I decided to retire my parka late last week, when the runoff from Toronto’s snowmageddon was pooling in the crevasses of the wonky sidewalks and the snowbanks were withering under a sun that hadn’t been seen for many months. Only to break it out again, when gale force winds and snow squalls arrived the next day. When I braved the blizzard to go to the grocery store, a guy got on the streetcar wearing a muscle shirt (no muscles in evidence), sweatpants and sandals. The definition of an optimist. Or maybe just the definition of an “obliviaist.” A state of mind I definitely aspire to.
Another a word about parkas. My current one was purchased during the pandemic when several factors were at play. What else did we have to do except doomscrolling and online shopping? However, immediately after it was (semi) safe to go outside again, winter didn’t show up for a few years. Fast forward to 2025 when I thank my pandemic self for having a brand-spanking-new parka in the closet that was completely up to the task of this year’s winter. And also, I can now reactivate my doomscrolling and online shopping muscles and put them to good use to bide time as we await the fruition of our southern frenemy’s not-so-veiled threats to pillage our natural resources and reimagine our mutual border to his advantage.
On that note, I’ve figured out how to decode the tariff stuff and am willing to share as a public service. On even-numbered days, the tariffs are on. On odd-numbered days the tariffs are off. Follow the bouncing ball. Further, if you wish to reduce a particular tariff, on alternate Wednesdays you must pat your head and rub your stomach in a clockwise direction, while chanting the name of the sanctioned goods in pig Latin. If the tariff in question is for the auto industry, when the moon is full you must dance naked around a bonfire and throw a duffle bag full of Canadian dollars on it every ten seconds to stave it off until the whistle blows for the lunch truck. When we all get free cyanide-laced poutine. As Margaret Atwood said, she did not write A Handmaid’s Tale as an instruction manual. Oh well.
I have a bunny hunkering down underneath the flowering quince in my front yard, which is currently completely encased in snow. Correction. I’m guessing I have more than one bunny hunkered down, because much like mice, there is never just one bunny. I’m also guessing there will soon be baby bunnies. But those bunnies have secured their own economy and autonomy. The quince’s umbrella-like branches provide shelter from the elements. Its spring flower buds overwinter and offer sustenance. And even if they all get eaten, the bush will still survive and thrive.
The bunnies will do just fine. And so will we. Just watch us.