She's Baaaaaaaack!

So, in a nutshell, Boyfriend and I are moving...into Hubby's house.

Pretty much everybody looks at us with the same quizzical look your face just made, dear reader! And quite honestly, we three are also wearing the same questions marks on our faces!

How did this happen? When did this happen? Why did this happen?

All good, solid, unanswered lines of inquiry! Like when people asked me how long it took to write the only good poem I've ever written, it depends on when you want to start. I've been sobbing every year of my life each and every time I saw the Canada Geese coming back in the spring or leaving in the fall. But one day when I was in my twenties, after bursting into tears seeing the geese leave, I ran into the house and wrote my poem.

So it either took twenty years, or twenty minutes, depending on where you want to start!

So it is with this latest move. How did this happen? And Why? And When? It depends how far back you want to start!

The short answer is, Boyfriend and I have run out of money because he's been out of work, and we've had to sell our house.

Before that, we thought he'd land another job tout de suite, no problemo! It took fourteen long months for both of us to be astonished that no job turned up. (And yes, before you get all "helpful" and start asking, he did EVERYTHING he was told to do, by numerous advisors and government officials and head hunters.)

His real crime is being over 50 years old. So let's get back to the matter at hand, which is that we will starve if we don't sell. So that was that, and we put the house up for sale, and at the time of writing it's mostly in the bag.

Now, we've been wondering and thinking and planning and worrying about our future during this whole time, and of late one fact began to dawn on me: namely, that I do not make enough money for us to rent a place of our own AND eat. It's one or the other.

This situation did not escape my beloved Hubby's notice. And he has opened his home to us, given us a rock to climb on to catch our breath, so to speak.

Now, however unusual this turn of events may seem (because separated couples don't usually do this for their exes and their Boyfriends, for example) readers of this blog will no doubt be overjoyed, because it means that there will be more blogs, because, well because of...

Hubby!

If you recall, the glory days of my blog happened when Hubby and I were living together, because Hubby creates in me the need to tell the world what is going on. And Hubby is funny! Because he's an Irishman, and therefore stubborn and resistant to change, and because each and every day he leaves himself open to ridicule due to the strangeness of his opinions and sayings!

Our future together is uncertain, but my writing career will take off once more!

See, already several things have happened that were blog-worthy, I've just been too busy to publicize them!

One of the finest moments happened when I urged said Hubby to abandon his (formerly) pink leather couch and loveseat in favour of a new (for him) second-hand black leather couch. And a dogbed for the dog, who has so far refused to sit on it.

I got such a celtic "black look" from Hubby I nearly quavered in my determination to get that damned thing out of his living room!

His black look said "Hey. What the hell is this? Am I...getting the WIFE back?"

Hello Hubby, your wife is back! And this time, she's brought a helper! Someone strong enough to move stuff!

Boyfriend has been cautioning me to contain myself, and go easy on "the big lug."

"He's giving us a play to stay, Deb! For goodness sake don't make him regret it" (Subtext: At least not before we get there!)

I don't think he'll regret it. I think he needs us. So far he's ditched the broken loveseat that Stepson had manhandled in the basement, got rid of the now blackened pink atrocious set from his livingroom and received, for free, a black leather sectional. He's got a nice new tempo that's 50% longer than his was AND had help setting it up. Oh, and each and every time a job gets done, Boyfriend cleans up, because Boyfriend doesn't like clutter and likes to be able to find things rather than fall over them.

The removal of the couch and loveseats also netted him several dollars in loose change, some tools and cutlery, and Stepson's long-lost expensive vape thingy.

Who knows what we'll unearth when we move Stepdaughter's furniture to the basement, or when we clean up the laundry room?!

So far, Hubby is definitely ahead in this deal! He's also getting a new mattress out of it - a beautiful firm mattress that will fit his hand made bed frame, as opposed to the smelly futon that's now 20 years old and never fit the bed frame from day one. The smell came from the dog, who has now been bathed, and who will continue to be bathed regularly from now on.

So yes, Hubby, your Wife is coming back, with reinforcements...and with thankfulness and love...but with no less determination to get you to clear out your junk than she ever had! But best of all, Hubby will be written up in the blog once again, and I look forward to telling you, dear readers, all the latest foibles and fumbles! In a phrase...

He's baaaaaaaack!

Opinions

I was out playing cards with friends, and happened to mention that the reason I hadn't printed our usual scoring paper, and instead was working on a hand-drawn paper, was that we were out of printer paper at home.

And it began...

"Well," said my friend D, "you certainly don't need to be buying printer paper, given your circumstances!"

(Said circumstances being that A is still looking for work, and we are facing having to sell our home, or go bankrupt.)

I didn't reply - I was stunned. An awful lot of things were running through my head, like, "you're kidding, right?" or "printer paper! It's a necessity, D!" or "what would you have me use instead?"

My friend S rescued me and said simply, "Well certainly if A has to print a resume, he needs to have some paper for his printer, D!"

D later said, "Well, it's not my business, but I wouldn't be wasting my money on paper if I were in your circumstances..."

And the card game went on. But my inner turmoil had just begun...

We - the generic, universal we - all have our opinions concerning the less fortunate. How they got themselves into the mess they are in. How they have no one but themselves to blame. How they are inherently lazy, untrustworthy, less intelligent than "we" are...

Until it happens to US.

These kinds of arguments about "the poor" have been going on forever, and they are all complete bunk. It's called paranoia: blaming situations on somebody or something else, instead of looking inward to find the source of the problem.

Our society has more and more people walking the knife's edge of poverty. We now have the "working poor," households where both adults work but still have to use a food bank. The gap between the richest people in our society and what used to be the middle class is widening at a frightening pace, and nobody wants to face how really close to that knife's edge they are living. Or do the work of making the rich stop fleecing the rest of us, because they're powerful and scary and we keep hoping if we're nice and obedient that they'll let us be. And maybe let more money trickle down.

But when someone falls on the wrong side of that knife's edge, judgements fall like hailstones.

I've been on the receiving end of judgements many, many times in my life. Growing up in fundamentalism will do that to you. I had to fight really hard to free myself from that kind of mindset - the mindset that judges others. That says "I don't think you should be doing this or that," or, "I don't think you should be spending your money this way or that way." That's judging. And it has a thin edge, but a steep, slippery slope.

It starts with my printer paper. Should someone "like me" be allowed to buy printer paper? Kleenex? Paper towels? Toilet paper? Are you going to tell me I have to start using single ply?

Then on to food. Do I have to stop buying fresh food, switch to canned only? And buy only the cheapest brands?

Cheap, by the way, does not equal economical! Or even healthy!

But let's continue on the list of things we decide for others: can the poor visit a dentist? On the same day he lost his job over a year ago, A cancelled his dentist appointment. But he kept an appointment for a car tune-up.

He could understand the value of maintaining the automobile, but not of maintaining his teeth. My protests that dental health impacts heart health went unheeded - no one had ever suggested such a thing to him before, so he saw no reason to believe me!

So, do poor people automatically have bad teeth? Should they let their teeth rot, because they shouldn't be spending their money on frivolities? After all, teeth are largely cosmetic...

What about no car insurance? Or are their cars dirty, because they can't pay to have them washed - and we already know they are too lazy to wash them themselves!

Glasses? Shampoo? Body wash? Books? Cable TV? Restaurants?

Where do we draw the line, when we criticize another person's choices?

Well, you say, if they hadn't made poor choices, they wouldn't be in their current predicament!

Aye, and there's the rub. You see, we are ALL victims of our own choices. We are ALL our own undoing. Just some of us haven't come undone - yet.

We all "make our own beds" or "dig our own graves." We make choices every single day of our lives that we either don't think twice about, or that we deliberate over for weeks. It doesn't matter. Because whatever choices we make change the direction of our lives, and random chance happens and we can end up on the wrong side of that knife in a heartbeat, wondering what the hell happened.

If A and I go bankrupt, I assure you, I'm not getting rid of my cats. I will find ways to have fun in life. Less expensive fun, perhaps, than I might have at one time, but I'm not dead and I'm not going to act like it until it actually happens.

I remember being on the receiving end of a Christmas basket, when my Daughter was very young - the Christmas she was 2, in fact. I stubbornly was trying to turn the givers away when I saw that there were chocolate candies in the basket, and I realized that I could not afford to buy my child any chocolate for Christmas, and that if she was going to have anything nice like that, I had to swallow my pride and accept it.

I remember Welcome Hall Mission saying that if we wanted to give something for the men, that chocolate was appreciated, because they could usually cover the necessities, but it was nice to be able to offer them a treat.

Even the poor deserve a treat. Some kindness. Something nice. Even though they've made different choices in their lives and had different experiences, they still deserve kindness and a treat and some goodness.

Nobody needs to be harangued by judgmental voices saying "you shouldn't do this" or "you shouldn't spend that" - or worse, "you shouldn't have done this..." foremost because those voices are within each of us all the time anyway, and there is no getting away from them. We don't need to add our judgmental voices to anyone's personal demons.

A Great Gift

Boyfriend and I returned today from a brief camping trip, courtesy of my pal R, who gave us the gift of four nights camping at Voyageur Provincial Park - the park previous known as Carillon, to those of us old enough to remember such things!

It was a gift in every sense of the word. It gave us a break, a change, from daily duties and weekly worries. It got us outside, in the sunshine (and the rain) and fighting the bugs and trying to remember in which container we had packed things. It got us under the trees and into the fireflies. It was magical.

Boyfriend did a LOT of heavy lifting while I watched, helpless.  That trailer is a monster! And it doesn't help that it's 30 years old! All the legs are stuck, all the bits are breaking. At one point when Boyfriend wasn't feeling so well it occurred to me that I had no idea how to close this thing up on my own, nor did I possess the skills to do so! Thankfully, Boyfriend survived his odyssey none the worse for wear, and a lot better for being in the fresh air.

Hubby came down on his motorcycle and spent a night in his newfangled tekkie-tent, showing off all his lightweight zero-gravity toys for the avid camper, while scrupulously avoiding the beach.

I discovered that some of the ideas I'd had in my twenties, like the LARGE pot of water kept hot over the fire at all times, wasn't such a silly idea after all, especially when it came to needing water to wash and rinse dishes or for an impromptu sponge bath at the campsite. Boiling ONE pot of water for coffee is bad enough - boiling SIX pots of water so you can wash the dishes is seriously tedious! (Plus, after you boil six pots of water, the residue that collects around the pot gives one extra pause...it may look like calcium, but it feels like soap... Good thing we brought the Brita filter!)

When we left to go camping, we were both stressed. Boyfriend has been out of work much much longer than either of us ever expected. He's been dealing with his anxieties, I've had to deal with my own sense of entitlement.

That's right - the E-word. The thing we all accuse Millenials for having a sense of. Entitlement. I never once in my life thought of myself as having a sense of entitlement, but here we are, looking bankruptcy in the face, maybe losing our home, maybe moving to an apartment, we don't know...All this is going to have to happen soon. And I kept looking around in total astonishment and thinking, "What do you mean I might not live in a bungalow in the suburbs? What do you mean we might have to get ride of nearly everything and move to a really small place? But I've always lived in a bungalow in the suburbs!"

Stuff like that. That's entitlement. And yes, people lose their homes, and I might be next, and it happens to nice people all the time. Because the market changes, because social systems only extend so far, and after that, something has to give. And sometimes, what has to give is how we see ourselves.

In the face of all that is to come, in the middle of a four-day camping trip, I found happiness. Boyfriend and I went to the beach. I taught someone's dog how to swim. I got to pat some other dogs. I didn't get sunburned. I floated for hours on my floatie toy. All my hard work ahead of time, cooking up food that we could grab and eat, paid off! Open a jar, splorp into a bowl, presto! Vichyssois! Open tupperware, splorp onto a plate, presto! Tuna salad! None of this nonsense of "we'll buy our food when we get there," stuff I used to hear for years! What a crock! Who wants to spend the only four days off they get a year shopping and chopping?! I'd much rather do that ahead of time and enjoy the fruits of my labour on the spot, when it counts! And I did, and we did, and it worked!

I walked the dark road lit only by fireflies and ceased to worry about the mundane, the everyday, and about what was expected of me. For a few brief days, I merely was.

And it was wonderful.

Now we are home. Boyfriend is exhausted from the physical work, but he is rested from his stress. And he had some calls for jobs while we were away, so who knows...?

My Home-Made Ginger Ale

I would like to set the record straight about my home-made ginger ale and lemon-lime "soft drinks."

I've offered these recently to friends and they've politely refused, saying they don't drink sugared drinks. Great, they got plain soda water, made from my filtered-water put through the sodastream machine. That's about as home made as you can get.

I make my own ginger "syrup" and lemon-lime "syrup" to flavour the home-made soda water for one reason only: to control the amount of sugar.

I don't know the exact number of tablespoonfuls of sugar that are in each serving of commercial soft drinks, but I know it's a LOT.

Here is mine, for all the world to see. I'll do the ginger "syrup," and then maybe you'll understand why I'm putting quotation marks around the word "syrup."

I used one fair sized ginger root. I peel the ginger root, cut it into small portions and press them through my garlic press. I add 2 cups water.

And one-quarter of a cup of sugar.

I bring it to a boil and simmer it long enough for the water to reduce to one-and-a-half cups. Then I strain it and pour it into a container which I keep in the refrigerator.

Are you with me? I have 1.5 cups of liquid here, and dissolved in that is 1/4 cup of sugar.

To make a ten-ounce glass of ginger ale, I put a HALF TEASPOON of the ginger syrup in the bottom of the glass, and top up with soda water. And ice, if the patron wants it.

A HALF TEASPOON.

I don't actually know how many half-teaspoons are in one-and-a-half-cups of liquid, but it's NOT MUCH.

So really, when I offer you a glass of home-made ginger ale, you can drink it. You've eaten more sugar than that from your diet bar this morning. You get more sugar than that from your vegan protein powder. You get more sugar than that from your bran muffin.

Believe me, you can drink my ginger ale!

Is that laughter...?

The Universe is laughing at me.

A month or so ago, I set out, with a couple of pals, to make beeswax-infused cotton cloths to be used, and re-used, instead of plastic wrap.

The project was a resounding success, the most difficult part being the grating of the beeswax.
But I didn't make enough, and I've been meaning to get around to making more...

In the meantime, my kitteh Spooky got very ill and had to be hospitalized for two days and have a blood test and an ultrasound and a new special veterinary diet. This very diet comes in large tins, and I have to store half a tin in the fridge for a day, since she only gets a half tin at night.

So I have to put the unused portion of the vet food on a plate, and wrap it in - you guessed it - plastic wrap. Each and every day.

I'm using four times as much plastic wrap as I've ever used in my life.

Then, I started a fresh round of migraines. I'm currently waiting for a set of six, repeat, SIX injections into my cervical vertebrae to curb the incessant cluster migraines. In the meantime, I'm taking a migraine medication-of-last-resort: and, it really is a last resort, no pun intended, because it's a suppository.

So in addition to using plastic wrap at four times the norm, I'm going through one latex glove each night.

I did briefly contemplate re-using the glove, but quickly thought better if it, given my scattered thinking processes and somewhat messy housekeeping habits.

Better safe than sorry, I figure. One has to draw the line somewhere!

So much for saving the planet by using less plastic.

Moving on, there's the home-made soap adventure. It only takes a few minutes to make the various recipes. It does take a bit of experimentation to find recipes one likes though. This past week I finally gave in and tried a recipe I'd seen on the internet at least a hundred times, equal parts coconut oil, honey, and Castillo soap. Plus some essential oils.

I used it once, and had to use Boyfriend's Old Spice body gel to wash it off as best I could immediately. I don't know who all those people on the internet were who were raving about this stuff, but I think they're nuts! Bonkers! I've never felt so greasy or sticky in my life! I promptly went back to an older recipe which is much more watery but leaves me actually clean.

Know anyone who likes feeling oily and a bit sticky after their shower? I've got a generous supply of body wash to give away...

I don't mind the loss if the coconut oil. I can even stand losing the half cup of Castillo soap. It's the liquid honey that pisses me off - I could have used that in my tea!

So much for saving the planet with my home-made soap. At least, not this week.

Then there was the palazzo-pants fiasco. I made a lovely pair of pants and wore them going to work last week when I had that unfortunate encounter eith the motorist who didn't want to stop for pedestrians and ended up tripping on the pants, which were too long.

Boyfriend pinned them up for me this week and I'll try again, but not before I managed to seriously injure my already dangerously weak right knee. It's been putting out a fresh bruis each day this week and the pain is getting worse, not better.

So  I'm off to the doctor in the morning. Because I made home-made pants, trying to save some money. I wonder what this fiasco will end up costing me.

I'm not winning.

The Cross-Walk

grumble grumble grumble...

One soaking wet outfit, two scraped knees (one of which is swelling up beautifully) two scraped palms later...Only my pride is seriously hurt, but I am pissed!

There is a crosswalk on Peel Street where I work. Where almost no drivers ever stop for the pedestrians.

When Hubby and I used to cross every day, Hubby would just step out, because he was pretty much the size of a moose and people would slam on their brakes to miss hitting him. By contrast to him, I'm small. I'm not small by contrast to many other people, but I digress...

Motorists almost never stop for pedestrians there. The paint is always faded, one of the signs is usually broken, people just don't walk out and take their chances usually.

Today, as I was making my way up the hill, I saw a GOOD driver, driving a Meldrum the mover truck, make a proper stop to allow pedestrians to cross.

And the class-1 A-HOLE in the car behind him started honking his horn and simply wouldn't stop. The truck driver got out of his truck to explain to the A-HOLE that you HAVE TO stop at crosswalks - but the A-HOLE got out of his car and proceeded to yell at the truck driver.

And this was too much for me. I have what can only be described as a VERY short fuse! I started yelling at the A-HOLE (I have a voice meant for the Theatre - you can HEAR me, whether you want to or not)! I yelled at him that this was a crosswalk. The Meldrum man, getting back in his truck, thanked me.

I continued to yell at the A-HOLE. "It's a CROSSWALK, buddy! People have to cross here! So shut up and wait two minutes!" Or something to that effect.

The Meldrum truck had moved on, but I stood in front of the car, yelling at the A-HOLE. In point of fact, I think by now I was being the bigger A-HOLE, but I was really mad at the guy.

Anyway, I waved my umbrella as if I was going to hit his precious car (I was careful that it WOULDN'T) and I called him an A-HOLE one more time. He drove away, yelling at me to "Shut the F**K up, B***H!"

And then I fell down.

I had made it to the sidewalk before I fell. My umbrella popped open and went rolling out into traffic, students came to pick me up, people were very kind wanting to know if I was hurt. I was still hopping mad, but laughing because I had tripped over my own two feet, because my new pants I was wearing are simply a bit too long, and I'd been too stupid to shorten them. I told them I realized I was probably a bigger a-hole than the guy I was yelling at, but that it really bugged me when people don't STOP FOR PEDESTRIANS!!!

Brings a new interpretation to the term "Cross-walk!"

Rain

I woke up this morning, dreaming about old-fashioned rain boots.

Your grandmother's rain boots - or rather, MY grandmother's rain boots!

Plastic rain boots that you put over your shoes, that had a space for your (sensible) heels to go, and which closed with round elastics that slipped over buttons.

These ugly things!

Now, I might have been dreaming of them because we're currently experiencing some flooding in Quebec and Ontario. A friend of mine actually is in the process of having her basement filling up with water as I write this, and two days ago, while she was out for a walk, she a sinkhole opened up and swallowed half of her. She was all right and got out only muddied, and it took her a few hours to realize that things might have gone much worse. I don't personally know anyone else affected by the flooding currently.

In my dream, my Grandmother was, again, trying to get me to wear these things.

I hated them when she was alive, and I couldn't get rid of them fast enough when her back was turned. The lectures I had to put up with! "They're so practical!" she would argue, and I couldn't fight back - then...

But this morning, in my ablutions, I realized, they're NOT practical, and I finally answered back! 

"They're made of PLASTIC!" I said. "Sure, they only cost a few dollars, but they'll also wear out quickly because they're so cheap, and then you have to buy another pair, and another...It would be much better to invest in a GOOD pair of rain boots and be done with it!"

Besides which, jeez gran - they're BUTT-UGLY, for crying out loud!

Grandma would look at them and say they looked perfectly sensible.

It's hard, being brought up by your grandparents, because those extra years in between your ages make for some seriously ridiculous misunderstandings, misinterpretations, and just plain misses.

If I were the parent or grandparent of a child who steadfastly refused to wear protective gear, I wonder, would I have to strength to say, "I can't afford to buy you new shoes, you have to wear these to cover up."

Or would I have the strength to say, "These are butt-ugly! Let's get a real pair of boots!"

I wonder also if I dreamt about this because the graveyard where my grandparents lie is flooded. Or if someone I know is about to be flooded. 

I wonder stuff like that. It ain't easy being me!

The stupid thing is, this morning I was thinking about my choice of footwear, and I found myself wishing I had a pair of these ugly things! I wonder, is this something that happens when you turn 60? Does all sense of fashion simply evaporate?

I could wear my running shoes, which are porous, and so my feet would get really wet. Or I could wear my shoes, which are leather, and only get slightly wet toes. And that's when I found myself wishing for a pair of ugly plastic overshoes.

I guess I should just have worn boots.

Visits to Doctors

Today I once again had the pleasure of seeing a doctor, this time, the neurologist. And for once, I'm going to break with my tradition and name a name, because I happen to think Dr. Guy Boudreau is simply the best doctor I have ever encountered in my life.

That's not the topic of the blog though. The topic is good-old, longsuffering, faithful Hubby!

Hubby usually accompanies me to doctor's visits that are either serious, scary, or to Dr. Boudreau. It's just habit, actually. Hubby and I deal with stress using humor, and he actually enjoys the process of driving around looking for parking spots. This makes him the ideal chauffeur! Plus, it's a chance to spend some time with him, something I don't get to do enough of lately.

Today he was in fine form, telling me about his previous day's visit to the dentist, Dr. John Drummond, who I name here because I think he's the best dentist I've ever met!

And now, on with the tale...

Dr. John was flogging toothbrushes, Hubby informed me, and I dutifully rolled my eyes. I have a favourite kind - first introduced to me by Dr. John - that I stick with now because it works so well and feels so good.

Hubby continued his tale. "He went on and on about the benefits, I was just smiling and nodding," he said. I know. Hubby is a VERY "hard room." "I had left in fact, with the literature in my hand. I wasn't going to buy it," he said. "But then I saw what it had!"

And it had?

Bluetooth.

Okay, there are SO MANY jokes possible, but on with the tale...

There's a suction cup cell phone holder you stick to the mirror. You open the app and you brush your teeth, and the app watches you.

It tells you you need to spend more time on this quadrant or that quadrant. It's does this for flossing as well.

And it shares all your brushing habits with your dentist, who can make recommendations to you via email!

At this point, my own visit to my own doctor for my own problems are WAAAYYY in the back seat! I'm rolling on the floor, scaring all the other patients in the waiting room.

"If I watched you brush you teeth," I managed to gasp out, "you'd tell me to f-off and die!"

Hubby nods enthusiastically and laughs till he coughs.

"I've been yelling at you to floss for YEARS!" I tell him.

"I know! I know" he grins - ear to ear. "I love this thing!" He whips out the app and shows me his data.

"You do understand that you were married to me - you still are! - and I told you to brush and floss for years - for FREE! But NOOOOO! Once it costs over a hundred dollars and has BLUETOOTH..."

For the sake of my readers who don't enjoy profanity, I will not write down the rest of what I said to Hubby. Suffice it to say that we laughed our guts out, he admits freely to being an idiot, and I am thankful that finally, FINALLY, something is getting him to take better care of his teeth.

Effing idiot.

Malevolance

I had a horrible experience riding the bus on the way to work today. And I'm pretty sure only one other person noticed. But it shook me to my core.

I got on the 115 to go downtown and sat in a front-facing seat beside a man in a grey windbreaker jacket. And then it began.

Most people, when you sit down next to them, budge. Wiggle a bit. If only to acknowledge that you exist as a human being, that someone has come and sat next to them, if not to actually give you a bit of room.

Not so this person. He was stone. He wasn't exactly "manspreading," but our arms were touching lightly. I wiggled a few times to see if I could find a position where I wasn't touching him and could still keep my seat when the bus went around corners.

No go. It was either sit there uncomfortably all the way in, or move.

Fortunately, when we approached the south shore terminus, the last stop before getting on the bridge, several people got up, including a young lady who had been sitting in what I think of as my seat of choice: the sideways-facing seat right beside the wheel well, where I can plop the gigantic bag that holds my lunch and my knitting. So I made a beeline for this seat and hauled my big bag up onto the wheel well, and quietly prayed that the stone man wouldn't take my leaving as a personal insult, that he would see I had more room here, and let that be that.

Some tiny Asian woman sat next to him, and throughout the ride I kept stealing a glance to see how she was coping with Stoney. I could see she was uncomfortable. Stoney was unmoved.

She signalled to get off the bus before the terminus downtown - the bus makes several stops on different streets before arriving at the end of its journey. I briefly glanced up at her as she was leaving, and as my eyes dropped...

He was glaring at me.

I'm not talking a casual glance. I am talking murderous hatred.

I dropped my eyes quickly and minded my own business, but I'm pretty sure my blood pressure shot through the roof. I made sure he got off the bus well ahead of me, I kept him in sight as long as I could when I did get off, I stayed well behind him. And when I lost sight of him, I took careful note of who was around me, to the point of spinning around every so often to see if anyone was behind me, till I made it to my bus shelter.

I would normally have sat down, but today I put my back to the glass corner and peered in every direction, watching every pedestrian, looking for a grey windbreaker jacket.

Finally, some people I recognized came into the shelter, a man with his small son, and a friend of theirs, who were chatting amiably - about break-ins at their local gas station. And then the father received some phone calls that amounted to a roofer coming to his house to give an estimate, him calling his wife at the house to let her know that the man in their driveway was the roofer and it was okay to let him in...

Fear is real and danger is everywhere. When my grandparents, who basically raised me, were young people, the world seemed safer. I've often wondered if they lived especially sheltered or naive lives. But I remember my grandmother's anxiety over finding a $2 bill at the grocery store. She tried to give it to the cashier, who said it wasn't hers, she tried the person in front of her and behind her, and no one would take it, so she'd had no choice other than to bring it home.

And it bothered her. For days! Till I visited her, laughed at her story and took the offending $2 off her hands.

In her day, one did not even touch money that didn't belong to you. That was personal integrity.

Robberies were shocking.

It was unheard of that a workman, coming to your home, might pose a threat to your safety.

In London, in the 1800s, Jack the Ripper held the world in terror. Now there are television shows on every night of the week that show in graphic gory detail scenes similar to the ones he left behind, and worse, and we are becoming accustomed to the horror of it.

A single venomous glance today had me looking up whether it is legal in Canada to carry a knife for purposes of self-defence, and considering taking a self-defence for old ladies course. I actually had tears seeping out while I was scouring the perimeter in the bus shelter and had to stop myself from calling Boyfriend or Husband to come and get me. Both of whom, by the way, would undoubtedly dismiss my fears as unfounded, ridiculous, mood-disorder-anxiety-driven, and, above all, silly.

Silly woman.

The Suburban Cyclist (Hinterland Who's Who)

Like the return of the Geese, and the First Robin Redbreast, the appearance of the Suburban Cyclist is a harbinger of Spring in the Canadian Hinterlands.

This particular Suburban Cyclist is an adult female, well past her prime. There are many clues which give evidence of this. Note the baggy purple and pink plumage - it is in stark contrast to the svelt, darker, sleeker plumage sported by the young who are still of mating age. In those birds, you will see racing stripes and sometimes corporate logos, but you will most certainly see every curve and every cranny of the bird's body, to advertise to the opposite sex that it is ready to mate.

Not so with this particular bird. Its baggy jacket clearly indicates that it is well past breeding years. It is dressing for warmth and comfort, something the young never do.

Note also the cuffs of the bird's pants are rolled - if you were to suggest to a young bird that she roll her cuffs, she would roll her eyes at you. Only older birds roll their cuffs. It is an indication they are completely uninterested in mating.

Another clue as to the bird's age are the baskets on the rear of the bicycle, which in this case contain a bag of knitting.

Lastly you will note the heavy steel-frame of the bicycle, and the high-ride handlebars. These are clear indicators that the bird is well past her prime, and is not "showing off" for anyone while she is out riding. We do not know why this bird continues to ride, since she is obviously not seeking a mate, but we may surmise that it is out of habit, or perhaps even simply to get from A to B.

One oddity remains, the pleasant expression on the bird's face. Since she is not ready to mate, we have no explanation. Perhaps she is visiting her grandchildren.

For further information on the Suburban Cyclist, contact the Canadian Wildlife and Fisheries Service, 52 Sparks St., Ottawa.

Progris Riport

I am writing to report on my progress in the field of archery.

There has been some!

When I first started learning, I complained (loudly and often - as I am wont to do!) that my ample bosom got in the way of the string. The very polite men in the class wisely said nothing, except my teacher, who perforce was compelled to respond to my complaints. He said something about an "open stance," a way of standing wherein the string would be less likely to bisect my boob. 

I ignored the advice, of course, as I do most advice, and am please to report that after a few months I simply improved enough that now the string doesn't come anywhere near the girls.

I've also received my first official token: a White Arrow. That indicates my standing. I'm not entirely sure how good that is, but I do know it's not the bottom, and that makes me happy!

I've gone from an 80cm target down to a 40cm target, and once or twice per 90-minute session I manage to lob an arrow into the middle of it! That makes me very happy! Occasionally, I even manage a "grouping:" which is when all three arrows land close together. A grouping means the archer is being consistent. And being consistent is everything!

I have had one consistent problem though - I'm always off to the left. All right, all right, enough with the "out in left field" or "I guess you really are a socialist" jokes! But seriously, I'm hitting consistently in the correct height to hit the bullseye, only I'm hitting to the left of it.

And I adjust my sight over and over, and I keep hitting to the left.

Today, in desperation, I thought I'd hit on the brightest idea yet - get Genius Archer Boyfriend to use my bow! See, he's been bugging me about being consistent and about my release till I'm absolutely sick of hearing about it. Today I got the bright idea - let Boyfriend fire the bow! If HE hits to the left, then I could go "Nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah!" and say "See! I TOLD you something was wrong with the bow!"

I got a dirty look from Boyfriend, but he dutifully shot off 6 arrows. Two went left, but four were squarely in the center.

Sigh. I guess it must be my release.

Or something.

However, as a final note about something I'm doing consistently...I used to only use the same three arrows over and over. Whenever I'd switch arrows, I'd shoot wild. I'd demonstrate this to Boyfriend or to the teacher or to anyone who would watch. But today, I switched arrows with absolutely no change in my result.

I still shot to the left. In the same place as the other arrows I'd been using.

So at least I'm consistent!

Trouble in the HeadHouse

I just had a seven-day-long migraine. That's something of a record for me, since about 20 years ago I started being cared for by a wonderful neurologist here in Montreal who pioneered one of the meds I take. I went from having 15-20 migraines per month down to having 1-2 per year under his care. So I'm pretty impressed with him, and with the different meds and treatments he's given me over the years.

And the meds and the treatments have changed over the years, too. Because the reasons I get migraines change from time to time. The last bout I had, in 2015, was due to trouble in my cervical vertebrae, and I needed injections in two of them.

I'm on track to see him again - he's got 3000 patients - yes, I said three THOUSAND - so when I finally decided, on day five of my migraine, that it was time to call his office and speak with the nurse who schedules his emergency appointments, I was grateful that he had a nurse who could talk me through what to do until he could see me, and who could decide how quickly I could be seen.

One of the questions she asked me though, was, had I been under any particular stress lately.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

Where do I start? Boyfriend has been out of work for 7 months. Now there's an opportunity on the horizon, but it would mean moving.

Far.

To the boondocks.

Wait a minute - I has a job!

A good job. That I enjoy. That I'm moderately good at. That I get a great deal of satisfaction from. And have positive social interactions in. And learn a lot about life from. Learn a lot about everything from - I work in a faculty of Education of a world-class university - you have to be particularly dense not to learn stuff working there!

So...if Boyfriend gets this job out in Timbuktu...what do I do? Because I don't exactly make a lot of money, working 3 days a week.

Definitely not enough to live in a house with 2 cats.

And Boyfriend can't afford a house and an apartment. So, if the job comes, the house here goes. And the cats and I go...somewhere else. Either with Boyfriend or...???

Hubby has kindly offered, which sort of stunned me. Nice and tidy, on the surface, but...

There are always buts! Wasn't Hubby the one who drove me nuts in the first place? Can I live with Hubby? Granted, the kiddies are all growed up now, the situation is different...But is Hubby different? Am I different enough not to fall into the old bad habits?

And was all this enough stress to bring on a 7-day migraine?

Nope. There was one last straw. That got on my last nerve. Don't you love that expression? I learned that from my Stepsister. I love my Stepsister. She's a lovely woman. She's in Louisiana, and she's taking care of my aged and Alzheimer-afflicted Daddy. She's a saint.

But she's also my other problem. 

See, I don't much care for "The South." I don't like the politics, and I don't like the religion. The religion is what started me on the road to mental illness, back when I was 5 years old. An authoritarian regime based on a patriarchal mindset which had no place or tolerance for thinking "outside the box." A system of thought-control that, while never overtly disapproving of higher learning, because that would be a dead giveaway, subtly discouraged it by praising the simple fishermen of biblical times.

A system of thought control that always had a bible verse to throw at you the minute you had a doubt or a question or an idea that didn't fit within the prescribed spectrum of acceptability, shot like a missile at your thoughts to bring you back into the box. To never let you question things.

To keep you in line.

I wrestled so hard to keep my faith. For years and years and years, I fought off my reason and my intellect. But in the end, mental health won.

There is no such thing as a virgin birth. If a baby was born, sex happened.

The universe was not created. It happened. Life evolved, which is WAY more miraculous than any "miracle" these bible-thumpers can come up with!

The bible was written by MEN. Specifically, Jewish MALES. Translated by MALES. Prominent, politically powerful MALES. It is predominantly misogynistic, and it spouts the political views of the males of the times in which it was written.

The jews are NOT "God's chosen people." The just wrote a book claiming they were. And, since they have always been a powerful military force, winning a lot of battles, the conquerers write the history.

The bible contains some interesting points. But it is NOT the only book in the world!

But people down in the south don't know that. They think it's the only book worth reading. They exclude every other piece of information from their consciousness unless it fits their mental map - the map they drew from their sunday school bible map of the world.

And down there, it's all mixed up with nationalistic fervor, to add insult to injury. It's not just god, it's "god-and-the-flag."

I love my Stepsister, she is the kindest soul I've ever met. But the vitriol she reposts on facebook is horrifying. She doesn't even see the language that she uses is venemous. She doesn't hear the hatred that she's spewing. She thinks she's being loving and kind and helping to educate.

I've been trying to get her to understand that she's the victim of propaganda. But she doesn't have a "propaganda" filter. Everywhere down there they are bombarded with it. It's the way everyone speaks to everybody. Her husband listens to a radio show daily that would be banned here, because it's hate speech. He thinks it's political dialogue. It's hate speech!

They really, sincerely believe that Muslims burn Christians alive, down there. They do not understand the word "radicalized" or what a small portion of the population that represents, or what a "Christian" equivalent would be. If it wears a hijab, or sports an unkempt beard, it's an enemy.

They really believe that. And I can't get through to them.

And I can't get through to them that Donald Fucking Trump is a Nazi. A hate-monger. An idiot. A greedy businessman who cares less for them than he does for a pimple on his arse. Who is going to ruin the country, ruin their lives, and take the rest of the planet down with him.

And the abortion debate. Oh my head, I just can't believe this shit. I can't understand how a compassionate woman, who has herself been put through the hell of childbearing, could wish that on someone who didn't want it.

There is no reasoning, and I can't stop the fight. In my head.

And here's the whole problem: it never goes away for me. 

Like my neurologist said to Hubby - your wife can never tune this out. There is a genetic defect in her brain where this noise is ALWAYS front and center in her perception, and she can't ever tune it out.

My Stepsister goes to bed at night, and, at least I imagine, sleeps.

I don't sleep, because I'm having the abortion debate with her. All night. Explaining it to her. Arguing with her. Pleading with her. Reasoning with her. Showing her the satistics - that the crime rate went down, NOT when they "got tough on crime," but when women finally had access to safe, medical abortions! When unwanted babies weren't born, and mothers could continue working, and people were above the poverty line! It's not money that's the root of all evil, it's POVERTY!

Or I'm screaming at Trump. Or I'm sobbing my heart out for the dead, starving and dying polar bears. And for the dead, starving, burning animals everywhere. Or arguing with my Stepbrother to tell him to move to higher ground and get all my Stepsisters and the other Stepbrother to move to higher ground because the climate deniers are in power now and the oil producers are going to kick it back into high gear and the ice caps are going to melt and there won't BE a Louisiana soon! Or a Florida, or lots and lots of places on this Earth. And god ain't gonna save ya.

So...to answer the nurse, who asked me if I was under any particular stress...yeah. You might could say that. 

I'm on my last nerve. 

And Trump, and republicans and conservatives and nazis everywhere, are stepping on it. 

And people I love are stepping on it.

And I can't save them.

And once again, I'm going to have to choose life. As I did before, I chose to live with my sanity intact, to follow the paths that bring me peace, that make me whole.

I cannot live with hate. With guns. With nazis. With no religious freedom, or rather, with religious-freedom-only-if-you're-a-member-of-MY-religion! With people who scream their rights are being taken away if you suggest that guns be registered, but who see nothing wrong with banning entry into their country based on religion. Especially if they know ABSOLUTELY NOTHING about that religion!

I can't do this. I can't get through to them, I can't help them. I will try, one last hopeless time. I will say the same thing to my Stepsister as I said to my Father, oh so many, many years ago, when he was all for bombing the Communists off the face of the earth.

I will say this:

If Jesus were alive today, and speaking to the American people, He would not tell them the parable of the Good Samaritan. He would tell them the Parable of the Good Muslim.

Imbolc, as I Understand It

And there's a lot I don't understand, but Imbolc is one of my favourite pagan celebrations. It's a cross-quarter day: half way between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. The last vestige of it in our modern world is Groundhog day.

The word "Imbolc" means "in milk." At this time of year, in the climates where these traditions began, sheep and goats are giving birth, and the farmers who care for them now suddenly have extra milk, because the animals can give more milk now. To subsistence farmers, this is reason to celebrate, having this source of extra protein.

It is a time of celebrating the turning of the wheel of the year. It is light out again, and the light grows stronger daily. There is extra nourishment. We give thanks.

I personally welcome the light back by placing a candle in every window and every doorway of my home. And tonight we eat a dish made with milk or cheese. My home-made yogurt is just about ready to be strained and chilled as I write this!

I love that it's simple.

The aspect of the Great Goddess that I am mindful of at this time is Brighid. Known as the goddess of the forge and smithcraft, poetry, and healing, she's very well-known among the Irish, and being of Irish descent I therefore have an affinity for her!

But I like especially the candle bit. Catholics call this day Candlemas - when they would bring their candles to the church to be blessed.

Back in those old-fashioned days, it must have been something to see candles in every window and doorway, when there were no other lights around.

So this is what I do.