Yesterday I walked. And I walked. I walked outside and I walked inside. I walked with nothing in my hands, then I walked with a big blue flowered bag full of essential stuff including a ring of the most decadent rolls imaginable. I did not walk with any music, or any dog, making me stand out in the crowd. I did walk in jeans and sneakers, making me fit in.
I think I must have met Dick and Jane.
Thursday, 31 March 2011
Saturday, 26 March 2011
It's really so simple.....
Back in 1974, when I thought my first husband really meant it when he said he was devastated by the loss of the kids, Dave and I talked about what kind of relationship he would have with Chris and Sarah. We were part way through the discussion about the relationship we would have with each other, so it seemed timely.
We decided that the kids would call him "Dave", which came easy, since that was already their practice, and that I would be the primary care-giver. We had already worked out that we were going to share bringing up the kids, but we wanted to do it in a way that was not disruptive, not threatening, but transparent and supportive.
I remembered how I used to call my dad "Billy" when I teased him or when I wanted him to know I loved him, even though we never said that to each other until I was about 40. I thought that was pretty sassy, but those were different times.
When Emily came along, she used either "Dave" or "Daddy" depending on who was in the conversation; then when Dave adopted the kids, there was a turn-around, and everyone started calling him "Dad". Looking back, we wish we could have seen the difference that seemed to make, particularly to Chris, but we hadn't, and we have to believe that whether our decisions proved right or wrong, we were making them in the right spirit. Anyway, that change seemed to make the adoption even more special and stood as a visual sign of our familiness.
Dave and I became grandparents when he was 48 and I was 55. I don't remember it being anything but joyful, except for the traumatizing (for me) moment, after Phoebe was born, when Dave shaved his beard and moustache and declared he was still "Dave". That's what all the grandchildren call him, with the exception of Robyn who warbles "Daaaaae" when she wants to melt his heart. Oh, and there's the other times when they call him "Dave-O", which is usually sung to the tune of The Banana Boat Song.
We decided that the kids would call him "Dave", which came easy, since that was already their practice, and that I would be the primary care-giver. We had already worked out that we were going to share bringing up the kids, but we wanted to do it in a way that was not disruptive, not threatening, but transparent and supportive.
I remembered how I used to call my dad "Billy" when I teased him or when I wanted him to know I loved him, even though we never said that to each other until I was about 40. I thought that was pretty sassy, but those were different times.
When Emily came along, she used either "Dave" or "Daddy" depending on who was in the conversation; then when Dave adopted the kids, there was a turn-around, and everyone started calling him "Dad". Looking back, we wish we could have seen the difference that seemed to make, particularly to Chris, but we hadn't, and we have to believe that whether our decisions proved right or wrong, we were making them in the right spirit. Anyway, that change seemed to make the adoption even more special and stood as a visual sign of our familiness.
Dave and I became grandparents when he was 48 and I was 55. I don't remember it being anything but joyful, except for the traumatizing (for me) moment, after Phoebe was born, when Dave shaved his beard and moustache and declared he was still "Dave". That's what all the grandchildren call him, with the exception of Robyn who warbles "Daaaaae" when she wants to melt his heart. Oh, and there's the other times when they call him "Dave-O", which is usually sung to the tune of The Banana Boat Song.
Tuesday, 22 March 2011
In which I concoct a theory
I have a wonderful place between my neck and my shoulder. It's the place where kids put their chins when they're crying or sick or sad. My husband sometimes tries illegally to tickle me there with his stubble.
I maintain that it's the use of Body Shop Coconut Body Butter that leads them to seek that place, but as soon as I wrote that I realize I've only had that body butter since Christmas, so it's a flawed theory. Funny how that works. I thought about it today when Robyn, poor sick-with-a-cold kid snuggled up and cried hot tears on that place where her cousins sometimes kiss me. I actually passed a few minutes wondering about the powerful pull of coconut and congratulating myself on my ability to choose scents with appeal.
I am so easy to fool. But for whatever reason, I love having that special place.
I maintain that it's the use of Body Shop Coconut Body Butter that leads them to seek that place, but as soon as I wrote that I realize I've only had that body butter since Christmas, so it's a flawed theory. Funny how that works. I thought about it today when Robyn, poor sick-with-a-cold kid snuggled up and cried hot tears on that place where her cousins sometimes kiss me. I actually passed a few minutes wondering about the powerful pull of coconut and congratulating myself on my ability to choose scents with appeal.
I am so easy to fool. But for whatever reason, I love having that special place.
Saturday, 19 March 2011
Mark this day on my calendar
Well, today is the day.
Today, I am going to go into my bedroom, close the door, turn on some loud music and stay at it until I have cleaned my closet. And by closet, I mean every shelf, every drawer, every bag, every nook, every cranny. And by cleaned, I mean ruthlessly.
We've been in this condo almost three years, and so far, all I've done in the way of closet management has been to shift things around to make room for more stuff.
What happened to the rule: If you bring something in, you send something out!? It's a good rule, it's one I adopted with full understanding and little trepidation. It's one I've found ways to cheat on, when it comes to personal adornment.
So, any minute now, clear-eyed and determined, fortified by coffee and good music, I'm in there. I don't know why, but I keep picturing Henry VIII, armoured and enthusiastic, his horse pawing the ground, waiting for his turn at the lists. Oh yeah, I do know why---when I picture Henry VIII, I always see Jonathan Rhys-Myers, and who wouldn't rather think of him than some churlish Dickensian cleaner with a mobcap and a
feather duster.
And just to you know, I'm aware that it was a big stretch to get to Jonathan R-M this morning, but that's the kind of person I am.
Today, I am going to go into my bedroom, close the door, turn on some loud music and stay at it until I have cleaned my closet. And by closet, I mean every shelf, every drawer, every bag, every nook, every cranny. And by cleaned, I mean ruthlessly.
We've been in this condo almost three years, and so far, all I've done in the way of closet management has been to shift things around to make room for more stuff.
What happened to the rule: If you bring something in, you send something out!? It's a good rule, it's one I adopted with full understanding and little trepidation. It's one I've found ways to cheat on, when it comes to personal adornment.
So, any minute now, clear-eyed and determined, fortified by coffee and good music, I'm in there. I don't know why, but I keep picturing Henry VIII, armoured and enthusiastic, his horse pawing the ground, waiting for his turn at the lists. Oh yeah, I do know why---when I picture Henry VIII, I always see Jonathan Rhys-Myers, and who wouldn't rather think of him than some churlish Dickensian cleaner with a mobcap and a
feather duster.
And just to you know, I'm aware that it was a big stretch to get to Jonathan R-M this morning, but that's the kind of person I am.
 |
| please forgive me---I have no rights to this picture. |
Thursday, 17 March 2011
What I can do to a glass of milk
How is it that I can go all day without drinking anything and not think twice about it? I don't even make a connection to dry skin, which in vanity mode, might make me a water drinker. But when I do pour myself a drink of anything except wine or coffee, both of which I can linger over, I have to chug the whole thing down? It's puzzling. And it's hard to not feel mortified when my grandchildren see me drain a glass of milk without stopping to breathe, then stand panting when I'm done. I'm going to count it as a foible.
As soon as I'd written that, I knew I would have to look up "foible". In spite of knowing I was using it correctly, I couldn't actually be sure of what it meant. So for your edification and mine:
Merriam-Webster says: foible... a minor flaw or shortcoming in character or behavior.
Just what I had in mind, and it perfectly describes what I've just exhibited by wasting your time writing about something so unfascinating.
As soon as I'd written that, I knew I would have to look up "foible". In spite of knowing I was using it correctly, I couldn't actually be sure of what it meant. So for your edification and mine:
Merriam-Webster says: foible... a minor flaw or shortcoming in character or behavior.
Just what I had in mind, and it perfectly describes what I've just exhibited by wasting your time writing about something so unfascinating.
Monday, 14 March 2011
On Growing Oldish without Regret
When Dave and I first started living together, we found a big house in a great neighbourhood and moved our kids and cats. The kids' school was close enough for them to walk to and we soon had a firm foothold in the community. We were both working and unbelievably, found that our neighbours whose kids were of an age with ours, would take our kids for lunch and afterschool care.
Chris and Sarah were ecstatic. Dave and Lorna were ecstatic. Not only were our neighbours, Tom and Kazuko, lovely people, she was a dietitian and he a person with enough patience to teach the kids how to use chopsticks. Our kids eventually moved on to community centre afterschool programs, but we continued to be neighbours with the Tsais for a few years. We moved and moved and moved, they moved to a bigger, modern house with lots of opportunity for gardening and we continued to see them, sometimes by plan and sometimes by serendipity.
Fast forward to last night, when we had dinner again with them, this time at our place.
We sat around, eating homemade sushi (not mine) and getting updated on the various kids and their kids, and marvelling at how little changed we felt from our young selves in spite of weddings and grandchildren and retirement.
We tried, but in vain I think, to convince them that they really needed to move into our building, and when they left, Dave and I felt an irresistible longing for 70s music and both noticed that we were moving in ways that suggested we were flicking our hair off our shoulders, and swaggering around in our flared-leg jeans.
Chris and Sarah were ecstatic. Dave and Lorna were ecstatic. Not only were our neighbours, Tom and Kazuko, lovely people, she was a dietitian and he a person with enough patience to teach the kids how to use chopsticks. Our kids eventually moved on to community centre afterschool programs, but we continued to be neighbours with the Tsais for a few years. We moved and moved and moved, they moved to a bigger, modern house with lots of opportunity for gardening and we continued to see them, sometimes by plan and sometimes by serendipity.
Fast forward to last night, when we had dinner again with them, this time at our place.
We sat around, eating homemade sushi (not mine) and getting updated on the various kids and their kids, and marvelling at how little changed we felt from our young selves in spite of weddings and grandchildren and retirement.
We tried, but in vain I think, to convince them that they really needed to move into our building, and when they left, Dave and I felt an irresistible longing for 70s music and both noticed that we were moving in ways that suggested we were flicking our hair off our shoulders, and swaggering around in our flared-leg jeans.
Saturday, 12 March 2011
Emboldened by Nostalgia
Having felt no inspiration today, I thought I'd check my archives.
Two years ago:
Two years ago:
David Suzuki, you have a lot to answer for!
Today, among the many boring errands I had to pursue, I stopped at Bridgehead, the fairtrade coffee place, because, although I had had a coffee, I had had to dash out of the house before breakfast, and I was growly.
When I got in, I realized I hadn’t been in that particular Bridgehead store before, so I stopped to look around a bit, noting that it was full of interesting-looking people, who looked as though they just finished talking to David Suzuki
or Salman Rushdie and were having a moment of support for developing countries before going out and chaining themselves to endangered trees.
Then I thought that I actually saw David Suzuki, fully dressed, drinking coffee in the back of the store. Not wanting to look like a fan, and afraid he’d caught me staring, I did a quick about-face, and ran into the Bridgehead equivalent of a barista. He was about a foot taller and 80 pounds lighter than I am, and he had his hair pulled back with a hairband just like the one I had taken off after washing my face this morning. Quite naturally, I thought, I reached out to see if he was OK, and he must have thought I was keeling over, because he sort of swooped down on me, and propelled me to a nearby chair.
He didn’t actually say, “put your head between your knees”, but he did look like he’d been caught kicking puppies. We mumbled aplogies indistinctly to each other, and I was annoyed with myself and flustered for thinking that he was just the kind of almost-misfit interesting-looking guy I would have been attracted to when I was in my 20s. Not wanting him to scream, I didn’t mention that.
After a minute, I casually swept my hair back out of my eyes, adjusted my glasses, and toddled over to order something…..anything actually.
He: Would you like to order something?
Me: (eagerly) Yes, I would, that’s why I came in….
He. ???? expressed by subtle movement of the eyebrows
Me: Well, I’d like something that isn’t coffee or tea, but is hot.
He: (turning his back to read the list of Other Stuff) not coffee or tea????
Me: (interrupting) Oh! Oh! I know what I want—a non-fat steamed milk with a shot of vanilla
He: Vanilla?
Me: well just half a shot actually
He: (stifling giggles and kicking the guy beside him) what size?
Me: Whatever constitutes a grande
He: (silence and bafflement)
Me: a middle—a medium, I guess
He: For here or to go?
Me: For here in a cup. No, No, did I say for here? What am I thinking? I’m driving my car so I’ll just have a medium for here to go. In a cup. I’m doing my errands.
He and buddy (smiling slightly at each other) To go then?
Me: (in my head) Just kill me now.
Me: Just kill me now. Oh, did I say that out loud? (hysteria rising)
He: Thank you ma’am—that’s a medium steamed milk, no fat, for here, to go. anything else?
Me: You betcha!
He (hesitatingly) Aaaaannnnnddd that would be?
Me: how much?
He: For what?
Me: Oh, never mind, I’ll just take the coffee.
Then I paid, stumbled past the line of caffeine-deprived citizens and left the steamed milk on the bar.
When I got in, I realized I hadn’t been in that particular Bridgehead store before, so I stopped to look around a bit, noting that it was full of interesting-looking people, who looked as though they just finished talking to David Suzuki
or Salman Rushdie and were having a moment of support for developing countries before going out and chaining themselves to endangered trees.
Then I thought that I actually saw David Suzuki, fully dressed, drinking coffee in the back of the store. Not wanting to look like a fan, and afraid he’d caught me staring, I did a quick about-face, and ran into the Bridgehead equivalent of a barista. He was about a foot taller and 80 pounds lighter than I am, and he had his hair pulled back with a hairband just like the one I had taken off after washing my face this morning. Quite naturally, I thought, I reached out to see if he was OK, and he must have thought I was keeling over, because he sort of swooped down on me, and propelled me to a nearby chair.
He didn’t actually say, “put your head between your knees”, but he did look like he’d been caught kicking puppies. We mumbled aplogies indistinctly to each other, and I was annoyed with myself and flustered for thinking that he was just the kind of almost-misfit interesting-looking guy I would have been attracted to when I was in my 20s. Not wanting him to scream, I didn’t mention that.
After a minute, I casually swept my hair back out of my eyes, adjusted my glasses, and toddled over to order something…..anything actually.
He: Would you like to order something?
Me: (eagerly) Yes, I would, that’s why I came in….
He. ???? expressed by subtle movement of the eyebrows
Me: Well, I’d like something that isn’t coffee or tea, but is hot.
He: (turning his back to read the list of Other Stuff) not coffee or tea????
Me: (interrupting) Oh! Oh! I know what I want—a non-fat steamed milk with a shot of vanilla
He: Vanilla?
Me: well just half a shot actually
He: (stifling giggles and kicking the guy beside him) what size?
Me: Whatever constitutes a grande
He: (silence and bafflement)
Me: a middle—a medium, I guess
He: For here or to go?
Me: For here in a cup. No, No, did I say for here? What am I thinking? I’m driving my car so I’ll just have a medium for here to go. In a cup. I’m doing my errands.
He and buddy (smiling slightly at each other) To go then?
Me: (in my head) Just kill me now.
Me: Just kill me now. Oh, did I say that out loud? (hysteria rising)
He: Thank you ma’am—that’s a medium steamed milk, no fat, for here, to go. anything else?
Me: You betcha!
He (hesitatingly) Aaaaannnnnddd that would be?
Me: how much?
He: For what?
Me: Oh, never mind, I’ll just take the coffee.
Then I paid, stumbled past the line of caffeine-deprived citizens and left the steamed milk on the bar.
And five years ago (I obviously didn't take this as seriously in the long run as I did at the time)
The distorted mirror
….You mean never again?
….Never.
….For the whole rest of my life?
….Never again…..Do you think you can do it?
….Yes, I can do it…but I don’t have to like it.
So that was the end of our discussion. I had been to see my doctor about the diffficulties I was having with depression, and in the course of telling him what my life had been like the week before I ran into trouble, I mentioned that for two days in a row, I’d had a great time. Both days, Dave and I had been out to dinner, and both days, I’d had about four glasses of wine. I seldom drink more than two glasses on any day, and often drink none, but apparently, that was too much.
So I am not able to drink wine (or beer or liquor, which I wouldn’t miss anyway), since it nullifies my medication. Aaaarrrrggggghhhh!!!!
It’s not that I crave wine—it’s that I had a picture of myself as a genteel retired person who sat reading with a cat nearby and a glass of wine at her side. Now, I’ll be that retired person who sits reading with something else—something not as interesting or as potentially intoxicating or as depressing as a glass of wine.
And when I later went up to my mother’s and couldn’t remember my user name for Blogger for 4 days in a row, I blame it on the discovery that I was going to have to adjust my mental picture of myself…..
….Never.
….For the whole rest of my life?
….Never again…..Do you think you can do it?
….Yes, I can do it…but I don’t have to like it.
So that was the end of our discussion. I had been to see my doctor about the diffficulties I was having with depression, and in the course of telling him what my life had been like the week before I ran into trouble, I mentioned that for two days in a row, I’d had a great time. Both days, Dave and I had been out to dinner, and both days, I’d had about four glasses of wine. I seldom drink more than two glasses on any day, and often drink none, but apparently, that was too much.
So I am not able to drink wine (or beer or liquor, which I wouldn’t miss anyway), since it nullifies my medication. Aaaarrrrggggghhhh!!!!
It’s not that I crave wine—it’s that I had a picture of myself as a genteel retired person who sat reading with a cat nearby and a glass of wine at her side. Now, I’ll be that retired person who sits reading with something else—something not as interesting or as potentially intoxicating or as depressing as a glass of wine.
And when I later went up to my mother’s and couldn’t remember my user name for Blogger for 4 days in a row, I blame it on the discovery that I was going to have to adjust my mental picture of myself…..
And six years ago---caught in a moment of total and cleansing honesty:
Long, long ago…..
I have a friend who, after a few false starts, fell totally in love; I asked her how they met and she sent me a charming and romantic story, and at the end said, “You?” I don’t know if she meant how are you, or how did you guys meet, but I chose to interpret the latter. Here’s the story:
I am 32, and it is an age of unprecedented sexual freedom, and for me, unprecedented growth and awareness.
At 32, I am married to a man I love, but whose childish need exasperates me and drains all my energy, energy I need for my children. Replenishing my energy takes the form of what for me is harmless sexual activity—play really, with people I like who know the limits: most especially, no falling in love.
What makes it wholly selfish is that I am playing with someone who is loved by the woman I love most among my friends. He likes me, he loves her in a way that isn’t satisfactory; I like him, I love her because she is the person I most look up to, the person who encourages me to write, to explore my thoughts, to respect myself and to think about my options. And we talk about the options I have chosen, and dryly, she tells me that although she is hurt, she knows it’s not about me, it’s about him, that I am not targeting her and we come to a kind of weird peace with it. I try to look at myself through her eyes to take my cues, I back off the sexual activity and our friendship stabilises. I even advocate for her with this guy—also a thoughtful person who unemotionally explains his side of things, which I dutifully pass on, all the while thinking how mature and worldly we all are, two households complementing each other.
My husband goes away, and I realize that I can’t resume my life with him—Dear John comes to mind. After much thought about our family’s well-being, I think: this will be not surprising, not callous, not casual but totally logical, so I write to tell him, and begin to live a new phase: Wife harassed by spouse.
During this time, I grow even closer to the people in the other household, needing their wisdom, experience and compassion. I realize that they form part of the fabric of my life, that we’ll always be close. I treasure their advice and the haven of their home and this is where I meet David—someone I’ve known through discussion with others and over the phone, but never met until he becomes part of the household.
He is so much younger than I am, 25, but mature; so unexpectedly wise, so funny and so willing to listen. We go to movies, we talk about how I can avoid harassment and protect and nurture my children, we go walking, we take my kids to fly kites, we go to bed, but only after we have agreed to my conditions: no fatherly relationship with my kids, no talking about each other’s appearance, no falling in love.
If only I’d said: no joy, no measured advice, no deep friendship, no endearing home-made lunches with radishes cut like roses, no improving my self-esteem, no asking my opinion about books, no understanding how I still love the man I’m leaving, no drives in the countryside in that ratty truck with the benches and foam in the back, no getting up at 4 in the morning so my kids won’t ask about you, no making promises that you always, always keep.
We never, ever talk about each other’s appearance.
I am 32, and it is an age of unprecedented sexual freedom, and for me, unprecedented growth and awareness.
At 32, I am married to a man I love, but whose childish need exasperates me and drains all my energy, energy I need for my children. Replenishing my energy takes the form of what for me is harmless sexual activity—play really, with people I like who know the limits: most especially, no falling in love.
What makes it wholly selfish is that I am playing with someone who is loved by the woman I love most among my friends. He likes me, he loves her in a way that isn’t satisfactory; I like him, I love her because she is the person I most look up to, the person who encourages me to write, to explore my thoughts, to respect myself and to think about my options. And we talk about the options I have chosen, and dryly, she tells me that although she is hurt, she knows it’s not about me, it’s about him, that I am not targeting her and we come to a kind of weird peace with it. I try to look at myself through her eyes to take my cues, I back off the sexual activity and our friendship stabilises. I even advocate for her with this guy—also a thoughtful person who unemotionally explains his side of things, which I dutifully pass on, all the while thinking how mature and worldly we all are, two households complementing each other.
My husband goes away, and I realize that I can’t resume my life with him—Dear John comes to mind. After much thought about our family’s well-being, I think: this will be not surprising, not callous, not casual but totally logical, so I write to tell him, and begin to live a new phase: Wife harassed by spouse.
During this time, I grow even closer to the people in the other household, needing their wisdom, experience and compassion. I realize that they form part of the fabric of my life, that we’ll always be close. I treasure their advice and the haven of their home and this is where I meet David—someone I’ve known through discussion with others and over the phone, but never met until he becomes part of the household.
He is so much younger than I am, 25, but mature; so unexpectedly wise, so funny and so willing to listen. We go to movies, we talk about how I can avoid harassment and protect and nurture my children, we go walking, we take my kids to fly kites, we go to bed, but only after we have agreed to my conditions: no fatherly relationship with my kids, no talking about each other’s appearance, no falling in love.
If only I’d said: no joy, no measured advice, no deep friendship, no endearing home-made lunches with radishes cut like roses, no improving my self-esteem, no asking my opinion about books, no understanding how I still love the man I’m leaving, no drives in the countryside in that ratty truck with the benches and foam in the back, no getting up at 4 in the morning so my kids won’t ask about you, no making promises that you always, always keep.
We never, ever talk about each other’s appearance.
Wednesday, 9 March 2011
In which I fold and learn...
Something wicked this way comes.
I never watch daytime TV unless I'm crocheting, and arthritis plus grumpiness has made that not too thrilling, so the chances of my seeing something on the Oprah Winfrey Network are pretty slim. My evening television is pretty much centred on Law and Order clones, when I'm not watching Castle or Fringe, so OWN is not a nighttime option either.
Hah! The other day I had a large load of picky laundry---tablecloths and napkins, dishtowels and other stuff that needs folding, so I turned on the TV, surfed a bit and got engulfed in Oprahstuff. The show that caught me was called Enough Already, and was about people who need help organizing their junk. I actually chose it because I thought it would be easy to turn off when my laundry was folded.
Hah! again. This show centred around a family whose father was diagnosed with leukemia, has been fighting it for 13 years and finally has been told he only has months to live. He tires easily and wanted to be able to sit downstairs and visit with family and friends, but his living room and a couple of other rooms are piled high with things the family buys, loses interest in and stashes.
I kind of liked the guy who was the clean-up expert; he seemed to know his stuff, and on top of that, he was compassionate and understanding from the get-go. There's nothing I like better than high-stakes emotionalism, usually my own, and how could I miss with this show?
Since it's flashy beginnings, I've been a non-watcher of reality TV yet here I found myself unable to look away for an hour while a truly troubled family was led through a problem that was just a symbol of their root issues.
The man-I-thought-was-an-interior-decorator-wannabe said the right things, took the right action, offered to turn off the cameras when it was appropriate and gave this family good advice for their emotional issues and their stacking-junk issues. He even wrapped it all up together by getting them to have a yard sale with proceeds going to the Leukemia Association.
I may never be able to walk past the TV at 2 in the afternoon again. Evil, I tell you!
I never watch daytime TV unless I'm crocheting, and arthritis plus grumpiness has made that not too thrilling, so the chances of my seeing something on the Oprah Winfrey Network are pretty slim. My evening television is pretty much centred on Law and Order clones, when I'm not watching Castle or Fringe, so OWN is not a nighttime option either.
Hah! The other day I had a large load of picky laundry---tablecloths and napkins, dishtowels and other stuff that needs folding, so I turned on the TV, surfed a bit and got engulfed in Oprahstuff. The show that caught me was called Enough Already, and was about people who need help organizing their junk. I actually chose it because I thought it would be easy to turn off when my laundry was folded.
Hah! again. This show centred around a family whose father was diagnosed with leukemia, has been fighting it for 13 years and finally has been told he only has months to live. He tires easily and wanted to be able to sit downstairs and visit with family and friends, but his living room and a couple of other rooms are piled high with things the family buys, loses interest in and stashes.
I kind of liked the guy who was the clean-up expert; he seemed to know his stuff, and on top of that, he was compassionate and understanding from the get-go. There's nothing I like better than high-stakes emotionalism, usually my own, and how could I miss with this show?
Since it's flashy beginnings, I've been a non-watcher of reality TV yet here I found myself unable to look away for an hour while a truly troubled family was led through a problem that was just a symbol of their root issues.
The man-I-thought-was-an-interior-decorator-wannabe said the right things, took the right action, offered to turn off the cameras when it was appropriate and gave this family good advice for their emotional issues and their stacking-junk issues. He even wrapped it all up together by getting them to have a yard sale with proceeds going to the Leukemia Association.
I may never be able to walk past the TV at 2 in the afternoon again. Evil, I tell you!
Sunday, 6 March 2011
Peace....not world peace
I think I'm going to place, ceremoniously, a moratorium on thinking I'm a bad person because I really like my coffee with sugar and cream.
While I'm at it I'll slap one on worrying about wrinkles in my décolletage
and those flappy places under my arms.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is freedom!
While I'm at it I'll slap one on worrying about wrinkles in my décolletage
and those flappy places under my arms.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is freedom!
Play-date
There is nothing quite like making new friends. I loved it as a kid, which was a good thing because we always seemed to be on the move. I loved it as a teenager but only briefly each time, which in most cases, was probably wise as I was often drawn to the wrong people. As a young adult, married to a serviceman, I loved making new friends for the same reason as when I was a kid.
Now, making new friends is very often a mutual experience for me and Dave.
Tonight we had friends for dinner. The two couples had never met before, although there had been telephone stuff and and we had a head start because of our mutual volunteer work. It really was a joy to see how easily the four of us got along, although in my case, some of the ease came from being gifted with a huge and beauteous bouquet. I shared the gifting with Dave, but in fairness, I'd have to say that he was neutral about it, except when he got diverted watching me wrestling with the cellophane they came wrapped in. Cellophane is an invention of the devil, designed to look fragile, but tough as old boots, or some of my dinners.
Dave shared the cooking with me. He made a great potato casserole, with the potato peel still in it, together with green onions and other decadent things; and he stepped into his role as the Dessert King with his usual verve and enthusiasm.
And what was the deal with the big kick we got out of demonstrating all the condo-specific things we've done---making sure things serve two purposes, converting an entertainment centre into Dave's office, magically making a table for six out of a sofa table. We were just like newlyweds showing off their new home. For the record, we've been married for 32 years, and in this place for 3.
So, based on tonight's success, I have vowed to make new friends every Saturday, so if you're not related to me, you can sign up. Bring pizza---this cooking thing is exhausting.
Now, making new friends is very often a mutual experience for me and Dave.
Tonight we had friends for dinner. The two couples had never met before, although there had been telephone stuff and and we had a head start because of our mutual volunteer work. It really was a joy to see how easily the four of us got along, although in my case, some of the ease came from being gifted with a huge and beauteous bouquet. I shared the gifting with Dave, but in fairness, I'd have to say that he was neutral about it, except when he got diverted watching me wrestling with the cellophane they came wrapped in. Cellophane is an invention of the devil, designed to look fragile, but tough as old boots, or some of my dinners.
Dave shared the cooking with me. He made a great potato casserole, with the potato peel still in it, together with green onions and other decadent things; and he stepped into his role as the Dessert King with his usual verve and enthusiasm.
And what was the deal with the big kick we got out of demonstrating all the condo-specific things we've done---making sure things serve two purposes, converting an entertainment centre into Dave's office, magically making a table for six out of a sofa table. We were just like newlyweds showing off their new home. For the record, we've been married for 32 years, and in this place for 3.
So, based on tonight's success, I have vowed to make new friends every Saturday, so if you're not related to me, you can sign up. Bring pizza---this cooking thing is exhausting.
Friday, 4 March 2011
Thursday, 3 March 2011
Bowl half-empty, bowl half-full?
Dave keeps putting out little bowls of almonds---not the honeyed ones, not the salted ones, not even the skinned ones. He puts out bowls of skin-on, salt-off, crunchy, naked almonds. He puts them out about 6 inches away from my laptop.
I am not an almond person. If not for the price and the caloric count, I would be a macadamia person, or a pecanperson.
So why am I sitting here in the dark, eating nuts I don't like, and eating lots of them I might add?
I don't think it's a lack of self-discipline. Why, I've been known to pass on glitzy nailpolish, avoid wine for days on end, miss out on HUGE sales and wake up before 6---all in the name of self-discipline, so that can't be it.
I don't think it's a lack of nutrient thing, like the people who eat dirt or chalk just to get a healthy buzz. I know it has nothing to do with exercising my jaws or sharpening my teeth; I don't think it's because there's nothing else available.
Since I'm alone in the room, I don't think it's for the nuisance value of chomping, chomping, chomping followed by searching, searching, searching for little nut nuggets with my tongue.
What a conundrum!! Oh well, it doesn't really matter anyway now, since the bowl is empty.
I am not an almond person. If not for the price and the caloric count, I would be a macadamia person, or a pecanperson.
So why am I sitting here in the dark, eating nuts I don't like, and eating lots of them I might add?
I don't think it's a lack of self-discipline. Why, I've been known to pass on glitzy nailpolish, avoid wine for days on end, miss out on HUGE sales and wake up before 6---all in the name of self-discipline, so that can't be it.
I don't think it's a lack of nutrient thing, like the people who eat dirt or chalk just to get a healthy buzz. I know it has nothing to do with exercising my jaws or sharpening my teeth; I don't think it's because there's nothing else available.
Since I'm alone in the room, I don't think it's for the nuisance value of chomping, chomping, chomping followed by searching, searching, searching for little nut nuggets with my tongue.
What a conundrum!! Oh well, it doesn't really matter anyway now, since the bowl is empty.
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