The Secret to Happiness

I should be in bed. Dave's there already, watching Hang 'Em High on the Drive-In channel. Every Wednesday night is Western Night on this station. Yee haw. He likes Squint McClint. I like the dancing hot dogs leading into commercial breaks. They remind me of the Midland drive-in my parents took me to when I was young. I loved the dancing hot dogs. I'm hungry just thinking about them. I still don't know what they have to be so darn happy about. They're about to be eaten, for god's sake. Still, they're happy.

Why are the hot dogs so happy?

What is the secret to all this happiness crap anyway?

Dr. Oz ... (oh please, please don't mistake me for someone who watches Oprah's latest protege. He drives me crazy. He comes across so PERFECT but he's obsessed with eating nuts and goat cheese products and his ears remind me of Spock and he always makes me feel GUILTY for not being more like him. Just the mere sight of him drives me to the kitchen cupboard to open up a bag of Old Dutch.) 

... Dr. Oz says people's happiness is largely genetic, which means, I guess, that you're hardwired to either be deliriously happy or hooked on Prozac. Or something in between. 

I don't want to believe that.

I don't think we're hardwired for anything. Although my late father's favourite expression was, "Are you wired up right, or what?" And I think that is a very, very good expression.

I find myself wondering if my father had a happy life.

I don't know.

He never talked about stuff like that.

He never talked much at all, come to think of it. Not to me, anyway.

I regret many things in life ... one of those things is not knowing my father better.

A month or so ago I was painting the entryway into the log cabin on the Muskoka River Dave and bought this summer. I was painting and listening to music and suddenly I had a vision of my father coming through the front door. He was wearing a navy blue sweater and walking with a cane, but he looked healthier than he was in the last year of his life. He walked in and looked at the paint job and said, "That looks good, Cath." 

I start to cry again just thinking about it. But hey, I'm 49 years old, mired deeply in peri-menopause, and I cry at the drop of a hat. 

Anyway, this is my first blog.

Like I said, I should be in bed. I could hardly get up this morning. But I felt an overwhelming urge to write something.

Somehow, I think "writing something" could be key to my own happiness. Oh, and doesn't that sound like complete baloney?

OK, so maybe it won't make me happy.  Can't hurt, though.

And its gotta be better than watching Dr. Oz.