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Dear Diary – It’s week 24 in 2021 and it’s beginning to look like there’s light at the end of the tunnel. It could be a freight train bearing down on us…or maybe it’s just the roadrunner on a push and pull. Either way, like a truck, we’ll know when it hits us! I’m just worried it’s going to hit us right before the official start of summer!

A few provincial restrictions were lifted on Friday, 2 days early because of “good behaviour”. Which is always questionable, but I digress. As expected, the restless, housebound natives behaved like teenagers when Mom and Dad are away, and partied hard with their friends. Patio lights, fireworks, and the foul speech of a drunken sot lit up the neighbourhood all weekend. Remember, I’m Gladys Kravitz! I see everything! Part of me just doesn’t care anymore – no one listens to me anyway! The other sanctimonious part of me is silently hoping for an inconvenient consequence to present itself to them, one that won’t trip up my trip to the country. Like everyone else, I’m ready to blow this pop stand!

My anxious friend has spent a few days now, off and on, trying to book my second covid vaccinations. It seems everyone is panicking to get it, as if that will somehow “save summer”. People are triple booking appointments, and then choosing which one best accomodates their busy schedule. Except there’s still nowhere to go, and we all still need hair cuts! Now they’re temporarily “out” of vaccine. It’s like a twisted virtual version of the hunger games.

May the odds be ever in your favour.

Suzanne Collins

Dear Diary – Hubby and I picked the hottest day of the week to make the necessary trek to mail a cheque. To pay a bill. It’s the old-school way, but after my 27 hour long day last month, I didn’t want to risk my credit information falling into the wrong hands. My nerves are still a little raw. By the time we arrived 15 minutes later, I was mouth-breathing heavily and sweating glowing like a pig.

Twenty years! We’ve lived in our crappy house in this crappy neighbourhood for 20 years, and the dinged red postal box has always been there. Except today.

Was it stolen? Abducted by aliens? A Canadian time machine? Maybe some intoxicated middle-aged hooligans went on a mailbox spree, because anyone younger might not know what a mailbox is for…

Suffice it to say, the walk home was faster because now I was on a mission and I was going to be late for my comedy club meeting. We hopped in our air-conditioned car and drove to the next closest mailbox…only to discover that it too had vanished into thin air.

Mailing a letter is no longer an environmentally-friendly and health-conscious activity when we have to drive 6.8 km to the nearest box!

Dear Diary – I feel so stupid. I threw leftover potatoes in the microwave at the last minute, tossing a cover over it and slamming the door shut. Twenty seconds later, something exploded. I shrieked and opened the door. I had covered the potatoes with the metal lid from my stock pot and the end of the lid had blown off. Thankfully no potatoes were harmed in this disaster, and the microwave still works. My ability to handle household applicances has, however, been called into question, but since no one else wants to cook…

Dear Diary – It’s been 2 years since I knocked “Attend Skillet Concert” off my bucket list! Not only was it an awesome evening, I got to share it with my boys. By the night’s end, our muscles were sore from dancing, our voices were whispers, and we were flying high! We even stopped for donuts on the way home. It was legendary!

Speaking of donuts, I stopped at Tim Horton’s on National Donut Day. With the long drive-thru line, I went inside to avoid the long drive-thru line. Usually it’s way faster! Not that night. I hate how the people, who are too lazy to get our of their cars, get treated like royalty, while those of us who enter are treated like parasites. I know my legs are so white but are they really objects to be reviled? Does my terrific tush not deserve donuts too?

Four people worked the window while two others made food; no one was watching the restaurant. I seriously toyed with the idea of self-serve. I mean, would they really notice? After 5 minutes, I asked the gentleman standing at the cash if he’d been served. He rolled his eyes and nodded “no”, so I yelled. Yes, I became a Karen and I used my “Mom” voice: “Excuse me!” Every head twisted in my direction. “Is anyone serving the customes IN your restaurant?” I asked. The teen behind me snickered. The employees exchanged glances, with slackened jaws and fearful eyes.

I won’t lie – it was satisfying.

I was polite to the lady who finally stepped up, and, by golly, I got my 3 donuts, but it shouldn’t have taken fifteen minutes! That’s why today, I’m making my own! Hopefully… I won’t blow anything up!

Dear Diary – The regional gardening facebook page patrons confirmed my fears. I’m growing grass, and not the kind you can smoke. I planted 5 different types of herbs and only 2 are making an appearance. The rest of the planter is weeds and really healthy grass. The irony is that I can’t get grass to grow in the yard.

Dear Diary – The next time someone tells me I’m over-reacting when I complain about physio torture, I’m showing them this photo. It felt WAY worse than it looks!

It got prettier and prettier…

I couldn’t wear a bra for 2 days and I was afraid I was going to turn too quickly and give someone a black eye.

Dear Diary – What does a killer fluffy bunny, harem-loving, basket-weaving sweat shop cult leader look like? Occasionally I like to re-read former blog posts. This one came from Dashboard Batman and I can’t help wondering, what happened to that creative, off-the-wall person inside. I’ve known for awhile that my blog is lacking sparkle. That’s one of the reasons I took an Intro to Comedy Writing course. A course offered on Facebook has to be of the highest quality, right?

I decided to start my midlife crisis because I had spent too much of my life crying and it was time to laugh. I want to be that crazy, blue-haired lady in the nursing home, who, when I’m stirring up trouble in the halls, sits quietly in the corner laughing to myself (or at myself) because I have some great memories.

My point is this: I just want to say thanks to the 3 readers who tune in regularly and comment often to encourage me. It’s so much more fun to laugh at myself, when someone else is laughing with me. Let’s all keep our eyes open and just enjoy the opera of the every day. One day the fat lady will sing and the opera will be over, and I don’t know about you, but I want those who have journeyed with me to be able to say, “she lived life fully, even if she never had a “full” life”!

Life is too short to be serious all the time. So, if you can’t laugh at yourself…call me. I’ll laugh with you.