For the second time in as many weeks, I fell off my bike today.
Every time I fall, it's when I am stopped. If I keep my derriere on that seat, I'm gonna go down. The pedals can't go any lower to the ground, my seat is the correct height for the length of my legs from the seat to the pedals, but the sum adds up to about two inches too high for me, and when I'm stopped, I fall over in perfect Arte Johnson style. Only I ain't laughing.
But I think that I've got the hint this time. I'm going out to buy a helmet, wrist supports and knee pads. I don't have any evidence of osteoporosis, the doc tells me. But I do have fibromyalgia, and the sore joints that come with it. I don't need further injury.
A girlfriend of mine, not too long ago, was riding with me.
"You're not wearing a helmet," she observed.
"Don't have one," I replied.
"Well, I not going to unplug you," was her comment. It took me a while. Unplug me?
"From the life-support machine," she finally filled in. "After you have the accident that splits your head in two. I'll come see you and watch you get eaten by bedsores, but I won't unplug you. You'll deserve your fate, if you're stupid enough to ride around without a helmet!"
Now, some might find this comment a little harsh, but it did finally get me to realize that I'm not in Kansas anymore. Or, to be more accurate, I'm not in Greenfield Park any more. I'm living in the CITY now. There are a lot more cars and trucks, and cyclists, and pedestrians here. And potholes. And I need to protect myself properly.
After all, I wear a seatbelt when I'm driving!
Ok, so I'll go get myself some gear come payday. But I wonder, is that all I should be looking at? Perhaps, on a larger-frame bike, the seat wouldn't have to be that high. Perhaps I should be considering a recumbent bicycle. At least, in one of those, I'd be closer to the ground and it wouldn't hurt so much when I fall out/off of it!
Perhaps I should accept my limitations and buy myself a large tricycle. One with gears, and maybe an engine to help me get up hills. A big basket in the back for all my groceries. Maybe even a little trailer, for the cat! OMG - I can just hear the comments from the people I'd be passing...
"Lookee there, Mavis! There goes that crazy cat lady on her tricycle agin! Land sakes - what's she got in that ole basket today? Why, she got a fifty pound box o kitty litter, she got her some gallon bottles of water, and if I'm not mistaken, that there's a two-four of Coors Light! Wow, she sure do know how to party! Uh-oh, Mavis, she's stuck tryin' to git up that hill. Guess I'll go give her a push agin, like I done last week..."
Hardly the "look" I'd be wanting to create. "Lovely single female, active, loves pets and cycling..." In stark contrast to the "Madwoman of Chariot", swearing at the gears on her tricycle, frazzled hair flying every which way, sweat pouring down her face as she pedals herself into a conniption fit. At least there wouldn't be cigarettes hanging from my lips and ash blowing in the wind, since I don't smoke... Just for fun, stick me in one of those orange, white and red tent dresses the big black women wear for festivals...
Hmm. Maybe not.
Am I going to have to take taxis to do my groceries? It goads me to think of forking out good money just to get from point A to point B, when I already have a bus pass, but can't carry heavy bags! And having to give the g-d driver a TIP, just for turning up! Half of them don't even get out of their cars, they just pop the trunk for you, then want a big tip for doing nothing that an ordinary Gentleman would have done for free.
OMG - I used the "G"-word! That dates me, for SURE!
I'm too young to have groceries delivered - they charge $5 to deliver, AND you have to give the guy a tip. When you're a SENIOR, you only have to pay $2, and I'm already old enough to be insulted by that. Why in tarnation can't stores simply offer the service - for FREE? Good god, having a grocery store is practically a license to print money!
All complaints aside, this fall "shook me up" in a different way than the last one. I've still got a few years of bicycling ahead of me, so it's time smarten up and wear protective gear.
But I promise faithfully to never, EVER, wear spandex shorts! I mean, some things are simply indecent.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Love, and Limits
Well, my kitty-cat has been found. Bijou, the light of my life, is home. Disgruntled, because she can't go out yet. I keep telling her "Soon, my sweet", and she glares at me. But the memory of her recent foray into the wilds of NDG haunts both of us, so she's not nearly so put-out as she makes out!
And I am beginning to believe in the miraculous once more. I mean, face it - how many times have YOU heard of cats actually making it home alive in an urban environment? "The Cat Came Back" is a horrible song about a shocking case of animal abuse, and it depicts a situation so far from the truth it's ridiculous.
But I digress...
While my heart was broken and I was busy sobbing about the loss of my kitty, and along with it, the loss of my marriage, home, parents, etc etc etc, I chanced to wail into Hubby's ear, "Why oh why didn't I just keep her inside? Why didn't I just stick with the leash?"
Surprisingly, Hubby came back with a very gentle and understanding answer.
"You hate limits," he said quietly. "On anything. You've always had a problem with limits."
And what food for thought that was.
I always thought Love knew no limits. I discovered over the past five years that it does. Because we're human. I still love Hubby very much, and he still loves me. But we each have our own personal limits we are not prepared to compromise, limits neither of us can "get over". These aren't arbitrary or stubborn decisions we've made in order to get our own way. These are fundamental aspects of our personalities that are simply irreconcilable, much to our dismay. We have each asked the other to keep to certain limits, and neither of us can meet the other's expectations.
We didn't know this when we started out. Either love was in truth blind, or there are some things you simply have to live through in order to understand your own preferences. In order to know what your own limits are. Nobody can see this kind of stuff coming - we are all, at one time or another, blindsided by life's experiences.
I recently participated in a research project. It was easy, I answered an online questionnaire and had a telephone interview. The student doing the research kindly sent me a copy of the thesis, and I was shocked to find out I was the only one of all the people interviewed who insisted on choosing my own pseudonym.
At the time the interviewer asked me whether I wanted to choose my own pseudonym or whether I'd let her choose one for me, I thought in the back of my mind "Who on earth would let anyone choose a name for them?!" and I said, "I have my own pseudonym."
But when I read that I was the ONLY ONE, it gave me pause for quite a few thoughts.
Just how hard-to-get-along-with am I, for goddsake?!
Maybe everybody else has been right, my whole life long! Maybe it has been ME....
Maybe my marriage failed because I was uncompromising. Didn't feel like it, but then, who among us is capable of that kind of objectivity in such an intimate setting?
Maybe I just am stubborn, argumentative, unyielding, difficult.
"You've always had a problem with limits," Hubby had said to me, and I realized, yes I have. I don't respect any limits that I don't personally agree with. Fortunately for me, speed limits, laws, most customs fall in that range.
But I have been a bit of a non-conformist, for all that. I guess it's the creative side poking through the holes in my reasoning. I did make up my mind quite some time ago to "Laugh, Live, Love" or something like that. I tend to find myself outside the mainstream of public opinion or behavioural norms most of the time. I've gotten used to being something of an outsider. To getting in trouble at work. I need to understand WHY. And if you can't make me understand, I've got no use for your rule.
No, I don't like limits.
And Bijou, my sweet kitty, is a good example of that. She was SO HAPPY, playing in the grass outside. Doing that thing that young cats do, that I call "teleporting", a cross between a jump and a hop. attacking one bug after another, oblivious to the rest of the world around her. She wiggled out of her harness and proved to me she would come home. Only then, one night, she didn't.
She was gone for six full days. I felt like I'd been cut in half. I couldn't do anything. I'd wander around, just missing her. And bemoaning the fact that I let her out. Why did I let her out?
Because I knew she loved being outside.
Why didn't I keep her on a leash?
Because I thought she could find her way, because I don't like leashes either. Because cats like to be free - as free to come and go as we are, in fact. It's not for nothing they end up being poked and studied in labs. Their brains work an awful lot like ours. We don't like being held captive, and neither do they. We don't like being commanded to do things, neither do they. And we love to be outside on a nice sunny day, just like them.
I didn't want to put limits on my cat. I associated it with putting limits on my love for her. And I want to love without limits.
Well, I am putting limits on her, for now. For now, no going outside on her own for a couple of weeks. Harness and leash, and boy, will they be tight!
And gradually I'll let her ago again, after she's become very familiar with our new home. Right now though, I have to protect her from her own inexperience. I must impose limits on her, to keep her safe, long enough for her to be able to find her own way.
And one day, there will be no more limits.
And it's the same way with our children. And our partners. We can't just dive in assuming we'll be able to swim, to navigate treacherous waters. I dove in, in my recently-broken marriage, and so did Hubby. And we made a pretty good go of it, for fourteen years. I don't look on that time as a failure. Lots of it was great fun. It wasn't all sad.
But with 20/20 hindsight, we might not have married had we taken the time to experience the beginning stages of a relationship, had we moved a little slower. We didn't, we were a couple of love-struck fools, and we rushed in where angels fear to tread, yada yada yada... With 20/20 hindsight, we might have found the points where our hard limits clashed, had we given ourselves a little more time before moving in together, becoming a blended family overnight. It might have made it a little easier on both of us, and on the children.
Well, you can't tell young couples anything, can you? We were in love, we weren't thinking. Had we "put on the brakes" - had we even TOUCHED the brakes - we might just have been able to overcome our difficulties differently, and maybe we wouldn't have spent 14 years together, or maybe we'd be spending 50....
But there is no turning back the clock. And that's a hard limit.
And I am beginning to believe in the miraculous once more. I mean, face it - how many times have YOU heard of cats actually making it home alive in an urban environment? "The Cat Came Back" is a horrible song about a shocking case of animal abuse, and it depicts a situation so far from the truth it's ridiculous.
But I digress...
While my heart was broken and I was busy sobbing about the loss of my kitty, and along with it, the loss of my marriage, home, parents, etc etc etc, I chanced to wail into Hubby's ear, "Why oh why didn't I just keep her inside? Why didn't I just stick with the leash?"
Surprisingly, Hubby came back with a very gentle and understanding answer.
"You hate limits," he said quietly. "On anything. You've always had a problem with limits."
And what food for thought that was.
I always thought Love knew no limits. I discovered over the past five years that it does. Because we're human. I still love Hubby very much, and he still loves me. But we each have our own personal limits we are not prepared to compromise, limits neither of us can "get over". These aren't arbitrary or stubborn decisions we've made in order to get our own way. These are fundamental aspects of our personalities that are simply irreconcilable, much to our dismay. We have each asked the other to keep to certain limits, and neither of us can meet the other's expectations.
We didn't know this when we started out. Either love was in truth blind, or there are some things you simply have to live through in order to understand your own preferences. In order to know what your own limits are. Nobody can see this kind of stuff coming - we are all, at one time or another, blindsided by life's experiences.
I recently participated in a research project. It was easy, I answered an online questionnaire and had a telephone interview. The student doing the research kindly sent me a copy of the thesis, and I was shocked to find out I was the only one of all the people interviewed who insisted on choosing my own pseudonym.
At the time the interviewer asked me whether I wanted to choose my own pseudonym or whether I'd let her choose one for me, I thought in the back of my mind "Who on earth would let anyone choose a name for them?!" and I said, "I have my own pseudonym."
But when I read that I was the ONLY ONE, it gave me pause for quite a few thoughts.
Just how hard-to-get-along-with am I, for goddsake?!
Maybe everybody else has been right, my whole life long! Maybe it has been ME....
Maybe my marriage failed because I was uncompromising. Didn't feel like it, but then, who among us is capable of that kind of objectivity in such an intimate setting?
Maybe I just am stubborn, argumentative, unyielding, difficult.
"You've always had a problem with limits," Hubby had said to me, and I realized, yes I have. I don't respect any limits that I don't personally agree with. Fortunately for me, speed limits, laws, most customs fall in that range.
But I have been a bit of a non-conformist, for all that. I guess it's the creative side poking through the holes in my reasoning. I did make up my mind quite some time ago to "Laugh, Live, Love" or something like that. I tend to find myself outside the mainstream of public opinion or behavioural norms most of the time. I've gotten used to being something of an outsider. To getting in trouble at work. I need to understand WHY. And if you can't make me understand, I've got no use for your rule.
No, I don't like limits.
And Bijou, my sweet kitty, is a good example of that. She was SO HAPPY, playing in the grass outside. Doing that thing that young cats do, that I call "teleporting", a cross between a jump and a hop. attacking one bug after another, oblivious to the rest of the world around her. She wiggled out of her harness and proved to me she would come home. Only then, one night, she didn't.
She was gone for six full days. I felt like I'd been cut in half. I couldn't do anything. I'd wander around, just missing her. And bemoaning the fact that I let her out. Why did I let her out?
Because I knew she loved being outside.
Why didn't I keep her on a leash?
Because I thought she could find her way, because I don't like leashes either. Because cats like to be free - as free to come and go as we are, in fact. It's not for nothing they end up being poked and studied in labs. Their brains work an awful lot like ours. We don't like being held captive, and neither do they. We don't like being commanded to do things, neither do they. And we love to be outside on a nice sunny day, just like them.
I didn't want to put limits on my cat. I associated it with putting limits on my love for her. And I want to love without limits.
Well, I am putting limits on her, for now. For now, no going outside on her own for a couple of weeks. Harness and leash, and boy, will they be tight!
And gradually I'll let her ago again, after she's become very familiar with our new home. Right now though, I have to protect her from her own inexperience. I must impose limits on her, to keep her safe, long enough for her to be able to find her own way.
And one day, there will be no more limits.
And it's the same way with our children. And our partners. We can't just dive in assuming we'll be able to swim, to navigate treacherous waters. I dove in, in my recently-broken marriage, and so did Hubby. And we made a pretty good go of it, for fourteen years. I don't look on that time as a failure. Lots of it was great fun. It wasn't all sad.
But with 20/20 hindsight, we might not have married had we taken the time to experience the beginning stages of a relationship, had we moved a little slower. We didn't, we were a couple of love-struck fools, and we rushed in where angels fear to tread, yada yada yada... With 20/20 hindsight, we might have found the points where our hard limits clashed, had we given ourselves a little more time before moving in together, becoming a blended family overnight. It might have made it a little easier on both of us, and on the children.
Well, you can't tell young couples anything, can you? We were in love, we weren't thinking. Had we "put on the brakes" - had we even TOUCHED the brakes - we might just have been able to overcome our difficulties differently, and maybe we wouldn't have spent 14 years together, or maybe we'd be spending 50....
But there is no turning back the clock. And that's a hard limit.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Sob
Bijou, my new kitty, disappeared sometime after nine pm on the 19th of May, two whole nights ago, an eternity for me.
She was all I had left.
She was all I had left.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
It's been a busy month...
Gawd, I never want to move again...
I know, in a few years, I'll forget the pain. But just now, my left ankle, both knees, right wrist and neck are all singing in unison:
"Are You NUTS??!!" is the tune, one I don't particularly care for...
I discovered yesterday that I've been cleaning windows incorrectly all my life. My girlfriend K came over to help me, and was shocked at the system I'd set up. She shook her head violently, said "No... No. Come with me." And proceeded to teach me how to wash windows.
See, you don't scrape the dead fauna from the slots in aluminum windows with a screwdriver, onto the floor.
Now remember, my mother never got a chance to bring me up - so don't blame her. And as a kid, if my grandparents cleaned the windows, I was at school.
What you apparently do is take the windows to the bathroom, put a towel inside the tub so you don't scrape the tub, and use HOT water and a BRUSH to evict the inhabitants and their nests from the crevices of the windows! And you then use a scouring pad to get the dinginess off the frames, and finally clean the window and screens, and you rinse like crazy. Then you dry.
And it takes about six hours to do the job, so get a good night's sleep the night before and eat your Wheaties.
Well, the next thing I learned is just how much gunk can accumulate at the bottom of your everyday hot water heater. People - LISTEN UP: You're supposed to DRAIN these things at least once a year! That way, the silt on the bottom doesn't build up. To a depth of FOUR INCHES, which is what Hubby scraped out of the bottom of mine yesterday! He used a hollow piece of pipe to scrape as much as he could, dumping it into a garbage bag, which he gave to the landlord - along with with the admonition that perhaps Mr. M. should look at HIS heater soon!
Yeesh.
Yesterday was not the most pleasant day, weather-wise, in the world. It rained, it was cold. Because all the windows were out, we had a visit from a neighbourhood cat, a big orange tabby with a surprisingly tiny head compared to his girth, and an exceedingly pleasant personality. He played with a twist-tie all afternoon. In between being chased by Bijou, my own Tortoise Shell baby cat. Bijou did eventually get on with her nap, which left Mr. Orange free to play with his twist tie in peace. (When it stopped raining though, I did give him an encouraging shove back out the window.)
But by far the best event that happened yesterday was the installation of the washing machine.
See, when I woke up yesterday, I surveyed my laundry basked with great sorrow. My jeans were in it. I couldn't wear my jeans to do all this work in. (It's PRETTY BAD if your jeans are too dirty to wash windows in.)
If I'd been able to wear my jeans, I could have looked reasonably normal while doing all this work. But all I had to wear was a pair of black yoga pants I'd made myself about ten years ago, and a black stretchy top. With my ... "ample" ... figure, I looked like a particularly lumpy potato sack. To add to my misery, Mr. M had to drain the hot water tank first thing in the morning in order to get ready for Hubby to replace the burnt-out bottom element. Now, that hadn't sounded so bad the day before when he told me, fresh from my shower. But as the day wore on and I heaved and carried and scrubbed and dried, in my progressively damper and damper stretch clothes, I began to not like myself very much. In actual fact, I wanted to crawl into the laundry basket with my jeans and cry.
Because there's ALWAYS a setback - don't you know? It's in the rules!
The first setback was the bolts on the hot water tank were stripped, and a trip to the hardware store was required. The second setback was the staggering amount of gunk at the bottom of the tank. So the day had been far too long for all of us.
Since all my laundry stuff was still at the old apartment, Beautiful Daughter came over with laundry soap, spray'n'wash, and lavender & sandalwood scented fabric softener for me. I wept and kissed her feet. Then the magic happened - my first load of laundry. Daughter had also brought a dollar-store clothesline for me, and we experimented with it till we found a pretty good arrangement. In no time my apartment was hung with towels, socks, underwear, and, (thankfully) my jeans.
I closed the windows, turned the heat on, dragged the dehumidifier out of the closet, and did a second, and a third load.
Since I have no furniture to absorb sound waves, the dehumidifier makes a terrific roar. I was obliged to turn it off so I could sleep last night, but it's back in business this morning. I estimate that by 7 pm tonight the jeans should be wearable.
Right now, my apartment is just like a scene from "The Honeymooners", minus curlers for my hair and Ralph threatening to send me to the moon. This was not my vision of what my life would be like at 51, when I was 20! This was not what I thought my life would be like in February, when I first left my ancestral home to strike out on my own once again.
"On my own."! THAT'S a laugh! Hubby hasn't had to work so hard to help me in years! The washing machine that was installed yesterday, and the dryer that is coming in two weeks, are both on loan from a Girlfriend. Other Girlfriends are donating their time, energy, money, and expertise to buy me stuff I need, help me get organized and clean, feed me from time to time, stopping me from sobbing into my cups each night. Even strangers and new neighbours are being kind to me - one lady mentioning she saw my cat under a certain set of stairs, one man bringing said cat to my door, another chatting me up. I'm beginning to wonder just HOW bad I look from an outsider's point of view!
All of this kindness has caused me to wonder, are any of us ever really "on our own?" Because, if I had REALLY been so, I'm not sure how bad it would have looked. Thank you everyone for calling, lifting, scrubbing, fixing, shopping, cooking, lending... even just smiling at me. It makes a difference. A big one.
I know, in a few years, I'll forget the pain. But just now, my left ankle, both knees, right wrist and neck are all singing in unison:
"Are You NUTS??!!" is the tune, one I don't particularly care for...
I discovered yesterday that I've been cleaning windows incorrectly all my life. My girlfriend K came over to help me, and was shocked at the system I'd set up. She shook her head violently, said "No... No. Come with me." And proceeded to teach me how to wash windows.
See, you don't scrape the dead fauna from the slots in aluminum windows with a screwdriver, onto the floor.
Now remember, my mother never got a chance to bring me up - so don't blame her. And as a kid, if my grandparents cleaned the windows, I was at school.
What you apparently do is take the windows to the bathroom, put a towel inside the tub so you don't scrape the tub, and use HOT water and a BRUSH to evict the inhabitants and their nests from the crevices of the windows! And you then use a scouring pad to get the dinginess off the frames, and finally clean the window and screens, and you rinse like crazy. Then you dry.
And it takes about six hours to do the job, so get a good night's sleep the night before and eat your Wheaties.
Well, the next thing I learned is just how much gunk can accumulate at the bottom of your everyday hot water heater. People - LISTEN UP: You're supposed to DRAIN these things at least once a year! That way, the silt on the bottom doesn't build up. To a depth of FOUR INCHES, which is what Hubby scraped out of the bottom of mine yesterday! He used a hollow piece of pipe to scrape as much as he could, dumping it into a garbage bag, which he gave to the landlord - along with with the admonition that perhaps Mr. M. should look at HIS heater soon!
Yeesh.
Yesterday was not the most pleasant day, weather-wise, in the world. It rained, it was cold. Because all the windows were out, we had a visit from a neighbourhood cat, a big orange tabby with a surprisingly tiny head compared to his girth, and an exceedingly pleasant personality. He played with a twist-tie all afternoon. In between being chased by Bijou, my own Tortoise Shell baby cat. Bijou did eventually get on with her nap, which left Mr. Orange free to play with his twist tie in peace. (When it stopped raining though, I did give him an encouraging shove back out the window.)
But by far the best event that happened yesterday was the installation of the washing machine.
See, when I woke up yesterday, I surveyed my laundry basked with great sorrow. My jeans were in it. I couldn't wear my jeans to do all this work in. (It's PRETTY BAD if your jeans are too dirty to wash windows in.)
If I'd been able to wear my jeans, I could have looked reasonably normal while doing all this work. But all I had to wear was a pair of black yoga pants I'd made myself about ten years ago, and a black stretchy top. With my ... "ample" ... figure, I looked like a particularly lumpy potato sack. To add to my misery, Mr. M had to drain the hot water tank first thing in the morning in order to get ready for Hubby to replace the burnt-out bottom element. Now, that hadn't sounded so bad the day before when he told me, fresh from my shower. But as the day wore on and I heaved and carried and scrubbed and dried, in my progressively damper and damper stretch clothes, I began to not like myself very much. In actual fact, I wanted to crawl into the laundry basket with my jeans and cry.
Because there's ALWAYS a setback - don't you know? It's in the rules!
The first setback was the bolts on the hot water tank were stripped, and a trip to the hardware store was required. The second setback was the staggering amount of gunk at the bottom of the tank. So the day had been far too long for all of us.
Since all my laundry stuff was still at the old apartment, Beautiful Daughter came over with laundry soap, spray'n'wash, and lavender & sandalwood scented fabric softener for me. I wept and kissed her feet. Then the magic happened - my first load of laundry. Daughter had also brought a dollar-store clothesline for me, and we experimented with it till we found a pretty good arrangement. In no time my apartment was hung with towels, socks, underwear, and, (thankfully) my jeans.
I closed the windows, turned the heat on, dragged the dehumidifier out of the closet, and did a second, and a third load.
Since I have no furniture to absorb sound waves, the dehumidifier makes a terrific roar. I was obliged to turn it off so I could sleep last night, but it's back in business this morning. I estimate that by 7 pm tonight the jeans should be wearable.
Right now, my apartment is just like a scene from "The Honeymooners", minus curlers for my hair and Ralph threatening to send me to the moon. This was not my vision of what my life would be like at 51, when I was 20! This was not what I thought my life would be like in February, when I first left my ancestral home to strike out on my own once again.
"On my own."! THAT'S a laugh! Hubby hasn't had to work so hard to help me in years! The washing machine that was installed yesterday, and the dryer that is coming in two weeks, are both on loan from a Girlfriend. Other Girlfriends are donating their time, energy, money, and expertise to buy me stuff I need, help me get organized and clean, feed me from time to time, stopping me from sobbing into my cups each night. Even strangers and new neighbours are being kind to me - one lady mentioning she saw my cat under a certain set of stairs, one man bringing said cat to my door, another chatting me up. I'm beginning to wonder just HOW bad I look from an outsider's point of view!
All of this kindness has caused me to wonder, are any of us ever really "on our own?" Because, if I had REALLY been so, I'm not sure how bad it would have looked. Thank you everyone for calling, lifting, scrubbing, fixing, shopping, cooking, lending... even just smiling at me. It makes a difference. A big one.
Friday, April 24, 2009
On the Joys of Belonging
Those of us who love having pets know that there is very little that can compare with the joy of seeing our little furry friend completely satisfied and content. If we've somehow managed to make that precious life a bit happier, we don't feel like, say for instance, a complete failure as a human being. And if we've done that little bit extra, it almost makes us feel as though it's made up for a multitude of, if not sins, then perhaps "shortcomings" would be a good word.
I live in a basement apartment. A one-room basement apartment. Bijou, my recently adopted kitty, finds the space adequate, but that's because she's never lived somewhere where the afternoon sun comes shining in on a comfy chair or couch. She's content to sit on various chairs and hasn't complained that there's no sun to warm her. I, however, am quite aware of this particular shortcoming, since napping on the couch in a pool of sunlight in the afternoon was one of my favourite things to do! And I feel badly for kitty that she hasn't known this particular bliss - yet.
But I have done something right. I've been making her food.
Real food. Chicken. Fish. Beef. And she loves it - the way the cats in all the cat food commercials lunge for their food. I just finished watching her finish her plate - and darn nearly lick the pattern off said plate!
Today's menu is chicken. And here's how it works:
First, you cook the meat whichever way you would for yourself. In this case, I pan-sauteed two chicken breasts in oil, salt & pepper. One for me, one for her. Hers, of course, will last her six dinners.
After the chicken had thoroughly cooled, I chopped it up into very tiny bits. I prefer to do this by hand, so that some texture of the meat remains.
I made oatmeal - 1/2 cup of oatmeal in 1 cup of chicken broth. And a pinch of salt to taste. If I wouldn't like it, why should she? And mixed the cooked oatmeal with the chicken, and let that cool.
I grated one carrot, separately, mind you. The idea is to put some fresh crunch into the food. And it wouldn't be fresh if I stuck it all in at once. Fresh means "just before you go to eat it" in any language. I put about a teaspoon of grated carrot onto the plate with 3 tablespoons of chicken/oatmeal. The rest of the grated carrot is covered and put in the fridge.
The pièce de résistance today was the teaspoon of cottage cheese added to this mix. Oh, my, did she EVER like that! I watched as she'd pick up a piece and give it a careful and thorough chewing. She loved it.
As I said, there's only the pattern left on her plate, and she's had a lovely bath and is now settled in for a LONG nap, as happy as it is possible for a kitty to be.
I done good.
While I live in my basement apartment, with occasional visits from Hubby, and occasional visits "home", and try to figure out what the **** I want in life, it's nice to know there is someone waiting for me to come home from work. Someone who not only needs me to make her food, but who LOVES my food. Someone who enjoys playing with me. Someone who enjoys being petted and loved and kissed.
Someone to belong to.
I live in a basement apartment. A one-room basement apartment. Bijou, my recently adopted kitty, finds the space adequate, but that's because she's never lived somewhere where the afternoon sun comes shining in on a comfy chair or couch. She's content to sit on various chairs and hasn't complained that there's no sun to warm her. I, however, am quite aware of this particular shortcoming, since napping on the couch in a pool of sunlight in the afternoon was one of my favourite things to do! And I feel badly for kitty that she hasn't known this particular bliss - yet.
But I have done something right. I've been making her food.
Real food. Chicken. Fish. Beef. And she loves it - the way the cats in all the cat food commercials lunge for their food. I just finished watching her finish her plate - and darn nearly lick the pattern off said plate!
Today's menu is chicken. And here's how it works:
First, you cook the meat whichever way you would for yourself. In this case, I pan-sauteed two chicken breasts in oil, salt & pepper. One for me, one for her. Hers, of course, will last her six dinners.
After the chicken had thoroughly cooled, I chopped it up into very tiny bits. I prefer to do this by hand, so that some texture of the meat remains.
I made oatmeal - 1/2 cup of oatmeal in 1 cup of chicken broth. And a pinch of salt to taste. If I wouldn't like it, why should she? And mixed the cooked oatmeal with the chicken, and let that cool.
I grated one carrot, separately, mind you. The idea is to put some fresh crunch into the food. And it wouldn't be fresh if I stuck it all in at once. Fresh means "just before you go to eat it" in any language. I put about a teaspoon of grated carrot onto the plate with 3 tablespoons of chicken/oatmeal. The rest of the grated carrot is covered and put in the fridge.
The pièce de résistance today was the teaspoon of cottage cheese added to this mix. Oh, my, did she EVER like that! I watched as she'd pick up a piece and give it a careful and thorough chewing. She loved it.
As I said, there's only the pattern left on her plate, and she's had a lovely bath and is now settled in for a LONG nap, as happy as it is possible for a kitty to be.
I done good.
While I live in my basement apartment, with occasional visits from Hubby, and occasional visits "home", and try to figure out what the **** I want in life, it's nice to know there is someone waiting for me to come home from work. Someone who not only needs me to make her food, but who LOVES my food. Someone who enjoys playing with me. Someone who enjoys being petted and loved and kissed.
Someone to belong to.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Putting Things Off
As I write this, I'm busily engaged in putting off vaccuming. My friend K is coming over for a late brunch, and I have to clean. In theory, I'm dreading passing the vaccum because of my new kitty, Bijou. She has no experience yet of machinery, and I can just see each of her hairs standing on end for a split-second just before she dives into the cupboard for the rest of the day.
"F*****g MEOW!"
While I'm putting off vaccuming, I'm also putting off getting started on a new quilt.
I LOVE this new quilt. Hubby came over and did some careful adjustments to the quilting stand so it's absolutely perfect, and I was supposed to put the new quilt on the stand yesterday, but I put that off to watch some tv...
I have made some progress in my life, vis-a-vis this tendency to procrastinate. Like the alcoholic, I'm not sure if it's possible to be "cured". I recognized many many years ago, in a different marriage, that I put off housekeeping until my husband came home, because if he didn't come home and the housework was done, where would I be then?
Something like that.
When I first moved here, to the apartment, away from Hubby, away from my family's ancestral homestead, I was thrilled with how small my new place was.
I can clean it, you see, in about fifteen minutes flat. That includes vaccuming and scrubbing the shower. It's a small apartment.
I was thrilled to death that I could do all my laundry in four loads, five if I washed the blues/greens separately from the pinks/oranges.
What a change from the House, where I'd had to ask K to come and perform a laundry intervention! (Though, in retrospect, we probably should have called it a laundry exorcism...)
I'm putting off having a shower just now, as well, because vaccuming gets me all sweaty. So I'll do that after I vaccum.
I don't know what I would do if I just DID everything! Like "normal" people, you know - get up, shower and dress, make the bed, vaccum, start preparing food for the next meal, get to work on a project...
I mean, what would happen if I got EVERYTHING done? Where would I be? I'd still be here, in my apartment. Alone, with the cat. With nothing to do? Perhaps. Nothing to look forward to? Well, there's ALWAYS something, just it's usually more than a day or two away... No place to go? No one to see?
My friend K is a very organized lady. VERY organized. But she has called me, from time to time, and we've discussed loneliness.
Is it better to be lonely than living in chaos, getting sick and angry?
Is it better to be alone than have a buddy who'll scratch your back? Lots of people stay with their spouses even if they're not completely happy with the situation, rather than take the step I did. When you stay, you know where your next meal/vacation/back-scratch/smooch - hell, you even know where your next ARGUMENT is coming from!
When you leave, you have to do all that for yourself. No built-in entertainment, no foil or patsy for practical jokes sitting in the easy chair just begging to be poked. No straight man for your funny comments.
When you're alone, you are free to do anything you want.
Even vaccum.
"F*****g MEOW!"
While I'm putting off vaccuming, I'm also putting off getting started on a new quilt.
I LOVE this new quilt. Hubby came over and did some careful adjustments to the quilting stand so it's absolutely perfect, and I was supposed to put the new quilt on the stand yesterday, but I put that off to watch some tv...
I have made some progress in my life, vis-a-vis this tendency to procrastinate. Like the alcoholic, I'm not sure if it's possible to be "cured". I recognized many many years ago, in a different marriage, that I put off housekeeping until my husband came home, because if he didn't come home and the housework was done, where would I be then?
Something like that.
When I first moved here, to the apartment, away from Hubby, away from my family's ancestral homestead, I was thrilled with how small my new place was.
I can clean it, you see, in about fifteen minutes flat. That includes vaccuming and scrubbing the shower. It's a small apartment.
I was thrilled to death that I could do all my laundry in four loads, five if I washed the blues/greens separately from the pinks/oranges.
What a change from the House, where I'd had to ask K to come and perform a laundry intervention! (Though, in retrospect, we probably should have called it a laundry exorcism...)
I'm putting off having a shower just now, as well, because vaccuming gets me all sweaty. So I'll do that after I vaccum.
I don't know what I would do if I just DID everything! Like "normal" people, you know - get up, shower and dress, make the bed, vaccum, start preparing food for the next meal, get to work on a project...
I mean, what would happen if I got EVERYTHING done? Where would I be? I'd still be here, in my apartment. Alone, with the cat. With nothing to do? Perhaps. Nothing to look forward to? Well, there's ALWAYS something, just it's usually more than a day or two away... No place to go? No one to see?
My friend K is a very organized lady. VERY organized. But she has called me, from time to time, and we've discussed loneliness.
Is it better to be lonely than living in chaos, getting sick and angry?
Is it better to be alone than have a buddy who'll scratch your back? Lots of people stay with their spouses even if they're not completely happy with the situation, rather than take the step I did. When you stay, you know where your next meal/vacation/back-scratch/smooch - hell, you even know where your next ARGUMENT is coming from!
When you leave, you have to do all that for yourself. No built-in entertainment, no foil or patsy for practical jokes sitting in the easy chair just begging to be poked. No straight man for your funny comments.
When you're alone, you are free to do anything you want.
Even vaccum.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
The "Sleep"-Over
Eight weeks ago, I moved out of the "family home." At first, when I'd leave work, it just felt wrong, felt like my heart was being ripped out with every step I took towards my apartment, away from Hubby, who works in the same building as me.
Now, not every step feels wrong. Usually by the time I'm halfway "home" I start looking forward to what I'll be doing when I get there. This is now especially true, since I've recently adopted a new cat, "Bijou". My evenings can now be completely full of "cat-adoration". No matter how little the phone rings or how sad I am, my kitty is happy to see me and loves my home-made cat food.
Yes, I make her real food. Not a by-product in sight. Yesterday's menu, for example, began with a filet of sole. I poached the filet in milk, with a few slices of onion to add a touch of flavour, and salt and pepper. Once the sole flaked lightly with a fork, I removed it from the pot. And I threw out the onions. Next, I added some oatmeal and a few kernels of corn and cooked them in the milk. When done, I pureed the oatmeal/corn/milk mixture and combined it with the fish. I tasted it, it was delicious, and Bijou couldn't get enough of it.
Tonight, I'll be braising beef shank, bone-in for extra flavour. In broth, not water. With garlic, bay leaf, perhaps a touch of Worcestershire. Oatmeal again in the liquid, and possibly some cheese, and chopped sprouts to add a bit of crunch.
At last, I have someone who LOVES my cooking!
Well, Hubby came over last night, for dinner, and he spent the night with Bijou and me. He too, enjoyed my cooking, though he did joke about being fed leftover cat food... Actually, I made him, from scratch, sweet & sour meatballs, served on rice with a side of asparagus. And I baked scones for dessert. A brief reminder of "Life With Hubby" came as he - I am not making this up - scolded me for putting the tops back on my scones the wrong way.
"They're misaligned," he complained.
"Hey!" I said. "It's a BISCUIT! For godssake, get a life!"
And then we did the dishes, had some ... romantic time... together, then, like a good married couple, turned our backs to each other and went to sleep.
Hah.
I heard him softly snoring most of the night. I wiggled and twisted, fluffed the pillow, turned this way and that, most of the night. Went to the bathroom about six times. He woke up frequently, but, being a man, was always able to fade back into dreamland.
Once, I almost began to actually nod off, when Bijou came over and walked along my legs to my chest and sat there staring quietly at me.
"How long is this going to go on?" she asked me politely.
"I beg your pardon," I queried.
"When are you going to throw this bum out so you and I can have our CUDDLE!?" she demanded.
"Well, Bijou, I can't throw him out now, darling! I invited him to spend the night!"
"So," came her cold sniff. "This man means more to you than I do, does he? I don't see what's so special. I mean, look at the room he takes up in the bed!"
I had to acknowledge the cat had a point here. For eight weeks, I've had the bed all to myself. It's not the most comfy bed in the world, but at least I could stretch out in it, stuff pillows in the hollow spots and get rested! Just not tonight. There was a man in my bed - a big one. And any time our limbs would touch by accident, he'd smile and throw a great big hairy arm around me and draw me close... a completely effective sleep preventative. God forbid I should end up face-to-face with him - his breath was like gale-force winds, blowing my hair around, going up my nostrils, drying out my eyes... If I should be on my back, the wind went straight into my ear. I'd lie on the other side as long as my muscles could stand it, but eventually I'd have to give that side a rest and the cuddling and the blowing would re-start.
"I don't take up any room at all!" said the cat. "And, I can purr!"
"Yes, you certainly can, little one," I said softly to her, scritching her behind her ears.
She wasn't mollified. "Well," she said, twitching her tail at me just before jumping down, "I'm going to sleep on the chair. There's no room here for a proper cuddle tonight!" And she held her head high as she sashayed over to the easy chair.
I received a poke in the ribs.
"You were snoring," said Hubby.
Sure I was.
Now, not every step feels wrong. Usually by the time I'm halfway "home" I start looking forward to what I'll be doing when I get there. This is now especially true, since I've recently adopted a new cat, "Bijou". My evenings can now be completely full of "cat-adoration". No matter how little the phone rings or how sad I am, my kitty is happy to see me and loves my home-made cat food.
Yes, I make her real food. Not a by-product in sight. Yesterday's menu, for example, began with a filet of sole. I poached the filet in milk, with a few slices of onion to add a touch of flavour, and salt and pepper. Once the sole flaked lightly with a fork, I removed it from the pot. And I threw out the onions. Next, I added some oatmeal and a few kernels of corn and cooked them in the milk. When done, I pureed the oatmeal/corn/milk mixture and combined it with the fish. I tasted it, it was delicious, and Bijou couldn't get enough of it.
Tonight, I'll be braising beef shank, bone-in for extra flavour. In broth, not water. With garlic, bay leaf, perhaps a touch of Worcestershire. Oatmeal again in the liquid, and possibly some cheese, and chopped sprouts to add a bit of crunch.
At last, I have someone who LOVES my cooking!
Well, Hubby came over last night, for dinner, and he spent the night with Bijou and me. He too, enjoyed my cooking, though he did joke about being fed leftover cat food... Actually, I made him, from scratch, sweet & sour meatballs, served on rice with a side of asparagus. And I baked scones for dessert. A brief reminder of "Life With Hubby" came as he - I am not making this up - scolded me for putting the tops back on my scones the wrong way.
"They're misaligned," he complained.
"Hey!" I said. "It's a BISCUIT! For godssake, get a life!"
And then we did the dishes, had some ... romantic time... together, then, like a good married couple, turned our backs to each other and went to sleep.
Hah.
I heard him softly snoring most of the night. I wiggled and twisted, fluffed the pillow, turned this way and that, most of the night. Went to the bathroom about six times. He woke up frequently, but, being a man, was always able to fade back into dreamland.
Once, I almost began to actually nod off, when Bijou came over and walked along my legs to my chest and sat there staring quietly at me.
"How long is this going to go on?" she asked me politely.
"I beg your pardon," I queried.
"When are you going to throw this bum out so you and I can have our CUDDLE!?" she demanded.
"Well, Bijou, I can't throw him out now, darling! I invited him to spend the night!"
"So," came her cold sniff. "This man means more to you than I do, does he? I don't see what's so special. I mean, look at the room he takes up in the bed!"
I had to acknowledge the cat had a point here. For eight weeks, I've had the bed all to myself. It's not the most comfy bed in the world, but at least I could stretch out in it, stuff pillows in the hollow spots and get rested! Just not tonight. There was a man in my bed - a big one. And any time our limbs would touch by accident, he'd smile and throw a great big hairy arm around me and draw me close... a completely effective sleep preventative. God forbid I should end up face-to-face with him - his breath was like gale-force winds, blowing my hair around, going up my nostrils, drying out my eyes... If I should be on my back, the wind went straight into my ear. I'd lie on the other side as long as my muscles could stand it, but eventually I'd have to give that side a rest and the cuddling and the blowing would re-start.
"I don't take up any room at all!" said the cat. "And, I can purr!"
"Yes, you certainly can, little one," I said softly to her, scritching her behind her ears.
She wasn't mollified. "Well," she said, twitching her tail at me just before jumping down, "I'm going to sleep on the chair. There's no room here for a proper cuddle tonight!" And she held her head high as she sashayed over to the easy chair.
I received a poke in the ribs.
"You were snoring," said Hubby.
Sure I was.
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