A Hard Room

There are many times I wish I could go back to my childhood belief system. Life was so much simpler for me, so much happier back when I believed a Supreme Being had my best interests at heart. I felt special, I felt loved, I felt secure. What I'd give to feel that way again! Unfortunately, as they say, that ship has sailed. It sure was a nice cruise while it lasted though.

I have a favourite psychiatrist. And doncha just love the fact that I can begin a sentence with the words "my favourite psychiatrist..."! I'm the only person I've met who has ever said those words!

Her words to me now provide what passes for comfort in troubling times. "A certain amount of denial is necessary for everybody to get through the day."

In other words, if we all actually thought about the garbage we create, the impurities we are busy ingesting, the damage our use of water and hydrocarbons is doing daily, not to mention the chances that we'll get hit by a bus, none of us would ever get out of bed or make it through the day with our sanity intact. I mean really - each flush of the toilet, every bit of shrink wrap... now they're telling us that the stuff used in our tin cans is going to give us all cancer. And the other day I heard that the stats say one in three people will get cancer. One in THREE.

We're killing ourselves. We're killing the planet. We're killing each other. And this without doing anything special, just trying to get through the day!

So when people tell me things like "trust in god" or "think positive" or even "hope for the best," I need all my medications to put a polite smile on my face and make me nod my head appreciatively. I am what stand-up comics call "a hard room."

The latest example of how far gone from happy-ville I am came just before last week's lotto 649 draw. Boyfriend had been visiting friends on the 24th, a Friday, and as everyone knows, Fridays are days when there's a 649 draw. His friends were baby-sitting a doggie, and, as luck would have it, Boyfriend's shoe connected with some of said doggie's droppings.

A great cleanup ensued, with lots of cheerful laughter all round. After all, they said, stepping in dog-doo is lucky! They wanted to know if Boyfriend had bought his lotto tickets, since it was now practically a sure thing he'd win! And a fun evening was had by all.

For a time, even I participated in the joke that stepping in dog-doo was supposed to be lucky. "Yeah! Good thing you bought your ticket!" Etc.

Well, Boyfriend is still not a multimillionaire. When he told me that he'd checked his ticket and hadn't got a single number, the truth slipped out of my mouth faster than I knew what was happening.

"Stepping in dog-doo only means there's been a dog nearby," I quipped. And the next second I wished with all my heart I hadn't said it.

I'm never gonna win a lottery with an attitude like that!

She sells sushi...

I don't know what the ad was trying to sell, but there is a group of young people out having dinner at a sushi place. One young man orders something by pointing to the menu because he doesn't know what the menu says, and the waitress leaves with a chipper "good choice!" When she returns she has a huge platter with some round tentacled thing in the center. When the young man pokes at it with his chopstick, the thing leaps up and adheres to his face. He mumbles something about an interesting texture, and the waitress nods and smiles and says "She lay eggs now. Enjoy!"

My Daughter had never seen this ad and had a good laugh as I described it to her over our sushi dinner this evening. She had persuaded me to go to this particular establishment because she loved the food so much and she said it would make her feel better. And like any good mommy when my baby needed cheering up, I said okay. So there I was in a sushi restaurant with my daughter, when my own attitude towards sushi was pretty much summed up by that tv ad, and this line from folk singer Christine Lavin, "Some say eating sushi is like chewing on your own cheek, or chugging down a bucketful of tentacled slime."

Now, I do pride myself on keeping an open mind. About some things, anyway. So she ordered me all cooked items and I carefully worked my way through. Gotta give it top marks for presentation, the stuff certainly looks nice. I find the pieces too large though, since you're supposed to eat them whole or in only two bites.

I was contemplating how to best divide a particular piece when Daughter asked me if I was enjoying myself, and I had to laugh. I guess my facial expression indicated that, instead of looking forward to putting this morsel in my mouth, I saw it as a problem to be solved.

I had a lovely time with Daughter. But I still have to say that sushi is not high on my list of "comfort" foods!

A Christmas Donation

This time of year there are fifteen places to put every dollar, and hundreds, if not thousands, of worthy charities to support. One can hardly turn around without being asked to give to one cause or another, so much so that we can become jaded or callous concerning the needs we are being asked to fill.

It's easy to forget how good we have it, here in Canada in the twenty-first century. We complain about how slow our health care system is, but at least it exists. The prices at the grocery store and gas pump can be frighteningly high, but at least there are no shortages. We've got electricity and water, and very few of us actually know someone who goes hungry on a regular basis.

I've had my share of hard knocks in my life, but I consider myself to be a lucky person. I don't have a huge income, but I have more than a lot of people have, and so I found myself wondering if I would make some kind of Christmas contribution to a charitable cause this year. Because I am very aware of how close I have lived at one time or another to actual poverty, and how easy it is to fall over that surprisingly thin edge.

In the past I've made some questionable decisions as to my giving. I was raised in a tithing family, taught from a young age to be generous to those less fortunate, and in my young adulthood I gave plenty of money to charities and to individuals in need. Unfortunately, I did so when I actually could not afford to, and was at the same time receiving handouts from my grandparents to help me make ends meet. I had not mastered being financially responsible for myself, and I really had no business giving away so much.

So I'm a lot more cautious now when I'm asked to give. I'm aware that even perfectly good and straightforward causes may not be making the best use of the dollars that come their way. And there are certain needs that tug at my heart more than others - everybody has their favourite charities.

Out of the blue this year a request appeared on my Facebook page to contribute to a diaper drive for Elizabeth House - a place for "unwed mothers" in old-fashioned speech, single moms if you're more up-to-date. It's not something I would normally have considered contributing to, but it stuck in my head, mostly because of its simplicity. You buy diapers, and you give them. Not cash, which can be misappropriated or misspent. Just diapers, for the most helpless humans, fulfilling a very basic need. And the friend who ran this diaper drive just did it on her own, posting the invitation on Facebook and just collecting what she could. No grand scheme here, no posing for photos, no full-page write-up in the Gazette. One kind person doing what she could to help people who in all likelihood will never know what she did or who she is.

And I liked that. I get tired of what my Grandpa used to call "ballyhoo." Fanfare and celebrities and the glare of spotlights, with a side of sound track thrown in for good measure. So much noise.

Instead, this gesture was a quiet one. It required me to do some legwork - it's been a number of years since I had to go looking for cloth diapers! I had to physically find and get to a specialty store. I had to physically truck the items over to my friend's house. I think that's what appealed to me the most - it involved a small amount of work on my part. I had to make an effort. Lift the proverbial finger ever so slightly. More complicated than writing a cheque.

I thanked my friend for giving me the opportunity to contribute to the cause of her choice. It did me good, having to trudge through the snow, having to get off my duff to do this little thing. I wish more people did things like this - quiet requests, simple small acts of kindness. That's the sort of thing that needs to be spread around, at Christmas and every day.

An Eensy-Weensy Sign of Hope

Could it be that the meds are starting to help after all? Or is it just that it's a sunny day out there? Well, they say not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I'll just accept this gift and run with it.

For whatever reason, today I saw a tiny ray of hope. I went through the papers on top of my desk and dealt with them all.

That's it. No mountains moved, neither did the earth herself.

But for one simple half-hour I was able to concentrate on this task, make decisions, and follow through.

Like the first robin of spring, it gives me hope. (How come it's never the first wren of spring? Or chickadee?) Hope that I will be able to overcome the crushing load that weighs me down, that I will begin to be able to imagine completing things, that I will, eventually, cope with life once again.

I agree it's small - but when you're as deep in the abyss as I am, and have been, it's wonderful.

Far from Fine

"Hello Mommy. How are you? I am fine."

So went the letters I wrote to my mother when I was a little girl. No child, at least no child I've ever met, enjoys writing letters. Especially thank-you letters. Thank you grandma for the socks. That sort of thing.

In my case my grandmother was seeing to it that I wrote regularly to my mother. Whether she did so because she knew my mother's heart and mine were broken by this enforced separation, or out of a sense of duty, or whether to avoid the criticism that she had allowed communication to falter, I'll never know.

I remember asking grandma what I should write, because I didn't have a clue what to say. My heart was full of longing for my mother, I was torn apart at the seams, I cried myself to sleep every night for the lack of her - but how does a little girl say all that?

She says "I am fine."

The subtext: my world has been turned upside-down without you. I have an empty ache where my heart should be. Everything feels wrong, I am so lonely I wish I could just die. The only thing that keeps me alive is the hope that I will see you again someday. The hope that you can be my mommy, close to me, alive and breathing, hugging me in your soft embrace, kissing away my tears, soothing me with gentle gentle hands smoothing my hair. Rocking me in your arms. Making soft sounds with your voice, wordless and comforting. The hope that one day I will hear you say, "There there - it's all over now. It's in the past. Now we have each other again, and we'll always be together." I continue to live, for that hope alone.

The wonder isn't that I ended up with a depression, the wonder is that it didn't happen sooner, or with more consequences. That I never got into drugs, or cutting, or had any food issues. That I never attempted suicide. That I was able to make some friends, despite a crippling mood disorder that made me pretty unlikeable at times. That I grew a sense of humor at all. That I survived.

Of course, I was oblivious to all of this while I was growing up. I crammed my feelings into a suitcase and locked it shut. I was in my twenties before I started dealing with any of these issues, and I was in my forties before medication started to ease my suffering. I did, finally, get to know my mother, and had a good relationship with her, insofar as my mood disorder would permit. I even managed to make peace with my grandmother and father, who together had taken me away from my mother, moving me half a continent away. Came away in relatively good shape, all things considered.

I was damaged goods, for sure. Too loud and brassy, always making a joke out of situations, never content to just be along for the ride. Cocky and sure that whatever it was, I could do it better than anyone else. Stepping on toes, hands, lives. With 20/20 hindsight, I find it hard to believe nobody ever tried to shoot me! Guess I'm lucky I live in Canada, where guns are still rare!

My mother passed away a couple of years ago, way too young. I have a million regrets about our relationship, mostly that I didn't understand how little time she would have and I should have gone to visit more. But I did get to know her, get to understand her story, and I did get to love her fully and freely, without fear of censure, finally.

That, however, is not the end of the story. Life, specifically, my life, goes on. There is a job to go to, a cat to feed, laundry to be done. And now there is another episode of depression to be lived through. At least this time around I have an adult's sensibilities.

Just now, I am solely on automatic. I'm like a paper cutout of me - I go about life with no substance. I turn up where expected, cook what's expected, talk and smile. But I feel insubstantial, like a paper doll. I have no strength, I tear easily, I am flimsy. As if a breath of air could blow me away.

This time around the story is also about loss. Truth be told, I've suffered quite a few losses in the past couple of years. The media centre where I worked for twenty years was closed, my job abolished. Lucky for me I have job security, so I still have a place of work and a salary. Many people are not so fortunate.

My mother passed away. My father is in his eighties, and I may already have seen him for the last time. He lives so far away, I cannot afford to visit him, and I'm afraid of what I might find. He's a hoarder, you see. And since I'm already so fragile, landing half a world away into that scenario poses its own set of difficulties.

But the overriding loss is that of my marriage. Or more specifically, the loss of the close relationship to my Husband, since we're still officially married and likely to remain so. That business about "to have and to hold..." that's what I'm lacking. The closeness that comes with rubbing shoulders with one person day in and day out. I can get through life, I can go through the motions, but I want to say:

My world has been turned upside-down without you. I have an empty ache where my heart should be. Everything feels wrong, I am so lonely I wish I could just die. The only thing that keeps me alive is the hope that I will see you again someday. The hope that you can be my Hubby, close to me, alive and breathing, hugging me in your soft embrace, kissing away my tears, soothing me with gentle gentle hands smoothing my hair. Rocking me in your arms. Making soft sounds with your voice, wordless and comforting. The hope that one day I will hear you say, "There there - it's all over now. It's in the past. Now we have each other again, and we'll always be together."

And so I continue to live in hope. And I say, "I am fine."

Depression Dreams

One thing you can count on with a depression is great dreams. They may be terrifying, but they'll be terrific! So I thought I'd share some of the best ones.

I've had two musical dreams so far. In the first one, I was practising my scales.

Now, most people think of a "scale" as one octave up and down. However, remember I was in training to be a concert pianist in another lifetime. For me, doing one key is an hour or longer.

For starters, all the scales are 4 octaves in length, and yes, they were all 4 octaves in my dream. I believe I was working in the key of A Flat.

I meticulously dreamt my way through 4 octaves, hands together, of the major, harmonic minor, and melodic minors of the key. I did them in thirds (where the left hand starts on the first note of the scale but the right hand starts on the third), tenths (the left hand again is on the first note but the right hand is on the third note, only an octave higher, so it's actually ten notes away from the left hand), and sixths (the right hand begins on the first note but the left hand starts on the third note). Four octaves, major, harmonic minor and melodic minor.

Then there were chromatics, where you play each white and black note, 4 octaves, and also in thirds, sixths and tenths.

Then there's contrary motion, where you start both hands on the same note near the middle of the keyboard and go two octave in opposite directions. These are done in major and harmonic minor only.

And then there are the arpeggios. These are done in the "normal" position, where the hands are an octave apart, but then you start on different notes. Those are called inversions.

Needless to say, it was a very long dream! The beauty of the key of A Flat is all the different fingering patterns you have to use because of all those flats. My brain would slow me down to a crawl while it watched my fingering very carefully, as if in slow motion. And I think I did everything two or three times in the dream, which would have taken two or three hours in waking life, back in the day when I could do scales nice and fast. Today I don't know how long it would take - next time I find an available piano I'm going to have a go at it, just to see!

Today's musical dream was of a piece I used to play, the Prelude in C from J.S. Bach's Well-Tempered Clavichord. It's a simply, easy and lovely piece to play. I went through it easily about five or six times in the dream, in close-up, seeing the music right in front of my face, and then in different scenarios. As a teenager, on my grandparents' piano in their living room, as a child in a house with two other children who happened to be my Stepchildren, as an adult with the two Stepchildren but with my grandparents in their bedroom listening to me practise.

And a few days ago I had a "work" dream, where I was printing large-scale posters and mounting them on foamcor for a display. The pictures were of the royal family - not the current one, but the one in The Tudors - Henry VIII, Katherine Howard and Anne of Cleaves, specifically. But the fear was that the king wouldn't like them, because they weren't strict portraits, they were artsy-fartsy, done in a modern style, as if Picasso had painted them. But the toughest part was getting them mounted on foamcor - all I had were strips, and I had to glue and weave the foam strips together to make a solid backing for the posters.

And then there was the slightly scary dream, where I'm in my grandparents house. It's winter and it's nighttime, and the snow is piled into huge drifts, half burying the cars. Their old Buick is in the carport, the streets have snow-clearing machinery grinding away, but there are hoodlums pestering me, a gang of teenagers who are trying to break into the house or break into the car, and I keep running from door to window looking for them, trying to scare them away while checking to see if the locks are secure. But the most powerful image is of the blowing snow and the lights swaying in the wind.

The scales dream and the dream of the posters are both about structure. The underlying structure of my life, my real life, has been removed, shattered, and I'm dreaming about structure as my unconscious attempts to put the pieces of my life into a new order, trying to make sense out of the strange situation in which I find myself.

The Prelude in C is about me trying to figure out my relationship to my family, whether I'm a child or an adult, and who the family is that lives in that house.

And the winter nightmare is my unconscious warning me my borders have been breached, so to speak! My unconscious letting me know I'm having a breakdown of sorts.

Fun, eh? The only drawback is that I seem to be limited to one significant dream per night. The current insomnia pattern has me waking up at 4 a.m. every day, unable to get back to sleep. Which is too bad, as the dreams are very entertaining in an otherwise quite dull life.

Unwanted Pumpkin

I have an unwanted pumpkin on my hands I simply don't know what to do with.

Well, strictly speaking, it's not a pumpkin, it's a potiron. Sorry - don't know the English for that.

I picked up two potirons from the Atwater market a few weeks ago. I purchased them because the lady said they had more meat inside than a pumpkin did. I knew I had to make four pies for Thanksgiving, and I wanted to be sure I had enough "squash-meat" to do it with.

(Aside: Yes, this year's pumpkin pies were made without pumpkin. Nobody noticed. Except that the unpleasant flavour of pumpkin was absent from the pies. I swear we could feed the hungry millions of the world on pumpkin, if we could only make the stuff palatable!)

Well, a single potiron gave me enough for four pies, and now I have this beautiful round hot-orange colored squash sitting on my counter. Glaring at me accusingly.

What's that - make more pies, you say? Yeah. In my tiny microwave, it takes three separate cookings to get through one of these things. Cut it up, put it in the only dish that fits my MICRO-wave, cook it for ten minutes, cool it for twenty, scrape the meat out into a bowl, cut up the next bits, cook them for ten minutes...

It's enough to make you buy the stuff in the can! Yes, I miss my big microwave.

But back to my current dilemma.

Carve it up, you say? Well, remember that bit about there being more meat in this thing? It's true. There isn't any actual space inside this thing once you take the seeds out! It wouldn't hold a tea candle!

Make a squash soup! Make a stew and use it! Make pumpkin bread with it! Make anything!

Yeah. How about just throwing it out?

Every fibre of my Scottish ancestry writhes in agony at that suggestion! Throwing out food is a sin, just about the one sin I haven't given in to yet! And the only one that makes me seriously uncomfortable any more! "Thou shalt not waste food" is more deeply ingrained in my soul than any of the others.

Maybe I can make some pies, and just not eat them and get fat, but instead take them to some mission or other.

Now that would satisfy my inner demons. Let's see if I can make myself do it.

Who would have thought a stupid pumpkin could cause such moral anguish?

Haiku! (Gesundheit.)

Golden leaves flutter

Across an empty field, like

A storm of butterflies.

This is the picturesque view through Boyfriend's patio doors. I am staying out here in the boondocks this week in an effort to recover from my latest depressive episode that has once again flattened me and removed me from the workforce.

(If you can call my trifling 3-day week a "force," that is.)

I've heard all the comments several times before. "I'd like a job like yours." "I'd like a doctor like yours." "Where do I sign up?"

But I don't think anybody really wants to sign up for this crippling set of symptoms. Sure, we'd all love a month off for "free" sometimes.

But it's not free - that's the problem. I've already paid the toll, and it's going to take me a month to recover.

Now, I'm as lazy as the best of them. Given a chance to snooze in extra long on a weekend, I'll happily roll over and stretch in the sun! A day where I don't get dressed is as therapeutic for me as it is for anyone.

Provided I have a choice in the matter, of course.

What's different is that I went to roll out of bed and get showered and dressed, only to discover that a work crew had been there overnight and methodically removed access to the shower and my clothes. I could not get to them. Someone had taken a jack-hammer to all the floors in my world, and there was only rubble to crawl over, from the safety of the bed to the safety of the couch. Even the coffee maker had grown in proportion to everything else, and to turn it on required a herculean effort. It was in pieces, for one thing, a puzzle I did not feel qualified to fit together properly. And with lack of morning coffee came lack of morning anything, and it was suddenly afternoon and I hadn't eaten anything, nor had I showered and dressed. I was back where I began. Nothing started, nothing accomplished. Not even simple grooming.

That's the difference, see. I don't have a choice whether I'm in this club or not. I didn't sign up for anything, but here I am.

"Work expands to fill the time available." That's Parkinson's Law - C. Northcote Parkinson, to be exact. My dad had the book when I was a kid. I would read bits of it from time to time, I seem to remember it was funny.

See, it's one thing to be healthy and to take time off, goof off, for a day, or a month, if one can afford. To let a day's work become two or even three day's. But it's quite another matter if you're unable to do anything for a day, or a month, however long the disability lasts. Where it can take you a month to do that day's work because you can't wrap your head around it, because the world has become an obstacle course where every step is a struggle, every movement precarious.

So I was pleasantly surprised this morning to see a cloud of leaves being blown across the field outside, looking for all the world like the butterflies of summer even though it's freezing now. A small gift from Life, a sign of hope. Contained in the dead leaves of autumn are the beautiful wings of spring. It will be warm again.

Impromptu

Okay - I have 25 minutes to write this blog. Twenty-four and a half... Yes, I'm coloring my hair. I am going to spend 25 minutes wrapped in a cloud of peroxide that makes me gag and causes my eyes to water. And for what? So I can look younger?

Have you ever noticed that just about the time your hair is driving you nuts for whatever reason, you suddenly get compliments on it? This happens to me all the time. At yesterday's Thanksgiving get-together, everybody gave me compliments on my hair. Now, it has outgrown its last trim and is now a shapeless mess. I had been obliged to spend nearly 45 minutes drying and brushing and twisting and finally spraying it into shape. This is not what I consider to be a good time!

Right up to five minutes ago, my "roots" were nearly 3 inches long. I could see these roots because my Darling Daughter somehow got me to take leave of my senses this summer and go blonde again. My natural color is a dark grey.

I kid you not. I once had a stylist take all her colors out and tell me what my natural color is. She said, "If your hair was fabric or wool and you made a suit out of it, it would be a dark grey suit."

Not "Ash-blonde." Dark grey.

So I thought I was doing fine, keeping my hair tinted a fairly dark color. But my Daughter (who is a natural blonde) bemoaned it constantly, saying wouldn't I like to try blonde for a change.

Oh, the years of memories that brought back! My Grandmother colored my hair blonde from the time I was seven years old till I was 19. She denied it vehemently. She'd be there, standing over me, putting the dye in, and from where I sat I could read the packaging that said "Hair Coloring" - and she'd still say "I'm not coloring it - I'm conditioning it."

Gotta hand it to Gran - she could have been a politician!

Anyway, it desperately needs a trim, the summer's golden hue has turned slightly brassy, the dark grey roots are 3 inches long, and it was time to finally drag out yet another bottle to help me cover my shame.

I'm going for dark blonde this time. Clairol number 106, to be exact.

I do not expect my Daughter to like it, since it's rather dark, as blondes go. But I'm hoping to get to Christmas without having to do it again.

The fact is, I'm tired of dying my hair. Just think, in four more years I'll have been coloring it for fifty years! I mean, isn't there a point where you just give up, call a spade a spade, and get on with your life - without the addition of chemicals?

I seem to remember a few years back I did just that for a couple of years. Nobody liked my natural color, either. And then I entered my "red" period.

It makes me real jealous of pussy-cats, who have beautifully-colored luxurious fur all over their bodies. All they have to do is groom themselves to be completely and utterly gorgeous.

That's how I'd like to be. Have beauty built-in.

Not squirted in a smelly mess from a plastic bottle.

Clothing

They say, if you want to be rich, don't take up with anything that has a mouth. I often think they should also say, don't take up with anything that wears clothing.

I have a difficult relationship with clothing. Part of the problem is historical: when I was five years old I was whisked across the country by my dad, who thought he was doing "the right thing." Five years old is when girls and boys get their gender identity fixed in place. I had just begun to play dressup in my mother's crinolines that hung in our basement - can't you just SEE those '50s dresses and their beautiful crinolines?!

But upon being removed from the family home, bereft of mother, I settled upon good old Dad as my role model. I learned to wash my face, once a day, that was that. To brush my hair in the morning and before I went to bed. And to put on whatever clothes got laid out for me. Once my grandma got into the picture, she took over - completely - and I was nineteen before I demanded the right to choose my own clothing. This is from my own closet and drawers mind you - I was twenty before I went to a store and choose something from off the rack!

So I did not experience the primping and wardrobe changes that most girls went through in this culture. The idea that I should, or even could, check my appearance in the mirror more than once a day was a foreign concept to me. I wore a lot of hand-me-downs and never really learned to take any particular joy in dressing up.

From time to time I would try. I did a lot of sewing, most of it rather badly. I was impatient with details like pressing, so what I did end up making was, for the most part, ill-shaped and ill-fitting. I liked it because I made it, and kept hoping that maybe the next thing would fit better, without actually laying out a different plan of action, like, for instance, measuring...

In between these "fits" of sewing I would lose patience altogether and go out to a store and buy something. So my wardrobe "grew" - much in the sense of a tumor or a wart, and with about as much elegance.

Fast forward to about eight years ago when I discovered "What Not to Wear" on tv. Stacey and Clinton, help me! I'm dying here! I don't have a clue!

I did manage to glean a few tips over the years: that a woman with my (full) figure should wear structured garments, (so I don't look like a shapeless blob) for instance. Not to put fancy things up high on my chest, since ruffles and what-not look better on flatter women than I. Much flatter than I.

Since around about that time I was in menopause, I also learned that I'm only truly comfortable in natural fibres. Man-made fibres made me sweat profusely, a very distasteful sensation, I assure you!

Well, I've had it. I want off. The world, the game, the fashion whirl. I'm tired of bras, even the goddess bras that fit me so well. I'm tired of matching colors, of trying to remember to wear some of my jewellery with certain outfits. I'm tired of layering, arranging, and tying. It's just not me.

If I lived in a warmer climate, I could easily become a nudist, or "naturist" as it's popular to call them nowadays. Isn't that funny - there's even a politically correct term for being nekked! Say - I wonder what nudists call the people who wear clothes? Fuzzies? No, wait, that's something else...

But I live in Canada, closer to the Arctic circle than the equator alas! So I'm openly declaring myself to be a pyjama-ist. Long underwear (men's, fyi) and a long-sleeved nightie on top. (You know why I wear men's long underwear? Because it's long enough and it's BIG enough. Men don't put up with uncomfortable clothes - it's a mystery to me why women do.)

I declare my pajama leanings. I want to wear my jammies to work. To go grocery shopping in. Why do I have to put on an uncomfortable set of somethings when I have this perfect pairing available? More of us should go to the supermarket in our jammies. Maybe we could bring world peace.

Objects in Motion

I don't know what physics law it is, or even if it's a law or if it's called something else, but it goes like this:

Objects in motion tend to remain in motion: Objects at rest tend to remain at rest.

I've noticed these tendencies applied to my life. If I get up and get the laundry on, especially if I'm walking to the back of the house to hang it up on my landlady's clothesline, then I seem to also be able to get several other tasks done while all that is happening. I've written before about the necessity of keeping moving in the mornings, especially workday mornings.

Now, I know the law wasn't written about human bodies, but it seems to apply to them well enough. I have yet to see a skinny person lounging on the couch and rarely lifting a hand. And I certainly recall a time when I moved around plenty more than I'm doing these days! And, oddly enough, there's that coincidence that I used to weigh a little less back then as well...

Bu what's been astounding to me recently is the degree to which I can easily settle into a total lack of movement!

I seem to have taken "relaxing after a hard day's work" to catatonic depths! A friend of mine, long ago, gave me a Garfield cartoon depicting the orange tubby in classic repose, with the caption "If I were any lazier, I'd slip into a coma!"

Strikingly and eerily accurate!

Remember how I used to love to entertain? Well, lately, the only cooking I do is for Bijou. I used to say if I wasn't up making cat food, I wouldn't even be cooking for myself. Now I'm NOT even cooking for myself, despite a healthy appetite.

I remember an elderly lady, sort of a relative: the mother of my aunt's husband. Her name was Jean, and she was a wonderful Scottish pearl, of whom I have many pleasant memories. She was friends with my grandparents, and I remember hearing her say, many times when she was living alone, that she would "take a toast and tea" rather than go to the bother of making a full meal for herself. My grandparents would tell her time and again that this wasn't good for her, and I, who loved to eat often and well, would wonder how in the world anyone could do that to themselves.

Well, now I understand what she felt. And, like her, I don't like living alone.

Heck, I married (for the first time) when I was only 21. The ten years I was in-between marriages, raising my Daughter, were exquisitely lonesome, despite all the joy I had from watching her accomplishments. And despite all the mess and noise and total chaos in life with Hubby, it was, at least, company. (We get along much better now that we're not sharing the same space.)

Much as I enjoy having my personal space here in this apartment, it has no history. It was never "home" to anyone I love, or the scene of happy social gatherings like Easter dinners and boxing-day parties. And there is no one here, except the cat, to bother doing anything for. It's an apartment, a compartment, a storage box where I brought the essential objects I need for day-to-day life, and no more. It reflects the state of my life right now - an in-between space, an in-between time, a pit stop along the road of my life.

And so often I find that I don't care if I do anything or not, while I'm in this space. I have a very strong "what for?" reflex. There are times I don't even bother picking up the remote control to see what else is on, because I already know nothing interesting is going to pop up!

Well, I swear to you, I'm getting up off this couch (soon) and getting going around here, before I grow roots or something takes root in me. The time has come to stop being an object-at-rest before my time. Time to stop moping around and have some guests over and create a few happy memories of my stay here. So don't be surprised if you hear from me.

Keep Moving

The instructions from my brain - my real brain - the one that governs driving, voting, and laundry, are always the same, be it six in the morning or six at night: Keep moving.

At six in the morning, if I don't keep moving, I'll easily fall back asleep and end up late for work. Oh yes, there will be steps in between: the alarm will go off, every ten minutes, without fail, and I, equally without fail, will sleep through it. Bijou will walk on me, touching velveted paws gently to my arms, my face, in a vain attempt to rouse me, since she knows something is up (or more to the point), something (me) is supposed to be up!

Six at night is nearly the same problem. If I do as my heart tells me, and plunk my bum down firmly on the couch, glass of wine in one hand and remote in the other, my evening is shot. I'll forget to take my evening pills, resulting in uneven sleep; I will drink too much, or too fast, or both; I'll give up on cooking dinner altogether and will pig out on ice cream, and I will not be able to wake up in the morning, and end up late for work.

So the higher brain functions keep blasting me with the same "red alert", be it a.m. or p.m. ...

"Keep moving!"

If I keep moving, I'll do things. If I don't sit down, I can put on a load of laundry. Cook dinner. Boil eggs for tomorrow's lunch. Pay bills. Empty the dishwasher. Get something - anything at all - done.

Because one thing I've learned this past year-and-a-bit, is that it's more fun to do things, than to do nothing.

If I keep ahead of the laundry and the dishwasher, I always have clean dishes to cook dinner in, and I don't spend money I don't have ordering in food, when there's food that I've bought and paid for going bad in the fridge. And I always have underwear, and things to wear I actually enjoy wearing.

If I keep cooking home-made meals, I stand a slightly better chance of controlling my portions, limiting my carbs, and maybe, just maybe, losing some weight. And therefore remaining healthy.

The six o'clock to seven o'clock period is super-critical, at both ends of the day. Tonight, for example, my laundry is now in the dryer, I've eaten dinner, peeled the hard-boiled eggs, soaked the pan the fish was cooked in, and now I'm watching the ballgame with a glass of wine nearby, and it's 7:24 precisely. I can relax now as long as I wish, and I still stand a chance of doing some quilting before having to call it a day. And because I can get some quilting done, I won't have lived a day "for nothing" - I'll have created something, done something beyond cooking and washing and consuming, this day. That will reduce my frustration, help me sleep better.

And tomorrow morning it can start all over again.

I just have to keep moving.

Hello! - Girl?

I am a girl.

I have given up my pretense of being a tomboy, manly, or even gender-neutral.

This has been a tightly-held pretense ever since I was around five years old. I have worked hard to be "one of the guys" all my life. I learned how to play with a reel-to-reel tape recorder a good eight years before I owned a barbie doll. I became an audio-visual technician, learned to sort adaptors according to type and gender (yes, adaptors have a gender: the ones with the sticky-out-thingies are called male, and the one with the holes where those things go are called female - deal with it).

I coiled wires the correct way, the way that doesn't make the wire twist. I learned small repair skills - even learning how to correctly solder wires, and the difference between a good solder joint and a cold-solder joint.

Blah blah blah. It was all for nothing.

I am distinctly female, and I've decided to stop trying to pretend I'm not.

I began with tonight's laundry. I'm sick of bumping into my clothes-drying stand in my bathroom - I took it out and placed it squarely in the middle of my living area.

And now, as I write this, it is holding three panties and six (gasp!) bras.

Take that - you formerly gender-neutral hussy. I wear bras, they're out in the open now, no more hiding them discreetly away...

Away from whom? Just who in the heck have I been trying to hide my bras from, all these years, anyway?! And pantyhose - could someone please explain to me why in god's name I never in all my years hung pantyhose up in the bathroom?

Before tonight, that is.

I guess I'm going through the 52-year-old equivalent of spring fever. Well, after all, tonight IS the equinox: in pagan times people leapt bonfires and cuddled away under oak trees all night long, and I assure you, it wasn't for bible study or prayer meetin'! About an hour ago some fireworks scared Bijou back to the window for a good ten minutes - ah yes, it's fête nationale this week, otherwise known as fête de la saint jean baptiste...

A.K.A., Midsummer's Night - a night to celebrate nature in her fecund beauty, a night to recognize everything earthy and hot and female.

So I find it highly appropriate that I have chosen this night, of all nights, to "come-out" and hang my bras and panties shamelessly in the light, in all their colorful splendour.

I have also just finished coloring my hair, and if I can't get to sleep I'll be doing my nails.

What relentless idiocy - a 52-year-old broad making like such a girl!

Whether idiocy or not, the fact remains that if you're a guy in my life, you will now be bumping into things that have previously been hidden away. When you enter my home, you are entering the cave of a SHE-creature. There will be pinks and lavenders and lilacs strewn everywhere. Turn any corner and you might see an unmentionable: challenge me on it and you might find yourself outside on the street without that sumptuous dinner. Call me an old fool, and you'll be doing it to a ringtone.

There will be flowers.

Vive la différence!

Not Myself

So, last Saturday morning I headed off to Toronto to visit family and see my wee nephew get baptized. Hubby and I went together on this trip - must have sent a ripple of something through my family member's minds, since Hubby and I are living apart and have been for about a year and a half, and since I have a Boyfriend I've introduced to at least half of them.

In fact, Boyfriend stayed at my place for the weekend to babysit Bijou for me. More than one eyebrow went up when I told 'em that…

The weekend started out fun. Daughter and her Boyfriend lent us their gorgeous new van for the trip, so we rode in total comfort. We could use their GPS, or our own. Hubby spent quite a few moments over the 3 days getting his iPhone to sync with his computer and with the GPS in the van!

I had a bit of a shock when we checked into our motel. Hubby pointed out that it was, after all, a "no-star" motel… See, I was fresh from 2 weekends ago in Ottawa in a 5-star hotel, and I knew we were on a floor where you need to insert your room key into the elevator so it would even go to our floor…but I didn't realize all those nice little amenities were also part of the stars! Two weeks ago, I was treated to shampoo, conditioner, body lotion, mouthwash, even shoe polish!

This weekend, I was greeted by a single bar of soap.

And of course, I hadn't packed any supplies of my own. So this meant that the morning of the baptism, I had to turn up at church having washed my hair with - soap.

While in the shower, I started to wonder when the last time was that I used soap anywhere on my body, let alone my hair. At home, I have specially scented shampoos, rinses, body washes and scrubs of different fragrances and consistencies. The only bar of "soap" I put in my bathroom was given me by Daughter, from her trip to Europe - a vanilla/almond cube originating from La France, no less!

So now I know what all those stars stand for in the hotel/motel rating system: the number of things you have to bring with you!

On to the baptism.

I thought this branch of my family was Anglican. I knew they had put off the wee guy's baptism till their new church was built, but I still thought we were heading into something "normal", something I could handle for about an hour. Something harmless.

Uh-uh. This was "Christian Reform" - as testimonial-filled, rock-band-led, flag-waving, emotional-altar-calls as it comes.

Stepdad's only remark was that he found it odd there was no altar.

Instead, there was a stage. With twin HD cameras and screens off to either side, and a state-of-the-art sound system that would be the envy of many a modern theatre. There was a five-piece rock band setup, complete with monitor speakers and a protective shield for the drum set, so it couldn't be accidentally knocked over by enthusiastic worshippers.

Enter the band, led by the slightly long-haired, and of course, bearded guy, and finally the preacher, a man whose voice would rival that of Saruman the White. Clearly born and groomed to the life of a tele-evangelist, clearly at home on the big screen, clearly in his element.

The congregation mostly between 20 and 40 - we were definitely among the oldest people in the room. This was a young person's church, lots of energy here, and definitely no room for doubt or negativity.

Stepdad had told me there was to be more than one baptism - there were seven in all, and eleven testimonials. ELEVEN! Not even Billy Graham had eleven people tell their stories in a Sunday morning service!

Three children received the "children's" baptism - where the preacher scoops up the water and wets their heads. My sweet little nephew had opted for baptism by immersion, along with several of the adults. What a brave little guy! Even though I'd been squirming in my seat the whole 90 minutes leading up to this, I couldn't help but admire the sheer boldness of the little fellow. "Good for him," I thought, and "god help him" as well.

His mom, my sister-in-law, spoke to me about their choice of church the next morning, and was truly shocked at my interpretation of what I'd seen. I could have wept, I wanted to say so much: but I held most of it back because their choice was working for them. Just as "you can't put an old head on young shoulders," there just didn't seem to be any point in sharing my fears or experience with her. Hopefully, with a little bit of luck, none of the brainwashing will wound her or her children, or her husband. With a little luck, it could just be "church" for them.

Don't think I sat quietly through the "show", though. Every nerve in my body was screaming for me to get up and yell at everyone, to express my rage in some très dramatic fashion. To throw myself down on the floor, livid with rage, to damage myself and anything I could get my hands on, to the point where either they'd cast some devils out of me or accuse me of speaking in tongues.

Only Hubby's tight grip on my hand and sarcastic observations whispered in my ear helped me to stay calm and live through the experience, plus my determination that my personal difficulties should not ruin my nephew's day.

Part of me wished with all my heart that my mother were still alive, to hear her say afterwards, "It was lovely, wasn't it?" the way she used to. Part of me was glad she was dead, and didn't have to sit through it, since her experience of religion basically mirrored mine. Part of me wished I could somehow summon up the guts to say "it was lovely" and leave it at that.

But I did get through it, though it took all my self-restraint - and a good deal of Hubby's imposed restraint - to get me there. Hubby was also quick to point out that this kind of thing is very attractive to young couples who live in instant "communities" that are really only building developments. Where there isn't any history to ground you to a place, a church like that creates its own feeling of community, instant friendships, ready-made playgroups for the kids.

Why should I spoil my sister-in-law's satisfaction with her church by warning her of the carefully-masked misogyny, the subtle pressure to conform that comes from this kind of worship. I only hope she still welcomes me as family - I've been banished from more than one person's life because of my refusal to "convert". Try disagreeing with someone at Bible Study. Try saying "I don't believe that" and see how long your new friends continue to socialize with you. Try watching your children fall away from you because of your doubts, listening instead to the hundreds of other people's voices that are calling you "backslidden". Because there is always balance, you see. Nothing is ever as completely pleasant as it seems. There is Yin, and there is Yang. In every system.

What a nightmare. It certainly shook me up. All the more for being completely unexpected.

And somewhere along the line, I picked up a bug. (Hubby's joke: "Going to church weakened your immune system!") I missed an entire week of work, and only now am beginning to take notice of my surroundings after three entire days in bed hovering on the edge of a 103° fever.

For two nights in a row, Hubby drove over to my place, bought me groceries, entertained me so I wouldn't feel totally desolate.

So of course, since I'm at basically rock-bottom, I'm questioning my life and my choices. Wondering what I'm doing in a basement apartment (at my age) when I have a loving Husband I could go home to at any moment. Wondering if my life was so unbearable after all, when I found myself drinking so I wouldn't have to interact with any of them.

And that thought rang a bell, reminded me of something…

I've now gone seven full days without a drop of liquor.

And three full days without coffee.

Seven days also without my computer, or contact with any friends. Three days completely indoors, huddled under the duvet for warmth.

No wonder I'm just not myself.

The Half Pair

It's a story by Robert A. Heinlein, in which a young couple who live in a 2-person spaceship discover one of the man's cufflinks has gone missing out the airlock, and they go back and retrieve it, because having one-half of a pair of anything means you're letting things go. Losing your slim hold on the veneer of civilization. Losing your grip, period.

Well, I now am the sad owner of a half-pair of diamond earrings.

The earrings were a gift from Hubby about eight years ago. We were dirt poor, perpetually broke, and that particular gift from him represented a month's food money at the time.

They symbolized his love for me, his utter devotion and foolishment where I was concerned, that he'd go yet further into debt to buy me a "trinket" that I didn't need and we couldn't afford.

And about six months ago I suspected I'd lost one of them.

I'd been going out, and putting them in, and got distracted and left the house after only inserting one of them. The other was still in the drawer.

I discovered my error halfway through the evening and was horrified to think I'd lost it. Upon coming home I found it sitting in the drawer right where I'd left it, and I made the fatal mistake.

I put it's partner in the drawer with it.

Now, when I say "drawer", it's not an exact description. I have this Ikea headboard which has two sets of "drawers" that slide into the headboard - so everything looks neat and tidy. The idea is, you can hide the mess that usually sits on your night table by tucking the night table/drawer back into the headboard.

But there is no back to the drawer. It is a flat piece of wood. You can pull it forward to put things on it, and tuck it back, but things can fall off the edge at the back.

And at some point in the past six months, that's what happened to one of my diamond earrings. I didn't realize it, because I had so much junk on the drawer. I kept pawing around in the junk, looking for stuff, every day when I got dressed.

And in between then and now, I vaccumed, and now I have one diamond earring.

This morning I went through the vaccum bag, in one last desperate attempt to find the missing earring, but sadly, it must have been in the previous vaccum bag, before I had noticed it was missing.

And yes, I finally let go and cried. Hubby had been almost sheepish at how small they were, he had called them "specks:" but considering the portion of our income they represented, they felt to me like 2-karat diamonds. They felt like love, they shone with the madness of lovers, of two people hopelessly in love with each other and reckless of the consequences of their insanity. When I wore them, I was a queen.

And the loss of one of them brought back to mind everything I've disliked about myself since I was five years old with a snot-filled nose and dirt-choked fingernails, chewing gum I'd pried off sidewalks.

That I'm careless. I'm irresponsible. I'm lazy and selfish. I didn't deserve those earrings, as I don't deserve any jewellery. I'm a dirty little kid with pretentions of grandeur. I think I'm so smart, but I'm a dolt, an idiot, a grease-spot on the fabric of life. I didn't deserve my husband, I don't deserve to have any husband, or any friends either. A messy, useless, whiny lump. Why, those earrings would have looked better on a pig than on me. It serves me right to lose one of them, I'm surprised it didn't happen years ago, I take such lousy care of my possessions.

And so on. If anyone out there has ever found me a bit sharp-tongued at times, take comfort - I save the most potent venom for myself.

The Honey Pot

Well, it's a Sunday night, and Boyfriend had to go home early (*sniff) because he was overtired and unable to breathe. Clogged sinuses. I felt very sorry for him.

Our weekend had begun well enough. We played scrabble, even though English isn't his first language. We watched some good tv. I made dinner. All the usual...

He was supposed to stay till Monday morning, but suffered this humungous fit of not being able to breathe and not getting any sleep as a result, and he shuffled off early to put himself to bed in his own chamber.

Leaving me to figure out how to spend my Sunday evening.

Since I don't work Mondays, Sunday evening is for me very much like a Friday or Saturday evening is for most North Americans. I can really do whatever I like.

Had Boyfriend stayed, I would have dutifully made dinner and we dutifully would have cleaned up afterwards. We would have gone to bed at a most respectable hour - especially since Boyfriend is in the habit of getting up a five a.m. to go to work.

As previously mentioned, our weekend had begun quite well. I ran the dishwasher right after dinner last night, and again after breakfast this morning. I noticed over the last month, when Pal was occupying my couch space, that I do seem to have developed a mania for running the dishwasher that surpassed even my own expectations. The fact is, I can't wait to run the damned thing! Dirty dishes sit heavily on my mind - precisely, I think, because of the danger that I might have to wash them myself, with my own two hands, if they don't come out clean enough. And they don't come out very clean at all if they sit, drying, in the dishwasher, waiting for someone to get around to running it!

So I load and lock the dishwasher at every available opportunity and run it as fast as I can.

Since Saturday afternoon, it had been run twice - once last night, once this morning.

I had also run two loads of laundry - this in the time that Boyfriend was visiting, mind you. I had mentioned to Boyfriend I needed help to turn the futon over so that I might take up the slack of the overlarge cover I had put on it and baste it into place so it didn't look so wrinkled and saggy all the time. So one load of laundry consisted of the cover. Boyfriend's last act here today was to help me turn the futon back on it's right side after I'd finished basting. A heroic effort, since you recall, poor fellow was a little short of breath at the time.

The other load of laundry consisted of the fitted sheet of my white sheet set - I have to wash and dry these sheets separately, given that they are so large and have such a high thread count, and the dryer is a "110" dryer and takes forever to dry a facecloth, much less a 300-thread count queen size sheet!

Last night, while we were trying to sleep, you see, Bijou decided she had to go out and in and out again and finally in one last time: and on each occasion of opening the bedroom window, she pounced with her wet paws onto my 300-thread count queen sized white fitted sheet.

About twelve little puddy-footy-prints adorned the sheet this morning. So, the fitted sheet was the second load of laundry to go on since yesterday afternoon.

In Boyfriend's short visit from Saturday afternoon till Sunday afternoon, we'd had dinner and breakfast, and the dishwasher had been run twice. I'd done two loads of laundry. I'd basted the futon cover into place. We'd gone to a couple of shops - Fabricville to pick up elastic, WalMart to pick up a kettle, Provigo to pick up some foodstuffs, and a Jean Coutu to pick up some antihistamine for poor Boyfriend's sinuses. I had even sprayed the oven because some of dinner had become encrusted on the bottom, and cleaned it out two hours later!

However, today, after he left, I did precisely nothing at all.

I watched tv. I drank two rather large glasses of wine, ate a baked potato, ate some chips with dip, and more wine.

Nothing is cleared away, no laundry has been put on to run, no vaccum cleaner has emerged, no sewing has been started. Or finished.

I have been the proverbial bump-on-a-log all evening, about as useless a human being as there could possibly be. I watched "The Honey Pot" - an old movie with Rex Harrison and Maggie Smith, thoroughly enjoyable for it's double-entendres and general silliness. And, after I finish this blog, I'm going to bed, leaving every dish and glass right where it is, with no more need to run the dishwasher tonight than to run a marathon for pleasure.

In short, I have discovered that I'm incapable of relaxing when another human being is present. And, conversely, or perversely, if you will, incapable of moving my butt off the couch when not being watched.

Sort of the polar opposite of Dr. Who's "Weeping Angels" who move to kill when nobody is looking at them but who turn to stone the moment they are seen by someone. I "turn to stone", or as good as , when nobody is looking!

When someone is, with me, I must dutifully buzz about, tending to this and that chore, playing the part of Suzy Homemaker to the hilt.

Left to my own devices however, with no witnesses to my shame, I can lie on the couch and do nothing with the best of them, reverting to a pre-adult state of responsibility akin to the proverbial lout-on-the-couch I find so easy to criticize in others.

It is true, you can never know for sure what another person is really like till you live with them. And despite all the loneliness and anxiety and frustration, I'm thankful I'm having this bit of time to live with nobody but myself for a while, just to find out truths like the one I discovered today. Namely, that when anyone is watching I'm a sanctimonious snob who can't sit still for five minutes lest a chore escape being done; but turn your back and, to quote Garfield, "if I were any lazier, I'd slip into a coma."

Perhaps it was a general haze, made up of billions of microscopic particulates of pretention, that clogged my beloved's sinuses and irritated his sensibilities.

A stranger passes

I've just today ended a (rather short) era - the era of a Guest-on-my-couch-for-a-month. It was a fairly interesting time, and it passed rather as I'd expected it to - swiftly, pleasantly, with no major upheavals.

I have quite a small apartment - it should be called a 4 1/2, except that neither bedroom has a closet, and the smaller bedroom is quite occupied by the detritus brought here from a house - a house where three generations of my family had lived, though I don't think I can quite get away with blaming them for all my mess.

Suffice it to say that the small room is packed from floor to ceiling on all the walls, as well as in the middle, so really, I have a one-bedroom place to live in.

A Pal of mine had been having one difficulty after another finding a place he could afford, trying to be a good dad while working one measly low-life part-time job and putting megagobs of energy into trying to start a business. Add disagreements with an O.C.D. friend of his and an ex and three teenagers trying out their whims on him, and I simply felt that Pal could use a break, and offered him my couch while he found his own place.

It is one thing to have a body on one's couch when that couch is in the basement of a house, and quite another to have said body on said couch when said apartment really only has one bedroom.

Gone were the late-night runnings of the dishwasher, or putting on of laundry. Gone also were the early morning vaccumings, washing, more dishwashering… The layout is quite "open" - so that meant that turning on the lights was something I had to do after Pal's alarm would ring - initially a full hour after I got up!

Pal was really pleasant all those days I woke him up, which was, incidentally, ALL of the days he stayed here. He'd wish me a good morning. Had our places been reversed, I doubt I could have been so agreeable an hour before my alarm was due to go off!

I'd bring him orange juice, he'd feed the cat; I'd go away on weekends, he'd put the garbage out on the right days - we somehow got along through both our schedules, his much more hectic than mine.

I didn't get to watch much baseball - apparently the Canadiens are making an uscheduled run at the Stanley Cup, and Pal is a big hockey fan. Since the Jays traded Roy Halladay, my heart hasn't been into the game as much this spring, so I just asked Boyfriend to record my shows for me and let Pal watch his games on my tiny tv.

Well, today Pal took almost his last possession away, leaving only an old clunker of a computer in my "extra" room, and I immediately leapt into action at 10:15 p.m., starting laundry and loading and running the dishwasher. It is a relief to get back to - I hesitate to use the phrase "normal" in anything connected with my life - but part of me wonders just what happened here this past month.

I think I gave a friend in need shelter and an ear to bounce some thoughts off of. But I don't feel I know Pal one whit better than before, and I think this is what gives me pause.

See, I'm no good at chit-chat, or surface conversations. I want to get to the good part, the meaty part, the juicy part, all the time. I never get tired of analyzing feelings, for example, or discussing the Meaning of Life - and I don't mean the film!

But I didn't learn anything about Pal this month. Nothing I didn't know already. I don't know if he learned anything about me, one would hope so, but these days I don't seem to have a lot of hope hanging around waiting to be tacked on to this or that issue.

And I find it sad that two individuals can rub shoulders and get in each other's way for thirty days without learning anything about the other person.

That we both managed to be agreeable and personable to each other, at our advanced age, is a minor miracle. Perhaps I should try to be content with that.

And tonight when he picked up the last of his stuff, save for the aforementioned boat anchor in the storage room, I had another Friend over and we were watching Star Trek on DVD, and I was tired and grumpy and nearly shoved him out the door. Not my nicest moment. He seemed to take it in good humor, as always.

But I think I could have been a little kinder.