This isn't really a post

It's a confession.

Yesterday, thinking that a little music would do me good, and having taken the advice of a friend to buy some Justin Rutledge music, I hauled myself to a reasonably vertical position, tore the plastic off the CD with my teeth, checked to make sure my earbuds were in the right ears, and slipped the new CD into my laptop.

I know, that hardly warrants a confession.

Here's the thing:  I slipped the CD into the same place I already had a DVD (Land Before Time VI, I think) and now I have to replace my drive.  And since I never heard Justin, and Emma watches Land Before Time whenever she's here, and since Dell thinks I might have fritzed the two of them, I have to be prepared to replace the two maladjusted disks.

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!

Quasi-apologetic

I am usually a pretty robust person---and for that I am grateful, but every once in a while, the gods that keep us tied to reality send me a message.

"Don't be so smug", they warn me while buffeting my system with a bunch of niggly things which would be easily overlooked if they were to arrive singly, or even in bunches of two, but which leave me yelling back, "Yes, yes, I know I'm 69!!"

Well, when I get back to normal, and this spring flu is behind me, I hope I remember to apologize to Dave for getting so much pleasure from the Man cold video.

A running leap back

How did it get to be Tuesday?

I remember being busy on Friday, going shopping on Saturday, cooking for the family on Sunday (with a great deal of help by the way), and while I don't remember much, I know that Sunday night to Tuesday morning was a stretch of that body and mind hurts flu.

The fact that no type of activity other than those mentioned enters my brain is starting to worry me.  Either I'm partly catatonic, or I'm not doing anything memorable, and perhaps both.

I remember having that problem when I was in my early teens, but as soon as I started earning enough money to buy lipstick and shoes, my fate was sealed.

The only cure I can imagine is to become a redonculous purchaser again.  Not only did that keep me busy hiding things, feeling guilty about the bad example I was being to my children, re-inventing with great creativity my make-up bag and my closet, it resulted in fine memories of days spent at Chapters, hours spent reading at bars and moments of my face looks perfect.

It won't be easy regaining my purchasing power.  I think I'll require money, but I've managed before.

Dear World,
This is Dave, please do not enable this behaviour.  Thank you.

Of eggs and bread and squishy bugs

Early on Thursday, I had seen the weekend as quiet, Dave-and-me- centred with a movie-and-dinner combo thrown in.

By mid-day, that had changed, and it wasn't for the worse, it was just for the different.

Had I written a to-do list yesterday, these are some of the things that would have had to be on it:

• get up early and move all the fragile toddler-unfriendly things to their Robyn-is-coming spots
• dust and oil if necessary, the sewing machine which has not been used in almost three years, preferably do this last week
• persuade Dave that this is not a good day to make bread, however delicious it may be
• have breakfast but wait for Emily to have coffee because she makes better coffee than you, barista-that-she-was
• look to see if there are any cans of Spaghetti-o hiding somewhere, and failing to find them, spend the rest of the morning worrying about what the grandchildren will eat
• find the bag with all the colourful bejewelled eggs that the girls worked on two weeks ago
• persuade Emily that McDonalds is the way to go for lunch
• remind Robyn that she loves cheeseburgers, and that the best way to enjoy them is not really to tear them up in small pieces and leave them covered in fries on the patio
• try to stay out of Emily's way while she designs and produces a maggot costume, yes I said maggot costume, for a play that Julia's in
• take aformentioned eggs, work with Sarah to attach them to ribbons and prepare them to hang outside our apartment door
• join the family to look on the egged ribbons with pride
• find something for Emma to do when she gets bored with crafty stuff
• try not to be envious of the I-pad Sarah has; try especially not to poke Emma when she wants it back
• get stuff ready to colour Emily's hair; remember to put all the ingredients in before you apply the colour
• look confident when it turns out anyway
• persuade Dave not to watch a movie you both thought would be interesting, and persuade yourself you don't need chips while you watch movies
• remember to do something about that jagged toenail before you go to bed

Looking back on yesterday, I can see that I am one of the most organized post-event people ever.

by the short and curlies

Yesterday I wrote about being conflicted, and told a story about washing dishes, and thinking to myself.

I got a number of replies, all of them advising me to chuck the offending pan.  That surprised me because I thought the crux of the matter was my saying, "if this was my house".

It is my house, it's a house I share with a partner who never makes me feel less than equal.  Why did I say that? 

Having said that, I realize that I feel equal on the grand scale of things, like if I take into account all the areas in which I feel somewhat more equal, and all of those in which I don't.

I am definitely not on the same level with Dave when it comes to putting up with things I find suspect for whatever reason.  Dave is frugal; to say I'm not is just an exercise in understatement.  He really thinks these pans are OK to use (just somewhat suspect in appearance).  I only feel something about them; I haven't done any research, I couldn't justify just turfing them because I don't like the way they look, and I definitely don't have the courage of my conviction around this subject.

Maybe that's why I didn't feel, in that moment, like I had any ownership or power.

However, on the grand scale, and that's where I think it's important, equality reigns.  Just try to feel sorry for Dave if I succumb to some horrible kind of industrial poisoning.

Inner Lorna 1, Outer Lorna 0

Today, when I was washing dishes, I picked up a frying pan that I've several times suggested to Dave looked too worn to be useful, and I heard myself thinking:
"If this were my house, I'd get rid of this thing!"

Now, I'm still puzzled, hours later, about what that statement says about me. 

Wednesday's Child is Fair of Face (I know, I know)

Last year, I did some research on birth order characteristics before I sat down to write a birthday post for Sarah.  This morning I read last year's post and decided I couldn't, without arrogant bragging, say anything better than:

Sarah is our middle child:  common acceptance is that the middle child is the most difficult to pin down. They  can usually read people well, they are peacemakers who see all sides of a situation, they are independent and inventive.
Except that for 10 years, Sarah was the baby of the family.  Babies are social and outgoing, they are the most financially irresponsible of all birth orders. They just want to have a good time and they love the limelight.
While lastborns may be charming, they also have the potential to be manipulative, spoiled or babied to the point of helplessness.

Well, where Sarah is concerned I have to say BOSH to common acceptance of middle or baby child traits.  Sarah is so her own person, so balanced, so thoughtful, so principled, so not in the limelight.  She should be—she’s beautiful and smart and charming and funny and she’s the least financially irresponsible person I know.  From the time she was twelve, she used to chastise the shopping me because she already had enough of whatever I’d just bought.  And as for manipulative, spoiled or babied, I hope all my kids are like that to some degree.  It’s how you learn how to push the barriers, to be an adult while knowing that you’re loved.

And while Sarah was a gorgeous, chubby and gregarious baby, an infinitely brave toddler, a smart and loving kid, and an extraordinarily challenging teenager, it’s as an adult that she most commands my love and respect.

I’ve long forgiven you for these things, Sarah:

• how you learned to walk and then ran away from home on the same day
• how you nearly gave an old man a heart attack by running in front of his car but made us all feel like it was his fault
• how you barely hid your shame at having to sometimes take the same bus that I did when you were going to high school (and as I remember, I wasn’t crazy about the full-on kohl eyeliner you were using then either)

• how you tried to con me into thinking the guy you were living with was your roommate

And these are some of the other things I’ll never forget:

• how you used to read to me at midnight, sitting on or perilously near my face, in the dark,  when you were 14 months old
• how every animal in the known world was precious to you
• how you chose Dave to be your dad from day one
• how you mothered Emily, even when I wasn’t looking
• how you found Chris a place to live so we didn’t have to put his belongings on the doorstep
• how your adulthood smacked me up the side of the head when I saw you coming down the stairs at your house when you were 20-something, smoking a cigarette, drinking a glass of wine, all rosy from a bath
• how you indulged me when we were planning your wedding, and I wanted to make everything
• how smart and fun and caring  a mother you are
• how you called me every day for two years when Dave was away in Victoria
• how you surreptitiously let me know that it might be a good idea to deal with that long hair bristling out of my chin and how you promised to push me back through the door if I ever go out of the house looking like a mad caricature of myself.

Happy birthday, my dear heart.

Sarah and her dad

Day of Pink Yesterday, Rainbow Week all week

Yesterday, I was at the most amazing and moving meeting---it was the Gala for the Day of Pink mounted by Jer's Vision.  I had to get my spring clothes out so I could dress in pink which was a requisite of attendance. I have to confess I paled in comparison to 95% of the crowd.  Paled.  Pink.  Get it?


Such a diverse and pink-wearing crowd, some of whom had taken the idea of pink to every visible part of their bodies, showed up at Tabaret Hall at Ottawa U.  Marta Chavez, a clever and sassy comic was the host, and she had to admit that if it hadn't been for a drag queen in the back of the room, she wouldn't have had that hot pink boa draped over her bosom, which I think she called her bezoom.

Jer's Vision presented awards for outstanding youth-role-models last night to Brian Burke, Stephen Lewis and to the Kingdom of the Netherlands, all of whom have been leaders in the fight against bullying, homophobia and discrimination.  Their stories were inspiring and moving; their awards well-earned.  I learned that Holland beat us to same-sex marriage by declaring it legal ten years ago, and that they have the oldest LGBT organization in the modern world---established in 1946!

I had a great time picking the sequins out of my teeth, dashing the tears out of my eyes  and being delighted with the musical acts, especially the award-winning Canterbury High School Chorale.

I feel so lucky to live in Ottawa where I can take part in such a warm celebration of something that means so much and inspires so many.  And of course, there's the bike paths, the Byward Market and the National Museums and Art Centre.  And Dave.

Advanced disappointment

I have been a fan of Vanity Fair ever since I first noticed it jammed behind Maxim at Mags n Fags.  I read it cover to cover, always in order, and I ogle all the advertisements.  Being blessed with no allergies, I sniff the scented strips; being somewhat celebrity-celebrating, I always read the Proust Questionnaire twice to make sure I didn't miss anything clever.

Today I brought it home, and I'm scared to open it.  I grabbed it up because I could see that it was a new cover, and because I felt assured that the shot of the semi-nude man wasn't of Charlie Sheen.  Humph, I notice, the cover is Rob Lowe.  Now there's a fine distinction.

Then I notice the various headlines printed across parts of the considerable Rob: PRINCESS DIANA 2.0; ROYAL WEDDING;  BILL GATES TRIED TO SCREW ME; and perhaps the most off-putting:  ROB LOWE CONFESSES....

World, this is Vanity Fair!  I give it hours of my life every month, and sometimes, besides knowing what the really thin, the really buff and the really rich might be wearing and smelling like, I learn stuff.

I'm putting this mag over on the top of the I-might-read-it-tomorrow basket.  I've never done that before, but today,it feels good.

As If You Haven't Read This Already.

This is a post I drag out every year for April 9th, slightly amended for 2011.  If you’ve read this every year for 6 years, know that I cherish you and you can move on; if  it’s your first go, be prepared  for sentimentality:

April 9th is a very special day in my life.
In the sixth year of my first marriage, my husband was very taken with a story of a child who was available for adoption. In those days, most Canadian newspapers displayed pictures of children chosen by the Children’s Aid with a little story about the child’s background, and solicited enquiries from interested potential parents. Intrigued by a photo, he wrote in and we were duly contacted and investigated by Children’s Aid.

By the time the bureaucracy was behind us, a shockingly efficient 5 weeks, the child was no longer available for reasons unknown to us, and we became resigned to being childless, as we were leaving in a few weeks for a posting to Europe.

We had sold our car and put our belongings and papers in order, had even had a few goodbye gatherings with our friends when on a Friday, I got a call from our social worker to say that there was a child we should see in Hamilton; she gave us some background and dropped over a picture of a sweet-looking child with one of those vulnerable-looking shaved-sided haircuts, and a T-shirt that, heartbreakingly for me, had I Love Daddy printed on it. She said that we could see him the next day if we could get to Hamilton—a two hour drive. We had friends staying with us that weekend who were happy to make the trip, so we left at 9:00 and went directly to the Children’s Aid offices there, feeling excited and nervous, not wondering at the fact that Saturday was an unusual day for a child visit.

We met with the social worker, who told us a bit about the parents in this “case”, the child’s history of being shuttled back and forth between foster homes and his grandmother’s. More nervous than ever, we settled in our very utilitarian and straight chairs, waiting to see the “child”. What burst through the door and headed straight for my husband was an 18-month old, darling round-cheeked baby still at the lurching stage, babbling about his toy—the most pathetic sock-monkey you can imagine. I was totally and irrevocably in love.

His name was Chris, and we were allowed to take him out for a walk, and to meet our friends who were at a nearby Macdonalds chewing on their fingernails.

I can’t remember a word that was said, nor what our hopes were, but when we got back to the office, the social worker asked us if we’d like to take Chris home. There was absolutely no question, although we were astonished at how quickly everything was going, so, in a daze, we went back to Macdonalds while the social worker got Chris’s belongings (which arrived in a smallish green garbage bag), and Chris showed a preference for fries with ketchup. He launched himself from one table to another, fries in one beautiful little hand, a new truck in the other, and totally won our hearts.

We were home, with our new son, before 5 o’clock the same day, and our house was full of friends and family, boxes of pizza, new and old toys, a toddler’s bed, a kid-size hockey stick, four new pairs of pyjamas, a high-chair, balloons and an incredible level of energy, love and excitement. I can still feel it, and it’s unlike any other family-friend event we’ve ever been involved in.

Although April 9th is not his birthday, it’s still special for us.  Chris is 40 something this year—and he’s still lovable, still my joy and my worry, lovingly adopted by each of my husbands and a good if annoying brother, a loving father, a fun uncle and a sweet and caring family guy.  And every April 9th, as on the birthdays of my daughters and on our anniversary, I think how random and surprising life is and I can’t believe my good luck.
Chris then.
Chris as an adult (not his favourite picture).

Ingenuity 101

Don't you love the way kids can turn anything into a toy?

In a Lorna-centric world...

Dear City of Ottawa residents,

I take this opportunity to offer you my sincere and heartfelt apology for having brought on this spate of rainy weather by planning to start wearing my sandals.

While I'm at it, I should also lay claim to and tender apologies for the first snowfall of 2010 (I went out in a pale mauve silk jacket); to the calling of the federal election of 2011 (I remember saying "Get on with it already!" after the first dozen or so "we're not running, just slinging mud" TV ads; to the loss of the maple sugar taffy-in-the-snow concession on the canal (I dreamt about it one night in mid-January);  to the appalling OCTranspo bus schedule change (I bought my first bus pass in 10 years) and also to the general lack of upswing in the economy (Dave and I decided to try living on just our pensions).

In future, I will try to keep a low profile, or maybe just focus my powers on evil.

Planning is always better

Here it is the 4th of April and I still haven't been outdoors in sandals.  What a slacker!

When I lived in Germany, I could wear my sandals anytime except during a brief period between November and February; in Ottawa, I've always thought of St Patrick's Day as the day I start to plan for the big toes reveal.  This consists of finding the boxes I put away the year before, checking to make sure I actually have some sandals, sloughing the dry skin off my feet (usually a multi-day, multi-tool operation), choosing the nail polish that meets both my fashion and ageism requirements and, in spite of my obvious need, declining to book a pedicure.

A couple of years ago, some company in Britain came out with Fit-Flops, the shoe that they claim tones your legs and other possibly-affected body parts.  I bought some.  I loved them, wore out a pair, bought a sequinned pair the next summer (of course I own sequinned shoes), and wore them all over the place in France, where flip-flops are anything but de rigeur. 

Apart from one raincoat I owned in the 60s, Fit-Flops are the only things I can remember buying that both looked good and felt like heaven.  I know, I said that, knowing full well that it's hyperbole.  It's pretty close though.

I've been trying to convince Dave that he should get a pair of the men's version, but he seems to think his legs and other possibly-affected body parts are doing OK.  Since we made a pact in 1974 not to comment on each other's appearance, which by the way, I think was one of the cornerstones of our successful relationship, I'll just let that go.

CBC weather is predicting a high of 13 degrees (55.4 Farenheit), which is about 8 degrees above where I find bare toes acceptable, so today is the day I start the 2011 version of the sandals tradition.   I think it calls for something decadent for breakfast.

Drat, if I'd planned better, I could put on my sandals and walk down to the Market for a croissant and café au lait.