"How in the world…"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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."