First let me say: given its extreme unlikelihood, I spend a great deal of time planning for a future zombie apocalypse.

Second let me say: why is it always a zombie apocalypse? Why don’t we worry as much about possible vampire apocalypses, or werewolf apocalypses, or ogre apocalypses? Perhaps I should be dividing my end-of-the-world dithering.

Third, let us move on the main point: in the event of a zombie apocalypse, where would you want to live?

Most the world’s population is gone, so you can basically choose any house or building you want. Try to choose something with solid doors and walls and windows, I think that’s a given. But beyond that, there are so many choices.

Would you stay somewhere cold, in the hopes the zombies would freeze or wander south? Or would you want somewhere warm, for better self-survival qualities?

Would you want to live somewhere grand, like Rideau Hall, or Neuschwanstein Castle, or the Sydney Opera House? Or somewhere fun with lots of places to hide from zombies, like the Winchester Mystery House?

Would you want to bunker down, to increase chances of survival long term – maybe in a Costco or Walmart? Would you want to choose somewhere open where you could see ’em coming, like a desert ranch in Montana? Or maybe something more like a beach house in Hawaii, possibly safe due to an ocean moat, but if not, at least a beautiful end?

I think, for myself, I’d choose a giant library. Books, as far as the eye can see. Sure, there’s not a lot of food. Or weapons. But there are books about how to find those things! Or make those things!

I’d cozy up in some hidden nook with 100 novels and barely notice the outside world.

Almost makes me wish for a zombie apocalypse.

I recently had an epiphany.

(Don’t discourage me if this seems obvious. I am a little slow at discovery, sometimes.)

It’s this: all families have their own way of communicating.

Of course, there are things like in-jokes, shared memories, familiar foods, holiday traditions.

But beyond that, there’s a set of rules about what’s allowed, and what’s not, when it comes to interacting with each other, and this is unique.

I had this revelation at my niece’s wedding last spring. Two of my nephews, who are brothers, were roughhousing, shoving each other, dishing out headlocks, pinching arms in boredom while they waited for dinner to be served.

We are very much a no-hitting family and even play-fighting was a big no-no.

But battling with words, now that was allowed. Applauded even, if you could get in a good zinger. Bonus points if it calls back to previous slings and arrows.

So while my nephews were shoving each other, my kids looked on with horror. But moments later, as they bantered back in forth with a serious of sarcastic take-downs, it was my nephews’ turn to look on with huge eyes. The very idea that people who were related to each other talked to each other like that? Unthinkable.

It was maybe the first time I really saw my own nuclear family’s culture as viewed by outsiders, and I realized that the way I feel when I see my nephews pushing and jostling – overwhelmed with the urge to get in there and break it up, followed by a lecture – is exactly how they feel when they see our battles of wits.

Quite the head spinner.

And now I’m thinking: there must be millions of sets of rules like this, one set for each family. How does anyone ever learn to fit into other families? How to you build one of your own with found persons who grew up with an entirely different set of rules?

It’s kind of a miracle, when you think about it.

How does your family communicate?

I didn’t pick a word of the year for 2024, but if I had to in hindsight, pandemonium might be a good fit. There certainly were many little spirits in the air, a twisting and turning of the fates, a general unmooring from anything that could be called an anchor.

I signed my separation papers, and got a mortgage in my own name. I am officially on my own. I spent four hours installing new smoke detectors with the help of Gal Smiley. I’m working on cleaning out the basement.

I got sick, and my mother did too; I got better, and she did not.

I changed roles at work three different times.

I got an offer to write a book; I wrote a book; I sent it in and continue to wait with held breath for them to confirm that they’re actually going to publish it.

I went to Vancouver and Mexico for work, Cambridge for my niece’s wedding, and Toronto and Montreal for concerts. But mostly I stayed at home a lot and wrote and wrote and wrote, and listened to records and did puzzles and drank tea.

My hair got greyer – white in places, even – and I got some more wrinkles. I ate a lot of really delicious treats (no regrets) and went up two pant sizes (okay, some regrets).

I took a lot of naps. Like, literally whenever I felt like it.

I sent approximately one million text messages to my sisters and friends, and made at least a thousand social media posts. Perhaps this is why I never felt lonely this year, despite the losses and trials, despite the flying solo.

My kids grew up and I’m really proud of them. They are off telling their own stories.

Shall I pick a word of the year for 2025?

In a way, I want it to be the anti-2024. Stable. Sane. Calm. Predictable. Content.

But 2024 showed me what I’m made of, what I’m capable of, and that is no terrible thing. So if 2025 wants to step up to the plate and take a swing at me too, I’m ready for the chaos, the new, the crazy.

Bring on the pandemonium.

I was saying to Gal Smiley this week that I don’t feel as old as 54. I still feel relatively energetic and plenty enthusiastic. I have plans, big plans, so many places to go and projects to accomplish and closets to clean out.

54 is for grey-haired grandmothers (okay, I do have the hair on lock). It’s for people who tsk-tsk when song lyrics include the word fuck and people who spend too much time monitoring their neighbours’ comings and goings. It’s for people who are comfortable with the places they know and the viewpoints they already have, and aren’t looking to change the world-as-they-know-it.

That’s not me. Is it?

I’ve had a couple years of huge change. I’m still in the same house in the same town, but I’m flying solo, working a new job, adjusting to losses in my family, both by choice and not by choice. I’ve travelled to more places in the past two years than I have ever before in my life. I’m working hard to keep up with developments in the world of pronouns (a work in progress) and to learn to make TikToks. I wrote a book. I’ve tried therapy for the first time and I’m learning a lot about what makes me tick, embracing the parts I want to celebrate, letting go of the parts that have been holding me back.

I feel like I still have a lot to learn, and I think learning is what keeps us young (that and a good eye cream, feel free to drop me your recommendations). I still swear like a sailor and I still leave the house after 8 p.m. on occasion for karaoke (rare occasions, but still). I still have a 25 year mortgage and I still don’t understand how to report stocks on my taxes. And if I’m now struggling to read small print even with bifocals, and huffing and puffing a bit when I climb stairs, these seem like minor things.

I’m still young at heart, I guess is what I’m trying to say. It’s cliché but I guess clichés happen for a reason. I’m looking outward at the world in wonder still, and I hope you are too.

I have a saying that my children are very familiar with. It’s this:

“If it can’t survive the washing machine and the dryer, it has no place in this house.”

We’ve all been there. Bought something that is “lay flat to dry” or “turn inside out before washing on delicate” and to those things I say, you will washer, you will dryer, or die in the attempt.

Heaven help anything that makes it into this house that attempts to be “dry clean only.”

The other day I felt myself slipping into old patterns, namely this: I was bending over backwards to impress someone who didn’t seem to care. I was trying to be someone I wasn’t in the name of being cool. I was taking this person to the dry cleaner and paying $50 for the privilege.

But happily I snapped out of it. I’m the washer/dryer around these parts. I’m meant for people who are 100% cotton, who fit my vibe, who are low maintenance. You get the full force of Lynn and you live to tell the tale, or you have no place in this house.

Lately I’ve been wondering if I’m turning into a reclusive grump, a cat-lady-with-no-cats, doomed to sing show tunes in line at the grocery store while everyone gives me the bombastic side-eye and wonders if they should call social services. Should I work a little harder at fitting in? At being someone people like? At being everyone’s idea of friendly and chic and agreeable? Someone who wears dry clean only shirts?

But then I think: I kind of like singing show tunes in line at the grocery store. I like my wash and wear wardrobe. I think I’ll keep it.

Well.

In my last post, I talked about how I only wanted to blog about positive, cheerful things. And that is coming, I can tell – there are some good things on the horizon.

But we’re not quite there yet.

My mother passed away in early March, four days shy of her 80th birthday. We found out she had cancer just after Christmas. So it was a bit of a shock. I was there, with my three sisters, who I am so grateful for. It is such a miracle that we have each other, at least.

I write to process. I wrote a long essay about what it was like being her daughter. She was a difficult woman and I made it a policy to never write about her much while she was still alive because I was worried I’d be too honest. This essay I’ve written after her death is everything I always wanted to write but held back.

But as expected, it’s a little too raw, too honest, and what is the point of that now? I need to sit on it a while. Maybe share it with my therapist, and rethink the whole thing.

So for now, I’ll just share the small speech I gave at her memorial service, which was earlier this week. I am not an emotional woman, but it’s been a sad week full of weird, random bursts of feeling. 2024 can bugger right off now, thank you.

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My mother was a woman of strong beliefs and a strong spirit. She raised four daughters with an iron fist and she was not a woman who liked to be disagreed with. 

But there was no one else you wanted in your corner in hard times. I remember her marching into the school to ensure I got fair treatment from teachers, showing up to every single dance show and school performance, crying when I told her bad news, and talking tough about those who did me wrong. She was a true Mama Bear.

I see her in my own life in my need to be busy at all times, how much I enjoy making things – especially for other people, my fierce independence, and my stubbornness. I look more like her every day and I know a piece of her will always live inside me.

Her favourite song was Theme from a Summer Place, which most people know as an instrumental. But there are actually lyrics, and I find them to be a comfort at this time.

Here they are:

There's a summer place
Where it may rain or storm
Yet I'm safe and warm

For within that summer place
Your arms reach out to me
And my heart is free from all care

For it knows
There are no gloomy skies
When seen through the eyes
Of those who are blessed with love

And the sweet secret of
A summer place
Is that it's anywhere
When two people share

All their hopes
All their dreams
All their love

There's a summer place
Where it may rain or storm
Yet I'm safe and warm
In your arms, in your arms

I really want to write about happy things.

After my last post, I thought, enough. Enough griping and whining. Enough talking about how terribly hard it all is. Enough feeling sorry for myself.

Let us talk of cheerful things again. Music, and magic, and art. Dreams for the future, hopes for my children, little moments that make life wonderful. Cake, and friendship, and how cute Yetis are.

However. Twenty twenty-four is just not working with me. It is not ON BOARD with this plan.

Around Christmas, my previously healthy mother was diagnosed with Stage 4 Pancreatic Cancer. It’s only been a few weeks but we are already at the point of palliative care.

About the same time, we found out my oldest kid, Captain Jelly Belly, would be having surgery this spring for an ongoing medical condition that will require several months of recovery and physiotherapy.

Meanwhile, I got the flu, only it was some kind of Devil Germ that went rogue and caused a liver infection that landed me in the hospital for a couple of days, and I’m still struggling to recover from it now.

Did I mention I started a new job and also bought a house in there too?

January was, shall we say, challenging.

But I continue to cling to the resolution of cheer, peace, good things. I am doing my best to look up, look forward, and find the beautiful. I’m reading a lot of good books. I’m drinking a lot of tea and cherishing the quiet moments that being forced to rest have brought to me. I’m looking back at family memories and feeling so, so lucky to have sisters to go through this with.

I’m gathering my strength and getting ready to fight my way to the calm that will inevitably arise after the storm.

So let’s not call this post yet another in my long line of gripes and whines. Let’s call this post The Last Of An Age. The last marker of a bad time, the in-like-a-lion, out-like-a-lamb stylings of the year 2024.

Next time you see me, I’ll be smiling.

I signed the separation agreement two weeks ago today. There in black and white, the legal record of my failures.

We’re still getting Christmas cards addressed to the five of us. I just don’t know how to tell people, still. Word has spread among those that I see often but it’s the long distance friends and family, the Christmas card set, that still don’t know. In their minds we remain unbroken, a festive photo on a card with no blemishes.

I used to send cards every year, with a chatty and fun newsletter and cute photos. But I stopped last year. No amount of glitter could cover my shame.

I still feel that. I slink away from neighbors at the grocery store, leave messages on Facebook unanswered because I’m embarrassed. I have baggage, as certified by two lawyers and the government of Canada. There’s a giant heard of elephants in the room that stampede around me everywhere.

I always assume they won’t know what to say to me now that I’m half of a whole, and I can’t put that burden on them. I’ll be invisible to avoid spreading the weight of it to anyone else.

I still chose that. I ran towards that liberation with open arms. No regrets. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be sad sometimes, and it doesn’t mean you can’t be lonely sometimes.

There is good stuff here though. A group of my mom friends from the neighbourhood dropped by a few weeks ago with a card letting me know they were thinking of me, and a Christmas gift. I was moved, and I was seen. I still have a place here. People can just be so beautiful sometimes.

And other friends who never really knew me as Married Lynn have been great, meeting me for coffee and making me feel like I’m still welcome in polite society.

So for 2024, I think it’s time to stop skulking and stop feeling Scarlet Lettered. It’s time to own it, live it, be it.

This is a real chance for a fresh start. Let’s move on and see where it goes.

This fall, Air Canada had a crazy, unbelievable sale on tickets to Paris from Ottawa, like, less than $400 return.

My fantastic, beautiful, wonderful friend DoubleBias sent me some links. She said, “You deserve this.” She said, “You’d love it there.” She said, “You need this.”

And she also provided me with a full itinerary based on her own recent trip there, and many inspirational photos, and frequent pep talks, as I am not a confident or experienced traveller.

So I was left with a decision: what kind of person am I?

Am I a person who jumps on a last minute flight deal to spontaneously jet off to Paris? I have to admit, that does not fit the picture of Historical Lynn. Historical Lynn is careful, nervous, requires a long lead time to the new, lots of planning and panicking in advance.

But maybe Historical Lynn isn’t who I am anymore. I recently had a great chat with an old friend who also recently went through a divorce. He said that it seemed to him, lately, that those who knew him as a teenager or young adult were the ones that really knew him; that he was rediscovering those friendships and finding they made him feel like his true self.

I’m not sure I was a fully formed human back then but I see what he means. Back in the days before I knew how to conform, how to be responsible, how to present a pretty picture to the world, I was a little rougher, a little (LITTLE) more spontaneous, a little (LITTLE) more daring.

So in a nod to Prehistoric Lynn, I did it. Little Miss Sunshine (not so little any more) came along for the ride.

We had a marvelous time.

Coincidentally, we went during the week of my 53rd birthday. It was a banger way to celebrate, gotta tell you. Coming full circle, integrating the past Lynns, and figuring out what that means for the future – it’s been a good year.