Thanatophobia

Every once in a while, even a Pollyanna like me has a chilling moment.

When I was at the sink this morning, I noticed that my right hand was really trembling.  That has happened if I've been gripping something or carrying a baby one-armed or if I'm really tired, but none of those things was going on at the time.  Shaking didn't stop when I flapped my hand around and not when I held the right with my steady left.

I immediately got a memory of my mother in her last weeks, how her hands trembled and how she plucked at cloth as if to test her ability to manage them.  My mother was 86 then, and had been lucid and strong for her whole life, and  I knew that I was giving in to unwarranted morbid thoughts, but somehow knowing that didn't help.

I would be foolish, I guess, if I didn't, at my age, face my own mortality every once in a while, but I always imagine that happens when you read a sad book, or attend the funeral of a friend, not when you're getting ready to put toothpaste on your brush, after a nice sleep-in.

I was over it in no time, and after a while the shaking hand became its normal self.  Pollyannalike, I bounced back and in fact am about to take my well-being in my hands by walking in the new, wet snow over to the market to buy some baking potatoes.  Having a shallow personality has its upside.

How's things, you ask?

What a weekend we've had.  Chock full of family.  We had Robyn during the day on Friday, Emily and Robyn overnight Friday, Julia and Emma on Saturday and overnight, and Emily and Robyn back for a few minutes on Sunday.  Somewhere in there, we saw Bruce (Sarah's husband) a couple of times, got an e-mail from Sarah who's on a business trip out west, and got a phone call from Chris, who is back home after a long haul.

We've had some good food, some crappy food, one of Dave's famous breakfasts, a fracas with a pot of white glue, minor issues with sticks of sparkleglue, and 3 kids in a tub.  And I'd almost forgotten that I went out to a brunch on Saturday morning.

Nonetheless, I am able to  post the following:



Man, life is good!

Just like a gooey candy bar for the brain

I haven't indulged myself lately.

Hah!  How can I say that when I'm in my nightgown at 8:00 p.m., drinking wine?  Well, whether it's legitimate or not, I decided to post some photos of the middle granddaughters, partly because Phoebe the oldest hasn't sent me any recent pictures, and I've posted so many of Robyn.

Actually, in my capacity as grandmother, I don't need a legitimate reason.

I love these photos of Emma:  she was here for a sleepover and was wearing a heart crown of her own making in one, and in the other, a princess hat accompanied by two pillows.

Julia has changed so much in the last little while, but these two photos show her personality and her skill:

And finally, because I just found it, a photo of Phoebe, with my friend and former daughter-in-law Anne and my almost-granddaughter Lex

 And even more finally, a photo of Robyn, which I just love and which she'll beg me to destroy later:

Lorna does stuff

Since I last posted, I've done some interesting things:

• one day, I instigated the big cleanup of the small apartment by asking Dave if he would do the sweeping before I tackled the floors; then I slept through the moving of the furniture, the sweeping of the floors, the washing/waxing of the floors, the dusting of everything that had been on the floors, the return of the furniture to its accustomed place, and the making of lunch.  Have I mentioned before that Dave is meticulous?
• I discovered that Kindle may not be the be-all and end-all of eReaders.  The jury (me) is still out on this, but the biggest drawback is how hard it is to load anything that hasn't been sold or given away by Amazon.  And the Kobo is waaaaaay lighter than the Kindle.  Ounces count apparently.  Who knew?
• I ate asparagus.  Ever since I've been able to remember, I've hated the smell of that vegetable, and have avoided it with vigour.  My cousin Sue served some beautiful looking white and green asparagus the other day.  I still hate it, and I'm never consistent.  Sue, on the other hand, I adore.
• I went outdoors in chilling, bitter weather the other day, wearing a nightgown, a terrycloth robe, bare feet in my boots, a faux fur jacket with no hat or scarf, and all before I'd brushed my teeth or hair.  We were awakened by what turned out to be a false alarm at 5:45 a.m., after I'd been up past two, drinking in The Last Emperor on TCM.  I spent a few muddled moments trying to turn off the alarm with the thermostat, looking for our deceased cat and wondering if I had time to make coffee.  All impossible.
• We had 10 people and a toddler for brunch on sunday to wish Emily a happy birthday, and in the midst of the warm but very messy chaos, had a chance to hear Emily play and sing "Hello mudda, hello fadda, here I am at Camp Granada", using her birthday ukelele.  You never know what will bring joy.
• I had my face painted this morning to celebrate Family Day---a black and white star on my cheek, with silver glitterdust.  Then I forgot I'd had it done and sat in a bar drinking wine and reading a book and gamely smiling back at all the starstruck bystanders.  Then to make matters worse, I mistakenly took a nap and left the star on my pillow.

Life continues to delight me.

On modern pleasures

My daughter Emily's car has heated seats.  I totally, totally love them.

This morning, I loved them even more.

Tuesday nights, Emily goes to her Martial Arts Class and I go to her house to put the baby to bed, spend a quiet evening reading, sleep there and in the morning---at an awful hour----we get in the car and Em drops me off at home before taking Robyn to day care and herself to work. 

It was cold this morning, and Em had let me sleep in.  She woke me about 10 minutes before we left the house, and I'm damned if I could find my underwear.  I had to go commando in the snow, with only thin jeans between me and the real weather.  Not only was I without a source of warmth, I was frazzled from recklessly throwing clothes, books, quilts, cat and shawls from the end of the bed.

And that is why I love heated car seats.  And in a totally unrelated way, I fell in love with a local blonde beer I had at lunch.  Not a bad life at all.

Some Valentine-ish Thoughts

I went back to my old broken blog to see whether or not I'd blogged about Valentine's Day.

Last year, no mention of it, but this photo for Photohunter  -  theme BROKEN

The year before, missed Valentine's day but wrote this:

One minute I was fine, the next I was whammied by a headachey, boneachey, sniffling, coughing, feverish winter cold. Thank goodness, my white knight insisted I take some cold medicine and sleep, and here I am….rednosed, boneweary, sniffly, coughy but standing on my own two legs and almost able to string two words together.
Emma and Julia were here yesterday and made beautiful Valentine’s cards and helped Dave schlepp soup to the sickroom and were careful not to get contaminated, although it’s always so puzzling about when you can be harmful to others, when you don’t want to be. If you do want to be, of course, you can choose your own schedule.

Back one year, I was in the spirit:

Could I resist the Valentine’s Day Merriam-Webster word?
I think not:
mash \MASH\ noun
: an intense and usually passing infatuation; also : the object of infatuation
Example sentence: I think Daisy has a mash on you — you should ask her to the Valentine’s Day dance.
Did you know? Those shot by Cupid’s arrow know that love can spur a desire to hold one’s beloved tightly and never let go. Perhaps that embracing feeling of love is why “mash,” originally a word for an act of squeezing and crushing, became a term for an intense infatuation or the object of it in 1870. The more popular “crush” showed its loving side in 1884, and “main squeeze” had begun crossing the lips of sweethearts by 1926. “Mash” itself is not widely used today, but the compound “mash note,” referring to a love letter, has enjoyed many happy years since its union in 1890.

May you have many acts of squeezing and crushing today. No, I’ll qualify that. May you have many pleasant and wanted acts of squeezing and crushing today.

Before that, lots of chatter, Valentine's Day gets the last word:

Vacations, when I was a kid, were these stretches of time where I tried to get in some reading, bookended by long crowded drives in the family car. In those days, before seatbelts, we actually used to get all 8 of us in a sedan—my youngest sister had pride of place on the back windowsill, and one of my brothers loved to sit in the space where my mother’s legs should have been. I don’t know how they managed to share that little place below the glove box, but they did. My other sister was always carsick, so she had to sit near the window on the passenger side in the back, the better to roll the window down. Usually after it was too late. Despite what seems horrendous now, we looked forward to these trips to Shediac in New Brunswick, my father’s home, where we stayed in a big old creaky house with a woodburning stove, an orchard, an attic and a croquet set, within walking distance of a sandy beach.
Vacations, when I was a young adult, were all about getting my kids and my parents in the same place. Again, there were long drives but this time with coolers and pillows, stops at McDonalds and Tim Horton’s—the coffee and donut haven of my dreams. They were lovely times, a little harried, but manageable and my folks would often give me and Dave a chance to have a movie and dinner date.
For this vacation, we seem to have cherrypicked the best of all the other vacations of our lives. The drives are at our pace, and don’t necessarily take us anywhere; the coffee can be Timmy’s or Starbuck’s or exotic or from the kitchen; the food has all been wonderful, and I’ve only cooked once; we’ve slept in and got up early; gone to bed with the sun and stayed up late playing board games. We’ve seen sun and rain and rivers and streams, mountains and oceans, wilderness and quaint villages and tomorrow we’ll be in Vancouver, one of the most cosmopolitan, multicultural cities in the world.
And on top of that, today is Valentine’ s Day, and we’re staying with people who think dark chocolate is extremely healthy. Could it be better?

2006, not a mention:

I’ve never been able to figure out how to be a woman of my age. And it just gets harder. This isn’t about looks, although that probably comes into it, but about how to determine how much of the accepted values, of the stereotype, of the expectations, I can live up to or want to live up to.
You’re as young as you feel. That is, and always has been, totally inaccurate. Within the space of a few seconds, I can go from feeling strong and lithe to feeling scared and shaky, just because I put my foot down on an unstable piece of concrete or encounter somebody with attitude. Your children make you feel young when you’re able to laugh with them as contemporaries, and make you feel ancient when you see the responsibilities they’ve shouldered; your friends make you feel carefree when you’re having fun together and careworn when you see them in a clear light and realize how weathered they (and you) are.
Age doesn’t matter. Whoa! or Woe! that sure isn’t so. Try being a very young person waiting to get service, or a very old one trying to maintain your dignity. Try ignoring your birthday, your thinning hair or your age spots; try getting carded at a bar or automatically included in the seniors’ discount. Try encountering, at any age, your mortality.
The one sure thing about trying to figure out how or whether to act your age is that it makes you cranky.

And the first time I had the opportunity, I almost missed it:

It’s strange to be in your mother’s house when you live full time elsewhere. My mother lives in a house she and my dad acquired after I had moved out, so this was never really my family home, but I brought my kids here for holidays, Dave and I got married here and I spent a lot of time in this house when my dad was sick. I know its nooks and crannies but I wasn’t part of making them—I had no say in the disposition of the rooms or the yard, and although it’s welcoming and familiar it’s not exactly home. That is never so evident as when I brush my teeth in the bathroom. Something about the light in the room, and the mirror that’s been there forever always surprises me by fading my blotches, smoothing my wrinkles and shining my hair—I never look as good in the real world, ever, as I look, always, in this mirror. So the older I get, the more seductive this mirror is—one of these times I won’t be able to bear going back to Ottawa. And to think I wrote this on Valentine’s Day!! 

I really, deeply, am a hopeless romantic, I'm apparently cautious about letting people know. 

It's not all about me, after all

Man, last Tuesday was a long time ago.  I've been on the computer, but blogging, at least the writing part, has been beyond me.

I, who never thought about Egypt, except when reading Agatha Christie or visiting a museum, have been enthralled with the brave, the foolhardy, the beaten, the hopeful, the faithful, the long-suffering, the bloody, the finally triumphant people of Egypt.

Normally we get our news from the radio, but I couldn't take my eyes away from the TV, except to check out the internet.  I was incredibly moved by a photo of thousands and thousands of bent backs at the Square, showing people praying together, and incredibly shocked, frightened and outraged to see men descending on the Square on horses and camels, brandishing poles and whips.

I have been struggling with a sense of guilt for not really understanding the situation, and for not realizing the conditions that led to the protesting.  I know it's not unique to me, but then neither was the rush of pride and satisfaction when Mubarak stepped down, or the concern about what happens next. 

Every once in a while, you get a chance to clearly see our place of privilege.  I hope I can figure out ways to better deserve it.

And ironically, "I" appears at least 10 times in this post.  I hate failing so swiftly.

Two out of 134 ain't bad

I've been listening to a lot of great music lately.  Dave has begun digitizing our cassettes, bless his heart, and the '80s are upon us.


Now that sounds like we've been steaming ahead, recklessly ripping every cassette we loved, but in fact, the preparation, the culling, the setup, the glitches and the ultimate failure of our tapedeck means that we've only got two tapes done.  Heart, the epitome of strong women making great rock and roll, and Ian Tamblyn, the epitome of local folk talent from the time we first moved to Ottawa in 1974.

Not surprisingly, my nostalgia sent me to the internet, where I spent hours, (no that, for once, is not artistic license,) jogging my memory and making me sing.  Loudly. 

If you don't know Heart, but like fearless singers, tough lyrics, rock and roll, heart- rending ballads or women in leather, you might like to dip into their site.
Launch their jukebox.  If you only try one song, make it Crazy on You.

Ian has made a gift of his most recent album.  You can hear it here.

How serendipitous is it that both of these treasures are Canadian?

How self-centred is it for me to think you'd be interested in my musical taste in the 70s and 80s?

How predictable is it that I should roll up hippiedom, music, big jewellery, antixenophobia, Celtic tunes, ecological stance, smudgy eyeliner and a man who wears Icelandic hats, and suggest that it would make a good mash-up?

Robyn Gets Fit

A week or two ago, we had Robyn for the day.  Our exercise room will never again seem like the same dull place.

It really seems like I only have one grandchild, if you count the photos and videos and appearances on Facebook.  I hope I get to change that soon.  Phoebe, get videoing!  The Roses are in Disneyworld right now, so I think I may have a photo or two soon.

Photohunter : Theme FASHION

I'm not sure about late being better than never.  Here is my post for the Photohunter Challenge: Fashion

SPINDILLYRUSHINGHAM FASHION STATEMENT

When Life gives you Lemons

This week, I was given a few lemons.

Today, I am getting ready to cuddle up with my new Kindle, a glass of white wine, and cranberry-apricot bread pudding, made with the disaster-bread.

There's nothing like revenge.

A Loaf of Bread and Thou

I don't think it's a disgrace that I'm not a good cook.  I wish it were otherwise, and I have put together some decent meals from time to time, but in the last few days, my inner chef has encountered some major challenges to its well-being.

First of all was the unfortunate pairing of chorizo sausage with a sweet and sour sauce and rice.  Looked reasonable, tasted awful, and truly, deep down, I knew it wouldn't work but I had promised Dave I would use some stuff we had in the fridge.

I made a double batch of macaroni and cheese, with which I usually have success, but I forgot when it came to the sauce, that I had doubled the recipe.  Not a winner.

But my worst trial was with the bread machine.  We had had a bread machine before, but the loaves were at least 2 lbs, which were too much for us, so we gave the machine to one of the kids.   Then last week, we saw a bread machine that will make a 1 lb loaf, snatched it up and brought it home. 

Dave made the first loaf, and it was delicious and goldy-flaky.  I made the next which was heavy with a crust thick enough to do myself harm with---and I did. 

Dave made a French loaf.  Guess what it tasted like.  Use words that are interchangeable with "to die for". 

This morning I made another, but as the white flour was in an unopened bag way at the back of the cupboard, I used multigrain flour, and did something else bread-unfriendly and ended up with what looked a bit like a tough brown kid with mumps.

I am so glad I am able to bounce back from the awful inner-chef place that loaf sent me to.

Update on Status update

E-reader is irrevocably broken according to me.  I went so far as to follow the instructions for manual factory reset, which, frighteningly is: take a paper clip, open it up and push it into a hole on the back of the reader until something clicks.  The screen continued to look like a black and white tartan kilt overlaying a shampoo commercial.

I decided to leave it in the hands of the Consumer Guy.  Dave has had refunds on clothes he bought two years ago, and doesn't have a receipt for, so I thought trying to get my money back at best, and a new Kobo at least should be left to him.  He left for Chapters looking grim.

I stayed home with the mangled paper clips.  And a huge jar of Bailey's filled chocolates.  We're both happy with this arrangement.

Dave is back from Chapters with a full refund.  He said they were as nice as pie.  And from the Dessert King/Consumer Guy, that's a huge compliment.