Reason #1,476 why I love The Sweetie:

Last night I had a zombie nightmare. Zombies rank very high on my list of terrifying creatures. There is something very unseemly about being devoured by the living dead. I have never fully recovered from watching “Night of the Living Dead”, ”Dawn of the Dead”, and “Day of the Dead”. Obviously I am a sick glutton for punishment because as much as these movies horrify me I remain strangely fascinated. A few years ago “28 Days Later” elevated the undead to a whole new level with the introduction of fast moving zombies. At least clumsy, slow zombies, tenacious as they were, offered a slight chance of escape. The idea of athletic, running zombies is too much to bear. Of course, I went on to see “28 Weeks Later” and was traumatized by Robert Carlyle as a sprinting and scheming zombie. I remember reading a review where he was described as the Stephen Hawking of zombies.

You would think that I would learn. I get frightened enough on my own without any celluloid help.

As a result of zombie movie overload I am often plagued with nightmares. Last night’s involved being trapped in an army training camp full of zombies. I escaped, armed with a crappy looking rake that couldn’t battle leaves, let alone military zombies. I was running through dark woods, knowing that the undead were on the march and that I had little chance of survival.

I woke with a start, looked at the time and saw that it was 3 am, the Witching Hour. Now I was extra frightened and needed to pee. Knowing that evil spirits and zombies have a fondness for bathrooms and late night surprise attacks, there was no way I was going to pee alone. That would be asking for it. I nudged The Sweetie who was fast asleep.

“I had a zombie nightmare,” I whispered.

Silence, other than his deep breathing, which almost sounded like a garbled zombie-esque growl.

I kicked him and then plugged his nostrils until he gasped for breath and awoke.

“Don’t you have to go pee?” I asked.

The Sweetie does not believe in zombies or ghosts or the witching hour or any of the other things make solo 3 a.m bathroom trips difficult. Nonetheless, he got up and stumbled to the bathroom so that I wasn’t alone in facing evil spirits lying in wait. He didn’t call me crazy or remind me that he had tried to stop me from watching any more zombie movies. He has promised that he will never pretend to turn into a zombie, as much as it would amuse him.

He is an indulgent and patient zombie protector and my 3 a.m. hero.

I am on the cusp of my forty-second birthday and I still don’t have a driver’s license.  I didn’t have a desire to drive when I was sixteen. I figured I’d get around to it eventually and obviously, I wasn’t in a hurry.

A few years ago I started to feel kind of pathetic about not driving. Shortly after my thirty-fifth birthday I went to the ministry of transportation office and took the learner’s permit test. I failed. I didn’t think I needed to study the finicky rules such as the number of demerit points I would lose by speeding past a stopped school bus, or how long my license would be suspended for drinking and driving. I was sure that the police officer would inform me of such things if I were caught.

I re-took the test a few weeks later, passed, and signed up for driving lessons with Young Drivers of Canada. It was humiliating to sign on for something named young drivers at the age of thirty five, and I wished that they had a Middle Aged Drivers of Canada, or a Better Late Than Never course. Fortunately my equally aged girlfriend signed on with me. She and I had a running joke about doing our own version of Thelma and Louise where we envisioned ourselves on the lam, driving across the United States. Instead of driving a convertible with our hair blowing in the wind, we’d have to hire a cab. At the end when we’d drive off  the Grand Canyon like Susan Sarandon and Genna Davis, we imagined tipping the driver extra well and holding hands in the backseat as we’d careen into oblivion.

The in-class lessons were excruciatingly boring and humbling, as we were the only old crones in a classroom filled with pimply, giggling sixteen year olds. Once that ordeal was over I began my in-car lessons with Norman, a kind and patient man unable to look me in the eye and with an unfortunate affliction of always having spit balls collected in the  corners of his mouth. I wanted to feel a bond with Norman as we embarked on this learning journey together, but I hit a brick wall, once almost literally, as Norman desperately pumped the brake on his side and grabbed the steering wheel.

I’m not a natural at driving. I have a hard time with basic hand over hand turns. I feel a little car sick if I have to look behind me for too long when backing up. I have a terrible sense of direction and can’t gauge space and distance. I have a tendency to be a bit high strung and I startle easily.

The Sweetie did not like driving practice with me. I made him very, very nervous. He knew I was nervous, which made him nervous, which made me more nervous. I developed huge sweat marks under my arms every time I was behind the wheel. I’d hear him practicing his deep breathing exercises as he’d be white knuckling the dashboard in front of him.

Things came to a head one afternoon when we went for a drive along some side streets. In my defense, the road was snow covered and slippery. As I rounded the corner a little too fast I started to skid toward a parked SUV. Instead of pressing the brake I pressed the accelerator. As we sped towards the car and heard a disembodied womanly scream ( The Sweetie) all I could think was, “We don’t have the money to pay for that.” Luckily, he grabbed the wheel in time and steered us away from disaster. He then promptly ordered me out of the car. That was the last time we practiced together.

That was six years ago.

Lately, I’ve started thinking about driving again. My parents will be needing more help getting around to appointments and errands. What will I do when we finally get a dog and he wants to go on walking excursions in remote wooded areas?  What if The Sweetie and I want to go on a really long road trip, wouldn’t it be fair to share the drive? I decided that I have to give driving another go.

I signed up for another round of in-class lessons every Tuesday evening for the next eight weeks, and in-car lessons with someone named Jeff. Poor Jeff. He doesn’t know what’s coming for him. I will have to grit my teeth, buy The Sweetie some Valium, warn my loved ones when I will be on the road, and hope for the best. I have to feel the fear and carry on, and if after giving it another go I am still too scared I will throw in the driving towel and start a cab fare fund.

My sister was in town this weekend with my niece and nephew. I received some toothless grins from my niece and felt very honoured when my nephew demanded cuddles and wanted me to read him his bedtime story. It feels very special to be singled out by a toddler.

Despite enjoying my auntie time, I have not reconsidered thawing my frozen womb for children of my own. That is until I saw this brilliant video on the marvelous Drollgirl’s blog. I may need to have a baby solely for the purpose of setting up scenarios such as this one. The baby is wearing a fanny pack for God’s sake. I know it is wrong but how can something so wrong feel so right?

I may have to start collecting props, practicing my marionette skills and convince my sister to leave the little ones with their auntie for an extended visit.

I have a confession to make. I am one of those people who swoons at cute animals and spends too many hours chuckling at websites like Cute Overload. I have not yet succumbed to having posters of kittens hanging from trees with captions like “Hang in there!” or some such cheese, but I am a sucker for cute.

The temperature outside is minus 27C with the windchill. I returned from my beach vacation less than a week ago and I am already complaining about the weather. In an attempt to cheer myself, I have been spending an inordinate amount of time looking at this guy, wondering how I can lure him to my house.

I’ve also been watching this video. If cutesy makes you want to break things, turn away, but if some saccharine goodness in the form of fuzzy animals and a slightly demonic soundtrack floats your boat, watch and enjoy. And forgive me. It is really, really cold outside.

It snowed all night long, which made for a pretty winter wonderland for all of fifteen minutes or so this morning before everything became a huge brown slushy mess.

I was supposed to have an appointment this morning and could not get to it because the street was closed off by the police. Apparently someone went berserk, stole a snow plow and went on a driving rampage through the streets, instigating a police chase. Normally I would have found this amusing. The idea of someone losing their mind in the winter does not strike me as far fetched. Going on a crazed tear in a snow plow is perfect for January. Unfortunately a police officer was killed, so the event became tragic.

Unable to go to my appointment I stomped through the slushy streets, my eyes streaming from the wind, looking for something that could lift my spirits. I gazed at pubs longingly, thinking of how warm and inviting they would be and how cozy it would be to sidle into a booth and sit in the dark with a pint. Then I realized it was ten in the morning and walked on. I trudged back home, tripped on my boots as I tried to fling them off, managed to step into every wet spot on the floor that I had trailed in with me and am now sitting with my bathrobe over my clothes and the space heater blasting.

Winter has settled in and it is ugly. I am going to bake cornbread, put some soup on and hope that all of my clients cancel today.

Doris McCarthy, amazing Canadian artist, teacher and all around kick ass icon died on Thursday at the age of one hundred.

She was an inspiration and idol of mine, not so much for her art as for her fearless attitude and passion.

Years ago I read an article in which she was quoted as saying that she hoped her nineties would be as exciting as her eighties. It was accompanied by a photo of her, a wizened gingerbread type figure with gnarled arthritic hands standing before a huge canvas.

What on earth could make her feel excited to get out of bed every morning at ninety? Who could be so zesty? Her creative force and drive to express herself floored me. She was a bold and brave independent spirit.

I instantly fell in love with her. I clipped the article and pasted it in my notebook of important touchstones along with a photo of a monkey being arrested and led away in handcuffs, The Sweetie’s favourite oatmeal cookie recipe and a photo of a snake biting a man on the forehead.

Years ago the University of Toronto opened up a new wing in her honour. I went to the opening, determined that I would finally meet my idol. She was radiant, sitting in a wheelchair, full of energy and grace. I stood in line to meet her, my palms sweaty, willing myself not to frighten her with my gushing. The Sweetie was ready with the camera to take a commemorative photo. Unfortunately, I appear to have been hit in the back of the head with a broom and my teeth look six inches long. It looks as though I am lunging at poor Doris and intend to bite her head off. Somehow, over the years, the photo has disappeared. I will have to search for it and paste it next to my torn out article about her. She wouldn’t be derailed by a bad photo or hindered by vanity.

I can only hope that my forties will be as vital and exciting as her nineties were.