Last week I finally reached my breaking point and was ready to give up future children in return for a haircut. I thought it would be cool to go get some euro-chic Norwegian do, but the 550 Kroner price tag was a bit out of my budget. And waiting out the 14 days with my mental institute hair, before heading home for a proper cut, did not cross my mind as a legitimate or tolerable option.

So I bought a pair of 40 Kroner scissors, waited for one of my dillusional states to hit, and went all Edward Scissorhands in the hotel bathroom. Because this somehow seemed like a much less perilous option.

And I gotta say, definately not my worst haircut ever. (That prize goes to a mid-80s attempt at punk-style spiked bangs. Followed closely by the grade two rat tail.)

10 years of post-secondary education for journalism and aviation, and all this time I've secretly been denying the Vidal Sassoon in me.

Today we ran into the Norwegian equivalent of Canadian Tire to grab some acetone and some obscenely oversized wrenches.

My first question ... what bolt is this wrench endeavouring to tighten? All I can picture is some construction worker building a skyscraper ... "Hey Bjorn, the building's leaning a little to the left - can you check to see if that big bolt that holds it together is tight?"

My second question ... why exactly does this local Norwegian hardware store feel it is absolutely necessary to keep obscenely oversized wrenches in stock for immediate customer possession? "Haarvgard, it is essential that we sell 20cm wrenches. What if the bolts on new skyscraper in Hunderfossen come loose?"

My final question ... who the hell is buying this? "Oh, yeah, Snergen, it's loose, but I don't have the right wrench in my toolbox. I was going to pick one up when I stopped at Oppbevaringsekers on the way home from work to get a plug for the kitchen sink and some Christmas wrapping paper. I'm sure they'll have one in stock. "

If you've never noticed – all six of you out there whose work doesn't block questionable internet content – sometimes I disappear.

It's not because I don't want to write - my love affair with words goes way back. And It's not because I don't have stories to tell – good grief, I am a three-decade-old, borderline-OCD skeleton racer that someone at some point legally authorized to fly planes – believe me, there are stories. It's not even because I happen to be in some random hotel in former eastern Germany where the entire Russian bobsleigh federation is hogging bandwidth downloading movies and I can't get online to post. Oh wait. No, that really was the reason one time. And also sometimes I'm kinda busy doing things that will pay the rent.

But mostly, If I'm not here, it's because life is currently sucking.

In the past I have written because I regularly find myself in interesting/peculiar places doing interesting/possibly inadvisable things, and figure I should keep my family and friends up to date, in case someone needs to come rescue me.

Now I write because I like to make people laugh. And, apparently, people laugh when I write. Because seriously, what other use could there possibly be for irresponsibly detailed information on the crap I find at garage sales every summer, other than pointless, gratuitous entertainment?

So I write.

But over the past few years, as my entire world has crumbled around me, there hasn't been a whole lot to laugh at. Losing your faith, your worldview, your religious community and your marriage just isn't funny.

So I stop writing.

And eventually I get a phone call checking to see if I've been in a terrible accident with injuries that are preventing me from successfully using a computer keyboard. Or just the subtle "You haven't posted in forever" admonishment from disappointed, teary-eyed acquaintances.

And I remember how much I like to tell my stories and make people laugh.

On Thursday I crashed a Zoomba dance class at a gym in Norway. And next week I am going to take a floating casino ferry to Latvia. I really feel like there might be some material in there somewhere.

Except that somewhere in there I am also writing my name on divorce papers and seeing my psych and trying to piece my life back together. And then things don't feel funny at all.

But it's been such a long road, with so many stories I have missed telling (this summer I did an adult gymnastics meet and drove to Calgary with my bike strapped to the top of my car with tie-dows – both completely inadvisable activities … ) because of so many dark days where I just couldn't find my way back to funny, and today I wondered if maybe I should write through the sucking. Maybe even write about the sucking.

Not just for those six lucky bastards who can get on Facebook at work, so they have something to do during their coffee break. Or for my family to let them know which country I am in this week. Or for my new friend KELLIE! (oh, just wait until you hear about this vegan spazz ... ) so she doesn't think that people in the storyline are actually dying.

Maybe for me.

Or maybe I should just get a damn diary with a little lock and key, and write melancholic poetry. Again.

This is my baby brother Eric ...

I know it's sometimes hard to tell that we are related, given that he has a steady job, owns a house and knows how to cook, but our mutual love of bacon is a dead giveaway.

Yesterday we married him off, so I had to get dressed up all classy, and put on underwear and brush my hair, and act all sophisticated like, you know?

Which lasted for about the length of that (↑) exposure (the sophisticated-acting part, I mean. I managed to keep my underwear on the the entire evening ... )

Just for the record ... HE started it.

Actually, to be completely accurate, these two (↓) are the ones who ACTUALLY started it ...

They are the ones who, after being assigned as high school chemistry partners, thought it would be brilliant to ACTUALLY do some ... uhhh ... homework.

And NOW look what their little science experiment led to ...

They tried to undo their handiwork by marrying off us older girls, but then my sister just showed up with MORE of them.

But world, here's where the news gets really scary. Turns out this Bartleman thing is not just a reproduction problem ... apparently you can just voluntary convert.

Yesterday, THIS girl (↓) started off the day as Amanda Bernier ...

And then, halfway through, she just ... switched. Just like that. Some lady was like "Hey Amanda, do you want to be a Bartleman?" and then Amanda was like, "Yeah, sure, why not?" and then the lady asked Eric "You cool with that?" and Eric was all like "Sure, whatevs," and then the lady was like "Okey-dokey then, you are now a Bartleman" and by the end of the night Amanda was screaming "Wayne's World" lines and throwing grapes into people's mouths from across the room and planning a revival of the epic Who-Flung-Dung contest.

See what happens when I wear a dress?

For some reason, every time I go to a little airport and ask someone there to let me a fly a plane, they say yes. I used to think it was because of my stunning good looks and charming sense of humour, or at the very least because I appear to be mildly competent. But now I am pretty sure it is because of the exorbitant amount of money that they request, and which I obligingly pay.

So, I went flying last week, for the first time in several years. Odd as it sounds, the saying "It's just like riding a bike" almost applies here. Except that this bike has wings. And an engine. And a spinning blade of life/death about four feet in front of your face.

So ... uhhh ... if E.T. was juggling knives while sitting in the basket on Elliot's bike, I guess that flying a plane would be like riding a bike ...

Wait. What the hell was I talking about?

Oh right. This week, I went to the Squamish Airport and rented a Cessna 172, which is essentially a large aluminum can with wings and a dash full of blinking lights and knobs and suspicious red buttons that make you feel really important. Then I also rented a guy whose job is to make sure I don't kill myself. Well, technically, his job is to make sure I don't kill him. By sheer physical proximity, that means if he doesn't die, conveniently, neither do I.

I am totally not joking.

As your flight instructor will tell you the first time you go out, it's not the flying that's a problem. It's the landing.

So. Yeah. Flying ... like riding a bike. Stalls, slow flight, steep turns ... my airwork could even be considered competent. The landing part? More like riding a pedal-less unicycle.

Let me tell you about the Squamish Airport, and it's lovely approach to landing. (For the record, any airport with a windsock doing THIS, is not likely to be talked about using words like 'lovely' or 'relaxing' or 'totally didn't feel like I was going to die.')

If I were talking to another pilot, I'd describe the approach at Squamish as follows:

Uncontrolled airport, 2400 foot runway, trees on both sides, in a valley with 9000 foot peaks. Lefthand circuits. For takeoffs to the south, immediate 50 degree right turn for noise abatement. Winter eagle habitat, watch for birds of prey. Fly toward mountains, then turn modified upwind/crosswind following the river, level off circuit altitude and turn downwind inside of peaks. Follow power lines downwind, turn base inside peaks, runway not visible due to forest. Turn shortened final, due to mountainous terrain. Cross river, industrial complex, two sets of power lines - watch for pressure differences. Trees on short final. Keep above 70 knots for wind shear penetration and approximate 8-10 degree approach angle. Expect wind shear, and variable crosswinds on final and touchdown. Watch for wildlife on runway. Active helicopter traffic.

Sounds all smart and technical and like my education was actually worth something, eh?

What I actually said was ...

Really short runway, at an airport with no air traffic controllers, in a valley with huge mountains on both sides. When you take-off to the south, you have to turn immediately to the right and not fly over houses, so that the rich people in the Republic of Brackendale don't complain about noise. Before you turn, make sure to look for eagles, because they will leave a very big hole in your plane, and a lot of blood on your windscreen. Then fly directly towards the mountain, and turn in time to not hit it. Climb to 1000 feet, and stay there, but don't hit any of the mountains that are also 1000 feet high. When you want to land, aim your nose straight down to the ground and fly really fast, in case the winds change, otherwise you will drop like a rock. Don't hit the power lines, or the trees, or the deer on the runway, or the helicopters. Try to keep your airplane right side up, and try not to scream.

So yeah. That guy that I hired to make sure that I didn't die? SO worth the money.

Then again ... so is the view ...