It's true. I was eating. That is all.
* * *
It’s no secret that both the Mrs and I are Canadian.
Geez, if you really wanted to be stealthy, you could click on that Twitter link in my bio and discover it says Ontario, Canada in my profile.
(Cyber stalk me, I dare you. You’ll probably end up more confused than I am. — The Mrs and I recently discovered Pinterest. It’s a wormhole of visual crack. She deserves credit for the “visual crack” part of that definition, but the “wormhole” is all mine. Please visit the wormhole — we’ll share the visual crack. We like to share here. Recipes, goofiness, geekiness, procrastination, questionable parenting, it’s all up for grabs.)
Anyhow... I was saying...
Ah, beautiful Ontario.
With your picturesque lakes, your serene forests, your seemingly endless expanses of unpopulated land, and we can’t forget your earthquakes and tornadoes...
...
Wait, what?
Oh no, that’s right. I almost forgot.
On Tuesday I felt the earth move. (Sorry, Mr Lannis, not that way.)
And on Wednesday two cats decided to staple themselves to my legs, while I was unrolling kidlet sleeping bags in our basement and contemplating crapping my pants because thunder and lightning were entertaining each other on our roof(!) and according to Environment Canada, there was a serious chance we could have been relocating for a second time in one year and this time not voluntarily!
Did I mention Mr Lannis was at work during this apocalyptic storm?
And of course, the kidlets slept through it, as kids are wont to do.
The cats, of course, spent the entire time galloping through the house, terrified, enough so that Shakespeare’s next morning looked kind of like this:
And this:
And Minette just wanted to make sure her playhouse hadn’t blown away.
She seemed concerned.
The earthquake, though, that was kind of cool. (The Mrs missed it — she tells me she was busy eating.)
A quick jiggle of the recliner on a sunny afternoon — seconds after I’d watched Twitter alight with the news of an earthquake down south, or lordy, I probably wouldn’t have recognized it for what it was...
At first I’d thought Mr Lannis had bumped the chair on his way past, until I realized he was sitting. And that the gentle rocking was lasting way longer than it should have... maybe twenty seconds or so.
When I squealed “earthquake!” Mr Lannis and I leapt to our feet, all giddy with excitement, checking hanging plants and frames on the walls for signs of movement.
Lord help us if the Big One every strikes our neighbourhood — we’re dead for sure.
Zombies? We’ve baseball bats and Mr Lannis has a tidy stash of firearms locked in his gun cabinet. I regularly wear this shirt and it’s no joke:
It’s a freaking public service announcement.
But earthquake? A significant one? We’re definitely the dimwits hypnotized by the swinging of the chandelier when the lights shudder loose and come crashing down on our skulls.
Doorways? Wha? I thought you were supposed to get into a bathtub?
Oh? That’s for tornadoes? My mistake.
Oh, wait. Apparently that’s handy info for our neck of the woods, lately, too.
Speaking of, I don’t know about the rest of you Ontarians (Ontario-ers? whatever you call us in On-tari-o — shoot, now that song is in my head...), but I prefer my weather boring, and my buildings stationary.
Snow. Even soul-crushing, shoulder-high-piling, good-god-make-it-stop-please-I’ll-have-another-child-just-so-I-can-give-it-up-and-appease-you, four letter word: S.N.O.W., I will gladly take.
At least it melts. Eventually.
But this insanity? Heart-racing, panic-inducing, brick-lodged-in-my-chest-where-my-heart-should-be WEATHER?
It’s. Not. Cool.
And no, that’s not a joke about snow.
We don’t joke about snow. We’re Canadian. We know better.
Excuse me, I need to go build
GAH!
I live in a small town with my favourite people: my husband, Mr Lannis, and our two boys, along with two cats and one hamster.
If you follow me on Twitter, you might witness my issues with linear thought, road rage, spending more money on food than books, and potty mouth. Be warned.
