WriteOut of Her Mind

I like the word “awe.” It’s a good word. I also like to experience awe.  The Cambridge Dictionary defines it as “a feeling of great respect sometimes mixed with fear or surprise.” Accurate.

It was his turn to make the tea, but to sweeten the deal, my beloved spouse, the Carpenter, delivered not only a hot cup of black tea, but two tiny white powdered sugar donuts. Is it wrong that my first thought was, “What has he done wrong?”

When I was a child, if I was naughty (which only happened twice, I swear), my parents would send me to my room until they deemed my punishment sufficient and granted me permission to rejoin the rest of the family. 

The Easter Bunny lives with us. It turns out he lives in a den beneath the deck that was the former residence of the groundhog, also known as Winston the Whistle Pig, who had zero consideration for my morning meditations on the patio last summer. What a racket.

Thank you, Spring, for taking this meeting with me. Please be seated. I feel like it’s best to start the season off on equal footing. I’d like to take this opportunity to discuss our expectations and target outcomes for the next quarter.

Insomnia is something I struggle with sporadically. Busy brain syndrome. The gift of those who are over-achieving, hyper-sensitive, over-thinkers. Me at 3am.

March has come into season like a lamb, nice and easy, which, for all of us afflicted with superstitious sentiments, means it will surely go out like a lion (kind of like the drunk uncle forcibly removed from a family reunion). 

I have a few tell-tale signs of a full moon rising that are based solely on my behaviour, thus, I’d like to apologize to my beloved Carpenter for the volatile week.

Four-eyes. Remember when that was the kind of insult that burned?

With Valentine’s Day upon us, I am reminded that I really don’t enjoy this romantic pseudo-holiday tradition, despite being very much in love with my spouse, the Carpenter.

I am so excited for this weekend I’m not sure how I’ll get through the next few days with any focus, except that of wishing time would fly faster, because this coming weekend promises several rough spectator sports, like watching the Carpenter sit through the Super Bowl. 

Rejection is a part of life that, in my experience, can make you or break you. It’s your choice. 

The best defence is a good offence, they say, so this is my defence for why I placed third-last in my inaugural NFL Pool contest: I had no idea what I was doing. 

Don’t rush to judgement on this, but every night since Christmas I’ve gone to bed with Geddy Lee, the lead singer of Canadian rock band Rush.

I began writing this column from my bed a week ago, propped up with pillows, tucked between my flannel polar bear sheets and my duvet.