You want some drama and peeking into other people’s windows? C’mon, we all love that, even don’t admit it. Gossiping is too low for me so I’ll tell you about my windows.

I blocked my mom – because she calls twice a day to remind me of everything I can’t do and everything I’m absolutely failing at. I asked her twice not to. It’s counterproductive. Whether she nags me or doesn’t – same result.

I blocked K – because in a fit of emotion, he said something you just never say to anyone. That’s something you just don’t do, and especially – to someone who was let out of the Cuckoo’s Nest on good faith.

My loved ones try to cheer me up the only way they know how. And no matter how many times I explain what works and what doesn’t. 

Their “help” feels more like poking at burnt coals with a twig, expecting a bonfire just because it used to burn once. 

No dry kindling, no breeze – nothing.

---

I walk around in giant black sunglasses and a silly Tilley hat, tucking away my brightly dyed curls.

The Tilley hat – a Canadian treasure no less important than maple syrup or Céline Dion – is the invention of Alex Tilley, a Canadian traveler who designed a hat that doesn’t sink in water or blow away in the wind. It’s practical, but let’s face it, ridiculous. 

I’d never wear it. But it hides my face well and underlines that this is not my usual style.

J calls me ‘Lesbian Brenda’ because I keep my distance and won’t let him hold my hand.
I’m in disguise.
Even my car is undercover. Gone is the fancy, impractical red mini – now I drive a plain silver family car. At least the kids can get in without squeezing past each other through tiny doors.

The disguise works. I run into colleagues all the time, and they don’t recognize me.
Lesbian Brenda goes shopping, pumps gas, strolls around the city, visits galleries, takes ferries and double-decker buses.
Once she even went through a Starbucks drive-thru – and no one recognized her.  I suppose. Sometimes I think she just enjoys the feeling of not being caught. 

In July, I filed for a compassionate leave from work to care for a sick family member. I had to fly to Moscow urgently. I was just waiting on my Canadian visa to come through – the only document that would let me back into Canada. Before that, I’d asked my manager for a regular vacation – it had been planned ages ago – but it was denied. 

Summer. Peak tourist season. Everyone wants time off. Who’s going to work? 

So I moved my compassionate leave up a week. I had to say I was leaving due to a family emergency (which I did), but before that, I was secretly off for a road trip – the one my manager denied. I was sure I’d have the visa by the time I got back. But it’s been 46 days. Still no visa. I can’t go back to work yet – still hoping it’ll come through.

 So I keep walking around as Lesbian Brenda, curls tucked under a hat. 

At first, hiding was kind of fun. I knew it won’t take forever. Now – not at all.
Lying is just plain disgusting. My coworkers have already given me their hugs and sympathy. What am I supposed to do –  hand it all back?

And honestly, I don’t have the energy to work (oh, poor thing).
Last summer – same thing. I asked for a month off in August. Denied. (Summer. Peak tourist season. Everyone wants time off. Who’s going to work? You’re the manager! You lead by example!) 

 So I quit. I loved that job – mostly because of the team. And the status – which mattered so much to my family, and gave me peace because they were proud of me.

Hiding sucks.

---

I’m sending the kids to Moscow on their own. Two layovers, no escort.  If there are multiple airlines on the route, no one provides an escort.  Last year we flew Vancouver – Montreal – Dubai, then to the Maldives on a plane heading to Sri Lanka — where, no joke, we slept through our stop and almost missed Male. The kids know logistics. This year it’s Moscow instead of Maldives. They’ll be fine. I’m not worried about them.

I’m worried Canada won’t let them leave.
Even though we have a notarized letter (“recommended but not required”).
I’m worried Domodedovo airport in Moscow won’t release them to Grandma because she doesn’t have an official power of attorney.

Citizens can’t be denied entry to their own country, right? Just tell them on arrival: “We’re tired of Lesbian Brenda. We want to go home – to Grandma and Grandpa.” These are the values my country respects. 

It’s all nerve-wracking: the wildfires, the missiles, human trafficking. The documents they might ask for – and we don’t have.

---

Planning horizon = zero.

Yesterday, the dentist booked us for a check-up in six months.  “Does January 28th work for you?” I have no idea who we’ll be on January 28th in Canada. What kind of people will we be by that time?  But remembering the Canadian rule not to overshare when asked “How are you?”, I smile and say:
“Sure, book us in.”

My son blurts out:
“Don’t book me.”

Receptionist glances at me.
“Book him. We’ll cancel if needed.”

Him again:
“Why cancel later? Just don’t book me now!”

She’s already uncomfortable…
There’s no way to explain. He wants to go back to Russia and never come back to Canada that didn’t welcome him the way he needed. 

Canadians are lovely –  I truly love them. But their stress level kicks in way earlier than ours.  Where Russians wouldn’t even blink, they already have a racing heart. Where our heart starts racing, theirs hits panic attack level – and they’re on leave of absence.
Time off to take care of… themselves. Take care of yourself? That’s a luxury thing in Russia, only for the younger generation. 

“Book it, book it,” I say. “My son’s just a big joker. Look at that wild hair – like Slava Polunin’s. Inventor of Fool’s Academy. You know what I mean?”

But she doesn’t. No one here knows who he is. Maybe in Montreal at Cirque du Soleil? 

Slava Polunin is a world famous modern Russian clown with absurdity humour that Russians deeply recognize. Space between laughter and heartbreak, the longing for beauty in chaos, the cry and giggle at the same time. For immigrants, for outsiders, for anyone balancing multiple worlds – that’s exactly what we need.

“You’ll understand a whole cultural language of Russians if you watch his show – one where grief wears yellow shoes and floats in bubbles”.

 And quoting literary classics doesn’t really land here. 

We have different cultural codes. And learning this difference means growing. 

I do love Canadians. But sometimes it feels like I’m talking to myself. And like I’m “showing off.” But back home – this is just how we talk. We quote classic, we speak different languages, we’ve traveled the world… So I thought… But it turned out that only my very close circle of friends was like that.

Planning horizon? What planning horizon? On August 7, our document expires – the one that says we’ve applied to extend our other documents. You can’t reapply to extend a document that proves you’re applying to extend your documents. It’s expired. So now every other document is officially and legally expired.

The Clown Academy? Eugène Ionesco’s Theatre of the Absurd where human existence has no inherent meaning? It’s surreal, illogical – chaos for chaos’s sake.

Sorry, it’s me being a smartass again.

I try to explain to my mom all that bureaucracy. She says:

There are no hopeless situations, only people who don’t know how to fill out documents.

And she’s not wrong. Let’s not point fingers. Visa: in process. Residency permit: in process.  Work permit: expired. Kids’ study permits: expired. Driver’s license: expired. My unpaid fines: overdue. My hospital bills: unpaid (was it the pancreatitis or my brain this time?). It should all be covered by insurance – but the insurance card? Expired. They’ll reimburse it once my PR is approved.

 And how will that happen, if every supporting document has expired? The kids might not even be able to return to Canada. What planning horizon? What calm? 

A Canadian would have folded their hands neatly and waited for Charon the ferryman to transport their souls across the river Styx – for a looney or a toonie to pay for the passage. Without payment, the souls are left to wander in the gloomy underworld – and no politeness, no small talk would help them.                                                                                                                                                                               

My son doesn’t want to return to Canada. He wants to go to school in Moscow. He’s willing to study extra, make up the missed years. He loves me deeply – and I love him. But it’s hard for him to be with me.

“Sometimes you’re awesome, Mom. And sometimes – you’re impossible. Totally impossible!

I get it. I can barely handle myself. My daughter sometimes adds in anger: 

“How can you ever live with yourself?”

 I’m not exactly winning at motherhood. I make them do dishes. Clean the cat box. Sort recycling. Take the bus on their own. I feed them broccoli and oatmeal made with coconut milk and hemp seeds for extra protein. I don’t hug them much – too prickly, inside and out. I ask how they’re doing – and if they don’t answer, I don’t push. My son says he wants to leave and not come back.

“Alright,” I say. “Then pack up your room. Sort everything into boxes.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m moving into your room. I’m living in the living room right now, on the floor! (No kidding. It’s a bedframe story). And leave me the password to your computer.”

“No! That’s not how this works!”

It just hit him yesterday:
If you decide not to come back – that’s what it looks like. Your room’s no longer yours. You’re not taking the computer to Moscow – it becomes mine. I sleep on the floor. My laptop doesn’t even have a working enter key. This one has a keyboard, a monitor. Maybe now I’ll finally write my genius posts into my genius book”.

He packed up.
Hooked up my laptop to his monitor. Told me not to touch the CPU. 

---

The planning horizon is shrinking.

Lesbian Brenda puts on her Tilley hat and, like a gentle flute melody through the fog, calls her children to the ferry.
They packed their own suitcases (they know I’m not much help). I don’t even know what’s in them. 

Fog is my favorite weather. Calm. No pressure – because you can’t see anything through it anyway.
Calm – because I’ve blocked the numbers of people who try to push one-legged people into Olympic races with the two-legged.

“Nothing is ever as infinitely quiet as waiting at sea in the fog. You listen for the movement of big ships – they might appear suddenly, and you won’t hear the sound of water breaking around their curved sides in time to start your engine, to step aside and save yourself – why don’t they sound their horns?.

‘I should have brought a compass,’ thought Yunna. ‘The sea is perfectly still, no wind at all. No bell, no time.’

— Tove Jansson 

What a joy it once was to visit Moominvalley in Finland. The kids were so little. And we didn’t even dream – we knew. We knew for sure:
One day, we’ll live on an island…
Where it’s perfectly calm.
No noise. No time, no ticking, nothing. 

Just the three of us: the son, the daughter and their mom, just a week ago released from the Cuckoo’s Nest on good faith.

‘Wire, briar, limberlock, 

Three geese in a flock, 

One flew east, one flew west, 

One flew over the cuckoo’s nest’.

— Ken Kesey. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. 

*** 

Do I have to write an obvious disclosure that I respect  LGBTQIA2S+ (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer or Questioning, Intersex, Asexual, and Two-Spirit) and Canadians too, especially their kindness, care, and support. 

And that, overall, I’m doing fine. The texts here may be based on real events — some of them — but they’re also full of hyperbole and self-irony.