Aah... the ancient cry of the loving boyfriend who wants to make sure that the woman of his affections will LIKE the gift he gives her...
I was over at the home of a married couple last evening, good, good friends. We talked up this subject a bit.
Because of course, what we all REALLY want is world peace, and an end to hunger and strife...
"When I was younger," said M, (who I doubt has actually passed 30 yet, but is wise for her age) "I used to love jewellery. Chose my boyfriends on the basis of what they could afford to buy me... But not now. It was all stolen anyway, and I hardly wear any jewellery any more. I wear what L gives me, and I like that, but now I like things that make our life together easier, happier..."
"How noble," I thought guiltily, twisting in my seat. Because I've got a list that would wrap around the block. Maybe even several times over.
Am I truly a "Material Girl?"
I never thought of myself as one. To quote Bruce Cockburn, "All the diamonds in the world that mean anything to me, are conjured up by wind and sunlight sparkling on the sea."
Yes, I believe this is still representative of me on some level of my soul. Even though I don't believe in an afterlife, so it's not one of those "lay up your treasure in Heaven" sentiments. My treasures are right here, in this life.
(That being said, if one is ever going to see the wind and sunlight sparkling on the sea, someone has to buy airline tickets!)
But I don't want, or like, treasures for their own benefit. Some of my treasures are the cheapest things you could imagine.
My Grandmother's aluminum teapot, for example. The handle is loose, and you can see where Grandpa fixed it once or twice before. But that teapot should be in a museum!
See, Grandma and Grandpa were married for just over 60 years. Every single day, three times a day, for breakfast, lunch, and supper, Grandma would make tea.
But what tea! The little pot barely holds 4 cups of liquid. She'd put 3 Tetley Flavor-Flow-Through teabags into it. (If you know anything about tea, you know that's nearly the equivalent of enough to make 8 strong cups of tea.)
She wouldn't unplug the kettle before pouring the water into the pot - Grandma was a fanatic about having her tea HOT. (If her tea wasn't still boiling as it entered her cup, by the way, it wasn't HOT enough...) So, the kettle would rage while she poured out the water and slammed the lid onto the pot and turned the burner onto HIGH. Then and then only, she'd unplug the kettle, mercifully stopping it from blasting into outer space.
She'd bring the tea, in the pot on the stove, to a full rolling boil. Sometimes for a few minutes if she really wanted a good, strong cuppa tea!
Then she'd turn the heat to low, and proceed to serve and eat the meal.
After the meal, she'd begin clearing the dishes and once again turn the burner under the pot to HIGH and yes, bring it to a boil, a full, rolling boil, a THIRD time, in the pot!
She'd pour her tea and Grandpa's, and this is where it would get really interesting...
Every day, for 60+ years, Grandpa would put in his mounds of sugar and fill his cup to the brim with milk. And every day, three times a day, for 60+ years, he'd lift it to his lips, blow on it several times...
And burn himself. Whereupon he'd slam the cup back down into the saucer and start complaining. He'd make a very particular sound with his teeth and lips, a cross between "whew" and "tweet", and then he'd say "I don't know why you insist on making it so darned hot!"
Grandma, downing her tea in gulps before it could cool, would make a face at me that said, "isn't he silly?".
One day, while visiting them for lunch, I lost it.
"I don't know which of you is the more stubborn," I practically shouted at them, "or the more stupid!"
They both stared open-mouthed at me. Nobody in the world had ever dared to speak to them that way.
"You!" I pointed at Grandma, having inherited her "wagging finger" technique... "You KNOW he wants his tea stone-cold! Would it kill you to pour his tea out before you sit down to eat, so he doesn't burn himself every meal?"
"And you!" I pointed at Grandpa. "Three meals a day, sixty years, when are you going to stop trying to drink your tea right away? Surely after all this time you're not surprised by how hot it is!"
I never saw either of them look so abashed. Conversation was a little subdued after that particular outburst.
But nothing changed. The tea stayed hot. And Grandpa kept burning his lips. To their dying days.
That teapot now cooly graces my corner cupboard. What exactly does it represent? Sixty years of undying devotion? Comeraderie? Friendship? Raising a family? Tenacity? Iron will? British backbone? Abject refusal to cooperate?
God only knows, I sure don't. But I would be very, very sad to lose it, even though it's only a bit of metal - and practically scrap metal in its current condition! I doubt very much the original cost was even five dollars.
Yet I know that one day my Daughter will hold it to her chest, after I am gone, and have a good cry over it, remember Grandma and Grandpa, and me, and every struggle we've been through. That little aluminum teapot represents a truth about our family, all the struggles my grandparents went through. Daughter herself has had tea served from that very pot to her by her great-grandmother. She was about ten years old when G&G passed away, and up to that time had been babysat at their home, our home, every day when I worked. What wonderful gift, to have living experience of your great-grandparents!
That teapot couldn't be more valuable if it was made of a solid diamond.
I am partial to jewellery... I have my mother's jewellery. I wear her wedding band and her birthstone ring almost every day of my life. They're beautiful pieces, but they're important to me because she wore them. (I think this is what's called a "chick thing.") As if some of the life-force or personality of the wearer could be contained in these objects because they had been on her hands. Her loving hands, with her beautifully-manicured nails. My mother had beautiful hands. I miss them, their gentle touch, their warmth, their comfort. So I wear her rings. I touch them often while wearing them, too, to feel the security of having them on my fingers. I look at them and admire their beauty, as the woman who wore them was the most beautiful of any I can recall... with the possible exception of Daughter... I look at them, and I miss my mother. Their design is her taste made tangible - simple, elegant, ...graceful.
I inherited all these items, but once upon a time they were gifts. Grandpa bought the teapot for Grandma because she wanted a teapot that could go on the stove - little knowing what he was letting himself in for! He also bought her the corner cabinet it is now displayed in.
My Stepdad bought my Mom her wedding band. Her birthstone ring was also a gift, albeit from a different admirer! (Yah! Go, Mom, go!)
Memories of the people we love, and the good times we had with them, are priceless. Last year's camping trip, we laughed so many times my sides ached almost as much as my joints did from the damp. I have pictures to help me remember the fun, but there is almost no way to convey how much I love those people we went camping with or how loved they made me, and continue to make me feel.
There's a game I enjoy playing, called Cubic. It's a three-dimensional Tic-Tac-Toe game. I received it as a gift from my father, I think I might have been eight or ten... It's the one game I could beat my Dad at, and he enjoyed the challenge of not automatically being able to win. Daughter and I played that game ad nauseum during the ten years I was a single mom. I got a pal to make her a permanent, high-class version of the game, with real wood and pretty glass chips... I'm sure it didn't cost ten bucks when Daddy bought it for me, but the hours spent in competition with him, and with Daughter, have relegated it to the realm of the priceless. Maybe I should ask for a new one for myself, since mine is missing a third of it's structure.
In returning to the question, "what does it want for its birthday?" I must ask, does actually knowing about six or seven-hundred things I'd like, right off the bat, make me a materialistic scumbag?
I want something that reminds me of Boyfriend. Something that someone, one day will comment on and say "That's lovely" or "That's interesting," and I can say, "Yes, Boyfriend gave me that for my 52nd birthday."
I do not need to be surprised - I'm far too conscious of the cost of things and can recall too easily past gifts from others that missed the mark, sometimes even the solar system... No, surprises, I think, are for the young. Specifically those under ten years old. After ten years old, most of us are quite able to guess what's in our little packages! May as well make sure we like it, since the money is being spent anyway...
So I guess I'd better get out pen and paper...
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Another Day, Another Lesson
I learned a few things today.
I wore jeans and running shoes with socks today - it was only 14 degrees this morning. Running shoes ARE a lot more comfortable to walk in than flats, sandals, or heels. It's been three days since my pedicure, and already the callus on the ball of my right foot feels ready to accept the human equivalent of a horseshoe.
So I learned that I should have been putting cream on - every single day. Falls into that category like brushing teeth. "Aw, Mom, do I have to?" Yes.
I learned that even though rush hour was quite over by the time I rolled out of bed, that I can still connect from the number 102 bus, which stops just outside my door, to the 66, and end up three blocks from work in about 25 minutes.
I learned not to have a third coffee in the morning. Had rapid heartbeat all day after that, and a panic attack in the afternoon to boot.
I learned that my forehead becomes a greasy mess even on cool days, and that something drastic has to be done or I'll scrape my face off in my sleep. (Booked a facial, FYI. Don't worry - I won't be turning up at your door, flesh hanging off in greasy strips, to scare you or your children in the middle of the night!)
When I came home from work, I decided to go to the pool not too far from here to cool down. I packed my bathing suit, bathing cap, earplugs, kleenex, towel and flip-flops into my bag. I took the lock off the shed door where my bike is locked up and hoped it wouldn't be missed till I got back. I went back and forth from the locker to the changing room, forgetting one thing after another in the locker and having to unlock it about six times. I learned not to put things into a locker till AFTER I've changed...
The water was wonderful - just cold enough to give you a shiver as you ease your hot body (even after the regulation shower) into it. It's a great pool. Fifty meters long, and the diving section off to one side. I paddled around for about five minutes, got bored, and left.
When I got home, I had to rinse out my bathing suit and rinse the chlorine off my body, so I ended up taking a shower.
So much for cooling off.
I learned that the neighbourhood pool is a place you go with friends to talk to or laps to swim. But you can't just hang out there, they don't allow floaties. If I could sling myself into a floatie, I could stay happily for hours. But no more neighborhood pool for me until I have a friend to talk to, or swim with! Because by the time I got home and showered and rinsed everything and hung it up, I was as hot as when I started.
Oh well.
And just a few moments ago I learned that I should not unhook the drain from the dishwasher until the entire cycle is complete and the machine beeps. See, it was on the "dry" cycle. I figured the water connection wasn't needed any more, with 8 minutes left, so I unhooked it.
And with exactly three minutes left in the cycle, the machine began to drain. Onto my floor.
I like my landlord and landlady very much. But I can hear her voice now:
"No water, Debbie! I tell you, before we go away, I tell you, don't use water on this floor. They say no water. Why you pour water all over the floor?"
As I mopped up the spill with my newly-washed and dried towels, I mentally questioned the engineer who designed this particular dishwasher.
"WTF!!!!! Why don't you drain it BEFORE the dry cycle? Why did you have to leave that little surprise in there? Are you a sadist, or just mean? Excuse me, but if a machine is silent for 35 minutes, one might be forgiven for thinking it's FINISHED!!!"
Well, next time, I'll just leave everything hooked up.
As a good friend of mine has said:
"Oh no - not another ****ing learning experience!
I wore jeans and running shoes with socks today - it was only 14 degrees this morning. Running shoes ARE a lot more comfortable to walk in than flats, sandals, or heels. It's been three days since my pedicure, and already the callus on the ball of my right foot feels ready to accept the human equivalent of a horseshoe.
So I learned that I should have been putting cream on - every single day. Falls into that category like brushing teeth. "Aw, Mom, do I have to?" Yes.
I learned that even though rush hour was quite over by the time I rolled out of bed, that I can still connect from the number 102 bus, which stops just outside my door, to the 66, and end up three blocks from work in about 25 minutes.
I learned not to have a third coffee in the morning. Had rapid heartbeat all day after that, and a panic attack in the afternoon to boot.
I learned that my forehead becomes a greasy mess even on cool days, and that something drastic has to be done or I'll scrape my face off in my sleep. (Booked a facial, FYI. Don't worry - I won't be turning up at your door, flesh hanging off in greasy strips, to scare you or your children in the middle of the night!)
When I came home from work, I decided to go to the pool not too far from here to cool down. I packed my bathing suit, bathing cap, earplugs, kleenex, towel and flip-flops into my bag. I took the lock off the shed door where my bike is locked up and hoped it wouldn't be missed till I got back. I went back and forth from the locker to the changing room, forgetting one thing after another in the locker and having to unlock it about six times. I learned not to put things into a locker till AFTER I've changed...
The water was wonderful - just cold enough to give you a shiver as you ease your hot body (even after the regulation shower) into it. It's a great pool. Fifty meters long, and the diving section off to one side. I paddled around for about five minutes, got bored, and left.
When I got home, I had to rinse out my bathing suit and rinse the chlorine off my body, so I ended up taking a shower.
So much for cooling off.
I learned that the neighbourhood pool is a place you go with friends to talk to or laps to swim. But you can't just hang out there, they don't allow floaties. If I could sling myself into a floatie, I could stay happily for hours. But no more neighborhood pool for me until I have a friend to talk to, or swim with! Because by the time I got home and showered and rinsed everything and hung it up, I was as hot as when I started.
Oh well.
And just a few moments ago I learned that I should not unhook the drain from the dishwasher until the entire cycle is complete and the machine beeps. See, it was on the "dry" cycle. I figured the water connection wasn't needed any more, with 8 minutes left, so I unhooked it.
And with exactly three minutes left in the cycle, the machine began to drain. Onto my floor.
I like my landlord and landlady very much. But I can hear her voice now:
"No water, Debbie! I tell you, before we go away, I tell you, don't use water on this floor. They say no water. Why you pour water all over the floor?"
As I mopped up the spill with my newly-washed and dried towels, I mentally questioned the engineer who designed this particular dishwasher.
"WTF!!!!! Why don't you drain it BEFORE the dry cycle? Why did you have to leave that little surprise in there? Are you a sadist, or just mean? Excuse me, but if a machine is silent for 35 minutes, one might be forgiven for thinking it's FINISHED!!!"
Well, next time, I'll just leave everything hooked up.
As a good friend of mine has said:
"Oh no - not another ****ing learning experience!
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Cooking for One
Well, one and a half, if you count the cat!
So, I make home made cat food pretty much every other day. And Bijou has a penchant for chicken. Because of this, I tend to eat a lot of chicken.
Occasionally, we do beef, in one form or another. I like chili, steak, meatloaf. Bijou does not. Okay, back to chicken.
I owe Bijou my thanks, in a way. If not for her, I'd probably lapse into a rut that many single people fall into, especially the... aged ... among us. Tea and toast. Liquid lunches, liquid suppers. Cookies for supper. In other words, no cooking.
I love eating salads, but I hate preparing them. Rinse, dry, chop chop chop... god, it's BORING! Nah - I'll just grab a cucumber from the fridge and bite right into it, rather than go to all that work!
At least, when I make Bijou's cat food, I'm up and cooking, and I make my own veggies and salad. Most of the time.
Well, part of the great thing about getting a freezer is that now I've got stuff in it - stuff that isn't chicken. In the case of tonight's culinary masterpiece, breaded haddock filets and shoestring french fries. Bijou had her chicken, and I had fish n chips.
And as for veggies - well, tomato juice counts as a vegetable, no? And I'm sure the clam, lemon, worcestershire and vodka didn't hurt, either! Two servings!
A well-balanced meal!
So, I make home made cat food pretty much every other day. And Bijou has a penchant for chicken. Because of this, I tend to eat a lot of chicken.
Occasionally, we do beef, in one form or another. I like chili, steak, meatloaf. Bijou does not. Okay, back to chicken.
I owe Bijou my thanks, in a way. If not for her, I'd probably lapse into a rut that many single people fall into, especially the... aged ... among us. Tea and toast. Liquid lunches, liquid suppers. Cookies for supper. In other words, no cooking.
I love eating salads, but I hate preparing them. Rinse, dry, chop chop chop... god, it's BORING! Nah - I'll just grab a cucumber from the fridge and bite right into it, rather than go to all that work!
At least, when I make Bijou's cat food, I'm up and cooking, and I make my own veggies and salad. Most of the time.
Well, part of the great thing about getting a freezer is that now I've got stuff in it - stuff that isn't chicken. In the case of tonight's culinary masterpiece, breaded haddock filets and shoestring french fries. Bijou had her chicken, and I had fish n chips.
And as for veggies - well, tomato juice counts as a vegetable, no? And I'm sure the clam, lemon, worcestershire and vodka didn't hurt, either! Two servings!
A well-balanced meal!
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
How many husbands does it take to put together an Ikea headboard?
I'm in a very privileged minority in the western world. I'm having an agreeable divorce. One where neither party blames the other for everything gone wrong in their respective worlds. One where we're actually able to stay friends.
I remember and old friend saying to me, many years ago, that she and I always had pleasant experiences wherever we went because we were both pleasant to the people around us.
While I might not have been pleasant all the time, I have tried to keep in mind that it's much nicer to be smiled at than to be scowled at, and I have tried for the most part to be pleasant to everyone I encounter.
Even my husband. (Otherwise known as "Hubby" in this blog.)
Sunday, Hubby took me to Ikea so I could buy a piece of furniture. Brought it to my new apartment, unloaded it, opened the boxes... and to our mutual horror discovered we'd got the wrong box for part of the set.
So Monday, he came here after work, loaded the wrong box into his car, drove me back to Ikea... etc etc, and when we got back here, for the price of take-out chicken, put it all together for me. Took till after ten p.m., and not once did he utter a single complaint.
Sweet man. Well, his loving and generous nature was never a problem...
Anyway, while sitting and watching him put the thing together (the instuction booklet is 28 pages long...) I was reflecting that there was, in fact, no "Rocket Science" to what he was doing. Once he was more than half way through the project, I could look at the 200 or so fiddly bits on the table and start to see patterns. At one point I even got up and sorted them into their respective groups. Hubby, of course, had taken one look at the mound and immediately discerned their various uses, but I am not so gifted as he in these sort of matters. I would throw out my flippant "it must be on the "Y" chromosome..." but there are other instances where I have the upper hand discerning what purpose little fiddly things serve, and he is the proverbial fish out of water.
No, it seems the only feasible explanation is simple mental laziness in this case. One drill, one screwdriver. A pile of jumbled boards, and 3000 or so metal and wooden pieces... Simple! Except that, for me, on my lonesome, it would have been "Rocket Science."
Thank you, Hubby.
I remember and old friend saying to me, many years ago, that she and I always had pleasant experiences wherever we went because we were both pleasant to the people around us.
While I might not have been pleasant all the time, I have tried to keep in mind that it's much nicer to be smiled at than to be scowled at, and I have tried for the most part to be pleasant to everyone I encounter.
Even my husband. (Otherwise known as "Hubby" in this blog.)
Sunday, Hubby took me to Ikea so I could buy a piece of furniture. Brought it to my new apartment, unloaded it, opened the boxes... and to our mutual horror discovered we'd got the wrong box for part of the set.
So Monday, he came here after work, loaded the wrong box into his car, drove me back to Ikea... etc etc, and when we got back here, for the price of take-out chicken, put it all together for me. Took till after ten p.m., and not once did he utter a single complaint.
Sweet man. Well, his loving and generous nature was never a problem...
Anyway, while sitting and watching him put the thing together (the instuction booklet is 28 pages long...) I was reflecting that there was, in fact, no "Rocket Science" to what he was doing. Once he was more than half way through the project, I could look at the 200 or so fiddly bits on the table and start to see patterns. At one point I even got up and sorted them into their respective groups. Hubby, of course, had taken one look at the mound and immediately discerned their various uses, but I am not so gifted as he in these sort of matters. I would throw out my flippant "it must be on the "Y" chromosome..." but there are other instances where I have the upper hand discerning what purpose little fiddly things serve, and he is the proverbial fish out of water.
No, it seems the only feasible explanation is simple mental laziness in this case. One drill, one screwdriver. A pile of jumbled boards, and 3000 or so metal and wooden pieces... Simple! Except that, for me, on my lonesome, it would have been "Rocket Science."
Thank you, Hubby.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse
White flour, Sugar, Caffeine, and Alcohol, if you suffer from fibromyalgia. I was reading up on it the other day, on the internet of course. Some doctor urging sufferers to stay away from those four deadly sins.
And yes, they are sins - according to the latest religion to seize the imagination of the masses.
HEALTH.
We're so obsessed with health (this year) that one would think we were the first humans ever to consider it's worth. The churches are empty, but the gyms, spas, and eco-groceries are overflowing. Hardly one person in a hundred knows what the issues are when they go to vote, or what goes on during city council meetings, but EVERYBODY knows you have to eat right and exercise, that it's all a part of your self-esteem, that recycling will save the planet, and that automobiles have brought about our doom.
Etc, etc, etc.
From my perspective, life was a lot simpler when you had god and the devil, and good and evil. At least then you didn't have to feel guilty for enjoying your food. You gave thanks, and ate it, and enjoyed it.
Nowadays, we have ads on tv like this one: A woman staggers over to a chair. She can barely move. She's sore because she spent four hours in the gym , to work off a hot fudge sundae. The ad goes on to sell some kind of limited-calorie snack. And it's taken for granted that if we're stupid enough to eat a hot-fudge sundae, we deserve the punishment of a four-hour workout at the gym.
I remember a time, more than 30 years ago, when going to the gym was FUN for the people that did it. These days, it's nothing short of desperation.
I'd been wondering why all my joints were hurting more than usual lately. In point of fact, I've been having less of all of these items than in previous years, but seeing them listed like that still gave me a turn.
"What's left?" was the phrase that leapt immediately to mind.
Oh, lots, of course. Lots and lots of healthy, delicious, and mouth-watering foods. There are plenty of alternatives.
But let's be clear about one thing: they are alternatives.
Substitutes. Knock-offs.
Consolation prizes.
We are each creatures of our own generation's addictions. I managed to skip drugs and tobacco. But sugar and white flour got me at an early age. I take my coffee so strong that it's impossible to drink without cream in it - friends of mine who determinedly drink skim milk have had to put cream in my coffee in order to choke it down. (They all tell me it's delicious.)
Alcohol, well let's just say I've done some time, and leave it at that. I do enjoy a glass of wine, a cold beer, a caesar, and a margarita. And many, many other delicious drinks. Sometimes to excess, most often not.
But my momentary shock at seeing these four things listed by the good doctor put me in a frame of mind I recognized. It was my mother, talking about how she would never, ever, quit smoking. That she loved her smokes, and everyone could go to hell, because if she couldn't smoke and have her Khaluha, what was the point?
In other words, "What's left?"
It's the same sentiment. It's called addiction. Mom was addicted to cigarettes. I'm addicted to white flour, sugar, and caffeine. (I hesitate to say I'm addicted to alcohol - I'm no more addicted to it than 90% of the population. But you get my drift.)
Everywhere we go these days, every day, there's a new food we're not supposed to eat. Red meat. Fish. Carbs. Fat. Even good old milk has come under fire.
It gets to a point where the average person simply can't manage all the information about what they're not supposed to eat. Some of them devote themselves to the endless study of this new religion, others simply backslide and go buy a box of Krispy Kreams. Most of us just buy what we like and hope we don't die too soon, or in too much pain.
What ever happened to the life-giving properties of food?
I believe that food is WONDERFUL! I love food! I think it's delicious!
And if you don't overdose on any one thing, if you eat a bit of everything, you'll probably be all right. Your chances are pretty good.
So, I have NOT eaten my last brownie, or piece of blueberry pie. I will continue to drink my coffee strong, and puts lots of sugar in it and top it with the richest cream I can afford to buy. And alcohol will continue to grace my table. And I'll consume them all wholeheartedly, unreservedly, shamelessly, and enjoy every morsel and drop.
Because the one thing I've never been able to stomach is religion.
And yes, they are sins - according to the latest religion to seize the imagination of the masses.
HEALTH.
We're so obsessed with health (this year) that one would think we were the first humans ever to consider it's worth. The churches are empty, but the gyms, spas, and eco-groceries are overflowing. Hardly one person in a hundred knows what the issues are when they go to vote, or what goes on during city council meetings, but EVERYBODY knows you have to eat right and exercise, that it's all a part of your self-esteem, that recycling will save the planet, and that automobiles have brought about our doom.
Etc, etc, etc.
From my perspective, life was a lot simpler when you had god and the devil, and good and evil. At least then you didn't have to feel guilty for enjoying your food. You gave thanks, and ate it, and enjoyed it.
Nowadays, we have ads on tv like this one: A woman staggers over to a chair. She can barely move. She's sore because she spent four hours in the gym , to work off a hot fudge sundae. The ad goes on to sell some kind of limited-calorie snack. And it's taken for granted that if we're stupid enough to eat a hot-fudge sundae, we deserve the punishment of a four-hour workout at the gym.
I remember a time, more than 30 years ago, when going to the gym was FUN for the people that did it. These days, it's nothing short of desperation.
I'd been wondering why all my joints were hurting more than usual lately. In point of fact, I've been having less of all of these items than in previous years, but seeing them listed like that still gave me a turn.
"What's left?" was the phrase that leapt immediately to mind.
Oh, lots, of course. Lots and lots of healthy, delicious, and mouth-watering foods. There are plenty of alternatives.
But let's be clear about one thing: they are alternatives.
Substitutes. Knock-offs.
Consolation prizes.
We are each creatures of our own generation's addictions. I managed to skip drugs and tobacco. But sugar and white flour got me at an early age. I take my coffee so strong that it's impossible to drink without cream in it - friends of mine who determinedly drink skim milk have had to put cream in my coffee in order to choke it down. (They all tell me it's delicious.)
Alcohol, well let's just say I've done some time, and leave it at that. I do enjoy a glass of wine, a cold beer, a caesar, and a margarita. And many, many other delicious drinks. Sometimes to excess, most often not.
But my momentary shock at seeing these four things listed by the good doctor put me in a frame of mind I recognized. It was my mother, talking about how she would never, ever, quit smoking. That she loved her smokes, and everyone could go to hell, because if she couldn't smoke and have her Khaluha, what was the point?
In other words, "What's left?"
It's the same sentiment. It's called addiction. Mom was addicted to cigarettes. I'm addicted to white flour, sugar, and caffeine. (I hesitate to say I'm addicted to alcohol - I'm no more addicted to it than 90% of the population. But you get my drift.)
Everywhere we go these days, every day, there's a new food we're not supposed to eat. Red meat. Fish. Carbs. Fat. Even good old milk has come under fire.
It gets to a point where the average person simply can't manage all the information about what they're not supposed to eat. Some of them devote themselves to the endless study of this new religion, others simply backslide and go buy a box of Krispy Kreams. Most of us just buy what we like and hope we don't die too soon, or in too much pain.
What ever happened to the life-giving properties of food?
I believe that food is WONDERFUL! I love food! I think it's delicious!
And if you don't overdose on any one thing, if you eat a bit of everything, you'll probably be all right. Your chances are pretty good.
So, I have NOT eaten my last brownie, or piece of blueberry pie. I will continue to drink my coffee strong, and puts lots of sugar in it and top it with the richest cream I can afford to buy. And alcohol will continue to grace my table. And I'll consume them all wholeheartedly, unreservedly, shamelessly, and enjoy every morsel and drop.
Because the one thing I've never been able to stomach is religion.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Shopping Frenzy
Well, I'm no longer a homeowner. My Hubby, who has lived with me for approximately 15 years, has bought out my "interest" in the house. I received a cash settlement, he is now sole proprietor, and the world keeps turning.
Quite a few of my friends, and all of my family members, were opposed to this arrangement. And I must admit, it took me quite a while to come to terms with it. I still have moments when I'm overcome by sadness, anger, or regret - usually all of them at once. "That's YOUR house." "Kick him out!" "Why are you doing this?"
Why, indeed, do any of us do anything?
I can't afford the mortgage on the house. I can't clean it - and not just because it's full of H's junk and the kids' junk and dog hair and cat hair. It's too big for me.
It didn't used to be, but then again, I used to be younger, and healthier.
I am going to be 52 years old this month. Along with my advanced age, I have acquired some very sore and fragile joints along the way. Since I moved out of the house six months ago, I've become healthier. But I tire easily. I was never a great housekeeper - and you can put THAT in your file of "Understatements of the Century"! To quote Shirley Conran from her book Superwoman: Everything you need to know about running a home in Canada today, "I much prefer to lie on a couch than to sweep beneath it." That expression pretty much sums me up.
I loved my house. I loved my neighbours. I love the yards, front, back and side. I love my swing, my hammock, my pool. I used my broken patio more than anyone I know. Once, Stepson said, "We're eating outside AGAIN?" I looked at him like he came from Mars (which would explain a lot) and said "It's May. We're eating outside till October."
There were birds, neighbourhood cats and dogs, skunks, raccoons, and squirrels. Lots of weeds - more weeds than grass, actually. I've grown corn in that garden. Tomatoes, potatoes, green beans, cucumbers and pumpkin. I gave up gardening about a decade ago when my joints started announcing their presence and my energy started to drop. I loved my Grandpa's Hollyhocks. They were a heirloom variety - meaning nearly extinct - that came from his home in Dunvegan. "The Country," as we called it.
There were poppies, phlox, forget-me-nots, and lily-of-the-valley, once upon a time. No more - lack of care and piles of junk killed all those. The rosebush went wild. All that's left of the south garden are a few Irises, some peonies, one bleeding heart and a host of day lilies. And weeds.
When I realized I needed a ground cover for all the bare spots, if only to prevent the growth of dandelions, I planted gout weed, which Hubby hated and kept destroying. I guess that pretty much sums up our marriage, too. We never were really on the same page. I loved it because it grew to about a foot high, maybe a bit more, the leaves were variegated green, if it wilted you could water it and the next day it'd be standing back up as if nothing had happened, it formed a nice rounded bush shape, it was self-propagating and it was virtually impossible to kill.
As far as I understand, Hubby hated it because he kept running over it with the mower or whippersnipper. And he kept blaming it for the death of his ferns in the front, despite my many attempts to point out to him that ferns grow in a rich mulch in the forest and in damp conditions. Under the eaves of the house, the ferns never received water from nature, and he refused to water there because the foundations of the house leaked. And he never fertilized, so, so much for the "rich mulch."
At any rate, I can't take care of the garden. When I first took possession of the house, I'd be out there cutting the grass three times a week in the spring. I can't do that now - my knees and wrists are on social security.
I can't take the stairs. Sure, I have stairs in my apartment right now, but only to get in and out. At the house, there are stairs to go to do the laundry and watch tv. I just can't do it.
So, I can't care for it and I can't pay for it... time to call a spade a spade and move on. I'm a little ticked I settled for so little in terms of the financial arrangement, but then again, Hubby couldn't afford anything else, and we're still good friends and my kid is still in his will and his kids are still in mine. That may change in a few years if we both find "significant others"... who knows what the future will bring.
In the meantime, I've been joking about "spending my daughter's inheritance." (I can hear my family members shivering.) Yes, I bought a dishwasher, a freezer, a flat-screen tv, a DVD player, some clothes, and a computer.
But I REALLY don't have the energy to spend it all! I'm exhausted! I went into four shoe stores this week - they were all in a straight line on Ste. Catherine street and all within three blocks of each other, and it'll be some time before I go shoe-shopping again, let me tell you!
Shopping bores me. See, I know exactly what I want, and how much I want to pay for it. I get frustrated in shoe stores because all the nice stuff has eight-inch heels. I'm already taller than 90% of the population - I don't need the height! Plus, my knees and toes have something to say about it, too!
Appliances? I know the features I want. It takes me about six minutes to find an appliance I want to buy. It takes much longer to actually find a salesperson, and twice as long to stand in line waiting to pay for it.
I'm not a "shopper." Hubby is a shopper. He LOVES driving from one store to another in an endless pursuit of better prices and novelty. He memorizes the weekly grocery flyers. He tells me about all the different specials - but the info is useless to me. Half these stores are hours away by bus. I'm on a bike, or I'm walking, most of the time. I have to shop in stores near me, so a lucky day is when they're having a special on something I need. I only buy as much as my sore joints will let me carry. Realistically, that's not much.
I guess what surprises people is how much shopping I can do in a very short space of time. I don't hum and haw. I go in, I get what I want, I pay and leave. Now, I remember a two-year period in which Hubby was looking for a new pair of shoes. Not even dress shoes, mind you! Sneakers. He wanted black sneakers. And yes, I did say "two years." It got to be a joke. "Well dear, I'm going into HMV while you're not getting yourself some shoes." By the time he bought himself a pair, he'd worn his old ones down to TWO holes in the soles. Ever done that with today's sneakers? They started out two inches thick...
Well, I sold out my options in the house and I went shopping. It helped ease some of the pain of "losing my home"...
As I mentioned earlier, I'd had a difficult time coming to terms with this particular loss. I must thank my pal at work, C, for finally putting everything in perspective and getting me over the hump. She listened to me as I whined about all the memories, the plans, the good and bad times we'd shared, the fun we'd had. She shrugged her shoulders, shook her head, and said to me, "I don't know what to tell you, Deb. Shit happens."
Shit happens. I'd forgotten that. It's one of my principle credos. Shit does happen - to everyone. It happened in my marriage, and I got out of the marriage. It's too bad that I gave Hubby and his kids a home, and for my thanks they took it away from me. Shit happens. But I'm out, I'm happier. Life goes on.
Once, Grandma and I were talking about a dress I'd bought, for a date. She was as excited as I was about this particular event. We both thought I'd found a Someone. Turned out to be a TOAD. I told her about it. We were both very disappointed. Then she said to me, "Oh well Debbie - at least you'll always have the dress."
Yessiree. And this time, a few of them, and some appliances, and still money left at the end of the frenzy.
Quite a few of my friends, and all of my family members, were opposed to this arrangement. And I must admit, it took me quite a while to come to terms with it. I still have moments when I'm overcome by sadness, anger, or regret - usually all of them at once. "That's YOUR house." "Kick him out!" "Why are you doing this?"
Why, indeed, do any of us do anything?
I can't afford the mortgage on the house. I can't clean it - and not just because it's full of H's junk and the kids' junk and dog hair and cat hair. It's too big for me.
It didn't used to be, but then again, I used to be younger, and healthier.
I am going to be 52 years old this month. Along with my advanced age, I have acquired some very sore and fragile joints along the way. Since I moved out of the house six months ago, I've become healthier. But I tire easily. I was never a great housekeeper - and you can put THAT in your file of "Understatements of the Century"! To quote Shirley Conran from her book Superwoman: Everything you need to know about running a home in Canada today, "I much prefer to lie on a couch than to sweep beneath it." That expression pretty much sums me up.
I loved my house. I loved my neighbours. I love the yards, front, back and side. I love my swing, my hammock, my pool. I used my broken patio more than anyone I know. Once, Stepson said, "We're eating outside AGAIN?" I looked at him like he came from Mars (which would explain a lot) and said "It's May. We're eating outside till October."
There were birds, neighbourhood cats and dogs, skunks, raccoons, and squirrels. Lots of weeds - more weeds than grass, actually. I've grown corn in that garden. Tomatoes, potatoes, green beans, cucumbers and pumpkin. I gave up gardening about a decade ago when my joints started announcing their presence and my energy started to drop. I loved my Grandpa's Hollyhocks. They were a heirloom variety - meaning nearly extinct - that came from his home in Dunvegan. "The Country," as we called it.
There were poppies, phlox, forget-me-nots, and lily-of-the-valley, once upon a time. No more - lack of care and piles of junk killed all those. The rosebush went wild. All that's left of the south garden are a few Irises, some peonies, one bleeding heart and a host of day lilies. And weeds.
When I realized I needed a ground cover for all the bare spots, if only to prevent the growth of dandelions, I planted gout weed, which Hubby hated and kept destroying. I guess that pretty much sums up our marriage, too. We never were really on the same page. I loved it because it grew to about a foot high, maybe a bit more, the leaves were variegated green, if it wilted you could water it and the next day it'd be standing back up as if nothing had happened, it formed a nice rounded bush shape, it was self-propagating and it was virtually impossible to kill.
As far as I understand, Hubby hated it because he kept running over it with the mower or whippersnipper. And he kept blaming it for the death of his ferns in the front, despite my many attempts to point out to him that ferns grow in a rich mulch in the forest and in damp conditions. Under the eaves of the house, the ferns never received water from nature, and he refused to water there because the foundations of the house leaked. And he never fertilized, so, so much for the "rich mulch."
At any rate, I can't take care of the garden. When I first took possession of the house, I'd be out there cutting the grass three times a week in the spring. I can't do that now - my knees and wrists are on social security.
I can't take the stairs. Sure, I have stairs in my apartment right now, but only to get in and out. At the house, there are stairs to go to do the laundry and watch tv. I just can't do it.
So, I can't care for it and I can't pay for it... time to call a spade a spade and move on. I'm a little ticked I settled for so little in terms of the financial arrangement, but then again, Hubby couldn't afford anything else, and we're still good friends and my kid is still in his will and his kids are still in mine. That may change in a few years if we both find "significant others"... who knows what the future will bring.
In the meantime, I've been joking about "spending my daughter's inheritance." (I can hear my family members shivering.) Yes, I bought a dishwasher, a freezer, a flat-screen tv, a DVD player, some clothes, and a computer.
But I REALLY don't have the energy to spend it all! I'm exhausted! I went into four shoe stores this week - they were all in a straight line on Ste. Catherine street and all within three blocks of each other, and it'll be some time before I go shoe-shopping again, let me tell you!
Shopping bores me. See, I know exactly what I want, and how much I want to pay for it. I get frustrated in shoe stores because all the nice stuff has eight-inch heels. I'm already taller than 90% of the population - I don't need the height! Plus, my knees and toes have something to say about it, too!
Appliances? I know the features I want. It takes me about six minutes to find an appliance I want to buy. It takes much longer to actually find a salesperson, and twice as long to stand in line waiting to pay for it.
I'm not a "shopper." Hubby is a shopper. He LOVES driving from one store to another in an endless pursuit of better prices and novelty. He memorizes the weekly grocery flyers. He tells me about all the different specials - but the info is useless to me. Half these stores are hours away by bus. I'm on a bike, or I'm walking, most of the time. I have to shop in stores near me, so a lucky day is when they're having a special on something I need. I only buy as much as my sore joints will let me carry. Realistically, that's not much.
I guess what surprises people is how much shopping I can do in a very short space of time. I don't hum and haw. I go in, I get what I want, I pay and leave. Now, I remember a two-year period in which Hubby was looking for a new pair of shoes. Not even dress shoes, mind you! Sneakers. He wanted black sneakers. And yes, I did say "two years." It got to be a joke. "Well dear, I'm going into HMV while you're not getting yourself some shoes." By the time he bought himself a pair, he'd worn his old ones down to TWO holes in the soles. Ever done that with today's sneakers? They started out two inches thick...
Well, I sold out my options in the house and I went shopping. It helped ease some of the pain of "losing my home"...
As I mentioned earlier, I'd had a difficult time coming to terms with this particular loss. I must thank my pal at work, C, for finally putting everything in perspective and getting me over the hump. She listened to me as I whined about all the memories, the plans, the good and bad times we'd shared, the fun we'd had. She shrugged her shoulders, shook her head, and said to me, "I don't know what to tell you, Deb. Shit happens."
Shit happens. I'd forgotten that. It's one of my principle credos. Shit does happen - to everyone. It happened in my marriage, and I got out of the marriage. It's too bad that I gave Hubby and his kids a home, and for my thanks they took it away from me. Shit happens. But I'm out, I'm happier. Life goes on.
Once, Grandma and I were talking about a dress I'd bought, for a date. She was as excited as I was about this particular event. We both thought I'd found a Someone. Turned out to be a TOAD. I told her about it. We were both very disappointed. Then she said to me, "Oh well Debbie - at least you'll always have the dress."
Yessiree. And this time, a few of them, and some appliances, and still money left at the end of the frenzy.
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