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.

A Generation Lost in the Kitchen

I got a good laugh out of this one. Kale was not in my supper bowl growing up. I think once we had Swiss Chard, but I didn't eat it. Beet tops once, also. Once was enough. I was over 25 before I was able to keep spinach down at all, even raw.

Beautiful Daughter, on the other hand, keeps encouraging me to eat Kale. And Arugula. And other unrecognizable leafy greens.

She eats this stuff - all the time! She calls it a "shake."

In MY day, a shake was a treat from Dairy Queen. It had ice cream in it, and if you were me, it had chocolate.

In HER day, a shake is based on a plant protein powder, leafy greens, some kind of fruit, ice cubes and water. It's green. It's thick.

It's revolting.

She drinks this for breakfast.

She loves it.

See, I like the IDEA of a shake for breakfast. As long as it's chocolate. Maybe fruity, but that's pushing it. Something packed full of protein that tastes like chocolate and coffee. Nice and thick! That would be my ideal breakfast shake!

I did confuse Daughter's Husband once, when I asked for a shake based on yogurt that included a raw egg. He couldn't get over the idea that an egg nog, which my Grandmother gave me for its nutritional value, could be anything other than the stuff we drink at Christmas. Wondered why I wanted to start getting drunk at breakfast. Couldn't see the point if no rum was involved!

But yogurt, fruit, milk, and a raw egg all blended together is nutritious, and tastes nowhere near as bad as this processed plant protein stuff they drink!

I must say though, that I am proud of Daughter and her Husband for trying to be healthy. They are trying. Working out at the gym, drinking this toxic green stuff, and pursuing their dreams.

I'm afraid my generation has a much more difficult time coming to terms with this plant-based-protein-gunpowder than hers does.

When my parents grew up, they were fed canned food, because the fashion at the time was to make sure food was "sterile."

In my childhood and adolescence, we learned about the dangers and evils of processed food. How canned veggies contained salt. How cereal contained sugar. How horrid chemicals that caused cancer, multiple sclerosis, and all sorts of dreadful ills were hidden within anything packaged. I learned to go to the market and buy fresh produce and fresh meat and prepare it all by hand, myself, because only then could I be sure of what was really in it.

This green gunk they drink is some of the most over-processed "food" on the planet! Plus, it tastes like mud to my ancient tastebuds. (Incidentally, my ancient tastebuds feel the same way about Ancient Grains. Keep your Quinoa, thank you very much.)

Yet I am confident that Daughter and her Husband will beat my life expectancy, and quality of life, by twenty years at least.

And that makes me feel good.

Safety Issue

Boyfriend: Why doesn't this gas valve underneath the trailer work?
Hubby: *gets out tools, hoses
Boyfriend: *gets out portable propane stove he wants to use outside the trailer. You know - the kind you can use on the picnic table.
Me: Just leave it the way it is. Use the portable stove on the picnic table.
Boyfriend: No - it might be a safety issue!

*much tinkering
Hubby: There's a valve under here...
Boyfriend: Yes, I know, but when you connect it, there's no "pshhhht!"
Hubby: The valve is open. Give me your patant from your stove.
Boyfriend: *gets portable propane stove connector.

*connector being attached.

Hubby: That's no good - we need a valve that will let us let some gas out. Go get the propane torch I use for plumbing and unscrew the valve from that.
Boyfriend: I don't know what you're talking about or where to find it.

Hubby *climbs up from under trailer, shambles off to get the valve off his propane torch.

Me: Just LEAVE IT! Use the stupid stove on the picnic table!

Boyfriend, Hubby: NO!

Hubby comes back with the valve from his torch and the sparker.

Neighbour, walking by with his dog: Something exciting going on?
Me: Boyfriend has just opened the gas and Hubby is trying to light a spark at the other end.
Neighbour: *keeps on walking, a little quicker

Hubby: There's gas! Did you hear that?
Me: Unfortunately
Boyfriend: No.

Hubby: *keeps trying to light the end of the valve with the sparker.
Hubby: *keeps trying
Hubby: *keeps trying
Hubby: No there doesn't seem to be any gas escaping at all. [Editorial note: I guess it wasn't a safety issue after all!]

Much clutter being picked up, coiled up, put away.

How's retirement, you ask? Well, tonight my two *smart men* tried to blow up the trailer we just bought!

How was YOUR evening?!

The Too-Much-Food Diet

Beautiful Daughter has me on a diet.

(Well, thank goodness SOMEONE put me on one!)

There are a few principles with this diet. First, you don't go more than 2 hours without shoving some kind of protein in your mouth. This apparently gets the body to understand that no, you are not starving to death, today or any day, and that it does not need to convert any part of what you are eating into fat.

Second, you eat healthy stuff. Like greens. All kinds of greens. Not as much as you want - waaaaaayyyyyy more than you want!

Complex carbohydrates. They take a lot of calories to digest! And give you practically nothing in return except vitamins.

This morning's breakfast menu read:

3-egg omelet with potato latke
3 eggs, 1/2 cup mushrooms, 1 cup spinach 1/4 onion

1 large potato grated with skin, fried

So I cheated a tiny bit. I mixed some of the beaten eggs in with the potato and added 1 tablespoon of flour and a bit of the onion. I fried it without fat in a non-stick pan and it came out beautifully.

But I think maybe my large potato is a bit larger than Daughter's potatoes! This is a full-size frying pan!

(I did NOT eat the whole thing. I cut it in four and am freezing the other 3 sections.)

Oh, and grating potato first thing in the morning lends a whole new meaning to the phrase "with skin!"

Anyway, omelet was made, and I dutifully set about trying to eat the thing. Dear god, I'm so full I could barf!

I know this is the point of this "diet," but it does seem so counter-intuitive! I cannot move, even to clean up the dishes, because I'm so stuffed, which is why I'm sitting writing a blog while my gorge goes down! Dog and I might even have a waddle, as soon as I can move without throwing up.

I don't know if I'll have enough room in 2 hours for the snack of 5oz of yogurt with 1/2 cup of blueberries!

Apparently this is going to make me lose weight.