Why on earth?

So Montreal has a fairly new electric train service called the REM (Réseau Électrique de Montréal). It is buggy. There are stoppages regularly - it's a great idea, but someone hasn't figured out how to do their job yet.

Well, yesterday there was a terrible stoppage. Nobody was hurt, but a few hundred people were stuck on the tracks for several hours and had to be evacuated - get this - by jumping over a two-foot gap between two trains to get from their stuck train to the new one that pulled up alongside it.

There was only one train that was stuck - that one, but the entire platform all over the island went down for four hours.

Now, I was waiting at one of the stations to pick up Boyfriend from work. He takes the REM all the time, and usually misses all the problems because he usually goes in at 6:30 in the morning and comes home at 4:00 in the afternoon before anything can go wrong. But yesterday he had worked late and got stuck with the rest of the commuters.

We were texting each other, he letting me know the announcements kept saying that service would resume in a few minutes, me letting him know I saw an ambulance, fire truck, and empty buses speeding along the reserve lane headed in his direction. I spoke to my friend L who has the REM app, and she told me the whole platform was down.

I'd been waiting for Boyfriend for about 45 minutes when I decided to call Hubby to let him know what was going on. He listened carefully while I gave him all the details of all the conversations, thought carefully, and then said:

    "Well, I've had a snack, so it's okay."

I looked at the phone in my hand and said "What?!"

Because, in his male privileged mind, I must have been calling to tell him dinner would be delayed!

Because why the heck else would I possibly be calling him?!

Why indeed!

 

Hubby's New Math

Bridge cards are narrower than poker cards, because you have to hold 13 of them in your hand all at once.

The lovely set of bridge cards from Budapest bought as a gift for me by two dear friends has begun to wear out under the weekly use for rousing good games of bridge with me and "my bridge ladies" from the local churches. They've begun to get folded in corners, which will never do for bridge!

So I searched the internet for 90 seconds and found all the bridge cards are way overpriced, but I needed a new set NOW, so I selected a set from Amazon for $43.00. I gave the link to hubby, because he has Prime and doesn't pay delivery charges. "Ok," I was told.

A few days pass, and no cards turn up. I query him.

"Oh, I found something BETTER," he says.

Uh-oh.

He had found sets of bridge cards (they always come as two decks together in a set) for $16! Great!

But oh no, there was a delivery charge of $16.00.

(Do the math with me people: 16+16=32. I'm still coming in at under the original $43, good deal!)

However, Hubby likes BARGAINS and SALES. He kept digging on that site to find out how to get himself free delivery and LO-- all he has to do is order $80 worth of merchandise!

So that's what he does.

Five sets of bridge cards arrive. That's ten decks of cards.

I reminded Hubby that the ladies I play bridge with are all in their eighties, and there is NO WAY we will use up five sets of bridge cards in our respective lifetimes!

Since I informed him that under no circumstances was I going to pay him $80, he hinted that there could be a Birthday Present involved in this transaction.

Great, I think, here goes the conversation between me and any pal:

    "What did your husband give you for your birthday Debbie?"

    "Ten decks of cards."

   

???

A Chance Meeting

For some reason known only to the gods, I have lately taken to wearing false eyelashes.

Now let's be clear - I haven't worn makeup for at least fifteen years! I have no idea why I bought the eyelashes I saw in the pharmacy, except that they're called "Low Key," and they look real, instead of the huge apparitions most false eyelashes resemble - chunky, heavy, and obviously false. No, these are short and wispy. The moment I saw them I bought them.

So, a day or so later I had of course to go buy the adhesive, because I hadn't known that adhesive needs to be applied daily. Call me inexperienced.

And then a few days after that I bought the eyelash adhesive remover... Sometimes I'm a slow learner.

I've also recently had my hair cut in a most becoming fashion.

Fully equipped, off I went last Tuesday afternoon to play bridge at the local church with the local church ladies. Now, the local legion is having its largest room repaired, with the result that they use this local church to hold luncheons, which end at 1pm, just in time for us to play bridge.

For no reason at all, in the car just before I got out, I decided to apply lipstick. I even wondered while I was doing it, why was I doing it! Nevertheless apply it I did, and made for the church door.

And there, inside, among the dozen or so stragglers who hadn't cleared out, sat an old beau of mine!

I walked up to him and said his name. He looked up a bit confused, so then I said my name. Like a shot he stood up and said "we were just leaving!" "Okay," I replied, and went off to join my ladies.

Not till I got home did I think about it - if you're going to accidentally run into a former beau, how great is it that your hair was done, you were batting false eyelashes, sporting lipstick, and you'd had a boob job!

What a great way to run into anyone!

The Passing of Bijou

"Ma'mselle" has passed away.

Miss Bijou had one orange toe - I saw it first thing at the SPCA the day she adopted me and knew immediately that her name wasn't "Sandy," as was on her cage, but Bijou, like the little jewel on her paw!

We lived alone together for about a year in a basement apartment in NDG. She had one window to look out! When it snowed, the window was half filled with snow - so unfair!

Her life improved dramatically when we moved in with Andre.

Then we moved back to Homer street. At the time, Liam's two cats ruled the roost, and Miss Bijou was quite disconcerted. It was the beginning of February, and the enterprising little thing walked home to Panama street in Brossard! Andre found her when he went back to pack some more things! When we brought her back that day, she knew she was stuck here.

But life quickly got better. Liam took his kitties away, and she was again queen of all she surveyed!

Perhaps the most quintessential photo of her ever - lying on her kneeling pad in the garden, soaking up the sunshine.

She loved to sleep on Sean's heating pad, and would climb on his chest during the news in the evenings, right before climbing on Andre. 

She was queen of the street - the minute she came outside, all other cats would scatter. A Holy Terror!

Farewell darling Bijou, as you cross the rainbow bridge. Say hi to all the other kitties for me.

 

Remembering Charles Thomas Gynes on Remembrance Day

 My Great-Grandfather, Grandma's dad.

He died in WWI, in a training accident. The war was over, he was a week or two away from being home, safe and sound. Some munitions got ignited. Poof. His life, and the life of another soldier, became a statistic.

Many people do not realize what kind of impact wars have on families -- thankfully. And many people might question why I mourn the loss of a man I never knew, might never have known.

Yet his death impacted my entire family through the long years right down to me, my daughter, and my stepchildren.

You might be familiar with the English "nursery" rhyme:

For want of a nail, the shoe was lost.
For want of the shoe, the horse was lost.
For want of the horse, the rider was lost.
For want of the rider, the message was lost.
For want of the message, the battle was lost.
For want of the battle, the war was lost.
For want of the war, the kingdom was lost.
All for the want of a horseshoe nail.

For want of Charles Thomas Gynes, his widow (Ada Swarbrick)and mother of his two children (Margaret Doris and William Albert) had to remarry in order to support herself. She married a Canadian soldier who was stationed in England at the time, Mr. Lampron. 

They moved to Canada. They had a daughter, Eva.

Then Ada, my great-grandmother, died. Mr. Lampron didn't want the two hand-me-down children, so he put them in an orphanage.

The first life lesson for my future grandmother, little Doris, was that step-parents don't necessarily love their step-children.

My future grandmother became the epitome of the Brit with the British backbone, getting a job when she was fourteen and getting her little brother out of the orphanage and raising him.

Meanwhile, on my future grandfather's side, young Fred got happily married to Catherine Flavell. They were happy as clams, looking forward to the child Catherine began to carry. Little Florence was born, she was the apple of her father's eye, but Catherine suffered complications due to childbirth, and did not survive long. She made Fred promise to let her mother raise their daughter for two practical reasons: 1) Fred had to work, and theirs was not the friendly-father-figure generation! Men simply could not raise a baby! And 2) she thought Fred might one day remarry, and stepmothers often did not love their stepchildren as they ought. Fred reluctantly agreed, and Little Florence was raised by Catherine's mother.

Two years after the birth of Florence, Fred and Doris met, and it was pretty much instant. Doris was absolutely dying to raise the little girl, but understood the arrangement Fred and Catherine had come to, having experience the not-so-wonderful step-parent relationship herself.

And here is where Doris' wounds began to surface. She had a son, Russell, my future father. The Great Depression hit and they were penniless, living in Grandpa's family home in Dunvegan Ontario through all the years of the depression. Doris had learned early on to budget wisely, and it brought them through intact. But that early lack of security in her home made Doris frantic to gather her family close, like a mother hen. My father had a somewhat problematic relationship with his mother, and a great relationship with his father. Doris clung to every family member.

Then my father met my mother, Patricia Usas. They looked nice together, and Pat had lost her own mother when she was around ten years old. She appreciated Grandma's mothering, probably like pain to dry wood, soaked it in, loved it. Grandma planned a wedding for them, Uncle Bill (William Albert) gave them a reception, and along I came.

By this point, some of the over-mothering was beginning to take its toll on my parents' marriage. Pat and Russ consulted grandma before they bought so much as a toaster. And sex - holy cow! My grandfather believed in abstinence if you didn't want children, and Grandma believed you climbed on and climbed off to get it done! My dad was fine with this, but my mother began to sense something was lacking. Still suffering from her own lack of mother, she confided things to my Grandmother, asking questions the like of which poor Doris had never dreamed of, and was told she had a dirty mind. Don't forget - Doris had had no one to argue with when she was growing up. She didn't know that one could be in conflict with one's parents or children. She had had no parent teach her that sex was a pleasure, and her husband didn't know better either, what were the chances!

Things quickly went south from that point. Since Mother Doris now disapproved of Pat, and Fred adored Doris, both my dad's parents helped my father cool towards his wife. And one day when I was five years old, having joined the Air Force and been posted to Namao Base in Edmonton, my dad packed me up and drove me off out west without a word to my mother.

Physiologically speaking, my mother's stress went to her neck muscles. She was admitted to hospital because her muscles were so knotted up they were constricting the blood flow to the brain.

They relaxed said muscles with morphine. And Pat became instantly addicted, because of course she was part of the 2% of the population that becomes an instant morphine addict. (I learned this about myself when I had my hysterectomy! Instant withdrawal symptoms: sweats, hallucinations, twitching and itching - that's one of my inheritances!)

So, my mother was unable to come get me. My father, who I adored, kidnapped me away from the most important relationship a human being could have. My grandparents agreed with him. Everybody I loved and trusted took me away from my own mother, and claimed to do it out of love. Did do it out of fear of losing me, they did adore me, they wanted to be with me, but nobody thought about how this would affect me.

So I became a bit conflicted...

My grandparents moved out west shortly after my dad and I did, and Grandma's mothering began to take hold again. At first I was glad - hell, I was five years old! My babysitter's daughter was a year older than me and she used to strangle me! I was thrilled to be taken care of by my grandmother! And there's another example of conflict for me - yet another person who was supposed to care for me failed me.

My parents divorced, we moved around, again a pattern of not having permanent friendships, no other voices but my grandmother's. Yes, my grandfather and my father were there, but let's not kid ourselves as to who ruled the roost!

So I grew up having zero trust in anyone who loved me, total obedience to my matriarch grandmother, an absentee mother (as far as I could process) and an emotionally distant military father. Into this mix throw my stepmother Minnie. The minute she said she loved me, I inwardly wondered what she was going to do to me. When she tried to loosen my grandmother's grip on me, again all hell broke loose, and the result was that my father and stepmother left me behind with grandma.

...Because of course, who knows if a step-parent would love a child properly?!

There's that horseshoe nail again! I was prevented from joining my father and his new wife out of the same old fears that had been firmly rooted in my grandparents' lives.

Now just wait till I had my own child, and then years later my own step-children! Woo-hoo! Are we ready for what I had learned at my grandmother's knee? Total overbearing mothering, total domination? Insisting on unquestioning obedience? Expecting my spouse to support me in those cases where conflict arose?

Hah! Did I ever get a comeuppance! And did I EVER take it out on the children!!!

It wasn't always bad. I remember having a lot of fun as a family. But I also remember scenes of blind fury. And at this point my inner demons took hold and I began my depressions. My recognized depressions - I'd been depressed most of my life but didn't realize it. From about the age of five, actually. No wonder. In hospital this time on suicide watch, because I didn't feel safe anywhere.

Any wonder I didn't feel safe anywhere?

But the bottom line to anyone who could see what was going on, was that this stepmother didn't love her stepchildren properly.

So for lack of Charles Thomas Gynes, Doris had a horrible life without a natural parent. She never learned how to handle conflict, she desired above all things to have a family and keep it close. For lack of parental guidance she didn't learn about physical aspects of relationships and became horrified when her daughter-in-law asked questions. Deciding that my mother was unfit, she drove her and my father apart. She came out to care for me and inadvertently taught me how not to handle conflict, how not to handle a lot of things: because every step of my life was planned for me. I never learned to make good choices. And when I got on my own, boy did I make some doozies!

And because of the over-mothering, I over-parented my step children. (Strangely, I'm pretty sure my daughter came out all right - but her story is different. After all, she had her natural mother, and access to her natural father despite the divorce. And both sets of grandparents, and a set of great-grandparents!)

Because of the type of over-parenting I received and the lack of real communication in my family, and because I was taken away from my mother, I suffered depressions.

Seriously, if Charles Thomas had lived...Even if Ada had still died young, Doris and William Albert would have been parented. Perhaps some of Doris' stranger ideas would have been challenged by her father. Perhaps he would have seen to it that she learned a bit about intimacy as she approached marriageable age. Perhaps she would have been more understanding of my mother's questions. Of differences of opinion. Of the necessity of letting young people go, be free to make their own decisions, even if she disagreed with them. Perhaps she wouldn't have taken me away from my mother.

I firmly believe my entire family history was strongly impacted by the death of my great-grandfather, Charles Thomas Gynes.

This is all I have left of him.

At the going down of the sun

And in the morning

We will remember them.

So They Thought I Could Write

In my schooling years I was told over and over again (by well-meaning teachers) that I could write. That I was a natural writer.

I guess I missed my calling, probably through laziness, as usual!

But a wee ditty I wrote a number of years ago came back to me today. The CBC (radio) had a competition on to win The Complete Works of J. S. Bach. People were invited to submit limericks with the word "Bach" in it.

I won one of the sets that were given away for this, perhaps my best writing ever.

(clears throat)

Zere vunce vuz a composer named Bach
Who complained to his vife one day, "Ach,
I can't do my writing,
For ze kids zey are fighting,
And ze dog is go Bach Bach Bach Bach!"

And there you have it dear reader. My best. Ta-da. 

Lack of Community

So, Covid robbed all of us of our little communities - from family to knitting groups, symphonies, courses, and quilting groups.

But I want to talk about a lack of community from ten to fifteen years ago, I forget how many, because since I retired and Covid came I can barely remember the year I was born, much less any details since then. 

For one year I was the project coordinator for a quilting group I was a part of. I worked very hard, but with little success. At the end of the year I made a poll asking the members what techniques they wanted teachers for, and they requested every single technique I had handled during my tenure. So...not much success there!

No hard feelings -- after all, I might just not be the teacher I thought I was!

But one project I proposed that didn't get accepted still rankles with me, and I've finally processed it's rejection and come to an opinion, ten or so years later. And that was a "Community" project. Community as in old-time, nearly Amish, quilting bee sort of idea.

Here was the plan.

Firstly, people would enter their names in a hat, sort of a lottery or drawing. Everyone who submitted their names was committing to quilting the project. The person who "won" the drawing got to have the help of the others participants in quilting one of their own quilts. 

You couldn't win more than once, and if you won you committed to participating the next year.

Basically it was a lottery to get help hand-quilting your own quilt. I had in mind the way I imagined quilting bees were done in the olden days - a lot of women helping each there get their quilts finished. A community of quilters helping each other get their quilts done quicker than they could finish by themselves.

Now, this wasn't too far off the kind of "lotteries" the group was already doing. Their "ordinary" drawings involved the group piecing and quilting a quilt and then the drawing would take place amongst all the participants to decide who would win said quilt. My plan simply involved an individual's quilt being quilted by the group who would all know ahead of time they were helping a member get their quilt done.

It never made it to the group. The steering committee looked at me with utterly blank faces and said, as one, "Why in the world would anyone want to participate in that?"

They honestly could not understand the point.

The point was being helpful to one of our own members.

The point was for the winner to get help and end up with a quilt finished in one tenth the time.

The point was for the winner to end up with a quilt they liked, instead of a pattern decided by a group of people with tastes different from their own.

The point was to act like a community.

Well, only a small minority understood the point, and the project never happened. So now, after ten or more years, I have come up with the retort I should have given when it was voted down.

"You must all be conservatives."

Seriously, they could not see the value of putting their effort into knowingly giving a helping hand to another member, even though the following years they might themselves benefit from such a lottery. Nope, they would only help out in a year if and only if they might themselves win that same year, even if the quilt they might win was not to their particular taste.

The LEFT seeks to benefit people.

The RIGHT seeks to benefit themselves.

Pardon me for giving a f**k about my neighbour's quilts.

Buttering Up

Betty Botter bought some butter 
And she put it in her batter ---
But she found the batter bitter
So she bought some better butter
(Better than the bitter butter!)
And she put it in her batter
And the batter wasn't bitter.
So t'was better Betty Botter bought some better butter.

I made butter today. Kinda just for the heck of it. The ultimate goal was to obtain two tablespoons of buttermilk, because I have a recipe for home-made soft cheese I want to make for New Year's.

In true 90-second-Deb fashion, I quickly scanned the recipes, mostly to work out whether to use the regular beater on the KitchenAid mixer, or the whisk. It's the whisk.

I poured a liter of whipping cream into the bowl and slowly ramped the speed up to 10.

That's when I realized I should have done what the recipe said and used a towel to catch the splashes. Undaunted, I obtained said towel and watched the mixer do its thing.

And watched.

And watched.

Damn. I needed to read that recipe again to see how long this takes! Turns out, it takes ten full minutes of the KitchenAid on speed 10.

So I returned to my task and the mixer returned to its. Now, years ago, when I first got my own KitchenAid mixer, I nearly set it on fire the first day because I used it to knead bread - too large a recipe for too long. This is why I was concerned and re-read the recipe, because Hubby's mixer was getting just a teensy bit warm.

I needn't have worried - in just a few moments more the transition began, buttermilk pouring out of solution and pure butter (looking like scrambled eggs) floating on it. After that I poured of the precious buttermilk into a container - I got over a cup! - and then rinsed the butter and squeezed the rest of the buttermilk down the  drain as best I could.

Admiral, there be butter here! And buttermilk!

In a few quick minutes the cheese concoction was set to warming, the butter stored in the fridge, and tidying done.

Now that I'm sitting thinking about this, I can't begin to imagine what it must have been like in OLDEN times, making butter by hand! Oh sure, they had churners made in various sizes, which worked, I assume, to varying degrees of success! But OMG!!! The hours it must have taken! Unless they literally did tiny amounts every day! C'mon - ten minutes at maximum on a huge mixer = at least five hours backbreaking work!

Once again, I am happy to be a child of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, despite my penchant for learning to make butter, chop wood, spin yard, knit, and quilt! Oh, and home-can a lot of food!

The Coffeepot, the Teapot, the Life

 

This is an item few people under fifty years old will recognize. It is a coffee server. Similar to a teapot, it is used to hold and pour coffee when using one’s fine china, in this case, the Royal Doulton Paisley pattern.

One can make tea in the teapot, but to use this coffeepot, one must first make the coffee elsewhere, then pour it into the coffee server, and from thence to the table for pouring.

To those with a thoroughly modern sensibility, this is ridiculous. To fans of Downton Abbey and other British period dramas, less so.

I marvel at that old lifestyle, where kitchen staff had to carry heaping trays upstairs from the kitchens to the dining room. Keeping the food hot, serving it at just the correct time, up and down those stairs at least twenty times per footman… In order to get everything on time, hot, on plates for all the guests - and there were always guests! - it was like a finely choreographed dance. A well-practised, sumptuous ballet.

The closest we come to such fine skill today is getting the turkey dinner on the table. From a kitchen no more than four feet away, I struggle to get the turkey on the platter, with a serving fork; the gravy in the heated gravy boat; the cranberry on the table in its pretty dish with a spoon; vegetables in serving dishes with spoons; stuffing in a dish with a spoon; chilled wine in wine glasses; chilled water in water glasses; napkins folded artistically; a lovely tablecloth under all; my Royal Doulton Paisley proudly laid beautifully for the enjoyment of all.

The men in my life are blissfully oblivious to how complex the timing of all this is! My female friends nod their heads in appreciation. Getting all this ready at the same time is, if not a ballet, then a miracle!

It is a labour, to be sure. But goodness, the table is beautiful.

That image, of course, is not of a turkey dinner, but you get the idea…

I got married the first time many, many moons ago. So many moons, that I was expected to start a gift registry, not on Amazon (which didn’t exist then) but at The Bay, specifically in the China, Crystal, and Flatware department. Otherwise known as the Bridal department. Because in that ancient time, brides-to-be were EXPECTED to choose a china pattern, a crystal pattern, and a flatware pattern. I, in fact, had to practically beat my future mother-in-law off with a stick to prevent her insisting I select a SILVERWARE pattern as well! Yes, there were several familial discussions about that point!

And this wasn’t happening in Edwardian Britain, but here in Canada, in the latter half of the twentieth century!

The only part of that trousseau I have left is the Flatware: Oneida Frostfire, and thereby hangs a tale for another day.

In the long years after my divorce I struggled to make ends meet. But my beautiful Mother had begun, late in her life, to collect Royal Doulton Paisley for herself, and it is this pattern that I inherited and cherish.

There is a sad part to this story, concerning the teapot.

One year I had been bemoaning to my mother that I had no idea what to get her for Christmas, and she replied that I could always help her out with her china collection. She suggested the teapot in the course of that phone call. She called me back twenty minutes later vehemently exclaiming that I was NOT to buy it for her, as she had just looked up the price and nearly lost her dentures.

She went on about what a ridiculous price it was, how any other teapot would do just as well, and I ended up getting her an ordinary teapot with similar colors to her china, and she claimed she was satisfied with that.

But with 20/20 hindsight, I regret not just putting this lavish item on a credit card and gifting it to her. Her life was cut short by a terrible stroke. I wish she had had the pleasure of pouring tea for her guests from her teapot that matched her lovely china. Especially since, the moment I inherited her china, I set about filling in all the gaps of the service she had left me, and bought the teapot anyway. And all of that was still on the credit card.

My mom loved to entertain, and she set a beautiful table. She also had great decorating sense, which I didn’t inherit, and that brings me to the point of this ramble.

I want the kind of life that coffeepot / server implies.

I want a clean, orderly, well-appointed home where guests can expect to be comfortable and treated like visiting royalty. Where I can set my table with pride, and experience palpable relief from the rush and bother of everyday life when I look at the china, crystal, and flatware all set out beautifully. Where the food is delicious and served hot at the right time.

And where I can pour the coffee for my guests from the coffee server, and everything be, for one precious moment, elegant.

Bloggable Moments

 Apparently I’m on my LAST NERVE.

I didn’t realize it till the events I’m about to describe were all over, but pressures had been building…

So this morning I had to go to my own vet to pick up extra stuff for my injured cat, whom I had taken to the emergency vet yesterday. I was looking for some special cortisone cream to take to my vet to show her and ask if I could use it on my injured kitty’s neck. (The answer turned out to be no, but that’s not actually today’s topic!)

I looked for the cream last night and had put it in my purse.

It wasn’t there this morning.

After running all over the place cursing myself for not putting things where they belong, I resorted to the DUMP, throwing everything from the purse on my bed, and yes, the cream was there.

I carefully repacked the purse and headed off for my two errands.

    1. Go to vet, discuss cream, pick up antiseptic wash

    2. Go to post office with a small gift to mail to my niece.

I got to the vet, showed pictures, got a new collar, picked up the antiseptic wash, and couldn’t find the cream in my purse.

I went out to the car, dumped the purse again, found the cream again, carefully replaced everything, went back in to the vet, and concluded my business.

Next, off to the Post Office. Put on my mask, squirted my hands, picked up a bubble mailer, dug around in my purse for the gift and card, which were not there.

Went back out to the car and dumped the purse AGAIN, only this time, I “lost it.”

An observer would have seen an old lady yelling at something in the front seat of the car. Swearing, in fact, at every item she was pulling from the purse. Swearing as she found what she was looking for and glancing furtively around to make sure there were, in fact, no observers.

I went back into the post office and managed to send the small gift, came back to the car and held it together till I got home.

I told hubby the story of my MaryFuckingPoppins purse.

I asked hubby if he’d just put his arms around my shoulders, and he said

“Why - is the straight jacket not tight enough?”

Male Designers for Female Needs

 Grumble grumble grumble…

So, as an old woman, I have a common condition. Not into diapers just yet, but needing pee protection. Sneezing, coughing, laughing, and sometimes just getting up or sitting down, stuff leaks out a little bit. A little bit more first thing in the morning, especially if I have to wait for one of my housemates to finish reading everything on Facebook before their bums falls asleep and they realize they’ve been in the gd-bathroom for an hour…

So, because of the morning “gush,” as it were, I have to wear what is termed “extra protection” type of pads.

These extra protection pads are huge, but my complaint is that they are LONG - almost fifteen inches in length!

Now, I don’t know about your anatomy, but fifteen inches is a rather extreme length on me! So long, in fact, that the front part frequently comes away from the panty it’s supposed to grip with its firm adhesive and sticks itself to the underside of my belly.

And let me tell you, that adhesive is FIRM against the underside of the belly! I wish it were as firm gripping the panty.

Recently I found myself waxing philosophical as I sat on the edge of the bed, about to stick my protection to the panty. I marvelled at the length, and it occurred to me that yes, a MAN would probably think that longer is better. I confirmed my suspicions by showing it to Hubby, who said that “obviously,” longer offered more protection!.

Just as I thought. See, longer does NOT offer more protection, as frequently bits have leaked out the sides of the pad. The extreme front of the pad is dry, as is the back, but the sides regularly cannot absorb the volume of liquid. Of course, were one to pee S L O W L Y into the pad, I’m sure it could handle it. However, if I could pee slowly, I wouldn’t need the damned pad!

All of which leads me to the question I would like to put to the designers:

Have you ever actually MET a woman?

Ablutophobia

 It’s a real word! It means fear of washing or bathing. And for several years I thought I was a candidate!

Not actually afraid so much as did not enjoy getting wet. Like a cat, for instance. But while I was working I knew I had to wash, if only, as Hubby says, as a Public Service.

But I’ve been retired now for a couple of years. Also, unrelated to being retired, I am at my largest girth of my life, which has resulted in what my Grandpa used to call “Dunlop’s Disease.” His belly done lopped over his belt! Hahahahahah!

The point being, I need to wash under my flap or it gets sore and inflamed...and yes, I learned that the hard way.

Also the humongous knockers, or as my pal P calls them, “the twins.”

This creates quite the difficulty for someone who is ablutophobic! Were I nice and skinny, as I was in my youth, I could get away with a shower every second day. But when one adds the age problem - you smell worse when you’re old - with the weight problem, every second day ain’t gonna cut it!

Today I discovered a “unique” solution to my bathing aversion.

Unique up on it!

I fooled myself. I went into the bathroom for a pee, and while I was there I quickly grabbed the bath mat, ran the hot water, tore my nightie off, and grabbed the hair dryer. I was in the shower before I knew it!

In, washed, out, and dried in under ten minutes.

As long as I don’t get into the conversation with myself about “Idon’twannahaveashower,everything hurts,I’drathergobacktobed,” and I leap into the shower without warning, I’m good.

You’re welcome. 

Same Sean, Different Day

 Background:

I got married at 21 and received a great cookbook as a wedding gift, which I have used profusely for the past 42 years. It contains several recipies for homemade bread. It took me a few years to really get the hang of it, but I pride myself on having become something of, if not a master, at least a qualified bread maker. I’ve done it in a bread-making machine, by hand completely, and with the aid of a KitchenAid mixer. I’ve picked the KitchenAid as my favourite method. I know how to adjust recipes after looking carefully at the ingredients list, because I can predict the problems that would be encountered.

Today

The story begins with my friend M sending me a recipe for a miche baked in a Dutch oven. I’ve never baked bread inside a Dutch oven, so I decided this morning I’d give it a go. I read the recipe, made some small adjustments, and got started.

Now, as many of you know, my knees are not in the best shape, and I hadn’t yet put on my exoskeleton for the day. I needed more flour than I had upstairs, and Boyfriend had already come up for his lunch, so I asked Hubby - politely - if he would please fetch me more flour from the storage in the basement. Which he did.

(I mention this because it might be said that, having asked Hubby for a favour, I invited his interrogation. Male readers, please follow along and think if YOU would have made these comments to your wife. Female readers, follow along and see if a jury of your peers would convict you.)

Action on my part:

Using the mixer’s general purpose mixing blade to mix the salt with the flour and then adding the liquid with the yeast dissolved in it.

H’s question:

“Why aren’t you using the kneading attachment?”

My answer:

“I WILL be using the kneading attachment, right after I use the mixing attachment to mix everything till the dough pulls away from the side of the bowl.”

(Dough pulls away from the side of the bowl.)

Action on my part, walking around H who is standing in front of the mixer as I removed the mixing attachment and put on the kneading attachment.

H’s question:

“Why don’t you just use the kneading attachment? It could do both jobs.”

My answer:

“No it doesn’t. It doesn’t reach or touch all parts of the bowl.”

(Kneading begins. I set the oven timer for 5 minutes.)

(Dough begins to climb up the kneading attachment.)

H’s question:

“Are you sure it doesn’t reach the whole bowl? I think you should be able to use just the dough hook.”

My answer:

“Look at it, Sean. It relies on the body of the dough. It doesn’t touch the sides.”

His question:

“But why can’t you just use the dough hook? Won’t it mix everything?”

Boyfriend now enters the fray.

“Sean, do we tell you which kinds of router to use when you’re playing with your (unintelligible tech-talk)? Let her play with her toys in peace!”

Hubby’s question:

“But the bread machine uses a little tiny paddle to do all this! It doesn’t make sense that you have to use the mixer blade AND the dough hook!”

My question:

“Sean, have you ever made bread using the mixer?”

Hubby:

“No, but the bread machine...”

Me:

“I’M NOT USING THE F*****G BREAD MACHINE, AM I?! I’M USING THE BLOODY MIXER! YOU’VE NEVER USED THE MIXER TO MAKE BREAD! I F*****G KNOW WHAT I’M DOING! GET OUT!!!”

My bread is now rising in peace in a warm corner while I continue to sputter and swear to myself, and my friend M’s voice runs through my head “Just let it go, Deb, just let it go...”

A Strange Neighbour Am I

 I am, sometimes, what my grandfather would have referred to as a “queer duck.”

This phrase has nothing to do with sexual orientation. It has to do with strange behaviour. Today’s outing to the pharmacy is a case in point.

I appeared outside my home, walking to my car, sporting a Kleenex stuffed into both my nostrils. One of my neighbours spotted me and was apparently riveted by the sight. I do not know if anyone else saw me stumbling to the car with a thick white fluffy nose ring...but several drivers who passed me did. There was just enough time to witness the confusion on their faces as I made my way to the pharmacy.

You see, I have a breathing machine, a CPAP. It is a new one, purchased this summer to replace the old one whose motor had exceeded its lifespan.

This time I thought I’d try the nasal pillow mask, which has two little pillowy thingies you stuff into your nose, and the air from the CPAP blows, quite forcefully, up one’s nose to maintain air pressure and prevent sleep apnea.

It took some getting used to - previously I had used a mask that fitted over my entire nose. The nasal pillows are physically more comfy even though the stream of air feels mighty powerful. However I gave them a try.

And pretty much everything worked well. I found the airstream dried my nasal passages somewhat and increased the humidity, and everything seemed to work.

Till the night before last, when the water tank ran dry, and I slept through the night receiving dry air through the nasal pillows. With the result that, upon awakening and turning off the CPAP, I began to sneeze.

And sneeze.

And sneeze. All day, every five minutes.

And my nose ran like a tap - and I do not mean dripping!

I decided to give it a day and see if it would settle down on its own, which it did not, and slept without the CPAP last night, my nose stuffed with Kleenex so I wouldn’t drip, or sneeze all night.

As I awoke this morning and removed the packing, I suffered ten or more sneezes. I then called the company to get an appointment to see about getting the other kind of mask fitted to the new machine.

Then I consulted Dr. Google, looking up “nasal inhibitor.” And found that lidocaine is used to decrease nasal sensitivity, for example prior to inserting a feeding tube.

I found other quite different uses. If you suffer from premature ejaculation, for example, you can rub lidocaine on your member to make it less sensitive! But I digress...

I made my way to the pharmacy in search of a lidocaine spray or cream, and that is when my neighbour spotted me walking to the car with Kleenex stuffed up both nostrils.

A simple explanation perhaps...I had to explain it to the pharmacist when he asked why I wanted lidocaine. Of course my COVID mask was hiding the Kleenex from him, so I said “don’t laugh” and briefly dropped the mask so he could see my stuffed nose. I told him about getting all dried up and continual sneezing and he understood my purpose, and sold me the cream.

So my neighbours probably think me a little odd, which isn’t all that far from the truth. But there is always a reason behind my odd behaviour, even though it might not be immediately apparent to the casual observer!

And, incidentally, it’s working. Slowly. But I haven’t sneezed in over twenty minutes, so that’s an improvement!

CMS Homework - Garden Journal

 

Welcome to the beginning of my garden project. June 2019 I hired a firm to come dig me a triangular garden and fill it with black earth. This is in my front yard. That bare spot in the foreground is where Chance, the dog, digs up the earth to lie in its coolness. The entire area is shaded by a maple tree planted the same year I was born, and to whose existence I thought I owed the complete lack of garden in the front yard!

Turns out, I was wrong. Sunlight hits the property line between me and my neighbour Anne by noon. So, tired of having so much lawn to cut, I decided to cut the lawn in half and plant things that I enjoy looking at.

I love the flower called Cosmos. When we lost our home in Brossard and came back here to live, I never thought I'd be able to have Cosmos again. But here is the tiny crop I planted last summer. I also planted Lily-of-the-Valley, one red Day Lily plant,  several Hostas, some ornamental grasses, and a Rhododendron.

This summer I added Pansies, Poppies, and some Solomon's Seal. The cat likes to sit and chew the budding ornamental grasses.

A closeup of one of the poppies.

I sit in that blue chair and watch the garden grow, some days for hours! I keep thinking how lovely it is that I had the money to do this project, the time to put into it, but most of all have the time to sit and enjoy it! The Cosmos have grown quite high this year...

Seen grinning behind the Cosmos is my husband Sean. In memory of my father I must now tell you that Sean is the Flower of Manhood - the Blooming Idjit. Dad joke, sorry!

One of the things that makes this garden special to me is that it is on land that was just used as a lawn before. My grandparents were the original owners of this house, and there were all kinds of foundation "gardens" around, and a bit of one in the back.

But my grandmother had no idea how large the trees would get! The big maple is the front, which effectively cuts off sunlight and rainwater to everything under its branches, is a mere six feet from the foundation of the house. So, so much for the front foundation plantings!

          Rant 

And about foundation plantings...I thoroughly disapprove! This house, and indeed every house in Greenfield Park, is built on clay, on what is called a floating foundation. Basically there's a big slab o' concrete under the house foundation that literally floats on clay. When the clay is damp and moist, everything's fine. But when the clay dries out, the support for that foundation fails under one corner or another, the floating foundation cracks, and the house foundation walls crack. Next time it rains, water comes in the basement.

Water has been coming in our basement for fifty years. About 25 years ago the government set up a program where, if you could afford to have an engineering firm raise your house and drill down to bedrock, they'd reimburse you 30% of the cost. Pfft! As if!

Anyway, watering gardens right next to the foundation of a house is not a good idea! Now, one can SEEM to have foundation plantings, if you only dig them about 1.5 feet out from the house! As the plants grow, no one will be able to tell they're not right up against the foundation! And you won't have to water the foundation of your home!

Back to why I love this garden.

I live on a very quiet street. Some days a total of ten cars will go by. Especially this summer, with Covid! I can sit in the shade of my overlarge maple tree and watch the blooms and leaves breathe with the breezes. The cats come and visit me. The neighbours think I'm nuts, which suits me!

All the foundation plantings around the house have been systematically killed by drought and neglect. But this one is mine. It has plants I like in it - once I got Sean to stop buying me stuff I don't want!

Sitting and watching it grow, breathing with it, listening to the birds and squirrels,  I feel at peace.

 

Thoroughly Disgruntled Debbie

That's a play on the name of the movie "Thoroughly Modern Millie," by the way. Pretty much anything I say that sounds remotely clever is a play on words that are titles, plays, films, cartoons, dialogue. Sorry. Nothing new under the sun. (That's a quote too...)

Like most people of the world today, I am out of sorts. It's not sunny out and it's gone cold again, so no playing in the garden today. That means indoor "activities." But halfway through today's activities, I started understanding my problem.

See...
I LIKE THE IDEA...
...of making protective face masks for my friends, BUT I don't enjoy the process of making them.

I LIKE THE IDEA...
...of eating salads and home-preserved foods, BUT even thinking about the amount of work it takes overwhelms me.

I LIKE THE IDEA...
...of having nice clean clothes to wear, BUT laundry is so boring and hard on my back!

I LIKE THE IDEA...
...of walking the dog, BUT I hate the way my mastiff/fence-jumper pulls my arm out of its socket.

I LIKE THE IDEA...
... of having a nice clean house, but OMG have you SEEN this place????!!!!

I LIKE THE IDEA...
...of calling my friends and family to cheer them up, BUT I suspect I'm not particularly encouraging, funny, or even good company.

I never was a self-starter. Take A, for example. A gets up at five in the morning, whether he wants to or not. He showers, dresses for work in work clothes, gets online in his home office by six a.m.

Whether he wants to or not. He doesn't take personal calls, he doesn't search the internet, he doesn't budge from his home office till his 9 hours are finished.

Whether he wants to or not.

That, ladies and gents, is what I call Self-Discipline.

And it's something I lack entirely. For me, discipline has always had to be applied externally.

As I muddle my way through the Great Confinement, I realize my Grandpa was  like this in his later years, Sleeping till 11, struggling to get through breakfast, just wanting to sit all day. Dreading visitors. Hating to go to bed.

(We all suspected that he had alzheimer's or was depressed, and he actually had both conditions.)

He didn't used to be like that. In his younger years, he was into EVERYTHING. He helped EVERYBODY. He was pleasant and talkative, and everyone loved Grandpa. Jingling the coins in his pocket, tapping out a rhythm on the table, telling silly jokes, teaching the cat to jump through his arms... And puttering constantly, fixing things, making things. He was engaged in life, in his youth.

I seem to remember being engaged in life, too. But for the life of me I can't even conjure up the memory of what that felt like.

I just hope the sun will come out tomorrow.

March

I find it quite apt that this was Mr. March in the Outlander calendar, because this is what quarantining has been like in the Faille/Huxley/Metchette household during March.

(Now I hasten to add that if your last name begins with F, this is a HUMOROUS post. Please react accordingly.)

(My last post was received with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.)

We are all at the end of our respective tethers as March draws to a close. Even the pets. The dog wanders restlessly through the rooms and barks at anything that moves. The cats hiss at each other and throw up. We humans do the human equivalent of hissing and barking at each other quite regularly. The only thing we're united in is watching the news at 7 pm every night. Counting the dead-and-dying together.

Tonight we're going to try to play a game with H &  J via Zoom or Skype or whatever... Perhaps this will help to put us into a more jovial mood. I certainly hope...

Today's complaint (reminder: to be taken HUMOROUSLY!) is about He-Who-Works-From-Home.

I have never - repeat, never - met anyone with a work ethic like Boyfriend, short of an Asian.

He's up at five o'clock every morning and downstairs online, working, by 6 am. Each and very day. Showered and dressed up, I might add. Gel in the hair and everything. Mr. Boyfriend is quite regular in his habits! He's what they call a self-starter. And a damn good one.

I have never been a self-starter. And this definitely rubs Boyfriend the wrong way. My new name, according to Boyfriend, is "Miss Retired Person." As in, retired from life, the universe, and everything! As in, "I can't pick that up/wash that/cook that" because I'm retired.

But I digress.

Mr. Boyfriend doesn't even take his two permitted-by-law fifteen minute breaks. (Remember, he's working from home!)

His lunch "hour" consists of coming upstairs, heating something in the microwave, and bringing it with him as he goes back downstairs to eat it at his desk...this is while Working From Home!

For the rest of the (sane) world, "working from home" is a euphemism for checking your work email every couple of hours and screwing the dog in the meantime.

Not so for Boyfriend. What he can find to do is beyond my ability to guess, but he's there plugging away for NINE hours a day, planning, learning, working working working...

And that in itself is admirable.

Ahem.

There is just this tiny (humorous!) fact that came out in today's lunch break conversation.

Boyfriend: There's cream cheese out on the counter.
Me: Oh yeah. Could you put it back in the fridge please?
Boyfriend: Love, I am WORKING. I'm on company time! (goes back downstairs.)
Me: *thinks murderous thoughts.

I appreciate that Boyfriend is keeping me fed and housed and all that...

But he's so insufferably self-righteous about it!
(See picture at top of blog!)

Corvid19 Quarantine

Yeah...so everyone went out to the stores and emptied the shelves of things they won't need because they're panicking.

This is what cuts in education bring to a society.

And the younger ones are partying for a week on Florida beaches, ready to get sick because they don't think they will, or because they don't think it'll be serious. Lack of education again.

They're not considering anybody else they might come in contact with, who THEY might hurt.

Selfish bastards.

Rubbing shoulders with my two beloveds with no escape in sight has brought into clear focus the things I DO and DO NOT love about them. And I'm sure the reverse is true for them.

About ten minutes ago I seriously considered getting myself an apartment. Stayed because at least from here I might be able to help my Daughter financially if she needs it.

And that's the only reason I stopped myself.

Hubby and I used to joke that if I didn't live with him I wouldn't need as many meds as I do. That stopped being funny about 20 years ago.

I want to ask about My Job. As in, "Why is that my job?"

I blew up this morning, told the guys I was going to start acting like a MAN.

I'm not making their mental well-being a priority now.

One of them refuses to put tupperware away. He likes single-use plastic baggies, so he can throw the container away with the leftovers when they go bad because he doesn't eat leftovers.

The other one says, and I quote, "I don't know where that goes," TWO YEARS into living here.

A WOMAN eats leftovers, carefully puts them in washable containers, washes and puts said containers away when the leftovers have been eaten.

A WOMAN LOOKS to see where things go.

I'm sick to death of being the only WOMAN in this house.

Well I'm taking a demotion. From now on I'm a MAN.

I'm not going to care about anybody else. Put anything away where it goes. Cook anything. Cook anything that somebody likes or doesn't like, besides ME.

Why is it My Job to make sure the meals are healthy and made of things that everybody likes?

When Hubby cooks, it usually involves spaghetti, a can of sauce, and hot spices that make it inedible. He likes it spicy, because he's only got one tastebud left and it takes a lot to get it excited.

I don't remember the last time Boyfriend cooked anything.

Because we're in quarantine mode, the cleaning lady didn't come this week.

Who is vacuuming? Who wipes the counters? Who cleans the toilet and the tub?

I don't think those things are my job. And apparently they're not anybody else's either.

And why should it be my job? Do I experience a great sense of satisfaction from it? Am I particularly good at it? Does it involve a unique set of skills that only I have? Does it require training for complex items of machinery?

Nope.

One of them's going to say he doesn't know where the cleaning materials are kept.

The other is going to throw them out.

The old saying ARE true - Familiarity does breed contempt. And only absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Blessings

Years ago, when I was in a deep depression, my pal R had me start writing down good things that happened to me.

Each day I was to write down anything that happened wherein I felt I had had help to get through a task or the day.

At the beginning, all I could manage to scribble down were things like "loaded the dishwasher" and "did a load of laundry." Because at that point in my life, I needed divine help to get those things done.

Within two weeks, I couldn't keep up with all the positive things that were flooding my life.

Despite still struggling with getting out of bed in the morning, still whining about having to take a shower, still at the bottom of the well in terms of my emotional reserves, I could not keep up with all the blessings I was receiving.

This was an exercise in bringing back my faith in Life. No matter how sick I was, I was still being blessed daily with numerous small miracles. I began to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

I am still bombarded daily with divine help. Today one especially amazing item is flooding my soul to the point where I had to share it.

I'm knitting a dress for Daughter. We picked the project and color together. I'm taking a course so that I make it correctly, I'm taking all the time I need to do it properly.

As I wrote in an earlier blog, knitting is now something that soothes my soul. And this particular yarn is fit for the gods.

Extra-fine merino wool, silk, baby camel...

It floats on the air like dandelion fluff! It is the softest thing I have ever touched, and I've touched some pretty silky kitties in my time! It is as soft as eider down.

I can't believe I'm allowed to touch this stuff! I have to pinch myself when I think of how it will look on Daughter, that I will have been permitted by the universe to make something so beautiful.

I've never known anything so lovely that I had a hand in.

Decumulation

Decumulation - a word I had never heard before May of this year. It usually refers to the payout portion of one's pension savings. When you're working, you're a-cumulating. When you retire, you de-cumulate.

But decumulation has been on my mind since I learned it. I'm in the de-cumulating phase of my life, not just my pension!

I'm starting to let things go. Even lovely things that were gifts. Even things that were expensive. Even things I still cherish.

Not only is there no room here in this house for them, but I am acutely aware that in a limited amount of time I might be having to share a room with another old person and have one-half a closet and one set of drawers, and that'll be it for all my worldly belongings. Granted, I hope this won't happen for a number of (hopefully) healthy years! But, with Hubby being a hoarder, and the house being full of my Grandparents' stuff, and Stepkids' grandparents' stuff, and Daughter's stuff, and Hubby's stuff and Boyfriend's stuff...we're kind of packed to the gills, and could use a little breathing room!

But it's more than that on my mind lately. I've been decumulating some emotional baggage as well.

Some of the easiest feelings to let go involve failed relationships. Stuff I wish I had managed differently 30-50 years ago. See, with my mood disorder, the feelings stay fresh, like they just happened. I've been carrying around angst over poor choices for a long time, and I'm working very hard to let it go.

Harder than that though, is regret over harm I've caused. I always feel like I've just woken up and am pulling my head out of my arse and taking my first look at reality - the difference between what I was or was not thinking, and what I said and did.

Those are really hard to let go, because they were my fault, and no-one else's. I said and did hurtful things, no getting away from it. Grandpa used to say "word once spoken cannot be brought back with coach-and-six." For 30-40 years I've been trying to mentally make it better, replaying scenes where I caused someone pain, trying to change the ending. Nope, it doesn't work. I was a dick. And I can't undo it.

But I am trying to forgive myself and let it go. Because fretting over what I did in the past is only going to make me sicker, in which case I'll do something stupid again.

Hopefully I've learned from these mistakes. I can't fix them - lost friendships, relationships ruined - but I can manage not to make the same mistakes in the years I have left. I can be a better mother, friend, relative, wife.

It's very hard to forgive yourself when you were clearly in the wrong. But I must decumulate this baggage as well as the good stuff, or the weight of it will simply crush me.