Not Even For One Day

I avoided Bluesky. I kept the radio off. I didn't even visit YouTube because the algorithm knows I'm a news junkie and suggests videos from CBC and other news outlets.

Because our clocks had sprung forward, overnight, I slept in later than my body was used to. But DW was up early and I heard the garage door open as she was heading out to the gym. I lay in bed for nearly another hour before I headed downstairs.

I was emptying the dishwasher as she came back home. "I can't believe that Trump..."

"NOOOO!" I screamed, cutting her off. "We're not supposed to say his name. We agreed we wouldn't talk about him."

Nine fourty-three. We only made it to 9:43 in the morning.

"It’s okay," said DW. "You still haven't said his name."

"That's not the point," I said. "The goal was to get through the day without hearing or reading his stupid name, without seeing his ugly face. This day is ruined."

"Don't you think you're overreacting?"

"There are days when I don't hear anything about Trudeau. When Biden was in office, there were some days when he wouldn't be mentioned. There are so many world leaders that I know nothing about. Yet, the Orange Felon is everywhere. You can't escape mention of him.

"Today was about switching off the news, about staying away from social media. I just wanted one day... one day... from having that asshole in our lives."

"You're right. I'm sorry."

We managed to get through the rest of the morning. I barely touched my phone. We did some chores around the house. We started on our tax returns. We went to our neighbour's house, where we're looking after their cat while they're on vacation.

We ran some errands but played music from my phone, keeping the radio off.

My parents invited us over, after dinner, for cheesecake and a movie. When we arrived, they were watching Mark Carney's speech after he won the Liberal leadership race. He's our new prime minister.

And, of course, he mentioned the Orange Felon. And a commercial came on, and there was that dick, with a random sound bite.

Of course, it was an attack ad from Pierre Poilievre. Canada's asshole.

I think that short of locking yourself in a room without a TV, radio, or computer, going a full day without hearing, seeing, or reading about the Orange Felon is an impossible feat.

But I'm determined. I'll try again next weekend, though it may be harder: we're meeting in Toronto with some American friends. Maybe, because they hate him too, we can agree to at least not say his name.

Wish us luck.