The Price of Tea in China

I am not alone.

For many years though, I thought I was. Alone in my obsession with cups, saucers, plates, bowls, serving dishes, and teapots.

I have a book about teapots - a "coffee-table" book. Ha ha. Get it?

So that means other people are interested in this kind of stuff too. Yet for some reason I always thought I was the only person in the world who loves china.

When I got married (the first time, to D, H's father) the first thing we did was pick out a china pattern, a flatware pattern, and crystal.

D introduced me to fine china and crystal and flatware. He came from an upper-class family. He introduced me to the concept that I was allowed to have the kind of serving dishes that I preferred. That I didn't have to drink out of glasses and eat off plates that were other people's preference.

It didn't go down well with my Grandmother though. She lived from hand to mouth all her life, made it through the Great Depression intact through her wits and hard work, was kind to others and grateful for the kindness of others.

And never ceased thinking with Depression mentality. So, until I was 19 years old, when I received hand-me-downs from people, I was obliged to wear them, and be seen wearing them by the person who had given it to me.

No matter whether they fit or not, or whether I liked them or not. I had to show that I was properly grateful.

So when D and I were given some crystal from a family member who had not bothered to look at our gift registry, and I politely refused the gift, saying thank you very much but we would be exchanging it for our crystal choice, all hell broke loose.

I was an ungrateful, unfeeling, unkind wretch of a girl, too big for my britches, to spoiled to appreciate the kindness of others, too undeserving of any gift whatsoever. She would take the crystal back and not give me anything in return. She would take back all her gifts and call off the reception.

She turned the screws, the screwdriver, she beat me over the head with it... But I had D to stand up for me, and the crystal was exchanged, and none of the other threats actually  materialized.

And I got to drink from glasses I liked, for the first time in my life.

Now, for most people, a choice of wineglasses or plates or flatware is a simple matter of personal taste. Granted, you have to have an income that allows you to make such choices - if you're poor, you can't afford such a luxury. 

But if you can afford a luxury item, then people are allowed to make those kinds of choices.

For me however, such things have always been a moral issue, because Grandma made them so. She tied my self-esteem into how grateful I could be, how cheaply I could live, how faint my own identity could be. So standing up for myself as a bride-to-be and insisting that if people wanted to give us gifts that they choose from what was in the registry, was unheard-of for both Grandma and me.

But I did it. And one of the things I learned from my first husband was that it was OKAY to have personal taste.

Now let's fast-forward to my late forties.

My Mother, P, had chosen a beautiful china pattern for herself. I actually don't know how many years she had to collect it, since I didn't grow up with her and only saw her a few times a year, to my everlasting regret.

Royal Doulton Paisley.

I think it's the most beautiful china pattern I have ever set eyes on. It's feminine without being gag-me-with-a-spoon. It's subdued without being plain. It has beautiful oval shapes. I could go on for hours, because I'm completely NUTS about china, and this pattern in particular.

And I received the entire collection from my Mother after she passed away seven years ago. Well, I received it last year, my Stepdad hung on to it for a while, but I was thrilled to get it.

I immediately set out buying some pieces to complete the set.

With absolutely no thought about the cost, incidentally, a fault my Grandma was right about. I do go a bit nuts when something I seriously want is barely within my grasp. I got the set, saw I was missing a creamer or something like that, bought it on ebay or replacements ltd, and have a service for ten.

With everything but the teapot.

I had talked to Mom about buying her the teapot, years ago. She had looked up the price and called me right back and told me not to, that it was simply too expensive. I think, at the time, it was $240 for the teapot. She was horrified and told me not to run up my credit card.

Years later, as I was touching (lovingly) each and every piece of the set, I was furious with myself for not having run up my credit card to buy it for her, since I have continually run up my credit card for much sillier purchases before and since. And she might have enjoyed the use of her teapot for years had I bought it for her. And I might have been enjoying it now.

Well, it has happened. A Royal Doulton Paisley teapot came up on ebay, for only 22 Pounds. (Around $60, I think.) I don't know why it was priced so low, but I jumped. Asked Hubby to pay for it, because of course, my credit card doesn't have the room on it... Remember what I said about running it up?

And it's on its way to me!

So, hopefully, this won't end in tears. It won't be an internet scam, the teapot will be in good shape, and you'll all be invited over for a tea party in the new year.

How many China patterns does one person need? I was also slated to receive Grandma's china back from my Stepmom, who passed away about six weeks ago. One would wonder why I wanted it, given that my relationship with Grandma was so problematic - but then, one has to remember how passionate I am about China!

I don't even know the name of Grandma's pattern, but it was beautiful and unusual. And I wanted it for years, even though I had no place to put it.

However, thankfully, one of my cousins is going to take it. So one day, I hope, I'll get to eat off those plates once more, for old time's sake!

I could fill the house with China. China cabinets (ones with lights to really show off the patterns)!

I used to think I'd be handing down all this China to Daughter - but she received a service for 12 from her father's mother, which is still sitting in boxes!

No, I'm calling it quits with my Paisley dishes. This will be my China. And I will use it as often as I can.

Especially when the teapot gets here!

I hope your new year is as happy as mine seems to be starting out!

P.S. It has arrived!

 

Happy Christmas Baking

Fruitcake - check!
Plum pudding - check!
Mincemeat - check!

Yay! Finally I've got all the christmas desserts made, before Christmas! Actually, not really all of them "in time" per se - the fruitcake needs to age about two more weeks after christmas, and the mincemeat I'll be bottling later tonight and it needs a month - but the plum pudding is ready for Saturday's "do!"

Many thanks to my cousin C who got me the suet for the pudding and mincemeat! And Beautiful Daughter requested I send her some fruitcake, which totally made my month! And this particular fruitcake is one of the best I've ever made - the bits I scraped off the pan told me that! Moist and full of flavour, even before the "rapid ageing process" (add more booze!)

Cousin C's husband G is to be thanked for giving us the bottles he received in his travelling days. He doesn't drink. But my fruitcake will bite you back because of his stash! The rum is sipping rum - even I can sip it straight. Oh, I can hardly wait!

Now, I've done plum pudding before, but this is the very first year I've ever made mincemeat from scratch. I've been looking at that recipe since I married my first husband when I was 21 years old and got "The Canadian Cookbook" as a wedding present. That cookbook and I have come a long way, as evidenced by the page here with the recipe for date squares!

Anyway, I have to go on the internet and look up the origins of mincemeat, because it starts with a pound of ground beef.

Yes, those tasty little tarts you've been gobbling up at christmas are made with meat, real meat!

And suet, which is fat from around the kidneys of a cow. Bear with me - it has a particular melting point and a particular texture that differentiates it from fat from other areas of the cow's body.

What's got me wondering is, how did the first batch get made? I mean, what was the inspiration for putting sugar, currants, raisins, molasses, spices and cider vinegar in with meat and fat? It had to be some way of preserving the meat: fat, sugar and vinegar are all preservatives. But it makes me wonder, historically, the reasoning behind this dish.

Well anyway, when it's finished simmering in a few more hours, I add the brandy. Then it gets packed into sterilized mason jars and has to age for a month.

So I'll keep you posted as to the flavour and texture of home-made mincemeat! And Merry Christmas to y'all - I probably won't be able to blog till 2015.

The Choices We Make

We all know that the choices we make determine our fate. We also know that we cannot see the end results of our choices at the time we make them.

Hence, so many people make bad choices, and end up on drugs, in prison, etc. And some people seem to make good decisions and get an education, get a career, and seem to have it all.

But in between those extremes are the ordinary people like me, and like the members of my family, and probably of your family as well, who make decisions every day and can only see after many years what the outcome of those decisions was.

Such was the decision my Daddy made around 40 years ago or thereabout, to move to Louisiana with his second wife Minnie, who just passed away last Sunday. She and Daddy had been married around 45 years - we haven't dug through the paperwork yet, I can remember their anniversary was the 22nd of July, but not what year.

Daddy had been in the Canadian armed forces and took early retirement to go live in the deep south with his wife. He became a father to Minnie's four children by her previous marriage. They get married pretty young down in those parts, and Momma and Poppa have around 15 great-great-grandchildren by now, I'm not sure of the exact count! They didn't have any children together, so I'm the only child my father had before they got married.

But in the terms of the family discussions before my Daddy moved away for good, I ended up staying in Montreal with my grandparents. The reasons are complex and sad. I wanted to go with my father, but my grandmother used a bit of emotional blackmail on me, suggesting that a newly-married couple might prefer to be on their own without a youngster running around. So when Daddy asked me if I wanted to go with them, I said no, to give him a chance at happiness. That was my thinking, even if it broke my heart, and his.

Water under the bridge. Daddy loved the south, and not just the weather. He thoroughly embraced the republican politics and the fundamentalist religion. In fact, he and my stepmom left the Southern Baptist Church, because the Southern Baptist Church wasn't fundamentalist enough for them!

(So when you think maybe I'm a bit loopy sometimes, remember, I have had to claw and scratch for every shred of sanity I own!)

But I digress...

They came back to Canada often to visit Daddy's parents until the old folks died, and they came up once after that to see me, and then that was it. They hadn't been back to Canada for over 20 years.

I had gone down once just before my first marriage, then once with my second Hubby, then three years ago with Daughter, and finally two weeks ago, just after my stepmom passed away. 

And now I am musing on Daddy's life choices, and mine. And the effects of those choices on all our lives.

Daddy paid a hefty price in salary for moving to the south. As an outsider, it took him years to find a job, and when he finally got it, it paid way less that he had earned in the past. But he still had his pension from the military to help them, and they lived very frugally. I can't say they didn't have an entertainment budget, because they must have fed the five thousand over the years! But I don't think they went "out" much, to the occasional movie, the occasional restaurant, but mostly they just went to church and to Minnie's children's homes. Or had people over to their home.

Over the years they did what they could to help out my stepbrothers and stepsisters, and the grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Daddy knew how to fix stuff, Mother did a lot of sewing and cooking...And then they got old, and the roles began to be reversed. Now it was the job of my stepbrothers and stepsisters to come and cook and clean for Momma and Poppa. And then they got really old, and needed full time care.

Daddy had absolutely refused to sign up for medicare. Somebody got Momma signed up, so when she got really ill at the end of her life there was home help and then hospice care for her. But Daddy was determined he had seen his last doctor and visited his last dentist. He would fly into an absolute rage if we tried to convince him to go to either.

Sadly, I now know that this wasn't just his innate stubbornness, that Alzheimer's was eroding his brain at the time. We all just thought he was stubborn and knew what he wanted. The reality of it was, he didn't understand the consequences of this decision.

When my stepsister asked me to go down, three years ago, while both my dad and stepmom would still know who I was, I hauled Daughter with me and off we went. My dad had become an old man, and Momma had had a stroke that had, for all intents and purposes, made it virtually impossible to communicate with her. She could walk, barely, from the bedroom to the livingroom, but she became easily discontented when Daddy wasn't paying attention to her.

This time, when Momma passed away, I was able to go alone. Well enough, mentally, to live on a different planet without it destroying me. Because, make no mistake, the deep south is an extreme antithesis to life up here in Montreal!

My stepsister and her husband are taking care of Daddy in their home. I tried to help with caring for him while I was down there, but something in me irritates my father and he gets cantankerous around me. So my stepsister patiently explains to him several times a day that he needs to change his "underwear" - a euphemism for Depends. And she has to guide him through the whole process, explaining each step for him. And three hours later, he has forgotten it all and it has to be explained all over. And the same goes for getting him to eat, and getting him to brush his teeth, and getting him to take a bath...

While I was there, I engaged Daddy in some activities he used to enjoy, to see if he was still capable of doing them. We tried a jigsaw puzzle, which he used to love, but he wasn't interested. We tried a game he'd never seen called Tangrams, where you use plastic geometric shaped pieces to make pictures, and he watched that intently and shook his head when I did it incorrectly. And we played some cards.

Now that he could do. It only took a few minutes the first time, and he remembered what the suits were, what the values were, and what trump was. We played several times just the two of us, and then the night before I was to go home we played with my two stepsisters.

The one who is caring for Daddy was very uncomfortable at first, because all she could think of was how much laundry still had to be done. We played four hands of whist, and everybody eventually enjoyed themselves. Daddy really perked up, his sense of humor coming to the forefront. This is what I remember from my childhood, that playing cards was fun and funny, even if we didn't really know what we were doing.

But my stepsisters talked to me then of leisure time, and how little they had of it. And that's what's got me musing about life choices.

I have realized, since coming home, that I have a great deal of leisure time. Especially when compared with my stepsisters. And some of that is due to the fact that they simply have to work harder and longer to make ends meet than I do.

They live in an economically depressed state. My dad was able to help everyone out for years, and actually still contributes to his own support because they handle his finances for him since he became unable to. And I want to be clear - they handle his finances very well, much better than he ever did himself!

But the fact is, when you have to work that hard just to stay afloat, that is subsistence living.

I stayed in Montreal, where there is universal health care. I ended up in a good job with benefits. And when Daddy asked me to leave and move down south even just a few years ago, I said no, again. Because I know that I need medical care, and my best chance of that is from the position I have right now, with vacation, sick days, employee assistance program...The only advantage I've never used is maternity leave! I need all that to survive.

And I need the community of friends I have here, people who prefer liberal thinking, hate guns, think Barak Obama is the USA's last and best hope to be anything other than a national disgrace. People who don't believe in a god, at least, not the way my other family does! People who understand multiple cultures, who have travelled and come to understand that other people see things differently than we do.

I need peace and quiet, I need to read, to quilt, to pat my cats. I need my life, the life I've built for myself, with the help of family, friends, and lovers. This is my world here. I am not wealthy, but I have way more leisure than my other family. Plus, I only work three days a week, so I have even more leisure than most of my friends.

I wish I could give my stepsisters leisure. Down-time, time to play cards, or read a book, or play bubble pop for goodness sake! To organize their thoughts, soak in a tub...I don't know how they keep going. Part of my need to relax is medical, from the mood disorder, but I'm so much healthier now than I was, that's pretty moot now.

No, I'm pretty much convinced that the choices I made gave me this room to breathe that they simply don't have. I can't feel guilty about it - there was no way of knowing that there would be this inequity 40 years ago. I didn't know my life would work out the way it has, and I didn't know how things would work out for Daddy, for my stepmom, and for my other family. We don't know, when we make our choices, how they will open opportunities for us on the one hand, and limit our future choices on the other.

And 40 years ago, when my Dad moved away, he couldn't foresee that he would be so far away from where I lived that I would not be there to help him when he became to old and frail to care for himself. He kept insisting, during my visit, that he wanted to go home. But there is no home to go to, for him, but the one he is in.  He is loved, petted, fed, washed, cared for, joked with, entertained, and safe. 

But he moved away, and I didn't follow. And now we are very far apart.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I - 

I took the one less travelled by - 

And that has made all the difference.    Robert Frost 

Riding the Whirlwind...

Whew! Today is my first day "off" in weeks. I still have to mow the lawn, do laundry, and preserve pears, but that is little in comparison with the whirlwind of activity I've been through lately!

My Beautiful Daughter got engaged! Yay!

Not five minutes after being permitted to send out the announcement, she and I both began receiving questions.

Perfectly ordinary questions for someone from my generation, mind you. 

• Have they set a date?
• Are they having an engagement party?
• Will you be making the cake?
• Will it be a large wedding?

I can think of other questions that could be asked, too. Like, are they setting up a registry, are they picking a pattern, what do they need, where will they reside...

But alas, my Beautiful Daughter and her Handsome Intended are not of my generation, nor of my lifestyle. They are both actors - and before you sniff at this, please bear in mind that her "rock" is twice the size of mine, so he's doing something right! (besides marrying her, of course) - and they are living currently in what's called an "Air B&B" in Vancouver.

I had to have her explain to me what an "Air B&B" is. It's where people who are away from their homes for a period of time make it available for rent to strangers, on the internet.

Apparently there is some sort of background check when you sign up for this, but I personally find it a bit creepy. However, I am informed that I am backward and fearful. Young minds, fresh ideas, etc!

At any rate, they will be living in sub-letted spaces for the next two years. They sold, gave away, or stored all their possessions except for two suitcases which they took to Vancouver.

So, no, they haven't "picked a pattern."

Beautiful Daughter, on hearing the host of questions thrown her way five minutes after they announced their engagement, said "Can you give me a few days to admire my ring?"

And of course, since I've been a wedding cake decorator for half my life and am one of three people in the known universe who does Australian Lace wedding cakes, it's been expected by all that I will do my Daughter's cake.

Only one problem. Daughter and Intended are vegans.

No eggs. 

Egg whites figure prominently in Royal Icing, a key ingredient in Australian Lace decorating.

Oh.

It's not that I can't learn a new process, it's that the last 30 years of accumulated knowledge and skill have now been thrown out the window.

My anguish is something every parent comes to know at some point: just when you think you know something, your kids knock you down with a curve ball, and you have to start all over.

Then there's the vanity factor - and let's not pretend this isn't happening to me! Being one of three people in the world who can do Australian Lace cakes, I happen to know that my skills are fit for royalty.

Can I repeat that? R-O-Y-A-L-T-Y.

Would you ask a Michelin Chef to make you twinkies?

So yes, there is a bit of wounded pride going on here! Not that I can't get over myself, but yes, this happens to be one thing I can do really well and I've been dreaming of doing for her since the day she was born, and every cake I've ever made prior to this point has been just practise for this glorious event...

(Let's cool the violins, shall we?)

Well, I could buy a bunch of new products ($$$$$) and do a bunch of baking and decorating experiments ($$$$$) till I have a vague notion of what I'm doing.

I could do a "dummy" cake - which is merely a decorative piece to be set up and look pretty on the table. Perfectly respectable. Can be worked on years in advance. Lots of advantages to this!

I could do each tier in a different cake for folks who enjoy different stuff.

I could even let them start doing some research into the cost of wedding cakes themselves. (I do, I must admit, get a little chuckle out of this idea, since I know how much they cost and the kids are absolutely clueless... Every former bride out there knows what I mean! Last time I checked, it was around $4 per serving...)

But I think for now I may just get off this whirlwind. Practise a little zen-like "letting go." See what turns up.

I guess I'll just go cut the grass.

The Downside of Nice, Bright LED Bulbs!

There's a downside to these bright bulbs.

You can see E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G.

Whether you want to or not!

For instance, the new LEDs installed in the kitchen enabled me to see how dirty everything was, with the result that I spent an entire day scrubbing.

O, joy.

And just when I thought I was done with beauty treatments, lotions and potions, I saw THIS in the bathroom mirror, courtesy of four bright 60-watt LEDs:

This is the hair on my chinny-chin-chin. Or rather, my cheek. (And there's more on the other cheek too, but that cheek has age spots on it, and even I have limits to how much embarrassment I'm willing to undergo in the service of full disclosure.)

And now I have a new beauty treatment to undergo: Threading. Because I asked my Beautiful Daughter if I needed to DO something about this cheeky hair, and she said yes.

And the options are:

• Waxing
• Threading
• Nair
• Shaving.

Yuck. 

But I'm already a crabby old lady, I'm already fat and out of shape (though a simply divine baker!) and I already don't wear makeup or dye my hair or get my nails done.

As I've said before, at least I still have all my teeth.

The Bureaocrats Strike Again

It started out as a good idea. Make LED light bulbs that use a fraction of the electricity of standard bulbs, that last waaaayyyy longer than an incadescent bulb, and give people a rebate at the store.

I was never a proponent of the spiral fluorescent bulbs. I don't like fluorescent lights, period. But Hubby gave me one of these new bulbs to try out, and it was bright, not green, and doesn't get hot.

So off we went today to buy 20. 

And here's the catch.

Some bureaucrat at Hydro-Quebec decided to limit the quantities for the rebate to 5 bulbs. The bulbs cost $7.99 each, with a $7.00 rebate. You have to pay the tax on the full $7.99, but it's a heck of a rebate. But there's that little matter of a cap of 5 bulbs...

It's an instant rebate, for the consumer. But here's what happens:

You go to Reno Depot, and you grab your 20 bulbs and line up at the cash.

And wait.

See, every pack of 5 bulbs has to be processed as an individual sale. There is a form to fill out - you have to fill in your postal code, they type of bulb you're buying, and the date. The customer has to pay, then he/she gets a receipt, and finally, a receipt is printed out that must be physically stapled to the form, which is then sent to Hydro-Quebec.

So for example, we bought 20 bulbs today, so that was 4 transactions. And we were not alone. Everyone on the South Shore was buying bulbs today.

Basically, the lineups go around the block.

This bureaucrat was - as bureaucrats go - particularly "gifted." People are going to have to spend entire days waiting line to get the quantity of bulbs they need to light their homes. Reno Depot has had to hire extra staff to help keep the lines moving. To the point where I'm pretty sure they're losing money.

The best fictional example of this kind of brilliance was a short story called "Dodkin's Job," by Jack Vance. It's a hilarious story of one intelligent, though uncooperative, man's attempt to find out who gave a ridiculous order to construction crews that all tools must be locked up at the end of each day, and handed out the next morning, complete with paperwork. It resulted in about four hours each day for hundreds of workers to spend in lineups, unpaid, creating havoc and unnecessary hardship.

There's a joke in here somewhere about the Lightbulb guy not being too bright. 

Yet another bus mishap

I'm not famous, but in my personal history I'm famous for some of the funny things that happen to me, or the funny things I do related to commuting. And today I pulled a good one.

I was recharging my Opus card, adding six measly south shore bus tickets to it. Today was September 29, which meant a lot of people were in the lineup to buy monthly passes for October.

I usually fill up at the machines, and today was no exception. There were three machines, and no one was lined up at them, the lineup was only for service by a real live person.

One of the reasons I use the machines, by the way, is so I don't have to try and explain in my broken French what I want to buy. When I deal with a person, I say, "seese beeyets, see voos plet." Then the person wants to know which zone I want the tickets for, and I'm lost. I haven't got a clue what zone I want. I don't know which zone I live in, or what zone I want to get to. Really, why did they have to go and make zones, anyway? I want to take the dratted bus over the bridge. And sometimes I take it to a mall. Why do I have to learn all the zones?

Well, two of the machines weren't working - par for the course - but the third one was available, and nobody seemed interested in using it. So of course, that's what I did.

I put in my card, pressed the button for English...The menu seemed a little bit longer than usual, and when the machine informed me that there would be a service charge added, and the total came to $24.50 instead of $18, I grumbled that the price had finally gone up like they said it would, and pressed "ok."

It spat out my receipt, and, oddly enough, it also spat out another Opus card.

Now, seasoned travellers would immediately suspect what was going on, but in my pre-coffee muddle, I picked up the extra card and looked around me - like the answers were going to be found on the walls or written on bystanders' foreheads or something.

In the end, I gave the card to the next person in line, saying, "It gave me an extra card!" We were both shocked, and I continued on my way.

About the time I reached the next bus stop on my way to work, it began to dawn on me that I hadn't just purchased a refill for my card, that I'd actually purchased, and given away, a new card, with six tickets on it.

I told this story to an acquaintance at the bus stop I chat with frequently. The expression on her face said it all - I'm an idiot. She said "Next time the machine gives you an extra card, keep it, at least till you've had a chance to think about it!"

I also told a co-worker, a young woman who works in my building. She was more forthright. She said "you need an attendant, 24/7!

Well, I hope the youngster I gave the free tickets to enjoys the rides! And on my way home, I recharged my Opus card, properly, and it only cost $18.00

Sigh.

Taking a Walk

I went for a walk this morning (did the earth move?) before I had my coffee! I didn't shower first - I have to work up to showering, don't like getting wet - I simply pulled on pants and a top and sandals and walked out the front door.

With my purse and cell phone. And I called Hubby and talked to him for the first part of the walk. I'll explain later.

I have to move around. Daughter asked a friend of hers, who owns a gym, if he'd train me, and his answer was the same answer I've heard from doctors, the same answer my Grandmother used to give Grandpa - walk.

Walk walk walk walk walk walk walk.

Humanity evolved walking. It's simply the best thing we can do for ourselves.

Now, I'm not overly fond of walking. I'm not overly fond of exercise in general, which is why I find myself now having to walk. (Take note, all you young and fit ladies! Don't lose it! Don't let yourselves go! It's a murderously steep slope!)

If I simply must exercise, I prefer riding my bike. I also love swimming, but oops - there's that hating to get wet thing again. Once I'm in the water, I love staying in it, though lately this involves lazing in elaborate floatie toys rather than doing the crawl.

Time was, I could swim a mile. I was ten months pregnant at the time. First Hubby rowed the boat, and I swam behind it. I like swimming that way, with a rowboat and rescuer immediately to hand. It didn't bring the baby, but it was good for my back, and my mood.

I have to move around more now, because I'm fat, and because I'm also slipping down the - I hate to say the word "depression," - let's call it "sadness" slope. 

The time for foolishment is done past.

A pal of mine, D, started jogging years ago. I can't jog. Never could. All that weight, pounding my knees and ankles and feet - jogging is definitely not on my list of things to do.

But my girlfriend dutifully got up earlier than her family, threw on clothing, and went for a run every morning. This would be before six in the morning.

I don't think this scenario is very likely to happen to me, six o'clock in the morning is an ungodly hour to get up. So I don't think I'll take a walk on work days. But, fortunately for me, I only work three days a week. So that leave me free to go for a walk four days a week.

As I was walking this morning, my brain was busy trying to work out how I could excuse myself from this unaccustomed activity.

"What about in winter?" my brain asked, in a whiny tone.

"I have boots and a coat and snow pants," I replied grimly.

"What about when it rains?" came the horrified plea.

"I'll carry an umbrella," I said.

"But I hate carrying umbrellas!" Brain squealed.

"Then I'll wear a raincoat with a hood." I was determined.

"But that'll cost money!" Brain reminded me. "And raincoats are hot! Like those big yellow suits you wore when you rode a motorcycle - they're hot and they're expensive and..."

"That's enough," I said firmly, imitating my Grandmother's tone of finality. "The matter is not open for discussion. I will walk, rain or shine, four days a week."

Brain grumped around a bit, then came out with the anxiety. (The very same anxiety that makes me have to take walks in the first place, to decrease stress - the brain is a marvel of deviousness...)

"You know, you could be attacked..."

And now I return to the subject of the purse and the cellphone. And the call to Hubby. Because I am a woman, walking alone. And that makes me feel like there's a 30-foot long red arrow hovering over me, flashing the neon words "Prey here! Get your prey fresh here! Come and gang-rape this woman! Yoo-hoo - predators! Psychopaths! Murderers! Woman walking alone! Come and get her!"

Can't you hear the sound the neon sign makes as it flashes? A soft "kzt - kzt - kzt..."

I can.

I live in a pretty safe neighbourhood, in one of the safest countries of the world. And there aren't usually rape gangs running around at eight o'clock in the morning here. Or snipers lurking from behind large rocks. Or kidnappers in vans.

I'm more likely to get hit by a car, and I sort of feel comfortable about that level of danger, since I stay aware of traffic.

I don't think a man can quite understand this feeling of vulnerability though. I stay aware of traffic, of what's going on around me, like Jason Bourne is aware of exits. Hyper-awareness, it's called. You never stop looking for the danger, or for the escape route.

"They" tell women to stay aware of their surroundings. To carry their keys in their hand. To walk purposefully, not meander. To give the message to a potential predator that someone is expecting you.

They tell this to young women. I'm not making it up, I'm not imagining it.

I have another girlfriend who worked for a while at a rape crisis center. She bought a key ring that was shaped like a cat's head, with very sharp, pointy ears. Metal. I think about that key ring every time I walk out the front door.

So I called Hubby, just so all the murderers and rapists and snipers and kidnappers would know that I was talking to someone who would call 911 if he heard me being strangled or hit on the head with a rock or shot dead in the street.

Which kind of begs the question, just how much stress relief am I getting from walking around? Is it really worth it?

So I'm looking for a walking partner, or walking partners. There's safety in numbers. One of us can call 911 while the other is being dismembered.

And I'm gonna need a bigger key ring.

The Sleepless Night

My brain is wired for sound. I have to work tomorrow. When you only work three days a week, "they" kind of expect you to turn up rested.

I have been anxious lately, but today I had a good day. I had a visit with my friend/counsellor, I rode my bike, I contacted medical organizations regarding upcoming appointments (something I usually put off as long as possible) and I saw a great movie with Hubby.

I played with my kitties, ran the dishwasher, got sleepy, and went to bed.

Sproing! No sleep tonight. Were my brain to be scanned at this very moment, it would look like fireworks going off. Ooh, the colors! Ooh, the explosions! It's all very pretty actually - except when you have to go the work the next day.

I am seriously tempted to drive over to a friend's house, whose birthday it is in the morning, and put her gift somewhere she'll see it when she leaves for work.

I wasn't planning on getting dressed though, just getting in the car... Then I thought better of that. All it would take is one person to call the cops, and I'd be in for psychiatric evaluation. I think they start with a 15-day hold? No, I think I'll leave that one for the realm of fantasy...

I tried calling a pal who lives in Vancouver, but she's busy or out or something. Too late to call anyone else, I'm apparently on my own with this...

So it's either Ativan or Melatonin I guess. Or warm milk.

Apparently my life is far too exciting...

The time for foolishment

It seems I am, once again, going camping.

I think it was ten years ago that I swore I never would again, that I'd had enough of being bent over 50% of the day, to stir a pot, to unzip a tent and then zip it back up...

Enough of the rising damp, of the struggle to keep relatively clean and relatively dry. Of trying to figure out what I can and cannot bring across the border.

Of the entire day it takes to set up camp and to take it down again.

But no, I appear to have taken leave of my senses once again, and Boyfriend and I are heading off sometime this week to go camping.

It'll be my first time with this particular Boy Scout, who acquitted himself admirably yesterday, setting up a tent without a picture of the finished product, the instructions translated from Oriental, and my failing memories of how the thing worked. It's up in our back yard now, having given the neighbours hours of amusement watching us setting it up yesterday. Hubby dropped by and rearranged the front vestibule poles, and now it looks truly glorious.

Today we got a spray can of waterproofing and applied it to the fly, just in case...We are waiting for the weather report to indicate three mostly sunny days to actually head out to this particular campground - Lake Carmi State Park in Vermont - where the firepit stones have moss growing on them, which should tell you everything you need to know about the relative humidity at that particular venue! Except, of course, why.

Why I would go back.

I've been asking myself that question quite a bit lately, as we spent the past two (hot, sunny, beautiful) days in Canadian Tire, buying stuff for our short trip. Boyfriend has pleaded with me not to jinx it, but I can't help wondering if the heavens will pour down on us once we get there, having spent the only nice days in preparation.

Noise has something to do with it - why I would deliberately return. Our street is quite a busy one. It quietens down about 4 a.m on a Sunday morning, but the rest of the time you couldn't call it quiet.

The city, the pavement, the smell of the heat coming off the pavement, and the noise - lawnmowers, other people's music, other people's swimming pool parties, Osheaga playing on Ile Ste Helene... unless we close the windows and run the A/C, in which case it's the sound of the heat pump running endlessly.

Yes, at the campground you sometimes get some noisy neighbours, but after ten pm you can hear the crickets and the frogs. It gets much quieter than here, and my ears are desperate for some peace and quiet.

We were supposed to have been accompanied by good friends, who unfortunately have family visiting them right now and probably won't be able even to visit, but we decided we're going to head out anyway.

Tomorrow we'll clean house and arrange all our gear in some semblance of order in the basement, ready for the weather report to give the all clear. Our neighbours are on standby to babysit the cats. I think I might end up missing my Daughter's birthday. 

But we're going.

In the immortal words of Captain James T. Kirk (though he was an Admiral when he uttered them, but that's of interest only to serious trekkies) :

"May fortune favour the foolish."

I can see clearly now...

So I may have a clue about what may be contributing to my migraines.

Can you make out that irregular shape smack dab in the middle of the lens? I've been looking through that for...I don't actually know how long - it's been at least five years since I got the glasses!

The other lens is just as bad.

I clean my glasses every single day, sometimes several times a day. This past week, I was cleaning them, and for some reason this light patch in the centre of the lens struck me as familiar.

I'd seen it on the lens before. When I was extra careful to wipe it away, it stayed put, and I finally realized that I'd been looking through that mess for quite some time.

Here was me, going to one of the top neurologists in Montreal, switching meds, having cortisone injections in two places in my spine...and maybe the answer all this time was, get a new pair of glasses, lady!

I do feel like a fool.

Interconnectivity in my Brain

So I've had a few months of switching meds for various problems. There is a med I now have to take for my migraines that makes me dizzy and a bit tired. I was very relieved when my neurologist told me I wouldn't have to take it for the rest of my life, that the dizziness will subside, and was due to the med. Yay, I don't have a new problem! (At my age, that's a major victory.)

And then about two months ago my GP had given me calcium & vitamin D, which gave me chest pains and shooting pain in my neck. I thought I was having a heart attack. My pal R told me it was the Calcium Citrate, and when I stopped taking them, the pains went away.

Yay! Another new problem I don't have! I'm on a roll!

Well, some time in the middle of this I looked at my pills. The number of pills I have to take each day had diminished.

There was just one niggling little pill that bothered me. One last anti-depressant, one low-dose pill that's all that remains of a ten-year struggle with depression. And it's actually the first antidepressant med I ever took, and at the same dose, that put 80 pounds on me in one year.

Eighty. Pounds.

Since I made my lifestyle change of reducing the carbs in my life, my weight has dropped ten pounds. I briefly thought I had diabetes, but a two week stint with a tester showed me my blood sugar was fine. No, the lifestyle change had done it. I had dropped ten pounds.

And I want to drop more.

And I have one last antidepressant that I know keeps or adds weight to me.

And it was due to be refilled on a day when I felt too tired to go out to the pharmacy, so, one thing leading to another, I stopped taking them.

That was two weeks ago. It was a low dose. I felt like I was home free, the end of an era, getting healthier every passing day.

But my luck seems to have run out. In the past two weeks I've had outbursts of rage, crying fits, severe frustration way out of line with what was going on.

My brain is firing on all cylinders. I have ideas for quilts. For scrapbooking. For photos I want to take, movies I want to make. Stories I want to write. Gourmet delicacies I want to prepare - while at the same time hating every minute I have to spend in the kitchen, because there are so many other things I want to do.

I've cut the curtains without taking them down. I've moved heavy furniture single-handed, and nearly driven my Boyfriend nuts with my list of things I want fixed, places I want to go, plants I want to grow. 

My head is exploding with new ideas.

And I'm yelling at the cats.

Sad but true, in my case, creativity is inexorably linked to my particular form of madness.

Migraines

I saw the neurologist yesterday, about my migraines. This particular doctor is one of those rarities who will explain things to his patients, thoroughly, till all their questions are answered. And he asks questions of the patients, lots of them. And does physical checks to assess pain. 

He's a gem.

He's one of the leading scientists in his field, having helped develop or oversee the development of (I forget which) at least one highly effective medication for migraines.

A bigwig. And a gem.

Being thorough often means your appointment runs late, but this one is worth waiting for.

I saw him first around 15 years ago when migraines had become so problematic for me that my ability to function was being impacted on an almost daily basis. I had one type of treatment then, and for about a decade I then only experienced migraines about twice a year.

Then they recently flared up again, more than 10 in a month on average, so I looked him up again and waited out the delay for getting an appointment, and boy, am I ever glad I did!

I learned more about migraines in my appointment yesterday, information that has helped me understand some of the puzzle pieces of my life.

I brought Hubby into the interview with me this time, and Doc immediately began addressing him. (Later on, Hubby and I discussed this, and we came to the conclusion that most husbands think their wives are simply nuts or trying to get out of making supper when they complain of migraines. This isn't the case with Hubby or Boyfriend, but it did underscore the fact that migraines have been largely misunderstood for a long time.)

Surprising facts about migraines:

1. They're a genetic defect in the (insert terribly technical term here) largest nerve in the human body.
2. The WHO (World Health Organization) has placed them 9th on the list of incapacitating diseases.
3. A migraine is a storm in the brain that goes on for days. Sort of like a smaller version of Jupiter's big Red Spot. And pain is the last symptom to appear. When the pain hits, the storm has been running for three days in the brain already.

Doc went on to illustrate to Hubby and me the difference between our brains. He took out a pen with the nib retracted and began to scribble wildly on the surface of the desk, which made an annoying small noise. He said that, were he to continue making this noise for an hour, Hubby's brain would eventually become habituated to the sound, and he would be able to "tune in out."

Not so with the migraine sufferer's brain. We never become habituated to the stimulus. The sound is as annoying twenty seconds in as twenty minutes or twenty hours.

This information came as a revelation to me, one of those blasts-from-heaven kinds of revelations. It explained so many things about my reactions in one fell swoop, it was like being hit by the proverbial lightning bolt!

"…never become habituated to the stimulus…" Wow - does that ever explain me! For starters, it explains why, years ago, when we had a Media Centre where I worked and we had specific times during the day when we were serving customers, I was unable to ignore people when it was someone else's time to serve the counter. I could HEAR them waiting. I could hear them coming down the hallway, putting their books down, taking off their coats...and I used to think my co-workers were deaf, daft, or just plain lazy and incompetent for not getting up right away to serve people. I used to get pretty steamed at them. It did not make for a harmonious working relationship. My longsuffering Boss used to tell me, repeatedly, to just ignore it and let the people who were supposed to be serving them do so, and just get on with the workorders I was working on.

But I couldn't! I couldn't let it go, and it always seemed an eternity to me till someone would get up.

But it wasn't an eternity. It was my brain on migraines. It was a hyper sensitivity to stimulus. I could no more ignore the fact that there were people waiting at the counter than I could ignore a screaming baby or my own limbs being cut off with a chainsaw.

And it wasn't my fault.

That's a biggie, because all these years I've been blaming myself for being stupid, or easily distracted, or hot-under-the-collar over this issue. I have been busy chastising myself for my inability to do what I was told - namely, getting on with my work and letting someone else help the clients.

And now I understand that I couldn't help it. That's it's a genetic defect in a major nerve of the brain. That once the nerve gets jangling, there is nothing I could do to stop it, and a few days later there would be a migraine as a result. 

I now understand that my colleagues weren't necessarily stupid or lazy or inconsiderate. 

They were habituated. They were able to tune out sounds they heard as "background noise."

For me, there is no such thing as "background noise." I've always had a hard time with the radio playing in the car, with people trying to hold conversations while the tv was on.

Because I can't tune it out! Now, I've known for a long time that I can't do that, but now I know WHY!

It's also why I never let Daughter talk on the phone to her friends when Star Trek was on. Why music playing in a kid's room, or a kid talking on a cell phone, would drive me nuts. Because I simply can't tune it out. Ever.

It may sound like a small thing, but this understanding comes for me as a huge relief. All these years I thought I was just disagreeable, just ornery. "Affectations!" Hubby used to tease me. "Selective hearing!" I used to snap back. I used to wonder what was wrong with him, he'd have a radio on in every room of the house, all tuned to different stations, and the tv on as well. He wasn't "listening" to any of it, and meanwhile my brain was fighting to make sense of all of, all at once.

And once that nerve started jangling, there was no stopping it.

Well, that's it for today's rant. I hope I haven't bored you with my fascination on this subject. I'm going to mull this one over for a long time.

But I do recommend to any migraine sufferers out there that you skip the over-the-counter meds and the GPs and head to a neurologist. Mine's got 3,000 patients, but these guys to to school for a reason, and specialize for a reason. 

I'm just so glad there are specialists out there that we can, eventually, get to see.

Getting Water from a Stone

We recently had Mother's Day. For years, my Mother's Day celebrations were a bit unusual, compared to other people's.

There was my "real" Mom, Patricia, who gave birth to me, and from whose arms I was wrested at the tender age of five years old. From age five to about 14, it was made my "duty" to call my mother on Mother's Day, and on her birthday, and on Christmas and Easter, etc etc. My phone calls were carefully overheard. I had to tell my mother I loved her, and I dutifully did so.

What I wasn't allowed to say was how desperately I loved her and missed her, and how my soul had died inside from the lack of her, and how I couldn't feel anything because of my painful separation from her, and how I had shoved all my love, all my feelings, deep down inside me in order to follow the rules, so that I might, for a few minutes each year, hear her voice, and maybe be allowed to see her.

That situation crippled me for life. Oh yes, I have learned to cope. I have even come to terms with what people did, and understood why they did it. And I have got on with my life, learning to love once again.

But my relationships have all been screwed, and it is hard work for me to become "normal," and it's an ongoing struggle.

Albeit one I am grateful for. At least I DID reunite with my mother, and I DID come to know her a bit, and though I had developed a habit of not listening to anyone, I was eventually able to hear her advice, even though she might not have lived long enough to know that.

Moving on...

I had also to wish my Grandma a happy Mother's Day. Grandma wanted everyone to think I was her daughter, not her granddaughter. I dutifully told her I loved her, when beneath that I hated her for removing me from my mother. And beneath that, I loved her for making sure I was kept in contact, a very distant and infrequent contact, but she did make sure I kept in contact with my mother.

And beneath that, I love her because she was my Grandma.

Then my father remarried, and I was told to love my new Stepmother, which I did. Not much choice in anything in my early years! Minnie won my heart on her own terms, first with her cream-cheese-and-cherry-pie, after which I felt she could do no wrong. And later, with her questions about feelings, questions I had never heard before because my father and grandparents didn't want to know the truth. Questions I didn't understand at the time, because I had sequestered my feelings somewhere where even I didn't know they were. But questions which nevertheless came back to me when I was old enough to start dealing with all the s**t that had befallen me.

Mother's Day, Father's Day, Christmas, Easter, birthdays...they were all spent with people who loved me, who I loved, and all of them were spent apart from the people I loved.

Then I became a mother myself. I was still not "fixed" from the injuries of my youth, but my Daughter dragged me up above water, just by existing. Ever so slowly, I began to learn what love was really about - how you can't really help yourself, how there is no way to ignore this other being. We think it's the infants that are helpless. No, it's the mothers - we can't help ourselves where our young are concerned.

And we usually go on to make a bunch of mistakes regarding our offspring. Some people are too indulgent. Some too strict. We spend an awful lot of time worrying about them, and not enough time enjoying them.

It's my Daughter who has taught me the most about a Mother's love, and she who has motivated me to do countless things I would never have considered.

This morning, it's the protein or vitamin shake I'm having for breakfast. I wouldn't say it's delicious - there's no where NEAR enough sugar in it for that! But it's blueberries and chocolate almond milk and real cranberry juice and green powder. It makes my Daughter happy to think I'm drinking this stuff, and it beats making breakfast.

But it got me thinking as I was using the hand blender to mix it all up, who came up with the idea to get milk from almonds? Almonds, in my experience, have very little liquid in them. It certainly wouldn't have occurred to me to try to produce any large amounts of liquid from them!

This is quite an age we live in. We have surpassed our own ability to comprehend our world. We now have so much information we don't know how to process it. We can make such technological gadgets that revolutionize how we do things, that anybody over 15 can't take it all in. Our ability to understand our own lives decreases exponentially with each decade we claim in our lives.

Life is as confusing and bewildering for most of us over 50 as it was to me, as a little girl, not understanding how I could make things work to my advantage, ie, how to get my mommy back.

But if we can get milk from almonds, we may yet one day get water, or blood, from stones.