It’s been one of THOSE days

I’m feeling a little discouraged right now. Okay, a lot. I don’t do things halfway.

The day started out well enough. I woke up early, fixed oatmeal for breakfast, emptied my pee bucket into a jar for emptying later, took Scout for a quick potty walk between raindrops, and headed south of the border to fill up the tank with less expensive U.S. gas. So far, so good.

Coming back, though, I was thrown for a loop when the Canadian border guard grilled me in his Scottish accent about what I plan to do in Canada, who my Canadian friends are, where I live, how much money I have on me (and in my bank account), my health insurance, and so on. In the past, I’ve been waved through with a friendly smile but not today.

He did let me through. This time. And only because I told him I’m heading back to the States on Friday.

And he gave me a warning for next time: bring proof of health insurance that will cover me in Canada, proof of address in the form of a utility bill with my name on it, and a bank statement showing that I have more than the paltry $400 I told him I have now. None of which I have.

I get his point. Tourists are welcome, as long as they spend money and don’t become a drain on the Canadian taxpayer… sort of like our recent change of mind in the U.S. about immigrants, only less hardcore.

But still, it was unsettling because, let’s face it, I am exactly the sort of person this guy (an immigrant himself, to judge from his accent) doesn’t want entering his adopted country.

Will I run into someone else like him next time? Will I be allowed into Canada again?

I was still mulling all this over when I pulled into a favorite parking spot near a community center where I’ve been able to take free showers and sleep at night — yep, mooching again — when I noticed a large, wet spot on the floor.

Great, I thought, what have I spilled now?

Guess.

That’s right, I had neglected to screw the cover on the pee jar tightly enough. At least eight ounces of piss had soaked through my red rug, the yoga mat underneath, and the bottom layer: the van’s grey carpet.

This, after the whole van got a thorough cleaning just last week by three of the kindest, most loving friends anyone could ask for, Sandi Amorim, her husband Mark, and Ben Harapat.

I cleaned the mess up as best I could, but there’s a lot more to be done, and I’m just plain discouraged. So I’m going to wallow a bit and then get back to work.

One thing #vanlife has taught me: pee waits for no one.