Johnny and I were talking wild mushrooms over pints a few seasons back. A tall "handsome" looking champignon popped up and stalked the conversation enough to interrupt. "Have you ever had lobster mushrooms?" He asked. I replied that I had not. He offered to give me some, brought up his motorcycle and migrated to our table. This was truffle for Johnny. Some unmemorable alpha-beta conversation ego-trip went on for miles and he got up to leave. The mushroom offer was a thinly veiled reason to join him outside, Johnny watched my beer (I tasted tear later). He did own a motorcycle and lobster mushrooms. Both were ratty looking but would work. "You'll have to clean them but they're still good," he said handing me 2 hastily picked, not properly cut mushrooms in a crumpled paper bag. I hadn't finished saying "Than--" when he cut me off and had the gill to ask if I wanted "to go bang behind that van over there?" Parking lot stranger sex is not the feather my cap needs. Despite the intoxicating effect of his shitake beard, I declined. "Okay how about we just go make out behind it?" he said, stepped closer put his hands on my hips and TRIED TO KISS ME! I'm not sure what part of 'I DON'T WANNA BANG BEHIND A VAN' meant "Don't Stipe"? But do I look like I wanna get raped behind one? I guess it's not rape if he gives you something or coerces you to do something you don't want to do, oh wait, that's exactly what IT IS. I didn't spore a second before pushing him away laughing like I was high on mushrooms. Lobster man cried "BUT I GAVE YOU MUSHROOMS!" I gave him a mush too nice view of my button the way back in and yelled: "Exactly! You ALREADY GAVE me the mushrooms!" 🦞👌🍄 #lobstermushroom #puffball #indeep #metoo #delicious #robappleton @ Gladstone Brewing Co.

..Is in my memories. Breathtaking places on this magical island melt my heart, mapped in my mind. Fun stops that start when the puppy first meets a salmon! Lunch with latitude to orcas. Meandering for mushrooms in forests. And a benchmark of Bays is berry wine and bears.

I should seriously ease up. It's been almost 30 years since the first member of my immediate family died. And his opinion of me was, is and always will be: "You're special. I love you. You can do anything." And everyone once in a while he'd throw in a: "Promise me you won't grow up to be a stupid b*tch!" That one is hard. It's made more difficult by the sheer volume of people out there making stupid b*tch a verb. (I'm docile till provoked, like an alligator). Like some people (more than I realized), I'm the last member of my immediate family. (Pretty sure I'll die alone from the residual trauma of the sh*t show, so that's handy). This wouldn't be so terrible if I didn't attract so many people. You get sick of explaining your unorthodox background. Then you get smart and start explaining it simply, sounding like whole milk hymns and using as few words as possible. It gets easier to do. It gets easier to deal. It's not even that bad when you leave out the unpleasant parts. Or you hear some of the other entries from people in the 'who had it worst' contest. Humaning is difficult sometimes. Sometimes it's so easy I forget that it's all in my head. It's actually enjoyable! I get along with people but that often becomes a problem. People feel really comfortable with me. Too comfortable. Expressing their love or dislike. Usually of me, to me. Off the hop it's obvious there's something different. But not what*. I don't own a Lambo. My daddy's not an Ambassador. I'm not a nurse. I don't have a handsome husband or beautiful kids. I'm not actively attempting to save lives here or abroad. I'm not in a church. I don't have a large loving family. I can't advance anyone's career with my connections. I don't play the violin or cello. I'm not friends with a celebrity. I can only show so much compassion. I'm not a volunteer in a third world country. I don't take expensive tropical vacations. I'm not anyone's bridesmaid or bride. Sometimes people get p*ssed off at me because I'm not impressed. Like, I'm obligated to validate someone's purchases, endeavours or existence because they're in my face? lol Ironically, not trying to impress people is incredibly impressive to some people! Like reading a book at a pub or brewery (extra points if it's in German). There's no one left to impress. (Foot off the gas). If I had someone to impress I might not wake up every morning to inevitable death with the pragmatic relaxed manner of a long-suffering loving wife. I might not feel like I'm resetting everything for nothing? Or worse, I need to be further than here. Further than me. First world problems make me feel bad for having them. And for feeling bad, for feeling bad. I feel pretty bad for being here in the first place (we even?) 😄. *I do own a mint old Dodge that I don't spend much to get serviced and learn how to maintain myself for free. My granddad was a superhero. I'm whatever I need to be when I need to be it. I have "...a 1,000 lonely husbands" (I'm "playing footsie in another dimension"). I've worked, volunteered, hung out with and cared about other people's beautiful kids. I saved a 6-year-old boy's life once, and I always wonder if that exposed him to years of abuse? I work at a Sunday school, and I was Jebus' mom Mary in my school's grade 7 Christmas pageant. I have a large loving group of dead relatives and friends. Living people that like me, love me a lot (and people that hate me, I give a d*mn good reason). I make people feel more confident or proud with my presence; cracking jokes, stating facts, smiling silently, helping out, feeding dogs, jury-rigging... I play drums, well enough to jam (anyone can fiddle if they play the violin for fun, on shrooms). I'm friends with people who don't use me. I can only be real (but I will humour people). I'm still alive because I can volunteer in a first world country with blind individuals, service dogs, children, vets... I was born in the Miss Universe factory which is essentially growing up in a (poor, but happy) tropical vacation. I'm not dead yet. And I'm still too consumed to feel comfortable being anything to anyone. Plus, c'mon, Stacey and Vince style or nothing! Dude's gonna have to man up, step up. Not live with (or to impress) his mom. I do have a bad habit of dating boys who let me down, posers, who have treated me like it's a privilege I'm with them ("cause you're white or??! Oh, it's cause you're mormon, okay"), who let me make "maximum effort". Someone once told me narcissists (people that use people) know how to pick out someone 'nice' or kind. They know you'll put in the work, care about them and if they treat you 'less than great'? They know you'll put up with it and probably even try harder to make up for their lack. Who deserves that? I know, "I ain't all that bad, but I ain't all that great..." And there's no scale of justice for all. So there's no need for the judge. No blame in having standards though 😘

A name wasn't what they called me. What they called me identified me by the colour of my skin. The colour of mud. The colour of faded, lead-based paint. The paint on a broken, battered old truck. I felt drawn to it. Out in a mossy, mushy field of broken dreams alone. It sat long enough to sink into the pungent, thick mud. Still, it cut a menacing shape in the dim light. Wind rustling what little grass and sticks managed to claw skywards. Plodding toward it through the muck I thought of hunting in the marshes. I imagined it heading toward someone on an empty country lane. The last set of headlights they'd ever see coming out of the night. A night similar to this? The landscape illuminated by moonlight and memories. An unusual chill to the air for this time of year. As if the warmth of the world had no reason to come into this field near this junked out, forgotten wreck. The smell of soil mixed with the perfume of rot, oxidizing metal and in my imagination, the faintest hint of denim. Peeking inside the window I tasted the dust of time and motor oil. Oil that long ago leaked into the ground. The vintage smells accelerated my imagination. Till I thought the headlights would blaze to life. Round yellow eyes in a dark metal face. Grill twisting into a painful smile. Suddenly lurching to drag me into the rusty earth. Ridiculous. The musty air seemed dead. No living thing could be heard or seen. The crown jewel of a family of ghosts. Slowly driving itself into the ground.

30 minutes later Charles and Sarah took in the glory that was Don DeWolf's office door before rapping as politely, yet firmly as possible. It had seemed like 30 days and they'd reached the wall of their impatience. “Enter!” Came the booming voice from inside. They walked in together and crossed the room, nervously looking around. “Is everything alright Sir?” Charles said as calmly as possible. “Yes Chuc-, Charles, forgive me,” Don said gesturing at him, “Why wouldn't it be?” “We-we-w-were just wanted, to follow-up about that woma-, about the test results” Charles stuttered. “For protocol!” Sarah added clearly. “...In case we have a situation like that again. Where someone cheats?” she finished unsurely. Don DeWolf looked at the bag in her hands. “We DIDN'T have a situation. You're correct dear, she did cheat. And not in a very clever way either! I can tell you after a brief conversation I was able to deduce what and how she had managed to confuse both you and the program.” Sarah and Charles let out a collective breath and their shoulders relaxed half a millimeter. DeWolf barked on. “I've taken the liberty of seeing the trouble out. Not only myself but the whole organization thanks you for your service to us.” She and Chuck both blushed. She was so elated she almost dropped the woman's bag. “I will personally see that you are both credited for your professional conduct, perhaps a rise in the ranks for your displays of good judgment today? I'll also see that gets back to its rightful owner. You can leave it on the desk, Ms. Connor.” The formal use of her name snapped her back to reality. “That will be all for today. Please see yourselves out and thank you again.” Mr. DeWolf finished. She placed the bag on the desk, they bowed, thanked Mr. DeWolf and both left the room at the speed of light. It was rare and completely unheard of, for recruits as new as them to receive praise much less earn promotion. They flashed their toothy grins again. Except now they really had something to smile about. Don picked up the woman's bag. He reached inside and rummaged around till he found a little plastic tube. He held it up. Inside a beautifully rolled cone waited for him. He reached over, grabbed a beautiful gold handle and opened a large desk drawer. The woman's clothes had been so hastily stuffed in there a piece of her sock was sticking out. He dug around and pulled out jeans. Inside the front pocket, he found a lighter. He opened the tube and proceeded to achieve cruising altitude. As he watched the smoke spiral out for the second time that day he looked around the room for a smoke detector but didn't see one. This wasn't what I was planning on doing today but ‘what the heck right?' Don DeWolf hadn't been planning on what would happen when he grabbed my bare arm with his bare hand either. I didn't know where he went, but he was gone before my empty clothes crumpled to the white wool carpet. I also didn't know who they were. I've heard 'THEY' say: "you only live once". But not how many leaves you could turn over, in that time.