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.