Gifting my dad

Yesterday was my dad's birthday, and although I think of him every day, I didn't realize, until this morning, that I hadn't given special "birthday" thought to him after all.

Growing up, we always used to despair on his birthday because it came so close to Christmas, and he was hard to buy for.   He was a very family-oriented man, and didn't play golf until he'd retired, wasn't able to sail as we were living in land-bound Calgary where only the very well-to-do sailed, had no hobbies, was almost verboten from touching the family tools, and his most elegant clothes were from his Army uniform.

He loved the things we used to make in school:  the toothbrush holder fashioned from a toilet paper roll, the handstitched bag for buttons, the paper chains, but as we passed 7 or so, we were impatient for real gifts to give him.  Thank goodness, he did need a snow shovel, he loved getting coffee mugs, socks were always welcome and, like all of us, he was a reader, so there was some leeway, but two gifts within a week was taxing on our originality.

My dad didn't talk about his war experiences, but there were two things we knew about him that were linked to his overseas time:  one, he had had every piece of mutton he ever intended to eat in his lifetime, and two, he had discovered figs when he was in Italy and would often tell us how he loved them, while munching on his fig newtons.  That's why I thought I was such a genius when I saw, and bought for him, a string of dried figs.  Before I wrapped them, I thought again of the pleasure in his voice when he talked about figs, and I was ecstatic.

Even though Dad was usually good at showing his appreciation, I could tell I'd fallen short of the mark.  I didn't know there were any kind of figs but dried ones, and the figs in the package had already started to get kind of superdried.  After I'd tasted one, as he shared the string with all of us, I could totally understand the underwhelment, even though I still had never eaten, or even seen, a fresh fig.

Many, many years later, when he was with-us-but-gone, because of a stroke, I was lucky enough to see him, as he'd been while he was young, really, really enjoying a fresh fig.  And now, although I did forget that yesterday was his birthday, I felt a rush of love just thinking about this story.

Five Ha! moments

10 p.m. Monday - Lorna goes to bed, thinking she'll read.  Ha!
2 a.m. Tuesday - Dave comes to bed. Lorna thinks she'll go back to sleep.  Ha!
3 a.m. - Lorna decides she's not falling asleep and gets up to do something useful about all the glitter ground into the floor since Christmas.  Ha!
4:04 a.m. - Lorna finishes reading email, facebook and G+ entries and starts feeling peckish, which leads to consumption of a nutritious snack.  Ha!
4:06 a.m. - Lorna decides, because she can, to memorialize an unmemorable moment.  Ha! Ha!

Many ones (of the ways)....

Who knows what's going to happen over the next few days, so I'm putting all my trivia in one place:

• one of the ways it sucks to get old:  this morning I cheerfully rolled wrinkle-smoother under my arms and deodorant on my face
• one of the ways it's wonderful to get old:  when I went into Bouclair, all the sales staff were wearing sequinned aprons, and when I asked if they sold them, no one even blinked
• one of the ways it is wonderful growing old with Dave:  he's making Cranberry Cream Cheese fudge, and I didn't have to ask
• one of the ways it sucks to grow old with Dave:  since I met him, I'm 30 lbs heavier---of course that took almost 38 years
• one of the ways I've celebrated Christmas, and honoured anybody who reads here:  I give a donation in your collective names to Children's Literacy.

Have a happy and safe holiday, and a Merry Christmas, Happy Chanuka, Happy Kwanza or Happy Tolerance of the Goings-on.

When is 3 not better than 1?

I am all fingers this morning.  I had decided to write a post using the Merriam-Webster Word of the Day, but after three shamefully ineffective attempts to cut and paste the bits I needed I decided that giving up that idea was better than throwing a cup of coffee at the wall.

I woke up this morning with a start---maybe that's why my fingers are in a state of rebellion.  The "start" was caused by the realization that we haven't yet bought our turkey and if we did we'd have nowhere to put it.  I'm afraid we may come to the place where we zip into Loblaw's at 10 to 6 on Saturday night to buy a fresh turkey which can languish on the patio until it's time for it to go into the oven.  There are many advantages to a small condo, but turkey-management isn't one of them.  We have room in the freezer for frozen spinach, raspberries, pizza, raisin bread and ice, but not for turkey; we have room in the fridge for 3 kinds of milk, OJ and various juices, a box of wine, some veggies and way too many bottles of jam, but not for turkey.

Oh well, it's better than the year we had 3 turkeys.

Dadadadada, I was born this way

It's hard to imagine another December that has been as mild and snowfree as this one.  Strangely, as December19th has arrived and there is just a dusting of snow on the ground, sure to be gone by noon, I find myself wondering why nostalgia for snow has suddenly hit me in my golden years.

I've spent Decembers where the snowbanks were higher than the people trying to get over them; where we couldn't get the garage door open because there was nowhere to put the snow piled in front of it; where even a down coat left you shivering for an hour after you got into the house; where you had to protect your face from the cold with a scarf that got ice-clad where you were breathing; I've had a 6 foot long stocking cap that I could pull down over my face, tuck into my neck and still have some left over to fly like a flag in the wind; I've owned every old or new-fangled feet warmer; the backs of my hands have cracked and bled starting in November and lasting until March.  I can't count the number of times I've skidded into an intersection, honking my horn and simultaneously praying, or tried to remember if you drive into or against the skid on a hill.

How can I not be deliriously happy with this December weather?

Because we're not wired that way.

Really, I had the best of intentions

Just this evening, I poured myself a very small orange juice, and suddenly got a picture of myself, pregnant with Emily, concerned about my and her nutrition, drinking whopping glasses of orange juice.  With each swallow, I would pop in a handful of semisweet chocolate chips.

When Sarah was a cranky baby, which she seldom was, I sometimes wet her soother and dipped it in white sugar.

Chris hated drinking milk.  In collusion with a doctor at the clinic I used, I let him drink Tang all the time.  It was as unhealthy as it looked.

My dear children, please believe that I did these things in the absence of knowing better, not to ruin your lives.  And I never do anything like that with your kids.  Really.

A convoluted creative process

Well, it finally happened.  Dave and I have had THE talk.

I wasn't prepared.  I came home from coffee with a friend, sat down to take my shoes off, and he was on me.

Dave:  I just can't understand why you still wear high heels!  The vanity value certainly can't outweigh the danger!
Lorna:  splutter, gasp, wha?
Dave:  Sweetheart, this is a really serious issue.  What if you should fall off those shoes and break your hip?
Lorna (to self):  I think I would have to play dead.
Dave:  We'd both regret it,
Lorna (again to self):  but you'd be right!
Lorna:  I've worn high heels since I was 13 and I've fallen in them maybe 6 times in my life.  That's 56 years of pretty good tottering.
Dave:  Sweetheart, I don't think you should take this lightly.  You have and can find lots of attractive shoes with flat heels.  (overturns shoe and points out the difference in weight-bearing surface)
Lorna (to self) fifty-six years! 6 ankle-turns, come on!
Lorna:  I only have 3 pairs of heels left, these which are about an inch and a half high, (scoffs), my shoes from Spain which are made of butter-coloured leather, and the ones I wore to Emily's wedding, which are pale blue and silver and sparkle even in the daytime!
Dave (very effectively) just looks at me.
Note to Emily:  swing by the house there may be something you like
Note to Self:  buy a shadowbox and display those wedding shoes somewhere.
Further Note to Self:  put aside some shoe-shopping time in the spring.....

How I plan to save money for the holidays

I once bought a lime green linen suit to wear to a job interview---for a job I really wanted.  My wedding dress was a gorgeous rosy red.  I wear orange and purple together.

So you can imagine the distress I feel when I go browsing my favourite stores and find every shade of grey dominating the racks.  Even I, known for my gypsyish leanings, own a few pieces of clothing in grey, brown and even taupe, a couple of white shirts and the de rigeur black basics.  

But really, even though Charlize Theron wears head to toe gold lamé for her Dior commercials, there isn't much out there where I shop that makes me want to get giddy in the change room.  Not that that is a bad thing---I've made some spectacular decisions in change rooms at both extremes of fashion acceptance, but I can barely be tempted these days.  What is the world coming to?

There are always consequences

Yesterday, I gave in to a surprising wish:  I slept in.

I do sleep in from time to time, and don't think that is a big deal, but Sunday night, after a long day involving party preparation, no grandchildren visits, a kitchen disaster linked to our Christmas pot luck event in the condo, a realization that hits me annually that my singing voice really is gone, and the temporary loss of one of my sparkly party shoes, I decided that Monday was going to be the day for sleeping in as long as I felt like.

I turned over grumpily when Dave left to take the car in for some babying, and slept more or less soundly ("more", says Dave) until 1 p.m.  It felt amazing and yet other-worldly when I got up and had breakfast in preparation for a babysitting gig later in the day.  It felt even more amazing when I discovered that I wasn't needed as a sitter after all, and I could go back to bed.  Which is what I did.

I finished re-reading one of my favourite books, I toyed with the TV remote but found nothing absolutely perfect, I started a new book on my e-reader, I dozed a bit. I decided not to get up, search out the Windex and get rid of the set of fingerprints all over the mirror.  I continued to make a series of good decisions until I fell asleep around 10 p.m.

This morning I am not even a little bit riddled with guilt, but I did wake up at 4:40 a.m.

Stranded

One  of the things I have always liked about myself is that when I'm committed, I can be counted on.  I meet deadlines, I deliver product, I keep appointments, I stick to common objectives.

At present, I am so overcommitted that you couldn't count on me for anything.  I've been making appointments for 7 am or 11 pm; I've not just missed deadlines, I've ignored them entirely, and sadly, I can't even claim to have made choices about those things.  I'm not liking myself.

One of my longtime and dear friends put a quote on Facebook that really made me think:


The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails.
- William Arthur Ward

Right now, I am an aggressive pessimist/optimist/realist becalmed by the winds of discontent, indecision and apathy. 

Thank God that for me and Scarlett O'Hara, tomorrow is another day.  

You've been warned.....

I know, I said there were no pictures of Emma's birthday party, but I was so wrong!


Check these out if you haven't already exceeded your cute quotient for the day.

https://picasaweb.google.com/108368389420479950423/EmmaS7thBirthdayParty?authkey=Gv1sRgCLWdjeKz6ur3BQ

I hope I learned my lesson

A few days ago, I waxed poetic about a birthday party we'd had last weekend.  I was feeling pretty smart about my role in the big family effort.  Now I'm this close to beating myself up.

Can you believe that we took no photos? Not a photo of the rabbit hole, not of the dormouse-themed table, not of the girls painting teapots, not of the girls decorating their tea party hats, not of any member of the family, not of the cupcakes, not of the mountain of presents, not of the moms and dads, not of the surreptitious beer-sipping.  No photo exists other than the ones Bruce took of the guests in their hats, not including the birthday girl or her sister, the Queen of Hearts in a dark brown wig.

How do you spell "lament"?