Author: ScootyDub

Happy Sunday, Shoes off. Socks off. Into the pond. The water’s warmer than I expected. My feet sink softly into the mud with each step. Somewhere down here is an orange disc. We’re 15 holes into a nine-hole disc-golf course in Coquitlam. I almost didn’t book the flight. Now I’m knee-deep, wading around a water hazard. Jason is making dinner plans on my phone because his died. The pond is probably 12 feet across and double that long. I wade over and back in a grid like a lawn mower. One disc….

Happy Sunday, Eight floors above south central Calgary. I’m sitting in a boardroom, attention waning, glancing through the window. Outside, people are walking to lunch. Cars crawl through intersections. The mountain edges sketched in the distance. Inside, a stack of papers is splayed out in front of me. Ready for signatures. This is it. We’re buying a home. But I should rewind first. Can’t start at the crescendo. For two years, Sarah said we would buy it, the place we rented. It made me…

Happy Sunday, I’ve been shutting the windows at night. All of them. It started as a summer thing. Keep the heat out in the morning. But I brought it forward this year for a different reason. Snow. If snow stays behind the blinds, the day starts clean. That’s the game. So before bed, I’ll take one last look outside. See the street lights. Peace and quiet. Then I close it out. In the morning, I let the day start on a neutral note. Then I crack the shutter for a peek. Sun’s out, great. Feels…

Happy Sunday, The call gets bumped again. An hour.Then a half hour.Then another call runs long.Then tomorrow.Then next week. By the time we talk, my talking points have gone stale, and my patience went with them. I know the script that plays in my head. Disrespectful. Inconsiderate. Doesn’t value my time. The frustration feels righteous. Feels earned. And then the counter floats up: I never said a word. Six reschedules and not once did I say, “Two bumps max, then we find a new day together.”…

Happy Sunday, I look up from my screen and out the window. It’s 5:37. The light in the room has dimmed. I’ve been at my desk since before 9am. A couple bathroom breaks. A trip to the kitchen for a banana. Otherwise, right here. This chair. This room. These slippers. This is what I wanted. Two years ago, I was aiming for this. Work from home. Control over my time. Getting paid for ideas instead of hours. I got what I asked for. And now I’m sitting here realizing I haven’t left the house in…

Happy Sunday, She’s walking through numbers. What feels realistic. What needs to wait. “At least for now,” she says. “I think it means tightening things up.” I nod. I can feel myself doing it. My chest is doing something else. Resistance swells under the surface. I don’t want my life to get smaller. We’re sitting at the dinner table. Plates pushed aside. The familiar instinct shows up. Avoid it. Smooth it over. Let it go. But this is what I asked for. Quality time. Honest conversations. More…