... and another thing!

EEEEEWWWWW!

2012-01-17T15:50:00.003-05:00

Well, today I made good on a New Year's Resolution. I went to a podiatrist. If you're squeamish, don't read today's entry. You have been warned!

I have a very thick callous on my right foot that's been there ever since I cut out my two plantar's warts back in my twenties.

Yes, I did. Twice. After getting the acid and using it for weeks, the things pulled out easily one day. Then a callous grew over the holes, but the pain stayed and quickly became unbearable. So I cut through the callous and found the warts hadn't completely gone. So I started treatment again and dug around them and finally got them for good. Then the callous grew and grew and grew.

I'd use pumice, lotions, get pedicures, and in desperation would take scissors to it. I'd taken to calling it a hoof.

Turns out there ain't much can be done about it except keep it soft and use a pumice on it once a week. The scissors are out. Even the doctor winced when I told her that.

The other item was three toenails that have become thick. A number of years ago I went to my family doctor and asked about it, he squinted at it for a second and said "I think it's a fungus." He wrote me a prescription for a topical fungicide, which I promptly lost. I simply didn't believe it.

Guess what. It's a fungus. It makes the nail thicken and darken, and where I used to have just one affected nail, I now have three, due to lack of proper sterilization of tools after cleaning.

Yuck.

There's a fungus amongus.

There were three solutions presented to me, none of which is a topical fungicide - so now I have to follow up on that again!

Solution 1, which only works 30% of the time, is a medicated nail polish that has to be applied every day. She didn't think it would work for me, since my "colony" is so well-established.

Solution 2 is pills that have to be taken for three months, for which I'd have to get a prescription from my family doctor. It is effective in 70% of cases. The catch - they are hard on the liver. Ah - I already take medication that is hard on the liver. Not a candidate. Next!

Solution 3 - the laser.

Now there's a solution a sci-fi fiend can relate to! Yes! Lasers lasers everywhere! Zap! ZZZZZING! BZZT! Kill! Kill! Kill!

Of course, this isn't under medicare. It remains to be seen whether my work insurance will cover it as well. It takes at least four treatments and is effective in 70% of cases.

The good news is, the fungus itself is not dangerous. Just ugly, and, if the nails grow thick enough, uncomfortable. I'm not going to lose my nails, my toes or my feet.

She then proceeded to take out what looked for all the world like a dremmel tool and grind my affected nails thinner. Only this one has water spraying from it too, like a cement saw! Now my nails are a shadow of their former selves, but a bit patchy-looking, actually uglier than before. But thin. And for twice the price of a pedicure (which is now out of the question, since I'd be contaminating the equipment) I can go back any time and get them thinned down again.

So time will tell. Part of me would like to try the laser, since it's so cool it's hot!

The Shopping Gene

2012-01-12T14:30:00.003-05:00

I didn't get it. The shopping gene.

Whether it was because my grandparents, themselves survivors of the Great Depression, taught me to be extra thrifty, or because I never learned how to dress myself fashionably, or because I've never given my wardrobe a second thought, I have missed out on the art of finding something to wear.

I watch "What Not to Wear." I take mental notes of people with body shapes like mine and what suits them. I have even steeled myself to the fact that I may have to drop big bucks on various items.

But despite a 2.5 hour long search through the mall today, and all the sales, I still came home with nothing.

Well, I may go back after some reflection, but nothing leapt off the shelf at me, which did come as a bit of a disappointment, after all. I had dressed up for a winter walk, waddled ALL the way around the mall, looked in 5 different shops. The only things I tried on were shoes, which I had not gone looking for, but which I need anyway.

I did see some nice tops, which is what I was looking for. I have a lot of tops I don't wear. They're polyester, which makes me sweat. Or the neck opening is too big and I feel like I'm in danger of catching a cold, even in summer. Or the v-cut is too deep and shows my bra, which may be nice on a knockout 20-year old like my Daughter, but on me it tends to look like I'm too stupid to realize my underwear is showing, "Pair auld wumman..." sort of thing.

So I'm looking for something in a 2x size, which right away cuts out 80% of the merchandise available. Designers never go larger than XL, if they even go there at all. And designers for plus-size women (80% of women, in other words) seem to think that we all enjoy exposing ourselves. It's not like our heads are any bigger than any other woman's head, for crying out loud! What's with these tent-sized necks?! Giving new interpretation to the phrase "Boat Neck" or "Crew Neck." Hey - we live in the bleeding Arctic circle here! Can we not have a normal neck opening? Our heads are not the size of beach balls! And forget wearing a scarf - I've already got big boobs, I don't need to drape yet more fabric on top of them. I just want to cover the damned things!

Once I do find a top with a normal opening, it's usually got hideous markings all over it, or 3D flowers or flounces or some such other nonsense. Again, I'm already fat, I don't want to draw more attention to my chest area! Such things look great on size 2 models with no tits. We larger women look much better in clean, structured lines.

So that means all these soft, flimsy "sporty" tops look awful on us as well. All that drapey fabric looks great on windows, but only serves to accentuate every bump we've got.

So say I find a top with a normal neck and no outlandish decorations. Guess what - it's black! Yay! I'm in mourning!

And if I do manage to find one in a color, it's polyester and makes me sweat.

I'd pay for silk - if it had a nice small neck and wasn't covered in ridiculous appendages.

As I leave the mall, I walk past the men's wear and sigh with jealousy. Nobody ever puts pom-poms on men's shirts or cuts the opening down to the navel, and you don't see row upon row upon row of black shirts for men. And most of them are 100% cotton.

Who designs for plus-sized women, anyway? I can't fathom what they're thinking.

The Change of Seasons

2011-10-02T10:29:00.002-04:00

Well, autumn is definitely upon us. We've had one of the loveliest Septembers on record, I'm sure, and Environment Canada is telling us we're about to have a lovely October as well.

Nevertheless, the temperature is dropping. And with that change comes a new settling-in of two people who haven't lived together in a winter before - Boyfriend and me.

Boyfriend is a nudist. He likes his boys to swing freely in the (warm) breezes. He has already compromised, though I'm sure his heart is aching, in that we don't yet have curtains up in the living room to block the view of the - ahem - swingset. He's generously given me till Christmas to make a set of curtains, after which he'll pay someone to make the curtains for us. And I figure if I can't make a set of curtains by Christmas, it's time to give the sewing machine away!

But back to my poor, inconvenienced Boyfriend.

Being a nudist, he likes the house warm.

I'm a woman in her fifties. Can you say "hot flash!?"

For two nights running, I've slept beautifully. That's because the temperature has finally dropped down to about 18 at night and I've put the down-filled duvet on the bed. I'm warm and cosy beneath the covers, and the air is cool and soothing around me. All is right with my world.

Trouble is, Boyfriend gets up at five o'clock in the morning. I get up around nine, or ten, or maybe eleven...

He has a deviated septum, and so is sensitive to cold air, and he was completely stuffed up and sneezing and blowing his nose, waiting for me to get up so he could put on the heat, even though it's HIS house.

Can you say, "Awwwww...?"

When I surfaced at nine this morning, Boyfriend had been up, shivering, for four hours. He'd wrapped himself in the quilt that's on the sofa. He'd come in to get his winter housecoat, his slippers, his warm socks. I got up to pee, and quickly realized it was !*$%# freezing in the house, and told him to put the heat up.

I quickly ascertained that he was a block of ice and offered to make him porridge. He looked up at me with the grateful eyes of a child about to cry. Porridge and buttered toast were comfort foods from when he was a wee bairn. I got them in front of him and saw even his hands were clenched with the cold. Poor bunny! Even I, immune as I am to the "suffering" of males, was moved to pity!

So we've now decided that when he gets up he's allowed to put the heat on, and we'll just close off the outlet in the bedroom and see how that works.

I'll keep you posted on the further trials and tribulations of settling in!

The Di'el Didna Want Me

2011-09-30T19:18:00.003-04:00

So I'm home from my surgery, basking in the well-wishing of friends and enjoying a break from the routine. I was surprised that a couple of my friends were completely taken by surprise to discover I'd had a partial mastectomy. I thought I'd broadcasted my condition worldwide. Apparently I missed a few.

It happened this way. I promised my Daughter that I'd have a mammogram this year, because I've been successfully avoiding them for four years now. At the time I booked the appointment, I lived in NDG, so I booked at a clinic there. I went, got squished and irradiated, and left, thinking I'd hear from them in two more years.

Instead, I got a phone call from the clinic two days later wanting me to come in for a second mammogram, an enlargement of one area. At that time I was told I had something called "microcalcification clusters," and that these usually turned out to be nothing. So I wasn't worried. This time I was told to wait around for the radiologist to read the mammograms and discuss them with me.

She was very nice. She explained that these things are usually nothing, that in most cases like mine they simply decided to have the patient back every six months to see if the area changed. She said I could see a breast specialist if I was worried, and that in fact there was a new breast specialist at the clinic on the same floor. So I walked over and they gave me an appointment.

I expected that when I saw the specialist I'd be told these things were usually nothing, and to come back in six months for another mammogram.

Instead, the specialist said she was referring me to Hotel-Dieu, where they have a nopnotch breast clinic and state-of-the-art equipment and the best breast diagnosticians in Montreal. I was to take my x-rays and my CD to them and drop them off along with her referral, and they would contact me and tell me whether they wanted me to come in or whether I should turn up in six months for another mammogram.

Of course, that's what I expected, but instead they asked me to come back in for a biopsy and more mammograms.

The biopsy was "interesting:" I had to remain motionless for 45 minutes with my boob hanging through a circular hole in a very uncomfortable platform. The boob was frozen and immobilized in a vise, two sites were biopsied and markers left where the tissue had been sampled. Titanium, and no, it doesn't set off airport alarms.

I was told my specialist would receive the results in two weeks and to make an appointment to see her.

I expected to be told, everything's fine, come back next year.

Instead, she said, "Okay, I'm going to perform an excision." One of the biopsied sites had yielded "atypical" cells. The way I was given to understand it, if a normal cell is white and a cancer cell is black, I was in a 30% grey. It wasn't a lump, just some cells that weren't normal.

So because this was surgery, I had to go for pre-op tests, and that's when I met the pre-op nurse, who used the term "partial mastectomy."

I didn't like the sound of that. "The surgeon called it an excision," I said. She nodded vigorously. Yes, an excision in the breast is called a partial mastectomy.

How about that. I didn't hear much of what the nurse told me after that. My brain was trying to come to grips with that M-word. Adding to my discomfort, she handed me a pamphlet describing exercises I was to perform after my surgery. To minimize the effects of lymphodema.

I stared at the booklet uncomprehendingly. Lymph nodes? They might have to take out lymph nodes? I put all the papers away to look over at home later.

Then I had to meet with an anesthesiologist. I thought, "what a bore." What on earth was that about? Well, it turned out to be about my sleep apnea, the reason I have a V-PAP machine. (That's a machine that keeps your airways open at night using Positive Air Pressure.) The anesthesiologist thought I'd better stay in the hospital overnight and bring my V-PAP with me, because apparently anesthesia can make you stop breathing.

Oh. Okay then. So now, I've gone from "come back in two years for your next mammogram" to staying overnight in a hospital. I was starting to freak out, despite still being assured that these things were usually nothing.

It didn't help when Daughter decided she was going to come stay with me. I figured for sure I was going to die from the anesthesia then. Fortunately she got a gig in Toronto that kept her there during my surgery! I mean, I didn't mind that she wanted to be with me, but, let's face it - I'm not getting any younger. There will no doubt be plenty of opportunities for her to come hold my hand as I'm wheeled into the operating room in years to come. It'll be old hat some day, I'm sure. And no doubt far more serious.

The day finally arrived. It began by a 6:30 a.m. start to drive to Hotel-Dieu again, where, back in the room with the painful bed with the hole for my boob to hang down, a "harpon" was inserted into the site where the atypical cells had been discovered. I called it a harpoon. It was a small wire, but "harpoon" was funnier, since it brought to mind lines about whales. The harpoon was sticking out of my boob and got taped up. Next stop, the Verdun hospital for the surgery.

So I found myself signing in to Day Surgery and being assured that after the surgery had actually happened I'd be transferred to a room. I was asked at least a dozen times if I'd remembered to bring my V-PAP machine with me. Hubby patiently carried my bag from point to point and sat with me while we waited for my surgery time to arrive. Finally the orderly came for me. Hubby leant forward, gave me a kiss and said "Repent - the end is near!" So I entered the operating room laughing my head off. Bless my dear Hubby - he doesn't say much, but when he does, it's hilarious!

Then the head anesthesiologist said this was supposed to be day surgery and he'd send me home afterwards, no need to stay in overnight. O-kayyy, I said. I guess.

My surgeon arrived and checked my films again. Everything was a go, everything was fine. Oh, she wasn't going to be there the day after to release me in person, because she had to stay home and wait for the refrigerator repairman to come. You know - you have to stay home from 8 a.m. till whenever they come, because they can't give you a specific time... It was hard not to laugh. Here we are, mighty surgeon and ordinary plebe, both humbled and brought low before the almighty refrigerator repairman! I told her the anesthesiologist wanted to send me home anyway and she said she'd make sure to write my release in just in case.

And then I was wheeled in and the I.V. put in, and then I was waking up in the recovery room. And then I was wheeled back to the Day Surgery room for further observation, where Hubby was waiting for me.

"I made it!" I said. "Not dead yet!" he answered. A familiar old joke. And the meaning behind the title of this blog, incidentally, for those of you who don't speak Scots! "The Devil didn't want me" is the English translation!

And then began the post-operative dithering about whether I was staying or going home. I was game. Before they'd let me go home though, I had to make to the bathroom under my own steam. Right, I'll try it now, I said, and proceeded to get up.

Then I quickly lay back down and called for the kidney-shaped bucket. Oops. I'd forgotten I get naseous after general anesthesia.

Okay, said the nurse, I think I'm going to give you something for nausea. We've got three protocols for nausea, I'll give you the first one. Okay. It put me back to sleep, of course. But a short time later I was ready to try again. One, two, three, upsie-daisy...

No-go, back to the barf bucket.

Okay, I'll try the second one, said the nurse. And back to sleep I went. And tried again. Again with the same result. And protocol three went the same way.

At this point the nurse wisely decided to try removing the oxygen stream and seeing how I was breathing on my own. Not five minutes later, the alarm went off beside me. My oxygen had dropped lower than 83%, and that's a very bad thing. So she gave me the oxygen again, and we tried a little later to see how my breathing was on my own. Beep beep beep went the alarm.

At which point she said "I'd feel a lot happier if you were to stay in overnight so we could monitor you."

"Well, that was the original plan!" I said.

And in no time I was in my semi-private room, my V-PAP chugging away happily, Hubby gone gratefully home to bed, and me finally allowed to stay in dreamland for 2 hours at a time. Because of course, "monitoring" me meant they had to wake me up every 2 hours to check my vitals. No matter. I made it through the night and got released near noon the next day, and now I'm home recovering.

No pain to speak of - it feels a little itchy, sometimes feels like I have a large splinter. But I've enjoyed a steady stream of visitors, calls, and good wishes on Facebook. Sadly, no chocolates have appeared yet, but today R brought me flowers - yay! And any minute now Daughter is going to arrive from Toronto for a brief visit.

So that's the story of my partial mastectomy. I see the specialist in two weeks, at which time I expect to be told the cells weren't cancerous, and to come back in a year for another mammogram.

And then we'll see!

Carbs!

2011-09-22T21:26:00.002-04:00

I made an error in judgement recently. I figured, since I'd lost about 40 lbs., that I could safely indulge in a few desserts. In fact, I was desperate to see if I could stop losing weight, since I didn't know the cause of the weight loss in the first place. Yes, I know, it's illogical.

But the fewer carbs you eat, the less you crave them.

And... once I started eating them again, I started craving them again.

Well, tonight I'm fighting the urge to go pop a few whippets. You know, marshmallow-filled, coated in dark chocolate. Oh, and did I mention, they're raspberry-filled as well? Umm, mmm mmm! Oh, and they are calling my name!

But I'm holding out.

It's autumn. This is the time of year I want to fatten up for winter hibernation. Get nice and plump, so I can crawl into bed till April, warm and cozy under my duvet, and get a really good sleep.

Unfortunately, I don't really hibernate. I am quite capable of gaining weight however, and I'm not actually wanting to put it back on.

It's been a nice ride, these past couple of weeks, snacking on cookies and squares. But I have experienced the lack-of-cravings before, and I'm going for it again.

So, no matter that the whippets are softly crooning "Eat me! Eat me!"

I am determined.

Safe and sound

2011-09-11T23:28:00.002-04:00

There is a lovely full moon out tonight. The full moon always puts me in a wistful mood. Familiar and brilliant, she embodies my concept of the Great Goddess that was worshipped at the dawn of humanity, the life-giver, sacred feminine, mysterious.

It's been quite a while since I've thought about my pagan beliefs. This past spring was overshadowed by my coming out of a depression and starting to pack to move in with Boyfriend - a definite new chapter in my life. And then came the Move itself, with unpacking, settling in, a roof to be done, items to be sorted. And enjoying the summer as best we could. Visits back to see Hubby. Now a strike and a medical issue creating busyness.

But tonight I had my bridge ladies over to my new home for the first time. And it felt wonderful. Of course I had to give the grand tour when they arrived. My home is tidy, clean, and comfortable. Boyfriend's natural orderliness is rubbing off on me. It's a home you can relax in.

Hubby's home, on the other hand, is chaotic, noisy and cluttered. Poor Hubby is trying to hold it all together, with precious little help from his two DNA replicants, plus a destructive dog and a (shedding) long-haired cat. Stepdaughter's clothes are knee-deep in her room, and Stepson's clothes occupy four of the nine rooms in the house, plus the stairway. Both of them leave their personal effects wherever they drop. The concept of being considerate to the people they live with has simply not made it to their consciousness.

To be sure, they both help out from time to time, either when yelled at sufficiently or if they want to have people over. But the house usually looks like it could be on "Hoarders."

As Dr. Phil would no doubt say, this situation will continue as long as Hubby allows it to continue. It will stop when he makes it stop, and not a moment before.

When I go visit Hubby I try to help him out a bit. I can empty, load, and run the dishwasher. I can do laundry. I can change the sheets on the bed. I can pick up dog poop. I can brush the cat and give her water.

When I lived with Hubby I was able to keep the chaos mostly at bay. I would get angry much quicker than he did, I would insist that the children be made to pitch in. Apparently when I left everyone breathed one gigantic sigh of relief. There would be no more yelling.

And everything went to pot. Dirt, debris, junk all sifted into each room, basically filling all the available space, filling even the air with confusion.

I still love Hubby very much, and it breaks my heart to see him living in these conditions. And it has cast a shadow over me, over my happiness in my new home. It is hard to be happy when people we love are living in misery.

I had to leave. I was angry all the time, I was fighting a losing battle. I was constantly informed that I wasn't the parent, and every attempt was made to subvert my authority as the homeowner, and Hubby allowed it, didn't back me up, and it drove me away.

And now I have a different life. Still close to Hubby, yes. But my world is orderly, calm, relaxed. There is no fighting, there are no battles. Here there is cooperation and appreciation. Both Boyfriend and I are working together to keep our home serene.

And tonight I was thrilled to walk my bridge friends through my new home and welcome them here, where I live now.

The eldest member of our group is in her eighties - I'm not sure how high, but she's getting up there! She's been a friend of my Grandmother, my Mother and Father, a friend to me, to my Daughter and Stepchildren. She is one of the loveliest people ever to grace this earth. And tonight she said to me, as she was leaving, that it did her heart good to see me settled again in such a lovely home.

And now finally I can be truly thankful that I've been brought, safe and sound, to harbour. It feels now like I have permission to enjoy my life here, in this pleasant and comfortable place.

It feels like home.

A Day on the Picket Line

2011-09-01T19:30:00.002-04:00

I'm on strike. So are 1700 others, my co-workers, non-academic staff at a prestigious university. (That's a hint as to which university it is - it likes to proclaim itself the "Harvard of the North.") I just spent my first four-hour shift on the picket line, and boy, do I ever hope this strike is over soon!

Remember, I'm an old lady, and I've been working a desk job for 20 years now! OMG, walking so slowly for such a long stretch of time is painful! I can barely hobble now, I never want to stand up as long as I live, and I have to do it all over again tomorrow. I hurt so much it brought tears to my eyes. I came home, hit the shower, and lay whimpering on the bed, crying out to Boyfriend to make supper for me.

This is way harder than working.

The Wooden Jewel Box

2011-08-25T10:08:00.003-04:00

It's been a long time since I treated you to a tale about Hubby and his Offspring. I hope this fills a void!

Hubby is a pack-rat. Like all such afflicted individuals, he justifies his choices vigorously and with great imagination. His home is full of doo-dads and thingamajigs. In the kitchen cupboard that holds drinking glasses, for example, you'll find a stack of plastic beverage containers from the movies - oversized and decorated with the characters and images of the particular movie they saw - when the kids were seven or eight years old!

The "kids" are now both of "major age," as the law states. But the plastic beverage containers can't be thrown out, because the movies were fun.

CDs and DVDs litter the rooms. There is a bookcase in the basement where, years ago, some attempt to put these items into order was made. They were neatly stacked, even sorted, at the time. But the collection outgrew the bookcase, and new CDs and DVDs never made it into such storage. They are in piles everywhere throughout the house now. In drawers, cubbyholes, baskets, piled on dressers or on the kitchen table. Some of them are music, some are movies, but the bulk of the collection is software. Old software, mind you. Stuff from several operating systems ago. You and I would long ago have chucked this stuff into the garbage or recycling bin. But because Hubby works with computers, he has a pathological need to hang on to every single piece of software that has even been invented, claiming he might need it one day.

The thought of telling someone who asks him for outdated software "Sorry, you're out of luck," is something he just can't stomach.

I've often complained over the years that Hubby leaves everything where it drops. He has a kind of physical memory of where he's left things. Putting them away is counter-intuitive for him.

So basically, the house looks like an episode of "Hoarders." And Hubby is quick to justify each and every doodad I point to with "reasons" it can't be thrown out or given away.

His Offspring have inherited his pack-rat tendencies, along with an inability to put things away. It's confusion everywhere. Watch where you step.

So I felt a little guilty when visiting lately, because I still have "stuff" at the house that's taking up storage space. I feel I need to help him somehow. And while Hubby was digging around for something, I spotted a wooded jewel box tucked away under a dresser.

It was mine, and I distinctly remembered throwing it away a couple of years ago.

Sure, it's a nice-looking box, carved all over and with birds carved onto the lid. Yes, it was a gift at one time. Yes, I probably should have at least given it to Village-des-odeurs, (as we are fond of calling it).

But my complaint was that Hubby snuck out to the garbage and hauled it back in and hid it under a dresser. For two years.

Well, I relieved him of it and put it back in the garbage again, over his complaints of "Somebody paid someone a whole 29 cents to carve that!"

But he left it there.

However, the next day, at work, I was informed that Stepdaughter had seen the box, said "This is way too nice to throw out!" and hauled it back in, again.

And the box is currently sitting on the dining room table.

I guess I'm going to have to go get it myself and take it to Village, like I should have done two years ago.

It's Over

2011-08-02T09:49:00.003-04:00

A friend of mine, C, tells the story of being prescribed orthopedic shoes. There she was in the store, with the salesman making suggestions to her, looking around in dismay at the ugly selections available. She asked the salesman, "Do you have anything that looks a little nicer?" Whereupon the salesman laid his hand sympathetically on her arm and said, "Madame, it's over for you."

Well, my recent move has made me come to terms with a few things that I've been lugging around with me. More than just through the last three years of moves, lugging with me for the past ten or fifteen years, or even longer.

Those of you who know me well know that I have always had issues with makeup. I don't like how it feels on my face, even the expensive stuff. I never feel that I can get my face totally clean after wearing it, no matter how rigorously I scrub, buff and polish.

I hate the time it takes to put on makeup - even just five minutes annoys the heck out of me.

So I have now, at 54 years of age, officially retired the makeup bag. Let it gather dust and grow mould. I've had it with makeup. This is what I look like - deal with it.

It's over for me.

The next thing to get tossed was hair color. I've dyed my hair every color of the rainbow over the years. Red was my favourite, but red is the color most likely to cause cancer. Even the newfangled dyes that are "organic" leave me cold.

My Grandmother started dyeing my hair when I was eight years old. My natural color is a dark grey. I once had a hairdresser compare my natural color to her color swatches, and she confirmed this. "If your hair was woven into a fabric, it would be a dark grey fabric," she informed me.

Eight years old. Fifty-four years old. Enough is enough. No more hair color for me.

Interestingly enough, the day after the last of my blonde was trimmed off, I went out to a movie with Hubby. I asked for two tickets, and the girl gave me the "Ainés" rate. That's right, I saved five dollars because she thought I was a senior! My Daughter laughed at me and said maybe now I'd rethink putting some color into my hair, but no-go. I've had it with hair color. I've done enough damage to the environment and my scalp and my bloodstream.

It's over.

The last thing to go in the garbage bin was my nail polish. I gave away the last bottle of polish remover and threw my (unused) bottles of polish away. What a relief!

The money I spent, over the years, getting fake nails! I shudder to think how much food that money could have bought, how many Caribbean vacations I could have enjoyed, had I not been spending money on nails, hair color, and makeup!

As a cute little song goes,

"I know just how ugly I are.
I know that my face ain't no star!
But still, I don't mind it,
Because I'm behind it!
It's folks out in front get the jar!"

Summer of Sick

2011-07-30T11:11:00.003-04:00

Well, the title says it all. I got sick about six weeks ago with a nasty bug that keeps on coming back. Thought I was over and went to Toronto to visit my Daughter and had a relapse. Got antibiotics for ten days and dutifully stayed away from alcohol (the horror!) but the day after the antibiotics finished got the sore throat back and started coughing again.

Not fun. Missed out on swimming and Margaritas. Missed out on having people over. Hoping that August goes better than July did!

A Moving Experience

2011-06-02T13:57:00.003-04:00

Moving day approaches. In my case, it's on June 17th, so I'm lucky I'm not stuck moving on July 1 with the rest of Quebec. Right now, for me, it's the calm before the storm.

For Boyfriend, it's another story. He's been at the house since the minute he got the keys, tearing down a (non-supporting) wall, clearing out junk left by the previous owner, bringing loads from his apartment in a borrowed van...and in general, tiring himself out real good - he's doing all this after a full day's work, you understand! He's like a racehorse that's been kept behind the gate - exploding onto the track with pent-up energy. In vain I tell him to pace himself - he's a man on a mission.

He started me off packing things about two months ago. My Daughter thought this was funny, but I'm no spring chicken and packing tires me out. We took our time and he put the boxes out of the way of the living space, and it's now starting to look a little bare in here, even though I still have everything I need to be comfortable.

In fact it makes me wonder why I'm keeping all this stuff in the boxes at all. For example, I went through my wardrobe, keeping only the clothes I felt I was likely to wear in the next two weeks, and packing the rest. When I was done, I turned and looked at what was left. There are enough tops left hanging that I could wear a different one every day for two months with no repeats! If I have all these clothes still hanging up, what in the world do I need the other ones - the ones I packed - for? And I don't consider that I have an extensive wardrobe!

In the kitchen, my teapot and wine glasses are packed. But I can still enjoy a glass of wine with a friend, just not in a wine glass. I can still make tea, just in the mug. I have no shortage to contend with, I have all that I need. So what's with the four boxes of kitchen stuff?!

And don't get me started on my sewing supplies. There's a saying in quilting circles: "The one who dies with the most fabric wins." I don't know the half of what I have - but it's too much, whatever it is! Patiently, Boyfriend said "Just pack it babe - you've got the rest of your life to go through it." Only I do hope it doesn't actually take me the rest of my life...

I remember a time when I wanted things, so badly that I'd go into debt to buy them. I would pounce on my paycheck and rush to the store to get things: clothes, jewellery, CDs, DVDs... there were things I just HAD to have!

Now I look around at all these boxes and wonder, what for? What was so all-fired important about getting all this stuff?

Now what seems to be more important to me is having the money to go for a visit to see my Daughter. I'd rather see her than drink out of designer wine glasses.

I've heard all kinds of theories about the universe in my time. The universe is expanding, the universe is shrinking... Well, my universe is no longer in an expansion phase. My needs are simpler now.

Looming Large

2011-04-05T09:05:00.004-04:00

I did something different this morning while having my coffee - I turned on the telly to see what early morning programming was like. Usually the earliest I put the tv on is noon - when Star Trek comes on. This morning I thought I'd have a look and see what other people watch.

I didn't last long. There was a brief recap of where each of the party leaders would be campaigning today. That in itself is stomach-churning stuff: Harper seems determined to ruin Canada at any cost, and since he "united the right" a few years ago, nobody on the left seems able to rise to stop him. The spectre of our humane, sane and sober country being laid waste by this corrupt, greedy and intolerant "government", our social programs slashed mercilessly, is a terrifying possibility.

This was quickly followed by an update to a war going on somewhere - probably Libya - with an image of something being blown up in a terrible explosion..."Wars and rumors of wars" indeed, straight from the book of Revelation.

I quickly turned the tv off. The words of one of my doctors rings so true: "A certain amount of denial is necessary for everyone to get through the day."

Yesterday we were greeted with the news that Japan is going to dump radioactive waste water into the ocean, this to prevent a bigger catastrophe on the land.

When, oh when, will mankind ever learn that nuclear power is simply too dangerous to use?

Am I too sensitive? My personal zone of safety seems pretty small these days. I didn't even get through a five-minute newscast before the threat of ulcers made me turn it off. This is par for the course. The world is simply too frightening a place! So I dig myself in, in my basement apartment, curled up on the couch or, more likely, hiding under the covers.

I've got a move coming up, I should be organizing stuff, editing my belongings, packing... But I'm overwhelmed before I even start, standing helplessly staring at shelves and piles, wondering what in the world I'm going to do with all this stuff. I feel as helpless about it as I do about the situations in the world. Personal "power" is also apparently at an all-time low.

My Daughter is moving to Toronto. Six months ago, she was talking about having babies, she was in a relationship with a great guy, living in a house, two cars - the works. Now she's facing an uncertain future tending bar while hoping for her "big break" in her acting career, on her own with no safely net. She's going to be in Toronto before I even move this summer. There is nothing I can do to help her or make her way easier or safer, and it churns me up inside. What kind of a mom am I? Should I be encouraging her? Dissuading her? Am I failing her somehow by doing neither? What the heck am I supposed to do in this situation?

It certainly seems that no matter which topic I pick, which way I turn, my personal level of helplessness is staring me in the face.

.......

Update on weight loss: (good news, I think)

I've played internet doctor this week and it seems that weight loss may be a side effect of one of the meds I'm on. The blood tests showed no cancer markers. So I will be discussing the results with my doctor, but for now I am tentatively hopeful. I will manage a weak smile.

The Sore Back

2011-03-31T21:18:00.003-04:00

Fresh from a day of lounging around doing nothing in particular, I am now amazed at the depths of laziness to which I've sunk.

Oh sure, today started off with an early morning trip into town for blood tests, 2 quick visits to friends on the way home, dealing with correspondence, and finally lunch with Daughter...so I could say that I've had a "busy" day. I did do a lot of walking, and at some point or other my lower back began to hurt just the teensiest bit.

But was that from the walking, or from the lounging around?

Now let's get a few facts straight: I am moving in June. In around 10 weeks, approximately. I have packing to do. And, as everybody knows, before packing one goes through one's things and edits (gets rid of) one's belongings.

But there was no evidence of such admirable activity.

I also have a big, three-part quilt project that I've lately begun, and no pun intended. See, 4 or 5 years ago I taught a group of elementary school children the fundamentals of quilting. Well, one of the youngsters' father died, a sad story. He urged his mother to contact me regarding making a quilt out of his father's clothing. Three quilts, in fact - there's a sister, and one for mom as well.

So I've had this clothing with me through two moves so far, and we're looking at 3 years since I agreed to take this project on now. Hence, "lately" begun... For most of the 3 years I've been referring to this project as "the dead guy's quilts," however recently Boyfriend talked me into using a more positive phraseology about it. "The Memories Project" is now the going phrase, having a slightly less negative ring to it.

I've had this week off work because I had vacation days to use up, and I could have been working on the Memories Project.

But no... it rests peacefully undisturbed by activity.

I've had a week off, and I've accomplished precisely nothing at all. To quote Garfield, "if I were any lazier, I'd slip into a coma."

Is my back sore from walking, or from scooching on the couch for too long? I think, left to my own devices, I could quite happily do nothing whatsoever, for an astonishing length of time!

This state of abject worthlessness as a human being quite flummoxes me. I had no idea what indolence I was capable of.

Hell, I've even out-lazied the cat!

Weight Loss

2011-03-30T10:30:00.002-04:00

I am puzzling over why I seem to have lost 25 lbs. without trying. Oh yes, I've been eating a bit differently over the course of the past year. I rarely have desserts any more. I've been aiming for more protein and fewer carbs. My appetite/consumption has diminished considerably. I drink water rather than juice, and chips and chocolate are all but unheard-of now, compared to when they were a staple.

But 25 lbs? And no exercise to speak of... I could see losing 5 lbs that way...

The weight has come off by itself, and that's just not ever been my experience, nor, to listen to the tales, the experience of others.

I fear there's something else at play.

I made Hubby go to the doctor several years ago when he began dropping weight without any changes in his diet, and it turned out he had diabetes.

And of course, the "C" word looms large in everyone's minds these days.

So yesterday I humphed myself off to the doc - the gyno - because I wanted him to refer me for a mammogram. I got a bit more than I expected - a referral as well to a gastroenterologist so I can have - yay - a colonoscopy.

The last time I had one of those, I swore I'd rather die than have another. It's not the test itself, it's the prep. You drink this poison that looses everything in the bowels so that by the day of the test you're all pink and clean inside and they can see what's going on. That in itself would be fine - but it makes you naseous as well. Like, really naseous. I don't handle that well at all - get feeling v e r y sorry for my poor suffering self. That's when I swore I'd never do it again.

However, I'm concerned enough to go through with it, even though I doubt that may be the trouble spot, if there is one. But I'd rather be careful.

Now I have to find a doc to send me to get my sugar tested. And since I've had a constant headache (very mild) in one specific spot on the back of my head for a month now, I should probably find a neurologist to get me a scan.

It's all very tiresome, this finding of doctors and appointments and tests. The temptation is to say "Oh you're just imagining it, you've got nothing to worry about," leave it at that, and buy smaller pants.

But I remember when my Grandma lost weight with no changes in her diet, and she had breast cancer.

No, the phrase "no pain, no gain" rings true for me here, though in this especial case, the "gain" is loss - weight loss.

It just seems too easy. Too good to be true. And you know what they say about that.

Aging Parents

2011-02-26T12:29:00.003-05:00

When I was a teenager, my father and stepmom moved down to Louisiana, where my stepmom was from, to be near to her aging parents. My father had aging parents of his own, but they were a good decade behind stepmom's and in great health and going great guns.

My dad always thought somehow that I would emigrate to the States to be near them, but that never materialized. I had my own life up here - school, work, marriage, jobs - and I stayed here. Every year daddy and stepmom would drive up from Louisiana to stay with my grandparents for a few weeks, and every year my grandparents would drive down to Louisiana to see them. I only went once, that was enough for me as a teenager. When I heard my stepbrother telling a story about a cop setting a black person down on an anthill, him laughing his head off as he told the story, oh and using the "n" word while he was at it, that just turned me off quite completely. The South gives me the shivers, point finale.

Well stepmom's parents passed away, and my grandparents passed away. My dad and stepmom came up one final visit the year after grandpa was gone, and that was it for the yearly visits.

I went down once again, with Hubby, oh, over a decade ago now. My dad was starting to look thinner than I remembered him being. We had a good visit, but it was overshadowed by the feeling I had that I was seeing them for the last time.

My father has been slipping lately. He's had a couple of bank problems when he needed some assistance to get his Canadian pension re-sent to him because the bank had changed its transit number. It became apparent to me during that crisis that daddy was losing his nouns. He was very nearly unable to make a coherent sentence, he'd reach for a word and lapse into silence, floored by the lack of words. I would coax him on and offer suggestions, and somehow we'd make it through the conversation.

He's in his 80th year right now, and stepmom is 82 and hasn't been really well for some time. He spends all his time looking after her. But being cantankerous, he tends to get into spats with service providers and friends alike. I heard him talk about people coming in to help, and how he'd sent them all away. And he was always fighting with AT&T. Once he even went out and bought himself a cell phone, thinking that would be cheaper than paying the phone company. That didn't work out of course, but the biggest problem was the cell phone just didn't work, or he didn't know how to work it. He has big fingers, and I wouldn't be surprised if that was the reason he had trouble working the phone.

Well, today I tried to call him and his line has been disconnected. So the phone company is having a go this round. I fired off an email to my stepbrother asking him to check what's going on, but in my heart I know perfectly well what's going on. Daddy has been cantankerous and is denying he owes what they say he does and they've cut him off, and I have precious little hope of service being restored any time soon. And now I can't even have the reassurance of hearing his voice on the phone complaining of this and that.

I already fear his home looks like an episode of "hoarders" and shudder to think of what he's like behind the wheel of his car. And I fear that soon the inevitable will come knocking and he'll have to go into some kind of facility, and I'm not there to help him or reassure him or even know how he's doing. I'm out of the loop, unable to do anything for him.

Disconnected.

The Rock

2011-02-16T22:13:00.002-05:00

Today my world suffered a tremor. Whether it comes by itself or is a precursor to future events, time will tell. But I was shaken, once again, by forces I cannot control.

Hubby had a medical problem that sent him to the hospital today. His eyesight in one eye all of a sudden had gaps in it. True to form, he quickly downloaded a test off the internet, the results of which were enough to get him to pick up the phone and get an emergency appointment with an opthamologist. Hubby is a diabetic you see, and eye problems are frequent with them.

So I tried to concentrate on work while he went off to the hospital, and I tried to ignore the various scary scenarios that presented themselves to my mind like so many demons poking their heads in through the doorway.

Blindness. Inability to work. Inability to drive.

Suddenly there loomed before me the prospect of my slightly estranged husband becoming someone who needed assistance. And that is topsy-turvy. The ground liquified under my feet.

Hubby is my Rock. In fact, he is quite a few people's Rock. He's the one you can always count on, whether you need something fixed or need a lift somewhere.

He's the stubborn old goat who knows perfectly well what he should be eating and how much exercise he should be getting, yeah yeah yeah, not bloody likely... Mr. "Not Dead Yet", always ready to poke fun at life, quick with the bon mot, taking perverse pleasure in the downfall of the stupid and foolish. A shoulder to lean on, relentless in his pursuit of technology, and an unflagging curiosity that leaves no stone unturned in his determination to be right about everything.

To say I was sick with worry would be an understatement. The whole world had suddenly shifted on its axis. Hubby might be in trouble. Hubby might not be immortal, after all. In fact, there may come a time when Hubby might no longer be there, at all. The thought left me reeling.

Quite a few people depend on Hubby always being there, always being himself. Not the least of which is Hubby! In shock from a) being seen immediately, and b) being treated immediately, he took tomorrow off to recover a bit. Perhaps he'll be assessing his mortality, taking stock of how he should be changing his diet or his sedentary lifestyle.

If I were living with him, I'd be wanting him to stay in bed and bringing him tea. And hovering over him, worrying. As it is, I'll be worrying from a distance and wondering what he's doing. Wondering if this incident was the tip of the proverbial iceberg, and how long we may have before another tremor shakes the foundation of our reality. Wondering if this will be a wake-up call for him. As it was for me.

We do not know what the future holds for us, nor how long we have with each other. Every moment is more precious than we know.

Braving the storm

2011-02-03T09:31:00.003-05:00

Well, here we are in the aftermath of an historic winter snowstorm that wrecked havoc over half the United States. For a change, here in Montreal we only got a wisp, a mere 15-20cm. And I couldn't be happier it wasn't more...

Boyfriend is off in Saudi Arabia, for work, and so I have his car, you see. It's a brand-new car, not a scratch on it. And while I love having the use of a car in the summer months, it's quite a different thing to be looking for a parking spot here in the city - in the winter - during a snowstorm.

I had asked my friend R whether I should drive in to work yesterday or take public transportation, and he was eloquent in why I should leave the car where it was. Accordingly, I did the opposite, and drove in.

I wasn't going to. I had made up my mind to take the bus. I had dressed for the weather and was leaving on time for the bus... But then I got outside and the streets were clear and quiet, visibility was good, and there wasn't enough snow on the car to make it worthwhile brushing it off, and I thought to myself, "Why are you such an Old Woman?!" And proceeded to get into the car.

I drove to work in first gear all the way. Apparently, only the visible section of my street was actually clear and free of traffic. From every street in NDG, cars poured onto Somerled, and eventually the drive resembled a train more than anything else: everybody inching along in single-file, and hardly any difference between red lights and green lights, we inched forward all the same.

I had a couple of stomach-churning moments going up The Boulevard where I learned on the spot that you have to turn your Traction Control off if you're going to get up a hill. Traction control, you see, stops the wheels from spinning, and also stops the engine from racing, so if you have it on while going up a slippery hill, your can slows and eventually just stops, no matter what you do to the gas pedal. A very disconcerting situation, I can assure you!

After that first learning experience I turned it off and drove the way I had learned how, turning the wheel and spinning the tires like everybody else, and actually got somewhere.

Approaching McGill, I opted to go to the McIntyre garage instead of the Faculty's garage, because the McIntyre opened off Peel, a big street, an important street, much more likely to have been plowed and salted than old McTavish, where the Faculty garage was located.

And at the last moment I opted to use Drummond, one street before Peel, to gain access to the McIntyre, because traffic had slowed considerably ahead of me and I figured there would be less traffic and more room to slide about on Drummond than on Peel.

And good thing, too. I found out when I got into work that Peel had just been closed, and I wouldn't have been able to get access to the garage at all. Whew!

By this time you would be correct in assuming I had "learned my lesson." Yes, I was in fact wondering why in god's white earth I had decided to drive in. R's admonitions rung in my memory, while visions of fender-benders bounced in my head in lively fashion. There was a potential for disaster at every turn, and every inch of the way between turns. I was, sad to say, part of the problem yesterday, not part of the solution. I should have taken the bus. Or stayed home.

In the end, I only worked a half day. The thought of driving home in 5 o'clock traffic with yet more snow under the tires, and in the dark, proved too much for my state of mind, Old Woman that I seem to have become. But my poor nerves needed daylight to steer by, and the drive home was actually uneventful compared to the drive in. I had to take a couple of runs at my parking spot in front of the house (tracking control still off), but I managed to park safely and run into the house crying to Bijou "I MADE it! I MADE it Bijou! And wif no accidents!"

I was never so glad to be in my lonely little apartment with no one to see and nothing to do. I watched tv till I couldn't keep my eyes open, and the only time I'm sticking my nose out the door today is to see if the snow-clearing crews had put up no parking signs.

Otherwise, I'm staying put, dry, warm, and safe!

A Hard Room

2010-12-29T23:23:00.004-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She sells sushi...

2010-12-18T21:13:00.003-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

A Christmas Donation

2010-12-16T21:07:00.002-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Eensy-Weensy Sign of Hope

2010-11-07T15:31:00.002-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Far from Fine

2010-11-03T15:19:00.004-04:00

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

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

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

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

She says "I am fine."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Depression Dreams

2010-10-27T07:13:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unwanted Pumpkin

2010-10-25T12:03:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But back to my current dilemma.

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

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

Yeah. How about just throwing it out?

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

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

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

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

Haiku! (Gesundheit.)

2010-10-22T10:55:00.002-04:00

Golden leaves flutter

Across an empty field, like

A storm of butterflies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Impromptu

2010-10-11T11:51:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

Not "Ash-blonde." Dark grey.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not squirted in a smelly mess from a plastic bottle.

Clothing

2010-10-05T21:56:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Objects in Motion

2010-08-16T11:28:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strikingly and eerily accurate!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep Moving

2010-06-29T18:51:00.002-04:00

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

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

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

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

"Keep moving!"

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

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

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

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

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

And tomorrow morning it can start all over again.

I just have to keep moving.

Hello! - Girl?

2010-06-21T22:08:00.006-04:00

I am a girl.

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

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

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

Blah blah blah. It was all for nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

Before tonight, that is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There will be flowers.

Vive la différence!

Not Myself

2010-06-10T22:03:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On to the baptism.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And three full days without coffee.

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

No wonder I'm just not myself.

The Half Pair

2010-05-21T11:22:00.002-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Honey Pot

2010-05-09T23:18:00.005-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A stranger passes

2010-05-05T23:26:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I think I could have been a little kinder.

Another Reason Not to be a Morning Person!

2010-05-02T08:00:00.004-04:00

I got up at 4 this morning. Not worried about it, since I'd gone to bed at 9:30 p.m. last night. I'd just had plenty of sleep, that's all. But I have discovered yet another reason it's not necessarily a good thing to be a morning person.

I mean, here I am, I've had all the coffee I can hold. I've had my shower. Boyfriend has gone off to work (yes, believe me, he KNOWS it's Sunday), cat's been fed, dishwasher and clothes washer are rockin'.

I look at the clock. 7:39.

Guess I can't call anybody.

Let's see, I'd like to call my Cousin to tell her what I bought her son and his fiancée for their wedding gift. She'll be up soon, but since it's Sunday morning, I don't want to call too early.

I could talk to Daughter. Oh wait a minute, she and her Boyfriend don't have the kids this weekend. Hmm. Better wait till later. Much later.

I want to call my Dad today. But he's in Louisiana - an hour behind us. Several hours to wait before calling him.

I've been working up to calling a distant cousin of mine to explain why I haven't called her in 2 years. But she's nearing 80 years old, lives way out in the country and has one phone that is firmly anchored to the wall downstairs by her front door.

And now the clock says... 7:40.

Sheesh! Let's see, my friend K is always up early - oops, she just got married. Best to wait for a work day.

So I wrote a short blog about darning my shirt this morning.

7:53

Geez!

And I know, from having been the recipient of early morning telephone calls for years from my ex's ex, that "night owls" do not appreciate a sunny phone call waking them up, so no calling Hubby...

Still 7:53.

There is a definite drawback to being a morning person! No wonder they all go out jogging! Hell, I could give myself a blooming pedicure and be done before it was a decent hour to call!

Guess I'll run the vacuum.

"How in the world…"

2010-04-16T08:31:00.003-04:00

Oh, come on, ye young folk, gather round for my song -

Your lives have been short, but mine has been long -

Time is laying a trap for you, lying in wait -

By the time he has struck, we'll be gone -

And then you'll be singing the - "How in the world did I get this way?" blues.

I've got one knee that won't bend, and one won't go straight -

Years ago, unwittingly I sealed my fate -

I left gym class too early to go read my books

Now I feel like I've arrived at Death's gate -

And I found myself singing the - "How in the world did I get this way?" blues.

Well, "Eat less and excercise?" What did they know!

I'd the world by the tail and I knew where to go -

My cream-cheese-and-cherry-pie, and my chocolate cake too -

Have conspired like the ocean's undertow -

And I found myself singing the - "How in the world did I get this way?" blues.

So take a lesson, young people, from this tired old bat -

Get up and get moving, find out where it's at -

Don't you drink-too-much-smoke-too-much-sit-on-the-couch -

Or you'll wake up so old and so fat

You'll be lost and be singing the - "How in the world did I get this way?" blues!

April Fools

2010-04-01T12:06:00.003-04:00

No, I didn't forget the apostrophe. I'm talking about all the humans on this, the first day of April, 2010. We are each, in our own way, a Fool.

And I'm a HUGE Fool!

One week to go before Boyfriend returns. This, the fifth week of his absence, is my most hectic since I last moved from one apartment to another, because I moved my office at work.

Well, actually, a LOT of people moved my stuff from one office to two others.

Yes, I have two offices. One is called an office, the other is called a "workroom." That's where I do my graphics…sorta…stuff…. Something few people understand but everybody agrees is necessary.

Since January, my Boss and I and one other Tech have been behind locked doors, trying to adjust to what it was our "Betters" had decided we were going to be doing here from now on. It quickly became apparent there really wasn't anything that could technically be called a "plan." Our Betters are making it up as they go along. And so are we.

This morning, while buying breakfast, I came up with my latest "plan."

Since nobody has a clear idea of what exactly it is I'm actually supposed to be doing, I've decided I'm going to do whatever the hell I want, until I get reprimanded. By that, I don't mean just the Boss' saying "Hey - I told you not to do that." Nope - in fact - since Boss is one of "Us" and he's being hurt by "Them" more than I am, I'm going to do my best not to make his life any harder.

I'm talking the union getting involved, and a permanent note being put in my file.

In short, I've decided to be what I am when I am at my best: a shit-disturber.

That is to say, a gigantic April Fool.

Calamity Jane

2010-03-06T09:33:00.005-05:00

So, yesterday I bought myself a pair of skates.

"What kind," one pal asked me.

"Well, they're not figures skates and they're not hockey skates, but they do have picks on the toes," I answered.

Pal giggled. "So they're not roller-skates," she said.

Mentally I cautioned myself to avoid starting a fight. See, "skates" means ice-skates. "Rollerblades" is the proper term to use when describing things with wheels, these days, though I have actually glimpsed someone using the kind I had as a kid - the two steel wheels on the front and two in the back, attached to a clamp setup that you screwed onto the bottom of whatever shoes you were wearing. They usually fell off once you got going, and the screeching, grating, ear-splitting sounds of steel wheels on pavement certainly let parents know where their children were at any given time…

Back to yesterday.

They are called "leisure skates". They look like ski boots. (Alright - DOWNHILL ski boots.) With blades on the bottom.

This place actually sells real genuine figure-skates. By genuine, I mean the kind where you pay upwards of $300 for the boots, then you select and pay for your blades. And they analyze your gait in them and align the blades for your foot, and they heat and distort the boots so they conform exactly to what Mother Nature gave you. It's called "l'Expert de la patine", literally translated as the Skate Expert, though I'm sure any entrepreneur with half a brain would have called it "The Skate Place" if it were being given a proper English name.

I never knew places like this existed. Seriously, I thought Elizabeth Manley and Toller Cranston bought their figure skates for $25 at Canadian Tire, just like I did when I was younger! The last pair of skates I bought, in my twenties, cost $50, and my daughter uses them to this day.

Well, of course none of the real figure-skaters bought their hardware at the Tire - no pun intended. They went to places like l'Expert. It's just simply that I never knew any differently.

I was delighted to discover this place. I went in and sat down on the fitting stands, took off my boots, and watched them all working.

A teenager was selling hockey skates to a five-year old boy (and his father). He watched the little guy wobble around for a few minutes, then took the skates off him to put them on the heater/stretcher thing. He heated and hammered and pumped a five-foot long handle, then came back and put the skates back on his customer with instructions to not move for fifteen long minutes. The instructions were repeated for about five of those fifteen minutes - we're talking a five-year old here. When the tyke finally did get up and walk around in his now re-formed skates, even I could see the difference. His left ankle no longer tilted in. And he wobbled much less.

Wow!

A chinese couple next to me was getting figure skates for their eight-year old boy. "Ah," I thought to myself, "the little guy watched the olympics and wants to be the next Patrick Chan!"

What I found interesting about this trio was how silent the boy and his dad were. The salesman fitted the boots, explaining to the kid that he must put his heel solidly in the back of the boot. He checked for fit, he talked up a storm. Dad and son listened without comment. "In September, you remove this insole," he instructed the kid, flapping the piece in the air. "They'll still fit you for 3-4 months after that."

Mom was horrified. I have an idea that she thought Patrick Chan bought his skates at the Tire. She grilled the salesman about getting a size larger, and I could see the concern in his eyes as he patiently tried to explain to her that this was the only way. Various options for consignment were discussed, and eventually Father and Son went off to pay for the things. I made a comment to Mom.

"He likes figure-skating?"

Mom's face was still registering shock. "These things cost two-hundred dollars!" This was the source of the anxiety.

"We've just seen a different kind of skate," she told me, "that is expandable! That's what I wanted him to get!"

"Expandable?" I was immediately suspicious, visions of old-fashioned roller-skate frames dancing in my mind.

I was right. The contraptions she had seen could be made longer, and the claim was they'd last for three full years.

I allowed my skepticism to show in my face and her voice trailed off. "Surely not for figure-skating," I said, and now she gave me a quizzical look.

"Well, after all, he's going to be jumping!" I said. "Any mechanical gizmo can slide and break. He could break his ankle if the skate wobbles even a little bit!"

That registered. But the cost still seemed overwhelming to her.

I shrugged and shook my head sympathetically. "Well, that's sports," I said. "At least you've only got to buy skates! If he were playing hockey or football, you'd be looking at lots more money!"

More complaints and wistful thinking about the expandable skates. I shook my head. "I wouldn't take the chance," I said. We parted amicably, Father and Son already through the cash, both standing hands in pockets, patiently waiting for Mom to get over her shock.

Soon it was my turn. I was ready, raring to go. I expected to be paying between $300-600 to get my big feet into skates for the first time in 25 years.

The young lady who served me quickly assessed my needs. "So, you're not doing any jumps," she said.

"Oh not at all!" I replied. "My goal is to get skating on the Rideau Canal next year."

"You need Leisure Skates," she said, and "follow me."

There was another floor. Okay, this place was even more wonderful than I'd thought!

And so I made my way to the car with my new Leisure Skates in the box, having paid a whopping $89.72 to get me on my way to one of my old favourite sports. I gave Hubby a quick call and we arranged to meet at the downtown indoor rink near where we both work. I was so excited I simply couldn't wait to try them out, and certainly couldn't wait to go home and collect my knee and elbow protectors and helmet. No, I just wanted to go around in circles for about half an hour. Hubby was coming in case I fell badly enough to be taken to hospital. The protective gear I would wear next time, when I was alone.

Now perhaps you understand the title of this post. Yes, I fell. Yes, badly.

Not right away. I made my first shaky circle clutching the handrail. That took fifteen full minutes. The second circle took three. Feeling cocky, I went to one of the "Refs" - safety officials dressed like referees who patrolled the skaters, picking up people who fell and cautioning reckless skaters to behave themselves. I explained to him that this was my first time on ice in 25 years and that I wanted to see if I could still stop, and asked if he would hold my left hand for me while I tried. So away we went, I stuck the top pick of my left foot into the ice, spun around 180 degrees, lifted to my toes, and stopped perfectly. I thanked him, and off he went.

Hubby got the whole thing on video. I felt as proud of myself as I'd ever been. Here she is, a 52 year old battleaxe, getting off her duff to get some good old-fashioned exercise. I'd gone around the rink twice and was already stopping! Now I only had to do it on my own.

So off I went, turned my left ankle out, and…

Splat. Oh yeah, maybe I shoulda gone around a few more times first.

Thankfully, I did not hit my head. And, even more thankfully, not the knee I fell on a couple of months ago. I went down on the other side this time, left hip and thigh, and left elbow.

My god, ice is HARD! I was instantly nauseous. I fought to stand up again quickly though, because ice is also COLD!

I leaned heavily against the rail, reminding myself to breathe and wondering if I should puke on the ice itself or see if I could get my head over top of the glass. A few people on either side of the glass asked me if I was all right. I didn't know. I just stood and breathed and shook, till the nausea subsided a teensy bit. Clutching the handrail, I made it back to Hubby. He filmed me pouting and showing my elbow. He hadn't seen anything.

I skated twice more around the rink and got out, came to sit with Hubby, when I discovered that my elbow was growing a bump. It was the size of a golf ball, I noticed, when I lay my left arm down on the table and raised it up with a yelp that startled nearby patrons. There was a spongy golf ball on the end of my elbow, and did it ever HURT!

Hubby laughed. "That's the sort of thing you put ICE on," he said, noting the irony of the situation.

So there we sat for the next hour, me with my elbow planted gingerly on a bag of ice donated by a local merchant, Hubby taking pics for posterity, he and I joking about anything. It was only then I realized, watching little kiddies fall down in their snowsuits and get right up again, that they were a lot closer to the ground and didn't weigh as much as I did, so their falls didn't hurt as much as mine. I'm near six feet, in skates, and that's a long way down for an "ample" woman like me!

So, when I can walk again, and lie on my left side again, and bend my elbow again, I'll put the skates back on, AFTER I put on the helmet, elbow, and knee protectors.

And make myself a six-inch thick quilted skirt to go around my hips.

Exploring New Horizons

2010-03-03T09:07:00.018-05:00

Bijou and I are spending some time at Boyfriend's apartment while he is away on business.

This wasn't planned, per se. What was planned was that I'd stay last weekend with him and drive him to the airport, then go back home. However, in staying said weekend, I'd brought some quilting with me, and since I'm a tad disorganized, by the time I'd driven him to the airport and made my way back, collecting my things was so daunting a task that I preferred to simply stay put.

Staying here is "pushing the envelope" for me in many ways. And the first way in which it is challenging me is, simply, getting here.

Boyfriend lives in a place called "Rivière-des-prairies." RDP, for short.

To say RDP is remote doesn't begin to cover it. RDP isn't visible on any map. Rather, it is situated on all maps right next to the large writing that says "Here there be Dragons!"

To get to RDP from the south shore, you begin by taking a deep breath, because you're going to need it. Inhale, and say "Pont-Tunnel-Louis-Hippolyte-Lafontaine." And…breathe!

Once you cross the PTLHL, you're on highway 25. Highway 25 is also called "Autoroute Henri-Bourassa." Remember that, because it's vital information for your next turn-off.

As you bounce along (at 100 kph, at night, in Montreal traffic, trying to avoid the worst of the potholes) you're looking for an exit called - I am not making this up -

"Boulevard Henri-Bourassa."

Hang on - isn't that what I'm already driving on?

No, my young Padawan. Look closely at the names. One is Autoroute Henri-Bourassa, the other is Boulevard Henri-Bourassa.

(Okay, I get it. I'm in hell. No wonder the French are traditionally so religious - the people who make their streets are nothing short of demonic!)

To the English mind, this is nothing short of certifiable! Here are two major roads - that intersect each other - in the same geographical region!

Hey - New Flash! There are plenty of good names to go around! Try using a few more!

Actually, they did.

Once you get yourself onto Boulevard Henri-Bourassa, it should be a simple matter of negotiating a few other streets. But what streets! You thought the name of the PTLHL was bad! Driving here is a literary experience! "Avenue Louis Lumiere." "Avenue Élie Beauregard." "Avenue Pierre-Remi Narbonne."

The list is interminable. Anna Paquin. André-Amoux. André Ampere. André Cipriani. Rosario Bayeur. Fernand-Gauthier. Eudore Dubeau. Samuel-Morse. Pierre Baillargeon.

Who the hell are all these people? Did they all go to the same church? What's the matter with "First," "Second," and good old "Third" streets?! Why do they all have to be so long and unpronounceable! What is WRONG with these people?????!!!!!

I'll bet there's a study somewhere that shows long street names cause accidents. I mean, by the time you've READ the name, you're past the intersection! You're spending so much time reading, you can't keep your eyes on the traffic!

And it's not like they're short little streets, either. Oh no. If you miss your intersection, you have to drive miles before you get to the next one, which of course won't permit U-turns.

Mais oui.

But somehow I do manage to find my way back. I must have been a cat or a dog in a past life and still have the "homing" instinct. And believe me, no-one is more surprised than me when I end up in the right place!

The second way being here is challenging me is that Boyfriend keeps a tidy, organized place. I have to be tidy while I'm here. I have to be organized.

I used to think my Stepfather was the most compulsively-organized man in the world. See, for a number of years, my Mom and Stepdad lived in the country, but he worked in the city. A three-hour drive away, to be specific.

Stepdad had to get up at four o'clock in the morning. Five days a week.

Needless to say, it was always dark when he got up. To spare my Mother the pain of being awakened at such an ungodly hour, Stepdad would dress in the dark, without turning any lights on.

So he organized his drawers very carefully. All his socks, for example, were sorted according to color, as was his wardrobe. He didn't have to be able to see what he was putting on, because he put browns with browns and blues with blues, etc.

When I first had the opportunity to poke around Boyfriend's place, I discovered to my amazement that he does the same thing. His clothes are sorted by color. His socks are sorted by color - lots of empty space in the drawer to keep them separate.

Only Boyfriend doesn't get dressed in darkness.

He's just a maniac!

I've had quite a bit of time now to poke around all the cubbyholes and closets and shelves here, and let me tell you, this guy makes my Stepdad look like Pigpen by comparison.

There are seven different sizes of drinking glasses. They are all in rows.

Straight rows.

There is nothing - I repeat - nothing - on the countertops. Everything is put away. The toaster is unplugged and stored. It has to be put in place and plugged in to make toast, then it is unplugged, wiped, and put away.

The movies are filed - by subject, and alphabetically.

There are no overflowing drawers or stuffed closets. Everything is stored neatly.

There is no visual clutter here. Everything is put away. Even toothpaste. Even hairbrushes. Even the glass in the bathroom is put away after use.

Some people might find this a bit odd, or a bit frustrating. But I'm here to learn.

I've been catastrophically disorganized all my life. I can use a bit of sanity, of serenity.

So I'm practising. Making the bed as soon as my feet hit the ground. Rinsing the dishes right away, wiping everything, leaving surfaces bare.

Occasionally, I leave something out deliberately, just to see how it feels. But then I think, what if I have a heart attack and die tonight, and Boyfriend comes back from his business trip and sees that? He'll kill me!

It's not a one-way street - there are things I can teach Boyfriend. For example, Boyfriend insists it's "convenient", living here in RDP.

For Boyfriend, "convenient" means the local dep is less than a 15-minute drive away. So he and I have some talking to do when he gets back, about learning to walk places, and exactly what the word "convenient" really means!

In the meantime, I'm practising my French street names, exploring boldly where I've never gone before, and following myself around with a broom and dustpan.

And pushing myself just the tiniest bit out of my comfort zone.

Structure

2010-02-16T14:39:00.002-05:00

I am missing structure in my life.

At work, my job was eliminated…for a few weeks. About 2 weeks before I was due to end up in Limbo, they re-created my "job", or "position". Probably because I'm in the union and they couldn't find any way to actually get rid of me.

The Dean has since admitted publicly it was a mistake to close our service: nevertheless, the clock will not be turned back.

Onward we go, to what we don't know.
What do we do? Darned if I know - do you?

Only it's not so funny. See, I need a lot of structure in my life to feel good. And right now, there isn't any. Oh, occasionally I have a friend over for dinner. That provides me structure for one night. I have to think about what I'll be cooking. I have to purchase items, and usually I have to clean up. Then there's the eating dinner and enjoying the company.

Then the company goes home, and I can clean up.

But after that, I'm lost. What do I do next?

And now the same thing is happening at work.

I do not, most emphatically not, enjoy twiddling my thumbs. There's a horrendous mess here at work that needs to be categorized, separated, organized - and those three words do not describe much about me.

"Slow to organize" would be putting it mildly. Easily overwhelmed.

"Catastrophically disorganized" is more to the point.

So, my life is a bit like that of - I hope I can spell this correctly - Sisyphus. I keep rollin' that damned ball, and it keeps rollin' back down the hill, running me over in the process. Next day, I peel myself off the ground and start over.

But it sure doesn't feel like anything I do matters. At all.

Looking for Meaning

2010-02-08T09:19:00.003-05:00

A.K.A., trying to make sense of it all.

Yesterday, Hubby, Stepdaughter, & friend V came for brunch. I scrambled around (ouch!) getting all this vegetarian food prepared, plus some veal sausages for Hub & me...

We ate. We talked. We watched funny things on the internet. And they all helped me take apart a quilt I have to do over. A (fairly) good time was had by all. Nothing of any real consequence was discussed, nothing about feelings, nothing serious. Just a visit.

One that left me, predictably, profoundly sad.

I miss them - Hubby, Stepdaughter, friend, yes, even silly stepson. I love them, you see. We had some good times, in the past 16 years. And though I can't deal with the mess and the chaos, and the lack of caring about the mess and chaos - it was good to see Stepdaughter, to just have her around for a few hours. It felt good.

Mind you, they did bring a little bit of chaos over with them! Apparently Stepson is attempting to move into a larger room in the basement. He's (shudder) motivated to empty his small room and move stuff from storage in the large room neatly into the small room, and that meant that my stuff that was being stored needed to go…So, here it is. On the floor, right in the way, in my apartment. I've put one load of laundry in and am trying to decide what to do with the sawed-off jeans. I'd like to make a quick quilt for Haitian refugees. I say "like to" because from experience I know they'll all be grandparents before I could finish it…

There was one funny moment, when Stepdaughter looked at the washing machine and exclaimed "How can you stand it?! It's got a plastic cover, for godssake!" I couldn't understand what the problem was, till I remembered how laundry is "done" back at the House. I brought her into my bedroom and showed her my laundry basket. It's about the size of a kitchen garbage can.

"See this?" I said. "When it's full, I do the laundry."

Realization filled her face. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "You do the laundry OFTEN! Lots of small loads!"

We hugged. It was a moment to cherish.

A different kind of success

2010-02-01T00:19:00.002-05:00

Aah, Bucky, you say it so well.

That's what I'm feeling - a different kind of successful. Having cleaned for two days and cooked and done laundry, i go to bed frustrated because the place is a wreck, and I look, and feel, worse than the place.

I'm "differently-successful."

When I have "dark nights of the soul" like tonight, I rack my brain to try and figure out - WHY? Why do I feel so unloveable? I have friends who come visit me, a job I'm moderately good at. I'm even working on being on time for work - heck, at 52, I have to do something to improve myself!

I have a wonderful pet pussy-cat who is doing her determined best not to let the cold weather get her down.

I even understand a good deal of what goes on around me. I try to keep in touch, try to do what I can...

But I still feel like a failure. Lost my second marriage, lost the family home. And frequently, I lose control.

I knew there would be nights like this, when I left, nearly a year ago. I guess I just thought I'd get them over with, mostly, within a year.

Nope. Being alone still hurts. Still sucks.

Then in desperation, I turn to the comics, seeking something to help me stop blubbering so I can get some sleep so I can get up when the alarm goes off so I can practise getting up on time so I can make it to work on time this week - and there he was, good old Bucky!

I'm not a failure. I'm "differently-successful."

My Twingeing Back, Blocked Ear, and Tingling Fingers

2010-01-21T15:35:00.002-05:00

God, it's boring being sick!

I'm not puking over the toilet or lying feverish in bed. I have a sore back. I also have tingling fingers and a blocked ear, but the back took me out of commission. I've been waddling carefully from my bed to the couch and back for two days now.

The first day has been obliterated from memory by the power of the muscle relaxers and painkillers. Like walking on a three-foot thick layer of foam. That day was very soft, and apparently I sat very still. My friend P came over and we watched FOUR episodes of Star Trek: Enterprise. Apparently I didn't move the entire time. P left laughing and shaking his head, that's mostly what I remember.

But as the pain lessens, the boredom grows exponentially. I am not accustomed to all this peace and quiet. When I was at "home", meaning my house where I was married to Hubby and we had his kids and a dog and cat, there was too much going on for me to cope with. Nobody did housework, the hair and dirt and mess was catastrophic. I used my sewing room as a shield, a place to go to where I could lock the door and ignore whatever screaming was going on. I had to get out, had to find a place I could keep clean by myself, a place I could rest.

Now I've got that in spades. And a ticket from the doctor to stay home and enjoy it for a week. Now, I can't lift anything, and sitting is tricky. Lying down is better, standing is ok. I'm in no hurry to run the vacuum cleaner or wash the floors - those sort of movements aren't good for me in my present condition. I have started my laundry, since the machines on loan to me are so small it wouldn't strain Bijou to lift them from the washer to the dryer.

But I can only take so much tv. Even Star Trek! Even The Dog Whisperer! Even Criminal Minds!

And of course, my family and friends are letting me rest. In other words, not calling or emailing me.

It does give me lots of time to wonder WTF is going on with my fingers. Pinky and ring finger of left hand. Tingling and numb. Oh great. Doc gave me a referral to see a neurologist, now it's a matter of waiting for the phone call and hoping the doc was right when he assured me it wasn't Guillain-Barré syndrome, which my grandad had, and I've always feared contracting.

Nevertheless, the sensations are disturbing. I can type, there's no loss of control, just no feeling besides the tingling.

My brain, my personality, are prisoners of my aging body!

Getting On With It

2010-01-04T16:09:00.002-05:00

I have an undisciplined nature. I know what I should be doing at any given time on any given day, but lack any internal stimulus. I am one of those unfortunate souls graced by the Deadly Sin of Sloth. The movie "7" filled me with dread when I beheld the unfortunate victim of the serial killer who choose to tie the man down to a table so that movement was impossible... the man, according to the script, basically rotted alive, ate his own tongue in fact, in a desperate attempt to assuage his hunger.

Yes, a freakish tale, and most unlikely: hunger will prompt even the laziest among us to waddle to the fridge in search of something to eat... Yet the scene still upset me because I feared, at the time, that I was in fact, slothful.

Now, there are times when I'm filled with energy and enthusiasm and am a veritable perpetual-motion machine. Preparing for guests, for instance, creates an absolute flurry of activity. Laundry is done, floors are washed, surfaces cleared off, shopping done, delicacies prepared, at breakneck speed.

Christmas is one of those times I am capable of an enormous output of activity. The schedule looms large: making sure I see this person and that person on the correct date with gifts in hand... That particular "festive" time can make me, and many thousands of others, appear like Tasmanian Devils.

Whoosh! - off to the mall, and whoosh! - make a gift, and whoosh! - receive guests....

Dizzying degrees of activity.

And then, with a sudden THUMP, like 40 inches of snow delivered overnight, it stops.

And I stop, too.

Yesterday, I noticed around noon that I had no bread left. Today, also around noon, I finally went out to get some. But not because I felt the need to: no, because there was no food for Bijou to eat. If not for her, I wouldn't have bothered. The fact that I must return to work tomorrow, and therefore bring something for my lunch, didn't enter into it. That's tomorrow's problem.

No, today I had toast because I HAD to make food for my cat.

I caught up on Facebook today. Sent some emails. Looked up some comics on the web. Read a book for an hour. Napped. Did some laundry. Oh yes, I've even loaded the dishwasher.

The Christmas tree remains up, shelves remain un-organized, projects un-started, the "disaster room" untouched.

Mentally, I say to myself, "Deborah - get GOING on this!"

And just as quickly the retort comes back, "Why?"

"Because it needs to be done!"

"In who's opinion? What for? Where's the fire?"

And then I flop back down on the couch.

This has been my pattern al my life. Without the addition of (external) deadlines, I fear I am quite capable of doing absolutely nothing at all - for a very scary length of time!

A former boyfriend of mine once gave me a Garfield sticker that said "If I were any lazier, I'd slip into a coma." I thought it was hilarious at the time and stuck it up over my laundry sink...

Then, as the years went by, I began to get the sneaking feeling that it might be true, even just a little bit...

And even just a little bit is frightening. I occasionally watch the show "Hoarders" on tv. In fact, the very first time I watched it, I was busy cleaning up my "disaster room", and the show proved MOST motivational! Every time I'd get tired and sit down, there was someone else sitting in the middle of their shit, complaining when people were trying to clean it up - and back I'd go into the room, determined to go through yet another box.

But you see, that particular area is now more or less accessible, so I have no particular reason to work in it any more. I can find most of what I need to in a relatively short space of time, so all sense of urgency has vanished.

And sure, there's still clutter on some shelves, and there are a couple of big pots to wash... but why should I care? Nobody's coming over any time soon.

There is simply no sense of urgency. Therefore, there is no particular reason to do anything!

Once, somebody explained to me that when you work under the proverbial gun for any extended period, a certain amount of lethargy was normal afterwards.

But after today, and yesterday, and the day before that, I fear that the next deadline is much to far away to be of help to me. It's unnerving just how long I can sit and do absolutely nothing at all.

So, hopefully, getting back to work soon will instill some sense of wanting to get things done in me. A least for a little while. Till I can brainwash myself into the appropriate level of urgency to make me start the next quilt or bake the next batch or clear the next shelf...

Anybody got any firecrackers?

Up and At 'Em

2009-12-16T07:21:00.003-05:00

Go ahead: Make my day by asking me why I got up at 4:30 a.m. this morning.

Well, I'm so glad you asked! I got up at 4:30, because I'd been lying in bed, awake, for over half an hour, trying in vain to remember the lyrics for the second verse of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing." (Verses 1 & 3 I had no trouble with.)

It's not easy being me.

It is now the 16th of December. That means Christmas is in NINE DAYS.

Gulp. In the next nine days, I have plenty to do! I have to make shortbread, gingerbread, possibly make a gingerbread house.

I have to finish a quilt and mail it to my niece and nephew, then finish a nearly identical one to give to my new step-grandkids.

In my spare time, I'm going to start a quilt for my daughter and for my brother and his wife.

I need to finish shopping for about four people.

I'm working today and tomorrow - but thankfully have next week off. And I am still clinging to the hope that I will actually get all this done by Christmas.

Right. Now that the alarm has gone off, I'm getting ready to go to work. Taking a break, as it were, from my more presssing engagements...

Speaking of Fallout...

2009-11-11T12:58:00.002-05:00

Whoops. A pal of mine, either accidentally or on purpose, hit "reply to all" in the email containing the link to my blog... And now I'm in the middle of a firefight between people I love very much.

Sigh. Won't SOMEBODY post COMMENT - on the blog site? It's right there at the end... You could all talk to each other instead of putting me in the middle of it. Or maybe it's my fault for writing the blog in the first place...

Lest We Forget...

2009-11-11T09:28:00.003-05:00

Today is Remembrance Day. Montreal's official ceremony will be held at McGill this year. There will be cannon - a twenty-one gun salute. The McGill staff were sent invitations which told us we'd be hearing the guns and not to get startled.

You can imagine the scenario, right? Some Nervous Nelly who is so absorbed in the papers she has to shuffle that she doesn't know it's Remembrance Day, or that it's approaching eleven o'clock, hears some big guns going off, screams, pulls the fire alarm, the building evacuates, fire trucks come roaring up the street...

It could happen. And mostly because we as a country don't make a point of doing what we used to do on Remembrance Day.

We used to ALL stop work. The buses used to stop. The traffic stopped. People would stop what they were doing.

For a single, quiet minute. We would stop our daily lives to remember the lives given for our sake, taken for our sake. And we'd stand up quietly. For a moment. Think, for one moment. How horrible war was, and is. And pray to god it never happens again.

Well, that's most unlikely, people being people.

A number years ago, a rogue wreath-layer made headlines and caused a kaffuffle when she brazenly walked up to the cenotaph, uninvited, and laid a wreath on behalf of all the women who were raped in the wars.

I know it shocked a lot of people. After all, a lot of mothers of living sons are still shocked when they find out their little boys are "getting everything they need." And that's here in peacetime, with sex posted all over the billboards, in our faces constantly. Now, let me make myself clear: I am ALL IN FAVOR of sex! I just don't need to see it portrayed to sell stuff.

I remember watching the actual ceremony where this woman laid her wreath, and I remember what I was thinking. I was surprised at first, then I thought, well, that happens all the time anyway...

And over the years I've seen the tiny trickle of understanding that began when this woman had the balls to do what she did. It wasn't too long after that ceremony when we first heard about restitution for the "comfort girls" in Korea. A government-built and sanctioned system of brothels using captured women. Hey - to the victor go the spoils, no?

Unfortunately.

Well, there are many other wreaths to be laid, stories to be told aloud for the first time, things we need to think about, as a society, concerning the fallout of war.

I am a victim of World War One. Me personally, I have been affected by the death of my great-grandfather.

My grandmother was about four when her daddy was killed in battle. He had been sent out, he had done a tour, he had come home on furlough, and went out again, and then died.

Little Doris adored her daddy. All four-year-old girls adore their daddies. He meant everything to her. And when he was home on furlough, she heard him and her mother talking. She didn't remember hearing them, but she did have a terrible nightmare during that time that frightened her so badly she remembered it all her life, to the point where she even told me about it.

She told me she dreamt that her father killed her. That he was strangling her. She woke up screaming terribly and would have nothing to do with her father for days. He and her mom finally got through to her that she had dreamt the experience, that it didn't really happen, and she was finally able to trust her daddy again and cry in his arms how much she loved him, just before he was taken away got shot.

As she told me the story, she was an old woman, but it was obvious to me that the dream still frightened her, that she could still see, after all these years, the images that had so terrified a little girl.

I've had therapy, something that wasn't available to Little Doris. I've learned how to interpret dreams, especially the ones that stick with us. And I know what grandma's dream is, what caused it, and I understand its truth.

Little Doris overheard her parents talking about the war, and she heard things every day of her little life about how terrible a thing the war was, how ordinary, upstanding men had to kill other ordinary, upstanding, trustworthy men every single day. And that whoever had the most men left at the end would be the winner.

And even if none of this was said in front of her, she picked up on the fact that HER daddy, her wonderful, funny, loving daddy... was killing other people's daddies. Every single day he was away.

And she dreamt her beloved daddy was killing her. It might have also been an allegorical dream - her daddy might have represented the situation - the war itself. The war was killing more than men. It was killing the hopes and dreams of a generation of human beings. It was killing families, because those who were left at home to worry were having their family life disrupted, were having their hopes and dreams killed. There was no such thing as "normal", not for anyone.

And so Little Doris dreamt she was being killed. And her daddy died in the war. And her mother remarried, and had a third child with her new husband. And when the war was over, Doris' stepdad came home to Canada, to Quebec, and Doris and her brother and her mother and her new baby sister came in tow.

And then Doris' mother died. And that was it. She and her brother were sent away to an institution.

Not for long. Doris was now fourteen years old, and by her demeanour and determination she managed to get a job, a place to live, and got her brother to live with her, and that was how the little English girl came to live here in Quebec, and meet and marry my grandfather.

But now stop, for a moment, and think: what would have happened to Little Doris, if her daddy had NOT died in the war?

Well, he would have been there for her and her brother, when her mother died. And she'd have helped her father take care of Little Albert. And they would have stayed a family, in theory.

But that didn't happen. What did happen was, a young woman had to fight her way through her teen years and young adulthood, scrimping and saving her pennies in order to save the only living human being related to her, in order to bring her brother up. She had to be wise beyond her years, and tough beyond measure.

Yes, she "succeeded". She did bring Albert up, she did finally marry and have a family, she was always "good with money", she was always tough.

And there's where the OTHER dark side of the story comes in. Because she never learned how to turn it off. She never had a parent to get into an argument with, so she never learned how to compromise, she never knew that parents weren't always right.

So, as a mother, she was uncompromising. Very determined. She ran everyone's lives, always sure that what she was doing was for the best. She really believed that she knew best.

And that caused a lot of trouble in the lives of the people around her. Basically, everyone was afraid of her, and everyone did what she said. Even when she took over my life, either allowing or compelling my father to take me away from my mother, moving across the country, restricting my visits... Nobody had the guts to stand up to Doris.

And that's when the really serious damage was done to Little Debbie.

Now, this is actually so much water under the bridge. Like I said, I've had therapy. I made my peace with everybody, and I've moved on.

But I do have this weakness, this mood disorder. I've had more than one psychiatrist in my life. I'm in my early fifties now, and I feel like it's only in the last couple of years that I've learned to listen to other people's point of view. Pretty much all my life, I've been "certain" that what I was doing was "right."

Just like grandma. Because I learned that from her. That's how she got by in the world, and that's how I learned to get by. Even when I positively hated her, I still believed the same things she believed, about how people should be. Uncompromising.

Well, that didn't work. My first marriage crumbled shortly after my Daughter was born. And now my second marriage has gone by the wayside as well, though I do like to think my second husband had a part in that...

And who else is a victim of war here? Hubby. My second husband is also a victim of war.

His grandfather couldn't take care of his own two little boys because he was in service during the war, and they got separated, handed off to different distant relations. And all the horror stories we've heard about how orphans were treated when they were "taken in", how they were made to work long hours, were abused and neglected, weren't fed properly... all that came true for Hubby's father. And he, in turn, became a "hard man," who once told his own sons that the happiest time of his life was when he was in the navy. In the war.

A little boy who lost his mother and his father to different circumstances, but who also never learned to feel empathy for others, never developed close, loving relationships, became a hard man, and a difficult father, who never learned how to be around his own boys. An emotional cripple.

And his sons both suffered for it. I can't speak for Hubby's brother, but Hubby certainly has suffered, has learned to keep his emotions buried, never was able to let down his guard long enough to enjoy himself, always looking for the black cloud over his shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop... I used to joke that Hubby could find the cloud in any silver lining. But it's not funny.

And the pendulum of life has swung in every conceivable direction in all our lives ever since the first world war and the second world war turned men into killers and robbed them of their humanity. We, the children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren of these men, and the families they left behind, have suffered the loss of our patriarchs in countless ways. In mental illness, in obsessions, broken marriages, broken dreams, all of us carrying the scars inside, where they can't be seen, where they can fester and do the most damage.

And we, in turn, have handed down to our children and stepchildren, all our insecurities, all our fears and weaknesses that began so very long ago, in the killing fields of Europe, in India, in Africa and the Phillippines... It seems that we have taken the worst of humanity into our souls, like the bodies rotting in countless graves, our innermost beings have been sliced, blown apart, tortured, starved, mutilated, by what happens AFTER the wars had ended. By the inadequate society left behind. Still screaming inside, not even knowing what it was that killed our hopes, our dreams, our minds, our marriages and families.

LIke the bullet we never saw coming, we are injured in ways we cannot even begin to comprehend, by the loss of stability in our families brought about by whatever war was happening in our society at the times all our fathers were alive. And those wars changed our fathers, our families, our selves.

The fallout is much greater than anyone could have forseen.

The Witches' Ball

2009-11-02T16:15:00.002-05:00

Well, some of you know this already, but as it figures in today's blog, I must confess my religion.

I am a witch.

Now, whenever I tell people that, they invariably look at me sideways, inhale sharply, back away a step or two, then they all ask me the same question:

"Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?" they inquire, quoting from The Wizard of Oz.

I usually pause for effect and then ask them, "Is there room in there for mediocre?"

Or, "Let's say I'm as good a witch as I was a christian."

In other words, I'm just not particularly good at all, but not too bad...

This, of course, is not what people are expecting. They want to know whether I am evil or not. For that you see, you have to wait till "Judgement Day" if such is your belief. Or for the historians of tomorrow.

A witch can be a man or a woman. The "religion" if you have to call it that, is commonly known as Wicca.

For me, it's a celebration of the various seasons. A "nature" religion, if you wish to put a label on it. Paganism.

I became interested in Wicca after I learned enough about it to understand three things:

1) I did not have to believe any particular thing,
2) I did not have to practise any particular thing,
and
3) I did not have to associate with any particular group.

"That," I said, "is MY KIND of religion!"

I am what is known as a "solitary," meaning I keep to myself and only occasionally join in public rituals. In point of fact, I only occasionally do any rituals whatsoever - but that's because I am lazy. This level of devotion - ie, practically nonexistant - suits me just fine.

However, when someone proposes something that promises to be FUN - well, I am right there! With bells on!

I love parties.

In point of fact, I've been known to throw a few good ones. No matter whether I was married or single, my parties have made the social headlines. Mostly, I think, because people are slightly surprised by how much fun they can have.

I once had a party where there were no fewer than 130 invitees. I put notes on all the apartment doors in a two-block radius, giving my neighbours three weeks' notice to either come or get out of town. I rented a sound system. I recorded music ahead of time, mixes. No long fadeouts, no overlapping. Just finish one song and start the next.

My former DJ hubby of the day informed me this was BOUND to fail, however, the 100 or so dancing fools up at any one time proved him wrong. I have a good ear for music that people like to dance to.

One couple met at this party and ended up getting married. A lot of my pals said they had wondered, they weren't sure if they'd come or not, but wow were they ever glad they had.

I clear space for dancing, I lower the lights and turn up the sound. I cook and plan and arrange scrumptious dishes. I get the windows open early so nobody gets too hot. I make sure there are plenty of places to put your drinks, and plenty of places to get more.

And I dance.

I have a button an old friend gave me - I think I might have been in my late teens. I believe the lady on the button is Emma Goldman, who was a Somebody even I had heard of. The button is a quote from her: "If I can't dance, I don't want to be part of your revolution."

Well, it's been a number of years since I threw a dancing party, since my most recent Hubby does not dance. Not even in private. And so I was thrilled when the local group of pagans decided to throw a Witches' Ball. How wonderful, I thought. I now have a Boyfriend who dances, I'll invite a ton of friends, this will be a blast!

I did begin to have some doubts when I found out it was to be a non-alcoholic evening. As Ogden Nash put it so succinctly in his "Reflections on Ice-Breaking":

Candy is dandy,
But liquor is quicker.

My friends and I polished off a bottle of wine before heading out. As we walked to the establishment where the Ball was being held, we passed a homeowner who was delighted to see us in our finery and masks, and she volunteered that she was putting out fifty pumpkins! So we were in high spirits.

The hall was large. There were not enough tables to sit at, chairs were in very short supply. Some poor inexperienced youngster probably thought that would make people dance. It doesn't. It makes them stand against the walls for support, wishing they could sit down.

It was too hot, nobody wanted the windows open. It was too brightly lit, something that I have found discourages dancing quite thoroughly, and the music wasn't loud enough for the hall. In fact, had I been playing the music at that volume in my own apartment, I don't think the people upstairs would have noticed.

Needless to say, in my opinion, the "Ball" wasn't much of one.

As outgoing and as fun-loving as I am, I am of that age group where people dance in couples. Like "the buddy system" in swimming, I prefer to dance with a partner. I don't care what genders they are for other people, after all, variety is the spice of life! But for me, I prefer to dance with a man. That what the word "dancing" means to me, and I can't get past it. I can dance with a female friend, but I have the most difficulty of all getting up and joining a group of people who I don't know who are already dancing. Feels too much like muscling in for me to be comfortable.

Fortunately my lady pal S guessed my discomfort almost immediately and got me up dancing. And from the dance floor one did get a slightly better view of all the costumes.

There was a fellow who had been painted red and black - his head and face. He was done up in a demonic look. I went up to him and asked him if he was, in fact, painted red all over... "Wouldn't you like to know?" he smiled back. Delightful! The evening was getting better!

Another fellow entered the party, one of the chief organizers of this event, a young man who keeps himself too busy to ever have to follow through on his flirting... Since I was costumed and masked and he had just entered the room, I seized the opportunity to go give him a welcoming kiss - a GOOD one - he laughed and exclaimed "Who ARE you!!!" Once I laughed, the jig was up. I dragged him to introduce him to my pals, and then he was off visiting all his admirers.

About this time the music became tolerable to our ears and BF and I got up with the crowd and did our stuff for a few numbers.

Thanks to the lack of open windows, the plenitude of candles, and the number of bodies, the room was becoming quite hot. Masks and costumes were being peeled off all over, and the music was clearly geared to bodies about 30 years younger than ours.

Finally a recognizable song came on, and I dragged BF up onto the floor once more. It was quite deserted, of course, but this was the first evening he and I had had a chance to dance together, and this sort of thing takes practise...

We had a good time getting our cues mixed up and bumping into each other, but he managed to spin me around a few times and I was loving every second of it. Finally the song came to an end and I abruptly realized that, not only were we the only people on the floor, but everybody else was standing around us in a circle.

And then they all clapped.

BF bowed, I curtsied... but GEEZ - how humiliating is THAT?!

I can just imagine what they'd been saying while we were up there:

"Wow! Look at that! Gee, I hope I can still dance when I'm their age!"

This experience did not dampen my desire to dance, but we did leave shortly thereafter. I gave my "busy" pal a pinch on the bum as I left (he was wearing a "man-skirt", so access was unimpeded) and waved as we flew down the stairs and out into the cool night air.

And walking home, and talking with my friends, I came to the conclusion that there were only about three or four people in that entire crowd who knew how to have a good time. Even though they were pagans... I mean, it's pretty bad when even the christians are having more fun than the pagans!

And by and large, I find that very few people know when to let loose, let their hair down, let it all hang out... Get up on their feet and start moving around, if not actually dancing then at least talking to more than the two or three people they came with!

Well, to each his or her own. I personally have decided enough is enough, and come spring, I'm going to throw a PARTY. Cocktails, finger food, loud music, and buffet at midnight, or one a.m.

It's time to remember how to have FUN.

Watching Cesar Millan

2009-10-16T17:36:00.003-04:00

"As you know, an animal escalates in one second! So you have to watch every second."

I love watching Cesar do his thing with dogs.

Exercise, Discipline, Affection.

Rules, Boundaries, Limitations.

"We have not allowed the brain to escalate..."

When I first started watching Cesar, I quickly understood that his techniques were totally applicable on my Hubby, or Stepkids.
I also realized that what I wanted personally was a strong "pack leader." And that in all my relationships, I had not found that pack leader, and had been forced to fill that role. Because, as Cesar says, the dog says to himself, "somebody always has to be pack leader, and if nobody else is gonna do it, then I have to."

This is how we end up with problem dogs. Dogs that won't stop barking, won't stop chasing, won't stop pulling, growling, terrorizing everyone. We are not fulfilling their expectations of what a pack leader is.

And I ended up screaming, yelling, angry all the time, because nobody would take charge of the situation, take charge of the children, set up rules, boundaries and limitations. For them, for me, for the EX-FROM-HELL, for anything or anyone...

And here I am, on my own.

In a recent discussion with the Human Resources person and Administrator from work, since my job is eliminated as of December 31 of this year, I was discussing my limitations. I was talking about how I can deal with excess stress once in a while, but on a day-to-day basis, eventually I'm going to snap. "Bark" at someone. Yell. Scream. Throw things. Exhibit Very Bad Behaviour.

"You get to a point," says Cesar, "where there is no trust, and no respect. That means there's no relationship."

I was talking about how I can cope with stress, at work, in my life, for so long, and do just fine: and then - "SNAP!" I "escalate" in one second.

In one second, I go from normal to psycho. Without warning - or at least, without any warning an outside person can see.

Just like an animal. Just like a dog.

"An animal escalates in one second," Cesar said.

Wow.

My "disablility" has a prototype. Dogs. Canine behaviour.

And a solution. A strong pack leader.

Stay calm and assertive.

Another Hubby Story!

2009-10-09T10:39:00.003-04:00

I know you've missed him! (Or at least, his antics.)

To be honest, I missed having him to complain about - I figured I could earn a good living as a stand-up comic, just telling stories about Hubby...

Anyway, today I'm borrowing Hubby's car, so this morning he came and got me and I dropped him off at work.

It's raining today, and being October, there are quite a few leaves on the ground. The route we take to get to work from my apartment is called "The Boulevard", one of the LAST streets in Montreal to have an English name. It's a twisty-turnsy-upsy-downsy-lumpity-bumpity road that goes over the mountain between NDG and downtown. In front of some of the most beautiful homes you could ever hope to see, nothing under several million along THIS route! Between the potholes and school zones, most of it has a speed limit of 30 km/h (that's about 15 mph, for those of you who haven't converted). Unfortunately, it's also quite wide most of the way, and that means virtually nobody follows the speed limit.

We were doing about 60 km, over one lump and down another, quickly approaching a 90 degree turn. Fifteen years of being a passenger in Hubby's car have left me with deeply entrenched behavioural patterns, and I suggested to him, okay, loudly, that maybe he'd want to take that approaching curve at a slightly reduced speed, given that it was wet and slippery even without all the leaves on the road.

"Oh yeah!" said Hubby excitedly, "I got the car SIDEWAYS the other day!"

Like he's discovered gold, or something.

He continued, "It was at the point, you know, where the back left tire starts to wobble?! Only this time it didn't straighten out - the car just kept going the way the back wheel was! Slid for almost twenty feet! It was great!"

"AUGGGGH!" I retorted, unable to help myself. "You know, MOST people, most SANE people, would not be so happy about that! MOST people would be at least a little shaken up, you know!

He grinned at me. I warned him I was going to blog about this. He kept grinning.

I guess, to him, it's his fifteen minutes of fame.

Hubby drives like a maniac. Correction, behind the wheel, he IS a maniac. It's his way of making up for being so placid and easygoing the rest of the time.

When he first moved in with me, all those years ago, he went digging in a box looking for something, muttering "I'm sure it's in here..." Then a loud "AHA!" and he triumphantly produced a faded certificate for my viewing.

It was the certificate that he'd received from Skid School.

"There!" he announced triumphantly. "That's my license to drive like a maniac!"

Over the years, many people have listened to my complaints about how reckless Hubby is, and then they ask the obvious question.

"Which of you do you think is the better driver?"

And the answer is complicated. I'm no slouch behind the wheel - Hey! A FRENCHMAN taught me how to drive!

But the difference is in our approach. I am constantly on the lookout for what could go wrong, checking the positions of other cars in relation to mine. Slowing when there's not a safe stopping distance. Warning of danger ahead by tapping on the brakes. Giving pedestrians the right-of-way. It's called Defensive Driving.

Hubby, on the other hand, is out for a thrill.

When it has snowed, he's not satisfied until he's got the ABS to come on. It means nothing to him that ABS was designed to help drivers cope in EMERGENCY situations.

Here in NDG, many of the north/south streets had posts installed this past summer on the one-way streets. Four posts - two on each side of the road. The first set is about two feet wider apart than the second set. This gives the illusion that the driveable space is narrowing, and drivers slow down. A friend of mine has assured me it has made a great difference in the street traffic, cars now going actually close to the speed limit, instead of 40 km faster than it.

But not Hubby. To him, it's a challenge! "Hey - there's a barrier up there! Let's see how fast I can go through it! Wheeeeee!"

So I used to answer that although Hubby was better equipped to get us out of an emergency situation, being both physically stronger and therefore more able to control the car in an emergency, as well as having been properly trained to use the correct reflexes and emergency braking procedures, he was, of the two of us, much more likely to PUT us into an emergency situation, something most sane people try to avoid.

He missed his calling, you know. He should have been a test pilot.

Disappointing my Public

2009-10-02T13:57:00.002-04:00

Ok, I have to set things straight, if only to preserve my sanity.

Enough, already, of adoring fans proclaiming me the greatest pen since Shakespeare.

My grandmother did this to me when I was a kid. I wanted to play the piano. Specifically, I wanted to learn to play "Fur Elise" by Beethoven. She got me a piano, I did very well, I made it up to Fur Elise and the Moonlight Sonata.

At that point, I wasn't interested any more, but I was made to continue. For several years. Even though it was obvious to me, both at the time and now in retrospect, that I simply wasn't achieving anything remarkable, that I hated performing, that I was never going to be the concert pianist my grandmother and my teacher wanted me to be.

To be something like that, you need more than talent. You need drive. Inspiration. Determination. And I had none of the above.

I had a mediocre talent. Furthermore, the piano was never my favourite instrument. I had to be drunk to enjoy playing.

I still enjoy tickling the ivories from time to time, and for certain individuals who do not urge me to go back to music school and learn to play ever more complicated (and uninteresting) pieces. I play the stuff I like, and the stuff I wrote, for my Daughter, and only occasionally do I play for friends.

I don't want to be a concert pianist.

When I went to school, my marks were touted all around my community. I won a gold medal for having the highest all around marks.

Pfft. Big deal.

I learned the stuff, because I LIKED it.

When it was stuff i didn't like (take accounting, for example) I became your proverbial "two short planks."

I do not want to be an academic. Or a scientist. Or any other genius.

Now, I've started this blog, and a few others. I have friends who seem to enjoy it. I have friends who don't. I have well-meaning friends who want me to become something bigger, something better. They seem to think I have a potential for being a famous and rich scribe.

I don't want to.

I enjoy just ranting.

I used to enjoy quilting. Till I got off on the tangent of starting a quilting business.

Now I spend day after day trying to figure out the accounting. This is not fun at all, this is not what I set out to do.

I am not going to re-vamp the quilting world. I am closing my business as fast as I can, and good riddance.

I'd like to take up quilting again, as a hobby.

And this blog, this is my venting steam from daily life.

I am not going to be a great writer. Ever. Because I don't want to be.

I spent my childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood trying to run from the icon of me my grandmother presented to the world, to the family, to me. I can never live up to that hype.

Nobody can.

I have spent the last 30 or more years trying to right the wrongs that turned me into an antisocial, depressed, uptight prig. Trying to shed my statues. Trying to run from the "destiny" everybody wanted me to have.

I am making my own destiny. My own peace with reality.

I am never going to be famous, or rich. I won't turn anything on its arse.

I am an opinionated, ordinary person.

I am an "also-ran." Except I'm not running, not competing. In anything.

I want peace.

Sorry to disappoint. Please, everybody, go live your own dreams of greatness. I have a way with words, nothing more, and I want nothing more than to make people laugh and think.

I cannot, and will not, do more than this.

An Offensive Personality

2009-10-02T09:42:00.004-04:00

Well, one of my recent blogs has offended an old pal.

It is true. He has sworn to never read another word I write. Oh well, you know what they say about not being able to please all of the people...

It gives me a pang, though, to have caused this distress in one I hold so dear to me. But I will go on with my ramblings, and when I have subject matter that some would call "doubtful" I will continue to put warnings in front of the text.

Interestingly enough, this same old pal understands the difficulties I have with my Father.

My Father, you see, finds most of the world offensive. Yesterday when I spoke to him, he was muttering about having cancelled his cable subscription, or his satellite subscription, something like that.

Apparently, an advertisement showed a naked body, and that was too much for Daddy. He picked up the telephone and told them to either remove the offending ad or pull his plug.

(Luckily for him, he still had a telephone from which to issue this missive, because he's also engaged in a take-no-prisoners war with AT&T, and is in daily danger of having his telephone pulled...)

My "old pal" and my dad have attitudes that I simply can't relate to. Now, admittedly, my dad is an extreme case... But I have great difficulty understanding what people find so offensive about reality, and about art.

For example, I recently watched a movie that had this viewer's discretion notice:

"The following program contains nudity, sexuality, violence, bad language, and adult situations."

"Wow!" I thought to myself, "FIVE stars!"

I hadn't intended to watch that show, but I did, based solely on the viewer's discretion notice! (I enjoyed it thoroughly.)

However, I avoid movies like James Bond whenever possible, because I find the violence not merely gratuitous, but unbelievable. For the same reason, I do not enjoy martial arts movies, where they have actors on wires, flying through the air. Even when watching science-fiction movies, if I see the laws of physics being broken, I lose all interest.

Art has to imitate life - to the nth degree - but art IS NOT life.

I've found that most of the people who are offended by sculpture, painting, photos, or movies fall into the category of those who cannot make this distinction. My Stepmom, for example, wouldn't let her grandchildren watch episodes of "Bewitched", because according to her, it was about witches. Now, there is no point in trying to explain to her that "Bewitched" is about as far from satanic witchcraft as you can get, that the show was actually about family values winning out time after time. It had the word "witch" in it, and that was that. Same thing with Harry Potter. There is simply no getting her, or that kind of person, past the SETTING into the THEME.

The rest fall into the category of prudes - people who don't even undress in front of their spouse after ten or more years of marriage, for example. People who will not answer you when you call out "Hello? Are you in there?" when they are in the washroom, because they refuse to admit that they use the washroom. (I am not making this up - I've know THREE people in my lifetime who do this!)

It takes a lot to offend me these days. Oh, I still have some prejudices which rear their ugly heads from time to time, but I do my best to overcome them when I recognize them. Boyfriend and I, for example, are engaged in a debate concerning alternate states of mind and their ability to affect reality. As I pointed out to Boyfriend yesterday, usually when I engage in that type of discussion with someone, I am rather condescending: Like a patient teacher trying to explain to a child what the constraints of reality are. "There is no such thing as magic, the easter bunny, santa claus, spontaneous combustion, god," etc.

But in this discussion with Boyfriend, I am able to speak to him as an equal, not as a patient schoolma'rm. I am able to listen to his point of view and actually keep my mind open, actually pay attention and seek to find common ground with his position. It doesn't necessarily happen - but the fact that I don't automatically assume the position of "All-Knowing One" is a miracle in itself...

I used to be quite a fearful person, back in the day when I was a "believing" type. Life, however, had different plans for me, and has taken me through roads rarely travelled. Some of my family, and some of my friends, know some of the roads I've been down. Two or three people know the whole story, because most people would find a great deal about my life offensive.

I am not afraid of people finding out the truth about me. I do, however, fear that some would find out a partial truth. Grandpa used to say (and I think he said he was quoting Confucious) "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing." And our prejudices are designed to snap us away from thoughts we find offensive, frightening, or challenging - very much like our physiological responses to touching something hot. We pull away, quickly, in self-preservation. And rightly so - if we burn to death, we learn nothing. However, some people - call them scientists, or explorers - go on to see what they can learn about the phenomenon, while most of us just run away.

Well, life presented me with challenges, and I got burnt, but I stuck it out. I am pleased to say I've been humbled along the way, and that most of my friends have stuck with me through this ride, even though they themselves have not chosen my particular routes.

Funnily enough, in some of the circles I now travel in, I'm considered so conservative as to be almost prudish!

No, it's true! Here's a new word for all the boys and girls out there: "VANILLA."

Vanilla is the world's most popular flavour of ice cream. It smells good to everybody.

It is thus used to describe people or behaviours that our society considers "normal." A vanilla person, for example, would never get a tattoo. Or shave their head, or part of their head. Or wear fishnet stockings and a bra - and nothing else - to work.

Well, a number of my friends DO have these things in their lives, and a lot more besides. And I will say no more, because this blog is my vanilla blog. I am not here to deliberately offend the people I love.

My point is, that from these non-vanilla persons' perspectives, I am "normal." Boring. You may think I'm wild and crazy, "out there", a true deviant: I assure you, I'm mild by comparison to others, whose worlds you haven't dreamt of!

I hope my dear Old Pal stays friendly with me, even though he doesn't understand my sense of humor, even though he seems to find my blogs offensive. It is never my intention to offend, I'm just spouting off: and it is true, that what comes out does reflect what's inside... But in this venue, I'm simply trying to be funny most of the time.

And the rest of it, I'm trying to wrestle with my own prejudice.

Everybody Knows... but Me

2009-09-30T16:55:00.002-04:00

So, I got sent home from work yesterday. The "Administrator" (non-academic equivalent of the Dean) sent me home personally. I was in the lunch room, quilting, and she came to peek at my work, then took one look at me and sent me home.

She suspected the flu - THE flu, H1N1, that's been in the news for the past six months, and which she personally had about a month ago.

Now, I'm the LAST person to complain about getting a few days off. And I do have SOMETHING... I'm just pretty sure it's not H1N1. Because I'm able to do things. If you really have H1N1, you are either dying, or you want to.

I figured I'd do something I'd been putting off. Something that involves sitting down comfortably for hours on end and doesn't tax the body.

Figured I'd tackle my business accounting.

After all, if I DID have H1N1, I'd be dead soon anyway - so what's the harm in making myself WANT to die? And if I DIDN'T have it, I'd be one step further away from debtor's prison. What's not to love?

So, I dug out all my papers, found the "calculator" app on my computer, sharpened my pencil...

Recently, my "Beloved Future Son-In-Law" (hereinafter to be known as "B") offered to help me figure out where some of the numbers in my financial statements come from.

For those of you not in-the-know about the accounting aspect of business, it's a bit like leaning to do Calculus in Grade 2. The page looks so CLEAN, so CLEAR... Lovely numbers in a column, clearly labelled "Assets" and "Liabilities"... it looks so simple. It looks, in fact, too good to be true. And you know what they say about things that look too good to be true!

Except that all the numbers seem to come out of nowhere. What in the heck is "Due to Shareholder", and why is it a different amount than "Retained Earnings"? Oh, and wait till you discover the wild and wooly world of "Change in Non-Cash Operating Items." That one takes a whole day to figure out! "Cost of Sales", okay, that's what the shipping and customs duties cost me... hmm, maybe it's also the sales tax I paid... I wonder, does that include my guild membership fees, since I have to be a member of the guild in order to sell there, and don't forget I contribute 5% of the value of the sales to the guild... Ok, let's try it all three ways...

It took me about four hours to get through all the numbers that were supposed to appear on the financial statements and begin to tot them up. Of course, none of the numbers made any sense at all, and none of them balanced...In the nick of time, I remembered that I had given last year's papers to B, and realized I was working with starting figures from two years ago...

(And a darned good thing I remembered that, too, because I was just about to pick up the phone and hit the speed dial "S" for Satan, ready to sell ANYTHING in order to get SOMEONE, ANYONE, to take this off my hands!)

As mentioned in previous blogs, I do not possess the gene for understanding accounting. If I had enough money, I would ever so happily pay someone to do this stuff for me. Alas, I have champagne taste, but I'm on a beer income.

Accounting will never make sense to me. B has explained which numbers to add and subtract from each other in order to plug a new number into the financial statements, but it is seriously a "monkey-see, monkey-do" arrangement with me. I don't know WHY any of these numbers exist, I only know that I have to complete a Financial Statement before I can get anywhere near doing my business income taxes, and hopefully avoid jail time.

I figure (no pun intended) that accountants are an evil breed (perhaps related to the aforementioned Satan). They take something perfectly simple and turn it inside-out and wring it and shred it and reassemble it till NO ONE in their RIGHT mind could POSSIBLY understand where all these blessed numbers came from!

Job security, that's what it is! A clever plot on their part to compel us mere mortals to pay them what's left of our hard-earned cash to make the government go away.

Well, after I eat supper I'm going to give it another go, now that I have the correct numbers to start from. I have actually learned something relatively useful from this process, astonishingly enough! When I've finished it, I'm going to set up my books the way the financial statements are set up, so I don't have to think next time I make a sale or order something. I'll just write down the number and fill in the calculation. Next year, when I go through this, I won't have to think. I'll have done it all now.

Yeah.

An (apparently) heavy load...

2009-09-28T09:51:00.005-04:00

WARNING: Contains scatalogical content. Most normal people would probably find this offensive - I know I do!

I have an affliction. A "thorn in my side." A particular difficulty that I don't know how to overcome... or indeed, if it even can be overcome!

I have problem poo.

(No - it is NOT funny!)

See, I keep plugging the toilet. (And no, I do not mean with paper.)

Invariably, the first "load" I deliver is of sufficient diameter to... well, I don't know if it would choke a horse - I'm pretty sure horses have more sense than to go for that shit - oh! no pun intended! - even though dogs do go for horse-shit...

Anyway, it doesn't seem to matter what the, ahem, "texture" is, be it hard or soft, it just goes straight for the opening and plugs it solid.

There's something in there about specific gravity. If it would float around a bit, maybe it would get pointed in the right direction, break in half, I don't know!

And yes, I have, in fact, tried modifying my diet and exercising. The results are the same.

It used to be worse. I used to... (oh god, the things I blog about!)

I used to save it up.

NOT, I assure you, intentionally! But on a day where I'm rushing around, nothing of that sort would emerge. If I had several busy days in a row, tough luck, I'd just carry it around, until I arrived at a day when I could relax and stay home.

Then the miracle would finally happen - and believe me, it was QUITE a relief by that time!

But it would plug the hole. Back when I was with Hubby, the standard Saturday-morning-greeting was "it's plugged again."

See, I am of the firm opinion that UN-plugging such devices is a job for a MALE.

(I am positive the gene is on the Y chromosome. It's in the contract. Gotta be there somewhere...)

Hell, THEY'RE the ones the designed the thing! The plumbing STACK is always a 4-inch pipe. What in the WORLD possessed them to make the pipes from the toilet only two inches in diameter? Job security? As Red Green used to say, "If the women don't find you handsome, at least they should find you handy!"

Hubby, of course, predicatably, finds my situation hilarious. Boys usually do: dirt, mess, smelly things, gross stuff - I've never met a man who was grossed out by much that has to do with... with the things humans produce.

"Your just full of it, Dear," he would say, if he could get the words out, for laughing so hard.

Harrumph. He should talk!

But nowdays, now that my life is slightly LESS stressed than when I was back there, I'm more... regular. Even on workdays!

But it still plugs the hole.

And no, I am not going to run outside in my nightie looking for a stick to poke it with. Neither am I going to use the item which should be used to clean the bowl to poke it with - let's get one thing straight: I AM NOT GOING TO POKE IT WITH ANYTHING. Point finale.

I do not own a plunger. As I indicated earlier, those are things BOYS play with. And POKING such stuff is definitely something boys do!

So, it has occurred to me that perhaps, inside, I am... different. Differently-shaped. Perhaps it's not my stomach that has grown large over the years. Perhaps it is my "large intestine."

Maybe it stretched, over the years, packing all that stuff and carrying it around for days on end?

Maybe I need a - do they even DO these? - a colon tuck.

Sort of like taking it out, wrapping the whole thing in duct tape so it's narrower, and putting it back in. The "Red Green" solution.

(I quite expect now that nobody will EVER invite me over to their homes again. If I haven't grossed out my very last friend or relative by now, I am sure that, at the very least, they will not want me gumming up THEIR works, so to speak.)

This is a serious affliction!

I want an outhouse.

Getting Over It

2009-09-24T22:45:00.003-04:00

I know I'm not handling this latest "crisis" well. It seems that whenever I get a shock, I go shopping. Somehow that eases the pain, helps me connect to something... I understand it's origins, but not why it works.

The origin is the mythological tale of The Red Shoes. A poor girl and her mother eke out a subsistence living, the mother is a dressmaker or somesuch. The little girl saves scraps of cloth, and eventually makes herself a pair of red shoes out of the bits she has saved. But the mother dies, and the little girl must go begging. A silver carriage stops in front of her, and a kindly old woman offers to take care of her, feed and clothe her, give her an education, etc. The little girl is very thankful to be taken in. But she is a bit shocked to find out that all her clothes, including her shoes, must be burnt, for fear they've been infested by vermin.

She grows into a lovely young lady, and then an event comes along. In some versions it's her first communion, in others it's some other rite of passage. But the old lady, who is quite blind by now, wants her to have a new white dress and shoes to match. They go to the shoemaker's and the girl is told to find a pair of white shoes. But high on a shelf she spies a pair of shiny red shoes that gleam with unearthly beauty, and once she has seen them, her heart is full of longing, and nothing will do but she must have those shoes. So she tells the old woman that they are white, and hides them from the servants, and can't wait to be alone so she can put them on and dance around her room.

One difficulty - she finds that she can't stop dancing once the shoes are on her feet. Some versions of the story have her crying out for help, she gets rescued, they manage to pry the shoes off her feet, she confesses and promises to be good in future, and goes through the rite of passage with a new pair of white shoes. And then another rite of passage happens, and she goes through the same problem.

Eventually, the shoes simply will not come off. In a drastic attempt to save the girl's life, her feet are cut off at the ankles, and the shoes, her feet still in them, go dancing away across the moor all by themselves.

It is a story of capture, of living someone else's life, living by someone else's rules. Try as we might, eventually our inner selves catch up with us, or catch us up, and no matter how hard we try to fit into the life that's been set for us, we rebel, and go lunging toward our own particular doom.

In my case, I simply have to spend money. I was brought up very frugally, to say the least, and my Grandma would get quite angry with me if I managed to incur unexpected expenses. In fact, I always thought we were poor. Money, the wise use of it, the keeping of it, the management of it, was like a lens through which everything was filtered. It colored everything about my life that I can remember. I did indeed feel like I was locked up in a prison for a great deal of my early life, and when I got out - WOW! Stand back everybody - woman with credit card comin' through!

I am not alone in this particular weakness, and it is exhibited in other ways which are perhaps a bit more subtle. I remember a Friend commenting something to the effect, "Why is it that the moment a woman invites someone over for a special occasion, the house must be redecorated?" And it's so true! Every "state visit" is usually preceeded by frantic painting, re-arranging of furniture, new drapes... you name it.

Some people frantically clean their homes when stressed. Some redecorate. Some cook. Some go on vacations. But an awful lot of us go shopping. Whenever I have had a shock, or a fight with a loved one, or a nasty surprise, or suffered a loss, I am simply incapable of doing anything at all until I have made it into a store and bought something. Only then am I purged of my sense of panic, only then does the adrenaline stop coursing through my veins, only then can I finally make it home and collapse into a chair and rest. And the bigger the stressor, the bigger the bills.

Yes, it's counterproductive, to say the least! But let he or she among you who has never scarfed a box of chocolates cast the first stone! We all have our dark secrets... I'm talking about mine in an attempt to gain some sort of control over it. Now, the last thing I need is more criticism, by the way, lest you be tempted to "tut-tut" me and tell me I shouldn't do this. I already know that - telling me off only reinforces the feeling of being trapped, helpless, and frantic.

I have several Girlfriends who have trouble with food. Specifically, they restrict their food intake to the point where it is unhealthy. As any of you who have seen my physique know, that has never been my problem! I have other girlfriends who not only restrict their intake, but who exercise and work their bodies beyond reason (in my opinion). Interestingly, they are all good with money. As if it's either/or: in fact, if I could only develop their particular neuroses, my life would theoretically take on a healthy glow! I'd lose weight, I'd be in shape, and I'd pinch my pennies along with the best of them! Until, that is, I ended up in the hospital being force-fed...

Actually, the past couple of days I have not had an appetite. I've made myself eat because I knew I should, but for no other reason.

I've not had much energy, either. Home all day today, basically went from bed to kitchen chair to couch. Put nothing away. Did no quilting. Cleaned nothing. Cooked nothing. Didn't listen to music. Had the tv on but wasn't watching. Didn't even have enough determination to have a nap. No thrills, no excitement, no interest in doing anything. Basically, one of the worst days I've ever had. But quietly bad. No sobbing or theatrics. Just nothing.

I made myself go out after suppertime, did quite a lot of walking... but unfortunately brought my wallet with me...

And the rest is history.

Epigenetics

2009-09-22T20:25:00.002-04:00

Say whaa....?!

Oh yes, there's more to DNA than genes, and more to genes than we ever guessed!

"Nova" is still on, but I'm cutting to the chase here and summing it up.

Nurture AFFECTS Nature.

The way you are brought up, the environment around you, the amount of stress inflicted on your during your developing years, actually CHANGES your GENES.

OMG - it's way too complicated for me to understand... But there are things called "markers", and they can be re-arranged... and it just blows my mind, but the basic truth is:

Moms, hug and kiss and tickle and sing to and sniff your babies. And rub their skin and kiss them again and again and again.

Anyway, that word, "epigenetics" is gonna be big in the next decade.

You heard it here first, folks.

Baseball Blues

2009-09-20T12:49:00.002-04:00

Or, "I Remember Mama."

My Mom used to hate this time of year. I'd get a phone call sometime around the end of September or the earliest days of October, and she'd say:

"One hundred and eighty-three days, Deborah."

"I beg your pardon, Mom?" I would say, totally confused.

"That's how long I have to wait till the Blue Jays play again. For the next one hundred and eighty-three days, I have NOTHING to look forward to."

Mom was a Blue Jays fan. And I became one, simply because if I wanted to see my Mom between April and October, I had to watch the games with her.

Because NOTHING and NO-ONE came between Mom and her Blue Jays when they were on!

At first, when I started watching the games at my own home, I had an overpowering urge to iron and smoke, since that's what Mom used to do while watching the games. She's be ironing Stepdad's shirts, and smoking like a chimney. She'd pause sometimes, to watch a play, and it usually ended with "Good for you, Wells!" or "Christ!" when a play was missed. Then she'd light up another smoke, inhale, blow it out, and with it would come another expletive.

It was from my Mom that I learned the phrase "Built like a brick shithouse!"

And when Roy Halliday took the mound, she'd say, "Yes, Deb. That's how I know I'm not dead yet." Actually, that phrase came up more frequently than just Roy, but she and I agreed on Roy! Yep. Not dead yet.

Once I began to take up the cause, she gave me the book "The Official Rules of Baseball" for my birthday. It was a tough slog, and I didn't understand the half of it. But I did make the attempt. I should try to find it again, now that I have an inkling as to what's happening on the field! It might mean more to me now...

Mom had a Blue Jays lawn chair, a Blue Jays sweater, and several Blue Jays pins. She knew the names of all the players, even the ones on the other teams.

And she really had it in for Derek Jeter. He plays for the Yankees. His salary alone would do the entire Jays payroll. And man, does he EVER love to see himself on camera.

"Yes, Jeter, we see you, you little f***r! Now stop admiring yourself and strike out, for chrissake!"

(Except he doesn't do that very often... Usually only when Roy is pitching.)

Mom also knew the coaches, trainers, and umpires. Hell, she probably knew the names of the bat-boys! She knew the standings - something I can still only guess at.

By the time I twigged on to the idea of getting her tickets for her birthday though, she was too fragile and ill to go. "Maybe next year," she sighed, always hoping that she'd get better, always looking for a better day tomorrow.

It boggles my mind how I could not see her death coming. Looking back over all the events of the two years prior to the stroke that finally took her from us forever, all the markers are there. The special meds to slow down her heart. The fact that they couldn't stabilize her blood - it was always swinging from too thick to too thin. Her rapid weight gain because of the now slow heart. The fact that she now took naps in the middle of the day. And some days just went back to bed.

I should have seen it coming. I should have known we were on borrowed time, but I'm naive about that, or in denial. I missed out on countless opportunities when she was healthy, opportunities to go see her, play cards with her, yak with her. I only twigged on at the very, very end...

Like the announcers often say, "Caught him looking..." In baseballs terms, that means the batter was fooled by the pitcher and didn't try to hit the ball, but just watched it sail by. The batter was expecting a different pitch, and didn't swing. Hence, "caught him looking."

Well, this season is just about over for the Jays this year. I took a look at next year's calendar, and it is indeed exactly one hundred and eighty-three days from the 4th of October this year till the season begins again on April 5th next year. The Jays are not going to be playing any post-season games this year. Maybe next year.

Meanwhile, we can "kiss this one good-bye."

Walking the Dog

2009-09-19T18:38:00.002-04:00

My puppy-dog, Kira, is visiting me this weekend.

Well, by "puppy-dog", I mean my 13.5 year old dog. People ask what breed she is. She looks like a shepherd, but is the size of a mini collie. Well, a very well-fed miniature collie...

Let's just say, Kira and I both love our food, and leave it there!

When I left Hubby and his alien-DNA-replicants last February, I had to leave Kira there, since I was not permitted to have a dog in my apartment. She did come for one overnight stay, and after that she seemed slightly less depressed.

Kira was MY doggy, you see. She would pace the floor if I was not home, preferring to stare out the window rather than lie in bed with Hubby. I was her Mommy, her pack leader. And she has been heartbroken since I left.

And I decided to ask to have her with me this weekend. The landlord and his wife is away, till October sometime. Kira doesn't bark unless somebody comes to the door, and there is precious little chance of that happening this weekend. My best efforts to scare up some company have fallen flat, as usual.

For my state of mind, it's a darned good thing she could be with me this weekend!

It's different here than in a house. For one thing, the landlady made it so clear that dogs were not allowed in the yard, that I don't even let her pee on this lawn. We walk across the street before I give her permission to let go.

And that means that I have to get dressed for the outside a minimum of four times a day, and physically get up those stairs, and walk at least a couple of hundred yards with her, and scoop all her poops...

I regret to say, I've walked more in the past two days than I did the past two weeks. Ouch!

We walked to the "beauty salon" today - I got her washed and had her nails clipped. It's about twenty blocks away. Twenty big-city blocks. When we finally got home, we both badly needed a nap! And no doubt we'll both be stiff as boards the next time we go outside... two very old dogs!

Bijou is beginning to be able to ignore her - especially now that the sun has gone in. "It's too cold to stay out, therefore, the best must be made of it, that is all."

And Kira has finally relaxed enough to fall asleep across the room from me. At first, she sat ON my feet, to make sure I couldn't go anywhere without her. Now she merely looks up from time to time, to make sure I haven't disappeared.

Yes, we both needed to be close to each other.

Kitteh Kitteh

2009-09-16T09:22:00.003-04:00

My precious, precocious Bijou has been supplementing the healthy home-made food I give her.

For three days in a row, I have heard her sweet voice calling me to the kitchen window, where she has presented me with a tiny mouse.

A different mouse each day, you understand.

She is giving me the only thing she can give me. She is presenting me with a treasure beyond price.

And I make all the right cooing sounds and praise the mighty hunter, and set a bowl of cream out for her so she can be rewarded with something she absolutely cannot turn away from...

But alas - I haven't been fast enough to get the mousies away from her, and they have each been ingested in turn, right in front of me. She bites off the heads, crunch crunch crunch, then goes back to the cream to wash it down...

a Pal suggested to me that I mustn't let this continue, because one never knows if these are true field mice, or if they've been walking around somebody's house and eaten something nasty, like poison, for example.

Well, so far, Lady Luck has been with us, and there have been no ill effects. And, today being both a work day AND a quilting guild meeting night, I've decided to keep her inside. All day and all evening.

You would think, from her response, that she'd been imprisoned in Alcatraz itself for a hundred years... First it was 'thump!" from the counter to the floor, then up her tree/post, then "thump" back to the floor, then back to the kitchen window, then "thump" and another and another...

She's now sulkily coiled in her basket, ignoring me, planning her revenge.

And, just for today, the wee mice have a chance to change lodgings...

Living Color

2009-09-14T08:17:00.004-04:00

I got into making "Thread Scarves" last fall, after watching an episode of "Fons 'n Porter's Love of Quilting." A guest had shown how to use water-soluble stabilizer as a base upon which you sewed a grid. Then you added embellishments, in the form of beautifully-colored threads and wools, put another layer of water-soluble stabilizer on top, and sewed randomly all over the piece to get everything locked together with stitching. Wash it, and Presto! You have a work of art that's soft, original, costs pennies, and looks terrific!

A number of my friends got these as Christmas presents. Including my little niece and nephew.

But when I telephoned my Brother on Christmas day, he said that he wasn't going to let little Nephew wear his scarf.

Seems it had a bit of mauve on it.

"It's too girly," said Brother, flatly.

"Aw, c'mon!" I said. "He's just a little boy! He's not even four years old!"

No dice. No son of my brother was going to wear mauve.

I have never understood my society's attitude towards color. I've seen men - REAL men, mind you! - who look absolutely to-DIE-for in pink. They're not gay. And besides, even if they were, they'd still look fabulous!

And a boy is not going to become gay if you put bright and soft colors on a scarf he wears.

People look at me when I ride the bus or walk down the street. It's hard to hide me - I'm taller than 98% of the population here. That's right - only two people in 100 are as tall as I am.

But I dress in color. Everywhere around me, it looks like the population is in mourning. Blacks are omnipresent. Beige has infected the world. Tans, browns, off-whites, greys - maybe this is one reason we're all glued to our color tv's in the evenings! It's just too drab out there!

I wear oranges and yellows and blues and greens and reds and purples... That's why people look at me. I'm a bright spot of color in an otherwise dull landscape.

A line from "The Lion in Winter" goes: "... dull as Plainsong. La-la-la, always on one note."

(For those of you who've never been to a Catholic church, "plainsong" is what the priest sings during bits of the service of mass. It is, indeed, always on one note. That way, guys who are tone deaf still have a crack at being priests, but I digress...)

This modern trend towards "neutrals" is bad for the soul. It started because people don't know how to decorate their homes. They don't know that their wood furniture would look fabulous against a dark green. No, they painted their homes white. Off-white. Eggshell. "White's a very complicated color," asserts one advertisement.

Everywhere we go over here in North America, people are terrified of color. What, they don't want to stand out? Be looked at when walking down the street? How the heck do any of these people get dates, for crying out loud?

Yo - Bro! Chicks DIG color! You want your boy swarmed by lovely ladies? Dress him in pink. I guarantee they'll come running!

Well, this attitude was recently relived by my Boyfriend. He's a Team Lead in his job, and part of his responsibilites involves making sure his guys have the tools they need. Since they're often away in foreign lands, he got them all cameras, to help them when they have difficulty describing wiring or equipment setup to support techs back home.

The cameras are mauve.

They were on sale. They had the right features. And, unlike most guys, Boyfriend isn't afraid of colors.

His team all stood around the box when he brought them into work. Apparently, there was a moment of silence. Then one of the guys said,

"Well... nobody'll steal them, that's for sure."

Boyfriend laughed. I find these guys completely and utterly and TOTALLY RIDICULOUS!!!!!

For crying out loud - if your performance in bed is threatened by the color of your camera, man, you have got a MUCH BIGGER PROBLEM than the color of your camera!

Not for me, the drab colors of winter, burying myself back in the crowd. I talk to people, I make friends, I laugh, and I wear color. Men look fantastic in bright colors. And pastels. It brings out their eye color! It makes their skin look good!

I don't want any dull-as-dishwater guys in my life! I want friends around me who love life, in all it's variety and spectacular color. People who aren't afraid to be noticed. To be original. To be unique.

Work: The Curse of the Drinking Class

2009-09-01T19:13:00.002-04:00

I live, technically, alone. I have a cat, lots of friends, and a Boyfriend. And you will usually find me moaning that I don't like being alone, that I want some company.

But not tonight. Tonight is one of those times when I'm relieved that there is nobody here to care for but me, and Bijou. She's easy - splorp her food onto a dish and set it down outside, so she can dine al fresco this evening. After all, she was stuck inside this whole fine day while I was at work.

Me, I'm having crackers, cheese, and some antipasto out of a jar while I watch the Blue Jays... and water to drink.

Today, you see, is the proverbial "morning-after-the-night-before."

Yesterday I had my pal Mr. P over for the evening. Mr. P picked up dinner and a bottle of wine while I had a quick shower, dressed in my jeans, and dragged my open bottle of wine with me outside while I waited for his return. When he did come back, food and more wine in hand, we proceeded to down the wine with dinner. I am not known for my, er, moderation...

We watched an episode of Star Trek: Enterprise, then I made tea and we had, unfortunately, cake.

Queen Elizabeth cake, for those of you in the know.

For those you not in the know, the batter is made with dates - lots of 'em. They're sweet, they're heavy, they're scrumptious. And the icing is a brown sugar and coconut affair.

It's r e a l l y sweet, perfect for a couple of Brit-twits like P and me.

And one good piece deserved another.

So, we sat and watched a second episode of Enterprise, and ate our two pieces of cake apiece, and downed our tea. By 9:15 we'd seen our two episodes and felt like two beached whales. We "chatted" a bit: namely, moaned and groaned our way through our stuffed throats, till suddenly I heard Mr. P say "Are you snoring?" I denied it. But the next thing I knew, Mr. P was letting himself out. At some point in the middle of the night I got up and brushed my teeth and removed some of the more uncomfortable items of my clothing. At some later point I walked the floor for about an hour, desperately trying not to begin a session of worship at the foot of the Great White Throne. The worst finally subsided and I was able to lie down again, using two pillows, mind you, and that was it till 6:40 a.m. this morning.

Oddly, (or not) I wasn't very hungry today...

Sugar and alcohol, it seems, is a very nasty combination. That being said, it was pretty dumb of me to have a bottle and a half, even with a friend helping me out. Alcohol is a depressant - the LAST thing I need! Especially in that kind of quantity.

So, while tonight's dinner isn't quite "bread and water", it's water, anyway. And no sugar. And a very small quantity of food. Less, in fact, than is sitting on Bijou's plate.

A nice early night, and I ought to be back in fine running order tomorrow. Tough-as-nails, jokes flying, poking fun at the world once more. Relieved to be alive.

Stranger than Ever

2009-08-28T11:05:00.002-04:00

Well, last weekend, the final fin-de-semaine of my elongated vacation, my Boyfriend took me to a B&B near Sandbanks Provincial Park.

(If you've never been to Sandbanks, stop reading and go - right now! White sand, blue water, sand dunes, trees, and waves.)

I was, in essence, taking him there, since I'd been there and he had not, but since he was footing the bill, I prefer to say he took me! Let's make one thing clear here - Boyfriend takes GOOD care of me...

For example, he owns a car, but it doesn't have air conditioning. So he rented a car with A/C, to keep me cool for the 4.5 hour drive. And it was a little ... fancier ... than his bazoo... he wanted me to enjoy all the hours we spent together.

I'm sorry - that's just plain classy! S i g h ...

Where was I? Oh yes, driving to Sandbanks with Boyfriend...

I then was the stunned recipient of a phrase that men the world over have learned to fear when they hear it from the lips of their wives and girlfriends - namely:

"I need to discuss something with you."

Almost as scary as "Some Assembly Required."

I swallowed hard, shoved my panicking stomach down, told the little screaming voices in my brain to STFU, and said, "Oh?", hoping my voice didn't betray the fearstorm growing like a supercell inside me.

After all, this was the beginning of the weekend. If he was breaking up with me, he'd have done it at the end, or not gone on the weekend, right?

"What's the matter?"he asked with genuine concern, having noticed me turn a ghastly green. Not a becoming shade at all!

We talked about the chord of terror those seven words had struck, had a serious hand-holding reassuring discussion, which I will not get into here.

Having stopped the worst of my dread in its tracks, he went on.

"It is likely," he began again, "that I will receive job offers in the States, or overseas. I have no family here, no particular roots, and I've worked in France before and enjoyed it. But you have put down deep roots here. You have a number of very close friends, and it looks like Daughter will soon begin procreating... How would you feel about coming with me? I love you and I want you with me every day, but I wouldn't want you to feel torn or uprooted."

Wow.

I hadn't been thinking beyond next week... Quite the reversal of the usual gender roles, with the man doing the thinking ahead and the woman caught off-guard.

Gobsmacked, in fact!

What a flood of introspection this discussion let loose.

Historically, I've been uprooted since I was five years old. The Great Divorce (with apologies to C.S Lewis) that took me 3000 miles away from my mother, the continual moving brought about by my father's job in the Air Force, his remarriage, he and my Stepmom moving back to Louisiana, where she was from, leaving me stranded with my Grandparents, who meant well, but who were two generations removed from my reality...

I've been shunted to and fro all my life, and pretty much all of it against my will.

I vowed to myself, when I became pregnant with Daughter, that once she was school-aged I would give her the one thing I never had: stability. I promised her (though she was but an infant and didn't understand a word of what I was saying as she sucked leisurely on my boobies) that I would stay in one place when she went to school. That she would be able to form friendships that might possibly last her into adulthood. So that she would be able to have friends to play with, fight with, do stupid things with, and grow with. Help her stand on her own two feet, supported by way more than my own inadequate ideas on how life works. I knew I was damaged goods: I wanted her to be able to have the help of her peers.

So, even though I was unemployed soon after her schooling began, I stayed put.

I, in turn, made friends of my own. Well, your kids make friends for you, as they say, and to a certain extent that's true. You get to know other moms, and some of them become friends. I did manage to take up with a few people who became part of the fabric of my life... Of all ages, too. Since I was raised by Grandparents, I have a hard time seeing age. I was in my thirties before I could tell whether someone I met was in their twenties or in their fifties, but I digress...

I told Daughter about Boyfriend's discussion, and her response was not at all what I had imagined it to be.

I had broached the subject of impending pregnancies, for example, and rambled on, half-theorizing, half remembering, the two blissful weeks my Mommy stayed with me when Daughter was born...

"Stop right there," came an imperious cry from Daughter.

"Pardon?" I asked.

"If you think, for one minute, that you're going to come and live with me for TWO WHOLE WEEKS right after I've given birth, you can think again!" she commanded. "I love you mommy with all my heart, but you and I drive each other NUTS!"

Oh.

It went on from there. I will be Granny, be a part of the lives of my Grandchildren, when the time comes, but Daughter doesn't need me to babysit, do laundry, clean or cook for her.

Come and visit, in other words.

Oddly, her reaction didn't help me understand if I wanted to follow Boyfriend to the ends of the earth or not. It merely reinforced that I'd done the job I promised. Daughter is independent, and happy. I, at this point, am basically superfluous. There would be no impediment from her end that would prevent me from leaving the country.

It just made me wish she wanted me closer to her. Oh well...

The next pal I tried to discuss this with was R, who I've known since taking filmmaking courses together when I was 17. R basically did what he's always done, especially back then when we were trying to come up with ideas... blasted me. "This is too theoretical" etc etc etc.

No help there.

I had my friend P over for dinner, who in his inimitable, logical way said, "The only question is, where do YOU want to be? Do you WANT to spend your time with Boyfriend or not? Figure that out, and you have your answer."

And oddly enough, a moment after my heart said "Of course I want to be with him!", that's when I started getting lonely. Started thinking about how I like to get together with my friends, if not every week, at least every second week. How together we ruminate the minutiae of daily life, only occasionally going somewhere that costs money, preferring each other's kitchens to places of interest.

It's not that I particularly LIKE being poor - it's that I'm used to it. Used to staying home. Used to having coffee in my friends' homes or mine. Used to watching rented videos instead of gala openings. Used to sitting on the steps and watch the sprinkler water the lawn and the searchlight passing endlessly through the evenings.

I'm not used to flying around the globe, staying in hotels, taking people out to dinner. A cup of tea with a girlfriend who uses her teabags four times to save money, that's what I'm familiar with.

Who would I be, who would I become, if I followed my heart and cut the ties that bind me to this little patch of earth called Montreal? Without my friends to chat with, how would I know how I feel? Am I strong enough to be myself in a relationship without the eyes of my friends keeping watch over me?

Is it possible to be happy, without roots?

Seems I've come back to my uprooted past, after all, or it has come back to me. I am already torn - hah! - "Torn Again", with apologies to the Christians... I already miss everyone. I'm already in seventh heaven in Boyfriend's arms, my hand in his as we pass through Customs at the airport, excited and eager for brand-new adventures. And I'm as lonely as I've ever been in my life.

And I haven't even left yet!

Just Shoot Me

2009-08-11T18:04:00.003-04:00

So, this afternoon I swallowed my pride, dug my heels in, took a deep breath, and started gathering the papers I need to fill out my "past-due-since-the-cretacious-period-you-oughtta-be-in-jail-lady" business taxes for the period ending February 20, 2008.

My Grandmother was the office manager to a team of chartered accountants for I forget how many years. Centuries, considering the number of times that fact has been thrown in my face...

I'm afraid I'm a great disappointment to Grandma, not to mention Revenu Quebec...

I do not possess the gene for accounting.

Or the organization gene.

I gathered anything pertaining to the business off my desk. That was easy - nothing. Heaving a reluctant sigh, I entered "The Room."

"The Room" is where I keep my sewing stuff. If I could actually sell this stuff, or god help me, MAKE something with all of it, I'd probably be rich. Heck, if I even knew WHAT I had in there, I'd be so far ahead of myself I'd be meeting myself coming and going!

Somewhere in there was a box of papers for the approximate taxation period, and I had to climb over everything and find it.

I did, interestingly enough; and I was soon sitting at the table, letter opener in hand, ready to open all the bills and statements and invoices from oh-so-long-ago.

I slit open the first envelope in the box and was immediately overcome with nausea, one of the reasons I am not an accountant, or a secretary.

"Just Shoot Me," my brain said to me. "None of that," I replied grimly, putting down the Mastercard bill in the appropriate pile. "We have to do this, there's no getting out of it. Just shut up." With that, I opened the second and third envelopes, and so on.

I had to fight back tears a couple of times in the ensuing three hours, but I doggedly made it to the end of both boxes. Now I have a box for the period ending February 29, 2009, several piles from the March 2007-February 2008 year piled neatly on my diningroom table, and no fewer than seventeen letters from the provincial and federal governments pleading, nay, begging me to please file a f***g return!

Poor Gran is turning in her grave, I am sure. This kind of thing was all so simple to her. She possessed both the genes - organization AND accounting. She could never understand why I didn't want to be an accountant, or at the very least, a secretary.

"The Secretary," she told me often, "is the secret-keeper of the company!" Woot woot. This kind of thing really turned her crank, but all it does is make me vaguely suicidal. As far as organizing goes, I am dumber than dirt. And for accounting, I'm dumber than even that... so, whatever that could be, it's pretty darned useless.

My brain kept firing pictures at me of things I could be doing with my afternoon - quilts I could be making, food I could be preparing, friends I could call, but I stuck with it. For that, I'm going to reward myself with something, not sure what, and take the evening off.

Tomorrow, it's back into the room to find what I'm missing. At least now I have a clear idea of the three or four items yet to show up, so when I do find them, I'll know I can stop digging.

After that, the fun really starts - preparing the tax return. Yay.

Please, somebody - put me out of my misery!

Dinner and a live show

2009-08-10T17:50:00.005-04:00

This is not Deb. Really. She has insisted that I make that clear, least you mistake my senseless ramblings for her sleek and hilarious postings under the influence of....who knows? At the risk of being thrown out of Canada, I have high jacked her blog, and do so with no shame. Could it be the vodka?

I am not sure how many of you have been been treated to a meal chez Deb. You arrive for a 5 o'clock (yes, I do mean 5pm or 17h as you Canadians like to call it) dinner and she greets you at the door cursing, sweating, and threatening to shove one tool or another up the arse of one friend or another. Tonight she was engaged in an exotic dance with the A/C unit. I caught only the tail end so I can't say how many strikes she was down...but with a few encouraging words and a helping hand....she managed to win the battle, and I sighed gratefully as she unleashed a ice cold stream of air into her somewhat steamy apartment. Go Deb! Who needs a man anyway? (her quote not mine...I continue to actively seek one, or two, or three....)

Worrying because she is now 15 minutes behind schedule....Deb decides to do the utmost of multi-tasking....cooling down from her strenuous labor while preparing a gourmet meal. This includes a semi strip tease where she rips off her cute little gingham top and tosses it on a chair somewhere. Leaving me gazing at her beautiful new navy and white polka-dot contour bra, stuffed to the max with her ample and lovely chest. Let me tell you....this was better then my usual late night marathon of CSI:Miami, back when I was pregnant with twins and stuck on the sofa unable to sleep due to acid reflux and pre-eclampic legs the size of tree trunks. David Caruso has NOTHING on Deb's bosom. Yee-ow! I declined the offer to join her and remove my own top since I was 1. not even sweating 2. in a very non-sexy sports bra that had just supported me through a run and 3. well, she was expecting a visitor or two at any time. Need I any other excuse?

Dinner was an AMAZING salad per my request, always my request. I LOVE her salads as much as I love her nuttiness. Deb has a knack for making salad, as well as a knack for finding a way to incorporate alcohol into any type of meal that she makes for me. Breakfast: mimosas, Lunch: beer, coffee break: beer, Dinner: wine, beer, and vodka mixed with "some kind of juice in the bottom of the fridge I think is still good!" I am starting to worry that she only enjoys my stellar company after I am a bit snackered. She even went as far as to say she had dessert. Which I at first thought was going to be a face-plant into her ever present and semi naked chest....but she assured me "these are not for dessert, dear, you're allergic to milk, remember?" Thank God for small miracles.

The lemon meringue pie which she worked so hard to thaw and serve hits the dessert plate with a smack that resonates like my ass when it used to get slapped (willingly) by my Martinique ex-boyfriend. One would think that three hours of daily triathlon training would take the jiggle out of any white girls bum. But alas....it seems to move just like the white topping of the pie when I shake the dessert plate. Ah well....time to move to the Caribbean.

Dessert and coffee leads to more talk of mutual friends....one that Deb hooked me up with a year ago as a potential roommate. Our co-housing lasted a year, and as fun as it was....I am still chasing him around looking for some final payments. I was asking if she had seen him around so I could collect the last of the overdue bills , when she perked up and said that she would be happy to pay his share for him IF he would perform " certain favors" for her. Now that the A/C is all in order perhaps she is referring to those shelves she needs installed??

In conclusion, I do believe that if we all made dinner at least once a week in our skivvies (I seldom make dinner but I do spend much of my time walking around in my undies) the world would be a better place. If Deb is not the finest example of how it is the simple things in life that keep us excited and aroused .....then dammit....I'll take off MY shirt for our next dinner together.

[signed] C

Where is that motivation?

2009-08-10T06:30:00.005-04:00

I am not a morning person. If anything, I'm "mourning" every morning. Mourning the fact that I should be getting out of bed.

If I don't have something fun to look forward to, good luck keeping me up. Bijou, my puddy-cat, dragged me out of bed today at 6 a.m. I'm trying to make myself stay up, even though my eyes feel like they'd make a good litter-box right now.

I've seen lots of movies with bodies being dredged from a river. That's what mornings feel like to me, most of the time. I'm the dead body, and even though I set the alarm clock, have plans and a schedule to follow, it still feels pretty chancy most days whether the grappling hook or the weeds will win. I get turned over, but sometimes the hook misses, and down I go again, spinning back into unconsciousness.

I envy Morning People. Heck, I even envy the obsessive-compulsives!

Back a few years, when I was married with Stepchildren, we used to hear Stepdaughter wake up every morning. (This was before she became a teenager.) We'd hear her take a deep yawn, hear her roll over, yawn again, then - Boom! She was up. Thud-thud-thud-thud her feet would go down the hall. She was wide awake and ready for action, setting off from her bed in a running start, looking for signs of life in the world around her, and cheerful.

And I'd g r o a n , and roll over and bury my face in the pillow, thinking, "Oh god, not another day!"

I talk to people who are older than me, like by twenty years or so, and they all have variations of a theme: I woke up, therefore I'm alive - hooray!

I envy them.

Oh, there are days when I wake up eager to be up and about. Days when I've got somewhere to go that I WANT to go, like a trip somewhere. Or people I love are coming over to see me, or I'm invited to a friend's place, or I'm going out to a movie that night...

I envy some of my female friends who wake up with mental lists running through their heads of all the things they could get done - before leaving the house for work!

When I have to work, I lie in bed mentally calculating what I could SKIP doing before I have to leave! "If I pack a peanut butter sandwich, I don't have to eat breakfast... If I have my shower first, I can let my hair air-dry, so I won't have to style it with the blow dryer... If I use a frozen dinner, I can stay in bed five extra minutes so I won't have to search for stuff for lunch..."

And on a day when I'm not working, the question "Why?" looms very large next to the little voice that says "Come on now Deborah - you should get up now."

Or sure, I've got things to do. Like my business taxes, for instance. I've got to find my receipts and papers and file my business taxes within the next ten or fifteen days, or be fined something awful like, six thousand dollars.

Be still, my beating heart. There must be some needles I could poke into my eyes first...

Today seems to be especially difficult - it's grey out. About as grey as when I close my eyes. The only difference between my eyes being open, or my eyes being closed, is that my eyes hurt less when they're closed, and I don't have to pay for the electricity to run the lights.

Oh yes, I wish I could wake up with a little enthusiasm. Because right now, when I wake up, my reaction is...

What's the point?

Too much vacation...

2009-08-04T23:38:00.004-04:00

I never thought I'd see those particular three words together, much less in a sentence that pertains to me.

But I now believe I've been on vacation too long.

I learned a new word today. It's in the fine print at the bottom of a card attached to a one-of-a-kind, hand-made bag. The designer is (was) Laurel Burch, who passed away in 1995, coincidentally the year I took up quilting. Laurel Burch was an amazing fabric designer, or just designer, period. I'm a big fan of her work. I wish they would re-run her fabrics, but apparently that's not going to happen.

The card has a greeting from Ms. Burch, and in the fine print on the back, the company who had the license to use her designs on its bags makes this disclaimer:

"On certain hand woven and hand printed fabrics, a slub or an imperfection may be found. This is an attraction of something hand made not mass produced."

While I would have inserted a comma or two, one word leapt out at me.

Slub.

I have done very little "work" today. I paid a bill, rode my bike, made the day of a couple of salesladies, and one of my purchases was this Laurel Burch bag. Other than that, I reheated week-old leftovers, watched the Jays lose a ballgame, talked rather incoherently on the phone with three people, since I can't really carry on a conversation when the tv is on.

I am, at least today, a "slub."

Funny, a lot of people have complimented me on the blog, asking me why I don't write for a living.

Heck, I'd rather sit here and write than do ANYTHING! At least, I'd rather write than work. Or sew. Or clean.

Slub.

Lookin' Good

2009-08-04T09:20:00.006-04:00

Ah, what price, beauty?

I am writing this, coffee mug at my side, as I wait for the peroxide, and other environment-killing harsh chemicals, to work their magic on my tired old hair and turn me into a raving beauty in approximately 25 minutes.

Taking years off my look, and probably my life as well. Statistically speaking, women who color their hair have higher rates of cancer. Reds are the worst - that's why I went golden brown, FYI.

But I wonder who "they" are getting these stats from, because I don't personally know a single woman who DOESN'T color her hair, once she reaches her forties. Some of us stop - I did, for a while... Decided to embrace my inner crone, look my age, knew I could be beautiful without the addition of streaks, or even what they're now calling "monocolor"...

("Monocolor", for the benefit of the ladies who might chance to read this column, is simply hair color by another name. Today, you see, it's not enough to put one color in your hair, you have to add highlights. A second, third, and fourth color is often required. Sort of like the new razors. I remember when Bic came out with a disposable razor, and then when they added a second blade. We're up to "Mach 3" now... I wonder how long they'll play this card...)

Then I got a good look at myself, and the rest, as they say...

In all the tv ads, in all the posters and pictures and movies that surround us, the models have glorious, shiny hair. No matter how long the hair is, there doesn't appear to be any breakage. It's sleek, bouncy, flowing, silky, soft to the touch...

And you don't get that from nature. What you get from nature is split ends, grey hair that is the texture of fishing line, or electrical wire, and lots and lots and lots of breakage.

It takes CONDITIONER, folks, to give your hair that shine. Mousse to make it bounce. Cream to smooth the broken ends into the rest. Spray, mist, milk, gel, foam, special brushes, special combs, and god-knows-WHAT, to make your hair look like that. Oh, and a good airbrushing doesn't hurt.

Personally, I find the only conditioner that makes my hair beautiful comes in the package of l'Oreal Superior Preference hair coloring.

Yes, that's l'Oreal, the one that tests on animals...

Yes, I am a complete and utter moral failure. But I digress...

Around about the same time as I began, once again, to color my frizzy locks, I began to take an interest in my skin, specifically the skin on my face. The bulk of my skin (no pun intended) is not available to the viewing public. However, the skin on my face is out there front and center every day, and it was scary...

I know just how ugly I are
I know that my face ain't no star
But still I don't mind it,
Because I'm behind it -
It's folks out in front get the jar!

I began in general to improve my appearance. Who knows the ugly truth behind whatever hidden reasons I did so: for some people, this is part of grooming. Something basic, something simple, something you learn to do every day before you're a teenager. Taking some pride in your appearance.

Giving a shit.

Well, one thing I HAVE learned, is that this looking good is an expensive business! No wonder all the tv ads say "Because you're worth it!" They're trying to con us out of our money, for sure, and desperately trying to convince all of us that we need to spend megabucks on our appearance, in order to be accepted just in general, never mind by Mr. or Ms. Right! And if you're trying to attract members of the opposite sex, baby you've gotta be "hot!"

Besides the lotions and potions and colors and dyes and powders and creams and gels, there is clothing to purchase. Oddly, the most expensive items are usually the ones that, again, the viewing public doesn't actually get to view: underwear. Specifically, the undergarments that hold a woman's boobies up...

... off her stomach, when you reach my age.

Sigh. Gone are the days of the "over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder". Nothing is casual now.

Gone are the "Cross-your-heart" bras of my mother's day. No more "When I'm looking good, I feel good, and when I feel good, I look GREAT!" (Extra points for you if you can remember the tune!)

Virtually unknown and extinct is the sports bra - ironically, in this particular day and age of the "health and fitness" fad.

Oh no, we shall have underwires, ladies. (Just for fun, I would love to see someone invent an underwire ball-holder for a man to wear during HIS business day, and see how long he could go without being "bitchy"...)

Today we have what I choose to call the "goddess" bra. It's colorful, it's molded foam (no doubt chock-full of formaldehyde), it's straps are meant to be seen, and it has a major underwire.

I discovered this type of bra when I went into my fave store with intent to purchase a new bra. The saleslady took my choices quickly away, and instead pressed firmly into my hands a totally new size, in the molded cup style. I told her it wouldn't fit. I told her she was nuts. I told her a different saleswoman, from this very establishment, had fitted me before with the sizes and styles I had picked. Finally, I put it on, to show her just how wrong she was...

... and was BLOWN AWAY by the reflection in the mirror. OMG! A GODDESS was staring back at me! She took my breath away! Imagine what she could to do an unsuspecting MAN...!

I bought 8 of them.

(Well, each "second one" was 40% off, and you need to have enough of them to wear a clean one every day...)

My god, if I'd had one of these in my twenties, no one would have stood a chance!

For the members of the hippie generation, I must remind you all that though, yes, what's on the INSIDE is way more important, you've got to get someone to want to look there if you're ever going to find that lover/friend/significant whatever...

You may be a delicious steak, but ya still gotta SIZZLE, babe!

Perhaps, if my Mom had been able to raise me, none of this would seem so strange and unusual to me. I never saw my Mom look frumpy, till she became unable to care for herself, which was very shortly before her death. Up to that point, she was always neat, clean, well-groomed. Always had her hair taken care of, always put on her makeup, did her nails, pressed her clothing.

Perhaps, if she'd brought me up, I would have learned these skills at far younger an age. I'm 52 now, and a simple thing like coloring my hair or buying underwear is for me an agony of indecision rife with guilt, whereas, as I have said, for most people, it's simple grooming.

"Don't ya know about the new fashion, honey?
All ya need are looks, and a whole lot of money!"
Billy Joel

Yes, looking good costs money, lots of it. And it takes time - lots of it - out of your day. It's no wonder that young working couples with children have no time to learn to cook their own meals! I'm still stunned that so many people I see on the bus every morning are so well-dressed, so well made-up, and have DRY hair... Unlike me, whose hair is still wet from the morning shower...

All this stuff takes time, planning, thought, energy.

The question is, is it worth it? Aye, there's the rub. It takes me ages to look my best. I have to plan days in advance what I'm going to wear, make sure the underwire that matches the blouse will be clean on the exact day... I have to plan to not drink coffee the night before, so I'll be able to get up early enough to get my hair dry AND styled... And have adequate time to stay calm, unhurried, so I'm not sweating off the makeup as I attempt to apply it! To leave my house by 8 a.m., I have to get up at 5, and keep moving without pause, if I'm going to look my best. That's three HOURS out of my life. (I'm pretty sure no MAN has ever had to put that much time into his looks, even if he shaves his balls!)

Gender inequities aside, each of us has to decide whether all this fuss is worth it. Whether looking this good actually makes me feel better about myself, actually helps my self-esteem, actually makes people want to be in my company, at least long enough to discover my quirks...

And even though it's a major undertaking (oh, no pun intended!) for me to get to the point where I'm satisfied with how I look, by gum, I'm going to keep at it for the conceivable future... Maybe one day it won't take me so long, maybe it'll always be difficult...

But I'm going out trying to keep up appearances.

What Does it Want for Its Birthday, My Precious?

2009-07-21T10:04:00.004-04:00

Aah... the ancient cry of the loving boyfriend who wants to make sure that the woman of his affections will LIKE the gift he gives her...

I was over at the home of a married couple last evening, good, good friends. We talked up this subject a bit.

Because of course, what we all REALLY want is world peace, and an end to hunger and strife...

"When I was younger," said M, (who I doubt has actually passed 30 yet, but is wise for her age) "I used to love jewellery. Chose my boyfriends on the basis of what they could afford to buy me... But not now. It was all stolen anyway, and I hardly wear any jewellery any more. I wear what L gives me, and I like that, but now I like things that make our life together easier, happier..."

"How noble," I thought guiltily, twisting in my seat. Because I've got a list that would wrap around the block. Maybe even several times over.

Am I truly a "Material Girl?"

I never thought of myself as one. To quote Bruce Cockburn, "All the diamonds in the world that mean anything to me, are conjured up by wind and sunlight sparkling on the sea."

Yes, I believe this is still representative of me on some level of my soul. Even though I don't believe in an afterlife, so it's not one of those "lay up your treasure in Heaven" sentiments. My treasures are right here, in this life.

(That being said, if one is ever going to see the wind and sunlight sparkling on the sea, someone has to buy airline tickets!)

But I don't want, or like, treasures for their own benefit. Some of my treasures are the cheapest things you could imagine.

My Grandmother's aluminum teapot, for example. The handle is loose, and you can see where Grandpa fixed it once or twice before. But that teapot should be in a museum!

See, Grandma and Grandpa were married for just over 60 years. Every single day, three times a day, for breakfast, lunch, and supper, Grandma would make tea.

But what tea! The little pot barely holds 4 cups of liquid. She'd put 3 Tetley Flavor-Flow-Through teabags into it. (If you know anything about tea, you know that's nearly the equivalent of enough to make 8 strong cups of tea.)

She wouldn't unplug the kettle before pouring the water into the pot - Grandma was a fanatic about having her tea HOT. (If her tea wasn't still boiling as it entered her cup, by the way, it wasn't HOT enough...) So, the kettle would rage while she poured out the water and slammed the lid onto the pot and turned the burner onto HIGH. Then and then only, she'd unplug the kettle, mercifully stopping it from blasting into outer space.

She'd bring the tea, in the pot on the stove, to a full rolling boil. Sometimes for a few minutes if she really wanted a good, strong cuppa tea!

Then she'd turn the heat to low, and proceed to serve and eat the meal.

After the meal, she'd begin clearing the dishes and once again turn the burner under the pot to HIGH and yes, bring it to a boil, a full, rolling boil, a THIRD time, in the pot!

She'd pour her tea and Grandpa's, and this is where it would get really interesting...

Every day, for 60+ years, Grandpa would put in his mounds of sugar and fill his cup to the brim with milk. And every day, three times a day, for 60+ years, he'd lift it to his lips, blow on it several times...

And burn himself. Whereupon he'd slam the cup back down into the saucer and start complaining. He'd make a very particular sound with his teeth and lips, a cross between "whew" and "tweet", and then he'd say "I don't know why you insist on making it so darned hot!"

Grandma, downing her tea in gulps before it could cool, would make a face at me that said, "isn't he silly?".

One day, while visiting them for lunch, I lost it.

"I don't know which of you is the more stubborn," I practically shouted at them, "or the more stupid!"

They both stared open-mouthed at me. Nobody in the world had ever dared to speak to them that way.

"You!" I pointed at Grandma, having inherited her "wagging finger" technique... "You KNOW he wants his tea stone-cold! Would it kill you to pour his tea out before you sit down to eat, so he doesn't burn himself every meal?"

"And you!" I pointed at Grandpa. "Three meals a day, sixty years, when are you going to stop trying to drink your tea right away? Surely after all this time you're not surprised by how hot it is!"

I never saw either of them look so abashed. Conversation was a little subdued after that particular outburst.

But nothing changed. The tea stayed hot. And Grandpa kept burning his lips. To their dying days.

That teapot now cooly graces my corner cupboard. What exactly does it represent? Sixty years of undying devotion? Comeraderie? Friendship? Raising a family? Tenacity? Iron will? British backbone? Abject refusal to cooperate?

God only knows, I sure don't. But I would be very, very sad to lose it, even though it's only a bit of metal - and practically scrap metal in its current condition! I doubt very much the original cost was even five dollars.

Yet I know that one day my Daughter will hold it to her chest, after I am gone, and have a good cry over it, remember Grandma and Grandpa, and me, and every struggle we've been through. That little aluminum teapot represents a truth about our family, all the struggles my grandparents went through. Daughter herself has had tea served from that very pot to her by her great-grandmother. She was about ten years old when G&G passed away, and up to that time had been babysat at their home, our home, every day when I worked. What wonderful gift, to have living experience of your great-grandparents!

That teapot couldn't be more valuable if it was made of a solid diamond.

I am partial to jewellery... I have my mother's jewellery. I wear her wedding band and her birthstone ring almost every day of my life. They're beautiful pieces, but they're important to me because she wore them. (I think this is what's called a "chick thing.") As if some of the life-force or personality of the wearer could be contained in these objects because they had been on her hands. Her loving hands, with her beautifully-manicured nails. My mother had beautiful hands. I miss them, their gentle touch, their warmth, their comfort. So I wear her rings. I touch them often while wearing them, too, to feel the security of having them on my fingers. I look at them and admire their beauty, as the woman who wore them was the most beautiful of any I can recall... with the possible exception of Daughter... I look at them, and I miss my mother. Their design is her taste made tangible - simple, elegant, ...graceful.

I inherited all these items, but once upon a time they were gifts. Grandpa bought the teapot for Grandma because she wanted a teapot that could go on the stove - little knowing what he was letting himself in for! He also bought her the corner cabinet it is now displayed in.

My Stepdad bought my Mom her wedding band. Her birthstone ring was also a gift, albeit from a different admirer! (Yah! Go, Mom, go!)

Memories of the people we love, and the good times we had with them, are priceless. Last year's camping trip, we laughed so many times my sides ached almost as much as my joints did from the damp. I have pictures to help me remember the fun, but there is almost no way to convey how much I love those people we went camping with or how loved they made me, and continue to make me feel.

There's a game I enjoy playing, called Cubic. It's a three-dimensional Tic-Tac-Toe game. I received it as a gift from my father, I think I might have been eight or ten... It's the one game I could beat my Dad at, and he enjoyed the challenge of not automatically being able to win. Daughter and I played that game ad nauseum during the ten years I was a single mom. I got a pal to make her a permanent, high-class version of the game, with real wood and pretty glass chips... I'm sure it didn't cost ten bucks when Daddy bought it for me, but the hours spent in competition with him, and with Daughter, have relegated it to the realm of the priceless. Maybe I should ask for a new one for myself, since mine is missing a third of it's structure.

In returning to the question, "what does it want for its birthday?" I must ask, does actually knowing about six or seven-hundred things I'd like, right off the bat, make me a materialistic scumbag?

I want something that reminds me of Boyfriend. Something that someone, one day will comment on and say "That's lovely" or "That's interesting," and I can say, "Yes, Boyfriend gave me that for my 52nd birthday."

I do not need to be surprised - I'm far too conscious of the cost of things and can recall too easily past gifts from others that missed the mark, sometimes even the solar system... No, surprises, I think, are for the young. Specifically those under ten years old. After ten years old, most of us are quite able to guess what's in our little packages! May as well make sure we like it, since the money is being spent anyway...

So I guess I'd better get out pen and paper...

Another Day, Another Lesson

2009-07-16T23:56:00.003-04:00

I learned a few things today.

I wore jeans and running shoes with socks today - it was only 14 degrees this morning. Running shoes ARE a lot more comfortable to walk in than flats, sandals, or heels. It's been three days since my pedicure, and already the callus on the ball of my right foot feels ready to accept the human equivalent of a horseshoe.

So I learned that I should have been putting cream on - every single day. Falls into that category like brushing teeth. "Aw, Mom, do I have to?" Yes.

I learned that even though rush hour was quite over by the time I rolled out of bed, that I can still connect from the number 102 bus, which stops just outside my door, to the 66, and end up three blocks from work in about 25 minutes.

I learned not to have a third coffee in the morning. Had rapid heartbeat all day after that, and a panic attack in the afternoon to boot.

I learned that my forehead becomes a greasy mess even on cool days, and that something drastic has to be done or I'll scrape my face off in my sleep. (Booked a facial, FYI. Don't worry - I won't be turning up at your door, flesh hanging off in greasy strips, to scare you or your children in the middle of the night!)

When I came home from work, I decided to go to the pool not too far from here to cool down. I packed my bathing suit, bathing cap, earplugs, kleenex, towel and flip-flops into my bag. I took the lock off the shed door where my bike is locked up and hoped it wouldn't be missed till I got back. I went back and forth from the locker to the changing room, forgetting one thing after another in the locker and having to unlock it about six times. I learned not to put things into a locker till AFTER I've changed...

The water was wonderful - just cold enough to give you a shiver as you ease your hot body (even after the regulation shower) into it. It's a great pool. Fifty meters long, and the diving section off to one side. I paddled around for about five minutes, got bored, and left.

When I got home, I had to rinse out my bathing suit and rinse the chlorine off my body, so I ended up taking a shower.

So much for cooling off.

I learned that the neighbourhood pool is a place you go with friends to talk to or laps to swim. But you can't just hang out there, they don't allow floaties. If I could sling myself into a floatie, I could stay happily for hours. But no more neighborhood pool for me until I have a friend to talk to, or swim with! Because by the time I got home and showered and rinsed everything and hung it up, I was as hot as when I started.

Oh well.

And just a few moments ago I learned that I should not unhook the drain from the dishwasher until the entire cycle is complete and the machine beeps. See, it was on the "dry" cycle. I figured the water connection wasn't needed any more, with 8 minutes left, so I unhooked it.

And with exactly three minutes left in the cycle, the machine began to drain. Onto my floor.

I like my landlord and landlady very much. But I can hear her voice now:

"No water, Debbie! I tell you, before we go away, I tell you, don't use water on this floor. They say no water. Why you pour water all over the floor?"

As I mopped up the spill with my newly-washed and dried towels, I mentally questioned the engineer who designed this particular dishwasher.

"WTF!!!!! Why don't you drain it BEFORE the dry cycle? Why did you have to leave that little surprise in there? Are you a sadist, or just mean? Excuse me, but if a machine is silent for 35 minutes, one might be forgiven for thinking it's FINISHED!!!"

Well, next time, I'll just leave everything hooked up.

As a good friend of mine has said:

"Oh no - not another ****ing learning experience!

Cooking for One

2009-07-15T19:31:00.002-04:00

Well, one and a half, if you count the cat!

So, I make home made cat food pretty much every other day. And Bijou has a penchant for chicken. Because of this, I tend to eat a lot of chicken.

Occasionally, we do beef, in one form or another. I like chili, steak, meatloaf. Bijou does not. Okay, back to chicken.

I owe Bijou my thanks, in a way. If not for her, I'd probably lapse into a rut that many single people fall into, especially the... aged ... among us. Tea and toast. Liquid lunches, liquid suppers. Cookies for supper. In other words, no cooking.

I love eating salads, but I hate preparing them. Rinse, dry, chop chop chop... god, it's BORING! Nah - I'll just grab a cucumber from the fridge and bite right into it, rather than go to all that work!

At least, when I make Bijou's cat food, I'm up and cooking, and I make my own veggies and salad. Most of the time.

Well, part of the great thing about getting a freezer is that now I've got stuff in it - stuff that isn't chicken. In the case of tonight's culinary masterpiece, breaded haddock filets and shoestring french fries. Bijou had her chicken, and I had fish n chips.

And as for veggies - well, tomato juice counts as a vegetable, no? And I'm sure the clam, lemon, worcestershire and vodka didn't hurt, either! Two servings!

A well-balanced meal!