Christine Purcell

The Way Life Really Is

“Sometimes at night, if I pretend I’m asleep, I see glowing things fly out of that stain in the ceiling. They hover over my head until I open my eyes. Then they disappear back into the drywall.”

“That’s interesting,” I reply banally.

I’ve heard him say this before. Different stories perhaps, but the same thing. My husband, still suffering from the magical thinking of adolescence, is naïve about how the human brain works. He wants to believe he is special and the world isn’t so boring. Finding a story I can’t explain has become his obsession; something extraordinary that my medical background has never encountered. They’re true stories; just with unconventional interpretations.

“It’s not the first time I’ve had night visitors. When I was a teenager, I used to feel an evil presence. It would sit on my chest until I couldn’t breathe. I’d cross myself and say the Our Father until it went away.”

His folded arms betray his disappointment that I’m not giving more of a reaction. Should I tell him what it is? The scientific name for it is hypnopompic phenomena; a common occurrence found in about a third of the population. Your body wakes up when your brain is still dreaming.

I have experienced this state of consciousness myself. Well, the other way around. My mind becomes alert while my body is still paralyzed. Once, I swore I felt a cat skulking around the edge of my bed; a frightening feeling, but an ordinary one. No magic there. Deciding to have some fun, I look ruminative and pause for a moment before answering.

“Wow. That’s really creepy. I’ve never heard of anything like that. What do you think it is? Demons?”

“No. Aliens. I’m sure of it.”

“Oh my God, you’re right! I mean, what else could it be? Are you afraid they’ll come and take you away?”

“Yah, I am,” he says earnestly. “I’m not sleeping well.”

“You’d better be careful.”

He nods gravely.

Turning my back to him, I smirk. What an idiot!

We don’t speak about the aliens after that. The rest of the day comes and goes – just ordinary and boring – the way life really is.

I go through my usual routine; kiss him goodnight, say “I love you,” turn off my lamp, roll over, and pretend to be asleep. Through the slits of my squinted eyes, I see something oblong. It hovers near my head. Forcing my eyes open into blinding light, the object swiftly retreats into the ceiling.

“Honey, did you see that?” I whisper.

I reach over to shake him, but grab only blankets.

How to Be More Canadian Than When You Lived in Canada

Be polite. Be overly polite. Be so obnoxiously polite that people comment, “I’ve always heard Canadians were polite.” When people ask you to say about placate them and say aboot. Say jag-you-ire as well.

Bake butter tarts. Bake sugar pie. When people ask you if you speak French, say yes. Say something in French and be sure to roll your Rs. But don’t curse. That wouldn’t be polite.

Insist that washroom makes more sense than restroom or bathroom. Philosophize that you don’t rest or bathe in the washroom, but you always wash (hopefully). Refuse to refer to elastics as rubber bands.

Iron maple leafs (yes, spell it leafs) on your denim jacket. Iron maple leafs on your luggage. Iron maple leafs on everything.

Insist that Moxy Früvous is a serious band – and the Barenaked Ladies too. Order Canadian CDs on Amazon; even though you never owned any while you lived there. Give a running commentary on the lives and hometowns of the band members while playing them for your carpoolers.

Take out library books. Change the spelling of color and honor to include U’s in the proper places. Change your spell check to English (Canada).

Get a pet beaver. Name him Moose and take him for walks. Never laugh when passersby remark, “Nice beaver.”

Explain that Victoria Day is a long weekend in May that everyone calls May-two-four because you are obligated to drink a 24 case of beer. Show your friends how to drink a 24 case of beer. Try to remember while outrageously hammered, never, ever, regardless of circumstances, admit how much you enjoy living in the United States.