those who love...

Homer Simpson said it so well:
"I'd be a vegetarian if bacon grew on trees."

Just a little bacon appreciation post for those who love salt and happiness. 

Years ago a friend oh-so-randomly filled a pause in the dinner party conversation by remarking, "Frick, bacon's expensive!" 

Well! You probably had to be there to fully appreciate this, but we laughed all night about his well-timed but left-field declaration and FOR YEARS NOW, whenever there's a lull in the game-night or supper discussion, someone inevitably drops this arbitrary statement and we laugh and laugh again. 

Dear friends, I hope you and your pals have inside jokes.   

( ꩜ ᯅ ꩜)

  weatherroneous

Dear friends, I introduce SPRING in Northwestern Canada. 

One might call our version of Spring 2026 less of a welcome seasonal change and more of a meteorological paradox. 😠

While other (northernish) bloggers tell of snowdrop flowers and actual butterflies, featured here is the (repellent) view through our lower floor window. Yes, that's our backyard (tomato garden box entombed) and yes, that's the peak of a neighbour's home in the distance. 

Although locally quite on brand for this winter, all this flake news has become MORE and MORE and MORE snowtiresome. 

Insert rage sigh here. 

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

my iPhone made me into an avatar. 

At some point, an iPhone Apple CarPlay update meant my vehicle navigation now features this tiny and instantly amusing vehicle on my dashboard display and it consistently triggers a switch in my imagination so now any road-trip is ALSO A VIDEO GAME and thus I anticipate/conjure various (fun) characters and or obstacles to emerge like MARIO & LUIGI or a YETI (to eat my avatar) or a LAVA PIT or a PORTAL (teleportation wishful-thinking) and yes, I suppose this confirms I am still a child, also just so you know I'm a tad preoccupied on the road these days. Dear friends, travel safe. 

Snowmo-being

Thanks, son. 

There's so much more sunshine these March days, yet snowfall after snowfall continues. We know there's no point in complaining, but that never prevents a Canadian from griping about the weather. Between complaints though... why not go sledding?  

My son (the stuntman in the photo) recently repaired my "sled," a weighty old-school no-name-brand-yellow clunker of a (perfect-for-me) snowmobile. Thanks to him, my clunker has much more gumption. 

As the photo implies, my son and I approach snowmobiling differently. One might say we have opposite ways of snowmo-being. He's no fool, but he's more of a risk-taker and quite unflappable. My approach is more cautious, and uh, geriatric. Nevertheless, despite differing "braaaaap" styles, inside us we're experiencing the same emotion: pure joy.    

I often say that my son possesses many of my characteristics and all those I wish I had. Did I have his confidence at his age? Nope. Could I repair a snowmobile or anything else? Nope. But I could draw it, paint it, describe it, neglect it, and then buy parts so he could fix it. I believe this relationship is referred to as er...symbiosis, or is it codependency? 

I josh. I'm grateful for him. He needs me though too. After we zipped around for a while, I pressed my brake and noticed no resistance. Hmm. This was not overly concerning among the flat prairie fields, but I made a mental note and adjusted accordingly. Later, I mentioned the brake problem. His reply?  "Oh yes, I know; I haven't fixed the brakes yet." 😕Perhaps he could have shared that important info pre-braaaap?

I told you he was unflappable. (Or perhaps planning my demise?) We chuckled; we both know there's something I'm a bit better at than him at least sometimes: fundamental communication. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

Things one should never outgrow:

M & L waiting together to ride the bumper cars. 💗

human warmth... emotional safety... secure attachment... healthy coregulation... and reminding us grown-ups, just how to be with each other in this sorry world.  

Cliques and...

source

Unfortunately, we all know what a clique is. Sure, there are wholesome exceptions—a book club for example—but typical cliques are comprised of people who think tribalism is a personality, people who don't choose their friends carefully or, in short, sheeple—a frustrating collective driven by one or two ringleaders, secretly aching to maintain their fragile egos and dubious influence, buoyed by herd mentality and their gang, all ill-equipped or actively-resistant to thinking critically about their norms, their conduct, their code. One might call them oppressors, bullies, or the cream of the crap. 

Does my description bring anything to mind?  

Cliques are exhausting. I remember because I've been in them. I think this sort of temporary insanity is commonplace. I've learned my lessons and I'm wary. Decades later, joining ANY group for me is like a passport application: periodically necessary, but references must be involved, and I may never travel there anyway. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

But whether it's Junior High or 2026, there's no escaping some cliques: here we are again. 

I'm thinking about those groups I can't seem to ignore or escape, namely the Alberta Separatists (rolls eyes here) who aim to impose their policies on us other 7.5/10 proud-to-be-Canadian Albertans who have indeed been undervalued by our federal government, but c'mon people there's NO WAY our province would be better off independent from Canada—not to mention solvent—nor would we be independent for long—insert Orange Shitpile Biff Tannen 51st state blustering nonsense here—a reference to another relentlessly inescapable ringleader and his clique of idiots currently in charge of (effing) the (entire) world. Sigh. 

What to do though? Defying cliques is exceedingly onerous; they disregard reasoning. I'd be delusional to think this blog post would impact much of anything but nevertheless, I do hope to arm you with a new-to-me clever (and satisfying) language counterpoint to the clique: the claque. What if clique members had a word to ponder their roles as mimicking sycophants, clapping and clapping ad nauseam at their ringleaders' bullshit? 

Dear friends, I know it's only a word, but as I've suggested before, precise word-choice impacts worldview, so please use/drop/insert/release this word (like a balloon) as you see fit (sly as a fox). 

Let's be honest:

sourdough cinnamon brown sugar bread
(Thanks, T.)

bakery air.

It's basically oxygen, but better, buttery better. 

I fondly recall many places I've visited all over the world but truth be told many of the best spots were bakeries. Montreal. Kensington, PEI. Galway. 

Dear friends, here's to more bakery air in our lives. 

You know you knead it.