The 3-ring shitshow of your life

I’ve always felt like a sub-bar hippie because I don’t meditate. Well, friends, that’s allll about to change.

[Language warning]


En route

En route -

I am not a great short-haul traveler. Part of this is because I, like my Dad, tend to eschew modern conveniences  out of some deranged loyalty to the good ole days.

You know, the good ole days where people broke their backs lugging heavy suitcases around before some genius came up with the idea to put wheels on them? Hahahaha! Right. Those ones.

Hence, when I travel, I’m usually packing around a vintage samsonite (like one of these) or the monogrammed duffle bag I’ve had since I was a kid. Olive has one, too, now. It makes our time at the baggage claim look like a Wes Andersen movie (#LifeGoals).

I like to pretend that this affinity for old suitcases stems from practicality (They’re so well-made! I’m shopping secondhand! I’ll never get my black wheeled suitcase mixed up with the other twenty-nine black wheeled suitcases tumbling off the conveyor belt!) but don’t be fooled. It’s pure vanity.

Occasionally this vanity punishes me. Like last Tuesday. Here we go, a story for this Monday evening.

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Humour, Olive


I always love having conversations like this with Olive, discovering how she sees the world and how she begins to understand the different relationships between genders, friends, couples, etc. ( A previous one can be found here.)

This time the conversation took an interesting turn.


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Chronic Illness/Gitelman Syndrome, Musings



So, it turns out they weren’t kidding. Divorce is incredibly stressful.

I think I have dealt with things fairly well. I have a really strong network of friends and family, it’s been really helpful having my sister so close to me to help with Olive, or give me a hug if I’m having a particularly rough day. I have seen counselors and talked through things and made really positive steps toward working through everything.

Despite all of that, a divorce is still a divorce. It is messy and unpleasant, and necessarily involves some level of conflict when two people who are hurt and wounded try to come together to sort out logistics. Often times there’s not a whole lot of trust left, so things just feel…confrontational. And I really don’t do well with confrontation.

And although I have felt like I am managing the stress well, my body has started telling a different story, and it has been telling it more and more loudly as times goes on.

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For the past week and a half, my entire city has been deep in the grips of cowboy fever. Every July we celebrate something called the Calgary Stampede – a ten day rodeo/fair/ Western-themed, shenanigan-filled, booze-and-pancake-fueled party.

There’s live music, shows, agricultural exhibits, a huge midway with rides and deep-fried everything, and company-sponsored free pancake breakfasts every day of the week. Most downtown businesses and bars transform their storefronts into Wild West style facades – hay bales! Rough-hewn wood! Cowgirl silhouettes! – and the city goes wild.

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