We do this thing. We open our hearts to the world around us.

I am crying tonight because Stuart McLean died today. He was 68 years old.

I don’t remember the first time I listened to the Vinyl Café. If I had to wager a guess, I would put myself somewhere between the ages of nine or ten. Growing up, the CBC was one of the few constants in my ever-chaotic world, and my mother and I would listen to its programming non-stop.

Careening from highland dancing competitions, to piano recitals, to badminton tournaments, we listened.

One of my most favourite memories is of driving back from Antigonish, Nova Scotia, together with my mum. I want to say that it’s Christmas, because we are listening to a Christmas story. But I remember the weather outside to be classic Maritime June: warm and wet.

It was a rain for the ages. Blanketing the world in a ceaseless, soft grey. A grey that stretched for as far as the eye could see. Fat drops breaking against the windshield, the radio turned loud to drown out the sweep-sweep-sweep of the hard-working wipers.

It may have just been a re-run.

But I can’t be sure.

The story that we were listening to followed the same trajectory of so many Dave and Morley tales: an innocuous start, a holiday to be celebrated. Plans that quickly turn into the absurd.

Dave never knowing when to say, enough. Mary Turlington, his long-suffering neighbour, frigid and uptight, ever suckered into giving him a second chance.

Upon being invited to Christmas dinner at the Turlington’s, Dave is so nervous that he eats Mary’s potpourri, thinking that it’s homemade chex mix.

It was at the point that he realized that he was, in fact, eating potpourri, that my mum and I laughed so hard that we had to pull over.

Sitting on the side of the highway, tears streaming from our eyes, my body, palsied. My mother screaming, “Oh noooooooooooooo!”

Her facial expression, equal parts horror and amusement, set me off all over again.

And we sat there, until the conclusion of the story.

I never, ever wanted that moment to end.

This past Christmas, as I lay recuperating from the flu of the century, reeling from cancellation of both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, Marc wrapped our bodies in our biggest blanket, and we listened to Stuart’s Christmas stories for hours.

Dave cooks a turkey.

Morley and Dave’s first Christmas.

The year they tried to make it to Sidney, but got trapped in the snowstorm.

The winter pageant.

We listened, and we laughed, and we cried, and we laughed.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

We listened to tales of a family. A family that was both defined by,and shined together under simple truths: laughter, loss, and love.

Always love.

One summer, I was cleaning out our spare room. Deciding what tennis rackets to keep, re-reading my first year essays on Milton and Donne, wondering if I’d ever again wear my wedding shoes, I listened to Stuart.

He was reading from the Vinyl Café story exchange. Listeners would write in, and he and his editor would pick different stories to share at their live tapings.

The story that afternoon was about a young man who had joined a teenage musical theatre troupe in his small town home on Cape Breton Island. The group had worked on a production over the course of the summer. Staging would take place right before they went back to school.

The writer recounted how he immediately took a disliking to one of his fellow cast mates. His rival was everything he was not: good looking and cool, at ease with the women in the troupe, and excellent on stage.

But try as he might, he couldn’t stay angry. He soon realized that, as well as a wonderful actor, his rival made a wonderful friend, and they became very close over the next two months.

On the opening night of the performance, the entire cast found out that the writer’s friend had been killed in a car accident, along with his girlfriend. The performance was cancelled, and the whole town mourned.

I was so caught off guard by the tragic ending that I just melted to the floor.

I wailed.

And then Stuart’s musical guests – Madison Violet – began to play their song “Small of My Heart”, and I felt as though I might never be happy ever again.

Today, it’s one of my most favourite songs.

In grade twelve, I bought my favourite English teacher a copy of Vinyl Café Stories in an attempt to tell her how much she had meant to me – she as an incredibly caring educator to myself, a weird and anxious student, who was really trying to just figure it all out.

One night in our old house, I was cooking Marc and I a tofu stirfry, and we listened to the story where Dave and Morley accidentally destroy a cabin in the Laurentian mountains.

I laughed so hard that I burnt the rice. And then, like always, at the conclusion of the story, I burst into tears.

Because that is the magic of Stuart McLean.

His stories are truth and love and light and death and everything that exists in our hearts and our souls. They are small towns and big cities; they are the chords that we all hear, and they are the cords that bind us together.

That help us realize that heck, we’re not all that different.

And in today’s age, where division and fear and hate are king, Stuart’s passing is a huge loss.

So it must be up to us to carry on his legacy.

To tell our stories. To relish and revel in them.

Because stories are how we know how to live.

How to love.

They teach us every day, how to be.

I love to hear you speak

What are we talking about again?

Oh yes, of course. I remember now.

My heart is broken and full.

I am split.

I am whole.

Yourself, electric.

We turn up a song, and dance around the kitchen on the tips of our toes.

You grab my waist with one hand, and twirl my twisting torso, round and around.

Each time you make a face, I laugh.

Each time you laugh, I laugh harder.

My hair reflecting the soft light of the dying sun; the new night air drifting slowly through our windowpanes.

We breathe deep.

You hold me.

As we dance.

On the tips of our toes.

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What are we talking about again?

Oh yes, of course. I remember now.

Putin in single.

He’s been flirting with China’s first lady.

His libidinous and hyper-heterosexual machismo manifesting itself in tan shawls and gallant gestures.

At least he wasn’t bare chested and riding a horse.

I always wonder about the nomenclature we affix to the husbands of women who lead countries.

First man?

Mr. Mom?

Ugh.

Probably not.

I don’t think Joachim Sauer ever worries about these things.

Luckily, being a quantum chemist and full professor at the Humboldt University of Berlin, he can likely depend on a solid “Doctor Sauer” anytime he needs be introduced.

Even better – he’ll probably never have to fend off unwanted advances from the likes of Park Geun-hye or Simonetta Sommaruga.

Meanwhile, poor Angela Merkel has had to put up with George W. Bush and his ridiculous compulsion for ill-timed and completely inappropriate shoulder rubs, amongst I am sure, many other forms of completely sexist garbage.

Speaking of which, I keep laughing because the media has been telling me that we’re currently experiencing a watershed moment here in Canada in terms of the physical and sexual abuse of women.

As if this is a thing that we didn’t know existed.

Or that is supported.

Or that is propagated.

Or that is reinforced on and by all levels of society, from individuals, to the organizations that create our rules and enforce our laws.

I know I shouldn’t have been, but I was genuinely shocked to learn that there are people who didn’t know that sexual impropriety and abuse are rife amongst the affairs of our parliament.

I just (wrongly) assumed, that much like steroids in professional sports, these practices are an integral and important element to the running of our national political organization, and all the safeguards and policing practices geared towards finding and stopping this abuse are outdated, inadequate and completely impotent.

They are run and overseen by the abusers.

What good could they possibly do?

What are we talking about again?

Oh yes, of course. I remember now.

Beautiful, beautiful Nova Scotia.

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Life. Period.

I recently wrote about the time I spent completing Camp Potlach’s “Leadership in Training” course.

Here is a short, seemingly unbelievable, (but one hundred per cent true) anecdote from my time spent as a camper.

You’ve been warned.

During the summer of 2001, myself and five other teenagers – along with our two counsellors – camped, kayaked, canoed, and hiked our way around BC’s beautiful Howe Sound.

While our group had a base location about a twenty-minute hike away from the camp’s regular cabins and common rooms, this space was rarely used, and we spent the majority of our three weeks together sleeping under the stars on the many different islands and inlets populating this stretch of provincial land.

It was a magical time, truly.

The weather has hot, but not blindingly so; our skin cooled by an ever-present breeze and the long reaching shadows of sky-high Douglas firs and willowy evergreens.

In the mornings we would hike, or complete long (and sometimes treacherous) channel crossings. In the afternoons we would swim, or write in our journals, and in the evenings we’d each take turns practicing our fire-starting skills, while others would perfect their bear-hangs.

One morning, about two-thirds of the time into our course, I started my period.

I approached my counsellor Jane and asked her if she had a tampon that I could use. Although sympathetic to my situation, she informed me that I would have to do without, seeing as though one of the central tenants of our program was to be as environmentally friendly as possible.

We were to produce minimal waste.

Smiling a smile that clearly articulated, “I’m feeling for ya girl”, Jane handed me the next best thing: one of her unused bandanas.

“For inside your shorts,” she explained.

“Oh.” I said. “Thank you.”

So for the next two days I ran about with a balled-up piece of cloth in my underwear – washing, rinsing and drying it during my afternoon dips in the Pacific Ocean.

It was the most ‘White Fang’ I’ve ever felt in my life.

The morning of the third day, we awoke at the crack of dawn in order to pick blackberries before setting off on a three hour channel crossing.

We had been eating plain instant oatmeal every morning for almost two weeks, and as such, we were eager to add anything adventurous flavour-wise to the mix, in order slow what was our rapidly deteriorating interest in this staple.

As I hastily ran off into the bushes to pee one last time before we shipped off, I noticed that I had a huge stain on the back of my shorts. However, being susceptible as we were to tide charts, and cruise ship courses, time was of the essence, and I didn’t have time to change.

If you remember from my earlier post, my canoe partner was named Christian – a Denis Leary loving, would-be paramour (in his dreams only!), who would sing me “German” opera in the morning (think Kevin Kline in A Fish Called Wanda), pick me “wildflowers” (weeds) and regale me with an endless litany of racist, sexist, and all-around offensive jokes.

The minute I sit down in the canoe Christian noticed my spotted shorts.

Immediately he began to make fun of me, despite the fact that he’d majorly missed the point.  You see – he thought that the red stain on my clothing was, if you can believe it, blackberry juice.

His highly original, and completely obtuse commentary included gems such as:

“Jeeze Vanessa, it looks like you took a handful of blackberries and smeared them all over your ass!” and “Oh man! What did you do?  Sit in the bush for fun?”

Cue more of the same derivative, inane one-liners for three whole hours!

At one point I even turned around and told him, as icily, and as calmly as I could: “Okay, thanks Christian.  I’ll be sure to wash my shorts as soon as I can. That way, you’ll be able to go back to living your life.”

Unfortunately, this did nothing but encourage him.

Finally, we arrived at our destination.

An absolutely beautiful little moss-dotted inlet, home to the most beautiful collection of driftwood I have ever seen, and a number of different heron nests.

We all got out of our boats and either began tying them together or unpacking for lunch.

We’d planned on eating and then hiking up to a river where we would all go swimming.

I thought about how I’d be able to soak my shorts once we got there.

It was just as these thoughts were entering my mind, and as I was getting all of my gear together, that I noticed out of the corner of my eye, Christian walking over to my canoe seat.

And it was at this point, that everything seemed to start taking place in slow motion.

I turned and watched as Christian bent down and wiped his index finger along my seat.

He then brought his finger to his mouth, paused – and then he licked it.

LICKED IT.

I swore I felt the earth both rumble and sink between my feet. I don’t know if I was going to faint, or turn to stone, or explode from a tsunami of laughter.

What he said next, I will never forget.

Christian said: “Shit. That tastes like blood.”

It was at this point that I completely lost my mind.

The tsunami won out.

I started laughing, and laughing, and laughing and I could not stop.

No one in the group could figure out what was wrong with me.

Paralyzed by what I could only imagine to be the most epically insane thing ever to have been witnessed by a human being in the history of human beings, I couldn’t even eat my lunch.

My giggles came so fast, so furious.

Unfortunately, I started laughing even harder because in Christian’s completely clueless mind, he thought the blood he ate off of the seat came from a cut from a fellow camper’s finger – the one she had gotten while tying up her boat.

He actually sat down next to me and asked me: “Shit man.  Do you think Amanda has anything wrong with her blood?  Do you think it’s okay that I just ate it?”

This just made me howl even the more.

Now, the whole scenario should have just ended there, but it didn’t.  During the post-lunch hike, Christian just wouldn’t leave well enough along and instead of badgering me about my shorts, he now wanted to know why I was laughing.

“What are you laughing about Vanessa?” and “WHAT’S SO FUNNY VANESSA?”

He repeated these questions, until finally I reached my breaking point.

I turned around and faced him, and yelled, in front of the entire group:

“OKAY CHRISTIAN!  OKAY.  I have my period!  I have my period and I perioded all over my canoe seat!  My period was on my seat and you ate it! YOU ATE MY PERIOD CHRISTIAN!  IT WAS ON MY SEAT – AND YOU ATE IT!”

All I can say was that the look on his face was absolutely priceless.

Abject horror mixed with confusion, anger and amazement.  He then immediately took out his water bottle and rinsed out his mouth – as if my menstrual blood was somehow still in there – before just taking off, like a shot.

Up the trail to the river, never to be seen again.  (Just kidding of course – it was Christian after all.  He was back after about thirty minutes.)

And I just kept laughing for the entire day.

At one point Amanda came up to me as asked me, incredulously, “Aren’t you at all embarrassed?”

To which I responded, “What? No! Why? I didn’t eat period off of a dirty canoe seat.”

And I definitely never, ever, ever will.

If all else fails, you can count on me

Well, it’s been a year and a day (or three weeks if you will) since I last wrote anything in this electronic diary of mine (I actually like to think of it as a modern day papyrus scroll), and instead of lamenting the ever-quickening pace of time and space as I do at the beginning of all of my ramblings, I will instead just get to THE FACTS.

1.) Gold medal games.

Marc and I woke up at 4am last Sunday to watch the Canadian men take on the Swedish team in the Olympic gold medal hockey match.

I’m not going to lie, I nearly gave up on the entire venture the minute the alarm went off. Four o’clock in the morning is just TOO. DARN. EARLY.

After I managed to temporarily muzzle the buzzing, Marc leaned over to me and whispered, “Is this actually happening?”

To which I replied, “Fifty-fifty.”

But in the end, it only took me a couple of minutes to rustle myself out of bed and get ready to face the still-darkened sky (not to mention the influx of snow that had begun to fall sometime earlier that night.)

The previous day I had bought pain au chocolate for Marc and I, as well as the friends who had so generously offered to host the game, and I grabbed the bag of pastries before heading out into the blackness.

(Marc elected to catch another thirty minutes of shut-eye, explaining that he would meet up with us at the start of the second period.)

My eyeballs nearly fell out of my sockets when I arrived at Greg and Daniela’s place and saw them both in regular clothing. You couldn’t have gotten me to change out of my pajamas for all the cocoa-filled croissants in the world.

But they’re pretty relaxed folks, and know my habits well, so neither were deterred by my lack of formal dress (or really, any dress at all.)

Over the next three hours we drank buckets of coffee, nibbled on baked goods, and cheered as Jonathan Toews, Sidney Crosby, and Chris Kunitz secured our second straight Olympic hockey gold.

And then I went back to bed.

Which after drinking my body weight in coffee was not the easiest of feats, let me assure you.

After I work up, I couldn’t stop thinking about Par Marts, the Swedish coach, and just how much he doesn’t fit the mold of what I imagine a hockey coach to be.

So I made this:

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Am I the worst?

Perhaps.

But either way, I am totally okay with it.

2.) Lip-synch offs.

So, I’m not a big fan of most American talk shows. As a dedicated, long-standing fan of The Graham Norton Show, I feel that most product offered on this side of the pond is, to put it delicately, sub-par at best.

However, I have to give credit where credit is due, and tip my hat to Jimmy Fallon for all the hilarious things he does with his guests. (Not to mention the fact that he somehow got The Roots to be his back-up band – a feat so nuts I’m like to believe that Beelzebub will be getting a huge influx of souls sometime in the next fifty years or so.)

For instance, this lip-synch off:

Oh. My. Goodness.

Despite the epicness of Paul Rudd’s Freddie Mercury, I am not afraid to admit that I like his Tina Turner better.

Those handshakes?

Brilliant.

3.) MY CAT.

She’s up to something.

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Though I’ve yet to figure out what.

4.) This darn crazy world.

As I race about daily in my own little self-contained ecosystem, I have such a hard time processing everything that is happening outside of the petri dish that is my life.

Every time I read anything news related my heart just breaks into smaller and smaller pieces.

To combat this journalistic-propelled malaise, I have been running like a running-thing and spending all of the time with my brilliant, inspiring, and totally bonkers husband.

All we can do is focus on doing as much good as we can (starting with the petri dish!) and hope that our efforts will create spill over, and inspire others to affect change.

5.) This guy

And if all else fails?

I’m just going to follow this dude’s lead:

That’s right.

SUPERGEIL.

Double, double, toil and trouble.

Good grief is Canada ever a large country.

Because we have heaps, and HEAPS of space, until we get that teleportation science down, it’s going to keep taking dogs years to travel across.

This morning I was up at the ungodly hour of 4:45 am, getting ready to head back to real life here in BC.

I crawled out of bed, jumped into the shower, and slowly steamed my eyelids open.

I allotted myself as much time as possible to wake up, before heading out to the Halifax airport for my 6:20 departure. My sister Jessi and her boyfriend Adam were kind enough to drive me – he being tempted by the promise of a Tim Horton’s breakfast sandwich, and she driven by her enduring and ever-deepening love for me.

HAH!

But seriously though – Timmy Ho’s.

I tell ya. That stuff will take over your life.

It’s interesting – despite the proliferation of Starbucks the world over, Tim Hortons still reigns supreme here in Canada (minus of course several urban centers, of which Vancouver is one.)

I mean, “Double-Double” (the shorthand term for two creams, two sugars in a Tim Hortons coffee) is an entry in the Oxford Canadian English Dictionary!

WHAT.

It can be weird trying to explain this institution to someone who hasn’t lived here.

It’s just SO Canadian.

(Despite its brief American ownership and merger with Wendys Corporation. This is referred to as the “Dark Time”, of which we never speak.)

Just kidding.

Kind of.

It also has the guts to put out the most heart-wrenching commercials (aka ridiculous Canadiana propaganda.)

Let me implore you to check out this ad:

DAH.

THE EMOTIONS!

(I never said that this ploy didn’t work, now did I?)

ONE THING though – if you’re going to bring your family over in the middle of the winter, feeding them terrible coffee isn’t going to make the transition any easier! JUST SAYING.

The one thing that actually does bother me about Tim Hortons is that I have a hard time believing that people actually like it as much as they purport to LOVE it.

It’s like this business has woven itself into our national framework (mythology?) to such an extent, that we no longer know what we actually want in terms of coffee and baked goods.

Or, perhaps that it’s that we’ve convinced ourselves that easy access, trumps quality.

For instance, Tim Hortons jingle used to be: “Always Fresh, Always, Tim Horntons.” And now it’s just “Always Tim Hortons.”

(Or it might be “Time for Tim’s – I’m not sure. Since throwing away cable for Netflix, my ability to keep up with this inane crap has been severely compromised.)

Anywho, if it is indeed “Always Tim Hortons”, that is apt as all get out, because they are indeed EVERYWHERE.

And it’s not like there is anything all that great about the foodstuffs available for purchase at any of these restaurants.

Its hot chocolate is okay, its coffee – as previously stated – is just awful.

Their baked goods run the gamut of delicious (honey cruellers and sour cream glazed) to absolutely dismal (anything claiming to be “old fashioned” tastes of dish soap and will completely destroy your will to live.)

I’ve never been a fan of the Iced Capp, but those that do would give away their first born when a craving hits.

Their bagels are okay, but are always smothered in so much cream cheese you start to wonder what it’s actually made out of that they give it away in such liberal amounts.

What can I say?

I’ve never, ever in my life woken up and thought: I want nothing more than ***** from Tim Horton’s.

But the other night, whilst out with friends and family, what did we IMMEDIATELY do once we left the bar?

Oh you betcha:

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What can I say?

At my inner most core, I am Canadian.

(But only when soaked in white wine!)

OH MY GOODNESS I CANNOT BELIEVE I JUST WROTE AN 800 WORD POST ON TIM HORTONS.

Yeesh.

Please dear readers. I blame it on post-travel nackeredness. Eight hours on a plane will do that to you!

I really must be off for (another) shower and sleep.

I’ll be back to our regular scheduled program in but the (40) winks of an eye.

In the meantime, tell me your Tim Hortons stories.

We’ll see if we can get them made into a commercial.

Always.

(Tim Hortons.)