One Woman

Some day I'll write a post about the change for good that one woman can do. But at the moment the story that I keep chewing over isn't an uplifting story. It has helped, though, in that it has me looking more carefully at how I am living my life.

I met a woman a while ago that I really didn't like. That doesn't often happen. Close to never, in fact. There are people that I really like, and then regular people. To actually dislike someone...too much energy! I don't like how I feel physically when I hold dislike inside. But this woman...boy, was she a piece of work. And then...

Then I met her mother. "Ohhhhhhhhhhhh...now I get it. Yup, I'd be a horrible human being, MUCH worse than the actual daughter if my mother had been like that". So I slowly started coming around to understanding the first woman. I'm amazed, sometimes, that she is still in society, living her life. As opposed to serving time in gaol for matricide.

I had such an incredible childhood and an wonderful mother. Awesome parents, in fact. So when I see parents treating a child in a way I've never experienced I tend to watch them like they're some zoo display. Or a test on a psych exam.

Close to two years after meeting the first woman, I find out that the grandmother treated the mother the same way that mother treats her daughter. And that the great grandmother was the same! So now I want to know how far back something like this goes? Did something happen to one woman a century or more ago that twisted her so profoundly that she ended up beating her daughter's self worth into the ground? Which then continued down to the present day daughter of the house? And will this trend end, with anything other than someone not having children?

My guess - for any such situation - is that you'd have to see the trend yourself. Look at the line of women that came before you, think about how it came about and make a conscious effort to NOT BE THAT WAY.

Brain and Vision

I don't know how it is with guys, but for myself and a number of women I've talked to, my brain - and mood, and Lord knows what else - affects my vision.

I am more or less the same size I've been since I lost weight. If there is any change (and according to the weigh and measure at Curves there is) it's for the better. A pound less a week, and inches dropped left right and centre. The point I'm trying to make is that there have been no drastic changes as of late.

And yet...wearing the EXACT same outfit I can look in the mirror one week and think "Hmmm. Looking pretty sharp there girl. Well done! Keep up the proper eating habits and the exercise, it's clearly working for you" and the next week look and think "Egads. Horrible lumpy toad, what's going on? Get the lead out and get working!".

Perhaps this is why I loathe mirrors. They keep saying different things. I was very happy in moving to leave behind a dresser that had a mirror. The new one is just a dresser. Not a single mirror to be seen. In fact, if it weren't for the mirror in the bathroom we'd be completely mirror-less. Hate them. What I should be hating is whatever it is in my brain (and I have friends whose brains do the same thing) that can see the same me and have different opinions from week to week. Or day to day. Hour to hour?

Merry Christmas.

"Oh! All that steam! The pudding had just been taken out of the cauldron. Oh! That smell! The same as the one which prevailed on washing day! It is that of the cloth which wraps the pudding. Now, one would imagine oneself in a restaurant and in a confectioner's at the same time, with a laundry nest door. Thirty seconds later, Mrs. Cratchit entered, her face crimson, but smiling proudly, with the pudding resembling a cannon ball, all speckled, very firm, sprinkled with brandy in flames, and decorated with a sprig of holly stuck in the centre. Oh! The marvelous pudding!"





I’ve read about people who obsess over things. I’ve met them. I’m one of them. Now, I’m not talking obsessive compulsive disorder. I mean obsessing about getting something just right, down to the smallest detail. Even if you’re only doing it because…then you can say you did it.

People who make miniature models, for instance. Or recreate historic clothing, dying wool they spun themselves, weaving it or knitting it into something using only tools that someone would have had access to in whatever era they are imitating.

I tend to spend large amounts of time trying to get certain eatables just right. Baked beans kept me busy for years. I happen to like – but due to allergies can’t eat – tinned beans. It took me ages, but I can now make home made baked beans taste like Libby’s canned beans. Backwards, I know. It would be better to spend time (assuming I worked at Campbells or something) making tinned food taste home made. But there you have it. Three years, obsessing over beans.

I also remember a long stretch where I was trying to become queen of mashed potatoes. I didn’t quite succeed, but I think I attained princess status. That particular obsession also marked the first – and so far only – time I’ve ever given potatoes as a birthday present. Whipped and piped out onto parchment paper in swirled mounds and then frozen, to be eaten as required. And they were well received by Mademoiselle H., so keep your mocking to yourselves!

The most recent obsession has been steamed Christmas pudding. There was one recipe I really wanted to try – quite old and one might hope authentic – but the local beer place that had promised to sell me Barley wine when they made it next either never made it or just forgot to tell me. I wasn’t going to make the recipe if I couldn’t do it EXACTLY as written, so that recipe was off the list.

I made a few puddings with some success. They weren’t great, but they weren’t terrible inedible. The main problem was that they didn’t seem that different from the store bought kind I’d been tried a couple of years ago.

I think I finally have it. The proof being in the pudding – ha! – I won’t know for sure until we’ve tried it, but come on: the thing has 21 different ingredients. And that’s counting the bag of dried fruit as one ingredient, when there were actually several different types of fruit in the bag. One of the ingredients was listed as “mixed spice”. Again…obsessing…I researched to see if they was agreement on what spices went into “mixed spice”. There wasn’t. Of course there wasn’t! Some people said it was the same as pumpkin pie mix. Some used Mrs. David’s Spice blend (which again, I had to research to see just what was in that). In the end I made a list of what seemed the most common ingredients, and made my own blend. All that work and it was just one of 21 things to go into the pudding!

Once mixed, the batter needed to sit overnight. And then steam for six hours. It made enough for two, though, and I only had one pudding tin. So I steamed one, cleaned the steamer and steamed the other. 12 hours of water simmering. Fogged windows that haven’t cleared up yet, that will probably stay that way until spring!

But it’s done. I have two puddings. I only need one, and even that…don’t really need it. But I did it! I made traditional steamed Christmas pudding!

Power of Yea.

I am not willing to review all my blog entries to see if I’ve told y’all about my sister’s delightfully scene-stopping “yes”, so I’m just going to explain it again. If you already know, skip ahead.

You use this yes in a situation where someone is mad at you, or more likely wants to be mad, or wants to start an argument. They say something stupid and/or obvious, and you just say “yes”. TOTALLY dead pan. Not angry yes, not defensive yes just yes.

F’rinstance: I was shopping for scallops once. Not something I do often, as I have doubts about any scallops that have made it this far inland. Nevertheless, I was practicing cooking scallops and that meant I needed scallops. Sobeys had six left. So when it was my turn at the seafood counter I said I would like six scallops, please. The reply to which was a moderately irate “but that’s ALL of them. There are only six left altogether”.

Yes.

Totally floored the guy. Don’t know what he was expecting but the glory of the yes is that there is no arguing with it. You just agreed with the person, so there is nothing more to say.

So, today’s story. Which is really Monday’s story but things have been busy. I had to take a bunch of boxes to our downtown office. As you can imagine, the parking isn’t great. Big city, small city it’s all the same: parking downtown sucks.

There was one space, though; the loading space at the back. It’s with all the visitor spaces (all six, two of which are handicapped spaces), and is for – duh – loading and unloading. I parked there. I went and fetched a book truck. Loaded the boxes, took them to the 3rd floor and went back to the car. Only to find an irate trucker standing by my car.

I had barely unlocked the car (remotely) before he started in on me.

“Can’t you read? What’s you’re problem?* This is for unloading, or didn’t you know that????”

“Yes”.

He paused and then said “yes…what?” I was sorely tempted to say “yes SIR” but what I said was “yes, I did know it was a loading zone. And given that I was unloading and loading boxes it seemed eminently reasonable to park there”.

I drove away with him still standing there all gob-smacked. Best part of my day. Which is probably sad or possibly even mean, but I takes em where I can get em.

*Would it not be more logical to ask those in a different order? What’s your problem first, then can’t you read?

And you're the B. in a suit.

Oh my goodness to I have a story. And in no way is it a surprise that it happened during two days of things going on. Friends and family in various hospitals waiting for tests-procedures-surgery, a co-worker in hospital for a test who didn’t come back to work afterwards because they kept him in order to do heart surgery RIGHT AWAY, daughter with an accident at the house before we’re even in the car to get her to the airport. You get the kind of couple of days, right?

With the boy sick, and myself exhausted from a bad round of RLS, is seemed like a good idea to go home early yesterday. Basically when The Boy was finished his work. Work where he was supposed to be let off early but was instead keptlate. Guess it was a bad day for him, too!

Back home on the range, it was clear that The Boy was going to have another night of congested-lungs-lack-of-sleep. So I suggested that perhaps I could get some Nyquil® for him. He doesn’t like pills, so liquid is a much better choice.

There is a grocery store a mere half block from the abode, so I grabbed one of
The Boy’s hoodies and headed out. No one in their right mind drives a car for half a block, right? Maybe a block by the time you go around all the fencing. Anyway, I walked.

Only to find out that the store doesn’t have a licensed pharmacy. So they had day time cold medicine, and baby cold medicine but not the one thing I needed. It didn’t make sense to go back for the car so I continued on my way to Shopper’s Drug Mart.

No interesting events on the way, it was a normal Saskatchewan day. Sunny and windy as all get out. Shoppers had what I needed, and I had something they needed as there was a lady looking for something who didn’t speak English and I was able to help her. I paid for the cold meds and left. Or tried to.

In the lobby, past the auto close doors was a little old lady (I’m short, so I’m allowed to make height judgments. She was WAY shorter than me!) trying to get back into the store through the out doors. Turns out she had asked the staff to call a taxi for her and she’d been waiting more than half an hour. She just wanted to know if they’d called, and the cab was just late, or if they’d forgotten to call. Turns out it was neither.

The girl – 17 years old? – at the till had been calling every ten minutes, but the lines were continually busy. To be fair she kept trying, but it’s unfortunate that she didn’t think to let the lady know what was going on.

I asked if they could try another cab company. But neither cashier had a number on hand. That was no surprise, I don’t have cab numbers memorized either. But there was also no phone book anywhere. Not at the till, not in the back room. That I found surprising. In the end, two employees walked by on their way home, and one of them DID have a number memorized. So I used my cell and called. And was put on hold. Tried again and got the ‘all our lines are busy” message.

The sad thing here was that the lady lived a block from me. If I’d had the car I would have driven her myself. In the end one of the two employees leaving gave her and her cart of things a lift home. Isn’t it nice to know that people do things like that? And at the end of her work day too. What a kind-hearted employee! So, that little situation all cleared up.

On the way home, a minor car accident happened. Not to me, of course, I was walking. A car parked in the street pulled out just as another car was driving by, with minor scraping on both being the result. No real need to stay, but I did. Just in case. And staying turned out to be the right call.

The driver not at fault was a guy, somewhere between 17 and 20 years old. Hard to tell, which means I’m getting older. The older I get, the younger everyone else seems. The driver that was at fault was a woman, my age. And there the similarities end. She was perfectly coiffed, impeccably dressed, had gold accessories of that particular colour and weight that screams real gold and her wedding ring/engagement ring had a ginourmous diamond. You know the type, yes? Type of woman, not type diamond!

I’m glad I stayed because it was clear right away that the woman felt the whole thing was the other drivers fault. She started off being rude to him, talking about teenagers who shouldn’t be driving. He decided to call the police – good idea – and she used her cell to call someone. Husband, I’m guessing.

What I heard from her end of the conversation was:
Yes. No. I know. No. Well, I don’t think so, but this PERSON in a HOODY says yes.

I looked around, wondering where this person was. It was me! She was talking about me! I started laughing because it was just too funny. Apparently that was the wrong thing to do (or the right thing, as it made her furious which wasn’t my intention at all. I had no intention, actually, it was just truly funny). In the end my number was handed around and I left them all to it.

Went to the Sushi place that is between the apartment and the store I originally went to. As the food was getting ready, there was some texting between The Boy and me, given that I was supposed to have stepped out for a minute he was starting to worry. I guess I didn’t help when I tried texting bits of things like not speaking English, little old ladies, rude ladies and hoodies. When I mention accident and police I thought he was going to come and get me. But at that point the sushi was ready and I was a minute from home, so he stayed wrapped up in his blanket and waited to hear what had happened to my five minute errand of mercy.

In the end the sushi was excellent, the cold medicine worked because he fell asleep at nine, and I am still humoured at being a person in a hoody. Good thing I leave on vacation tomorrow, I’m going to need the break!

As The Girl would say: Really? REALLY?

expected this. Is that because I am on top of things and know precisely when shipments with things I need will be here? No, it’s because:

I am getting my hair cut tomorrow. So I didn’t do anything to it this morning other than get it wet in the shower. I couldn’t even find a comb, so I just ran my fingers through it. Once. Not that it mattered, it was so windy this morning that even if it had started out looking decent, it wouldn’t have by the time I got in.

Three nights of no sleep from RLS is about the most I can take without collapsing. I’ve had two nights of no sleep, one night of a little bit of sleep. My skin is an interesting off white grey/blue. ‘Cept for the black under my eyes.

I am wearing THE pantyhose (see previous post). What, you didn’t think I’d just toss them, did you? That would be wasteful. So what if they are already pooling around my ankles.

It was freezing cold in my little space this morning. That’s ok, though, I have a sweater I keep here. A bit ragged, far too big for me and ugly as a diner dishcloth, but it’s warm. So I put it on.

Morning was progressing nicely, until the allergy attack. And drat, I’m out of antihistamine. Ah well, I can grab some next door at coffee break. In the meantime, I’ll try not to rip my eyes out. I’ll just have to put up with the drippy nose and wheezy breathing and red eyes and…wait. Why is someone at the door at this wing? Oh yeah, we’re open late, so I’m the only one that starts early. I better go answer that.


Ah. Hello box of records. And hello to you nice looking man. Ignore me, please.

That. That is why – for the second time in 20+ years – there was a nice looking man in the office today.

Ah Velma, I get it now.

I have not yet learned to always have my reading glasses with me. And yet I cannot read fine print without them. Who am I kidding? I can't read regular print without them!

I frequently forget them in restaurants. This is not a terrible thing, as the main list I can usually read, it's the description underneath that defeats me. A problem if I'm on my own as the small print tends to be where they put things like "includes bacon that will kill you". But I only occasionally go out to eat on my own, and family members and friends seem to be happy to read the small print for me. I could be wrong; perhaps even now they have plans to group together and steal my cutlery if I ever forget my glasses at a restaurant again.

I have done some terrible not-to-be-recommended things without glasses (I signed a legal form without them once). I ended up walking to the drug store once to buy reading glasses because mine were at work, and there was NO WAY I was going to spend an evening without the ability to read things.

(Side note: The Girl is right, I am totally getting old. I can't remember why I started writing about glasses. Give me a sec, it'll come back to me).

Oh yeah, I remember. Shopping. I do shop on my own. Shouldn't, as in general I don't like clothes shopping and in specific I'm not very good at it. But it isn't something that The Boy tends to want to do. And The Girl...well, she has a good eye and will shop at the drop of a hat. But then she wants to buy said hat. And some jeans. And maybe some shoes, mom, cause I only have a six pairs of runners. So I go on my own. But....

Can't bring myself to ask for help reading sizes. And I keep forgetting what size I'm looking for anyway. Which sounds ridiculous, but it is almost as though my brain has decided not to believe the scale. I still find myself leaving a store because they don't have anything I want in the plus size section. None of which would fit me anymore, but my brain is having a hard time believing that.

You know what I will shop for without glasses? Or at least what I did, but will no longer? Nylons. I'm generally a stocking kind of a gal, but sometimes you need warm tights, and sometimes you need nylons. Which is what happened the other day.

I went to Shopper's drug mart at something like 4 in the morning. Yeah, I know, but I wasn't sleeping anyway and it was a beautiful morning and it's a five minute walk. Maybe eight if you stroll. And we were down to three litres of chocolate milk. (I have a teenage son. He drinks chocolate milk at the rate many teens drink cola. You have to be a mom to understand how much that is). So I went for a stroll.

I got the milk, walked without thinking to the section with dog bones (despite being nearly 2 months dog-less so far) and then decided to get a pair of nylons.

Now, milk you can get without having to read anything. Even the price thing on the shelf is huge, so I would know if they'd suddenly decided to charge $5.00 per litre I would know.

I would have thought I could choose a pair of beige nylons without reading glasses. I thought wrong. I thought I was getting size b, beige. I was getting Tall. Queen. I may have been queen size or close to it at one point, but tall? I've never been tall. And of course, it was a box of three pairs. So I have three pairs of nylons that make my legs look orange (I'm sure if they were stretched to what they were meant to stretch to, the colour would look more natural), and they sag and bag. A bit at the knee but by then end of the day great pools of material ring my ankles. Ridiculous. I swear, I will try to be better at bringing my glasses everywhere! At the very least, I will try to refrain from purchasing anything without knowing - for certain - what I am getting.

Note: yes, being in a drug store I could have grabbed a pair of glasses just to check the size on the nylons. But the sticker really did look like B Beige, not T Queen. Honest.

Not Gone. But perhaps Forgotten.

Haven't posted in a while, have I? Time to add a thing or two:

Didn't win the Children's Wish Lottery, but a family member won the hoped for answer to a medical test lottery, a much better win so that's good.

Move from the house is over and done with, although I have had to go back a couple of times. Was ok with it, unlike the last official trip when I had to pull over and puke in a ditch I was so stressed over it! I even went so far as to peek in the front hall on the weekend. Man, I hate that house. I don't think I'll ever want to see it again, even when all the renos are done.

I've been saving some interesting bits and pieces for you. Things I've read, things I've heard on the radio and things I've heard in person:

"I didn't say anything at the time because it hurt my emotions to have to do that to her" This from a 1920's murder trial transcript. Murder, so hard on one. No one ever understands.

"I'm sorry it took so long, we were unexpectedly swamped with customers". This at a coffee shop where I was getting coffee for the office. At TEN FIFTEEN IN THE MORNING. Is there any other time in the day that would be MORE likely to be busy? Surely not! If you're not busy during morning coffee break, when are you?

"Would you like me to hold something for you?" This from a very nice looking man in the Safeway parking lot. I had dropped my purse, the trunk lid had just whacked me on the head....again, and my note (which, granted, was no longer needed) was running away in the wind. I totally wasn't thinking, because I asked him to hold the trunk open whilst I unloaded groceries. I was close to tears (it HURTS to be bashed by a trunk lid), I should have said yes, hold me!

My family -and friends, for that matter - occasionally ask if I've met anyone. I just signed up an entire fire hall of men* to be cookie taste testers. Does that count? I was at Canadian Tire, they had a table for fundraising, as I walked by one of the asked me about what they were doing and we talked for a bit. As I walked away I wondered if they were from the fire-hall a half a block from the apartment. So I went back and asked. They were. Told them about needing taste testers for the Christmas list. They're very interested. In the cookies, at least! *Yes, some of the halls have women fire fighters. But not all of them. and women are fine taste testers too, you know!

I think I am going to write a song. A country western heart break song. And if I do, it'll be called "I won't be making pancakes anymore". So sad. I love making breakfast/lunch things, but it rarely works out that there is anyone but me and I like the making more than the eating! Although...having found a source for wood-fire boiled maple syrup I may just be making pancakes/waffles/french toast for one anyway.

At the local grocery store, a conversation that I still don't quite understand:
Me: Do you have any plums?
Produce Person: Do you?
Me: ummm...I was looking for plums.
P.P.: Sorry, I totally misheard what you said.

And then he left.

I have two trips coming up. One, in less than two weeks to BC to see family and check out the salmon run. The other to Cuba, in the depths of winter. Very excited about that, but now I'm thinking of all the related things:

Do I need shots?
Should I go to a tanning salon in advance?
When should I get a bathing suit, as the one I have is looking saggy baggy elephant-like? I mean, yeah, I need a smaller suit instead of a bigger one, but boo, bathing suit shopping. And knowing full well that I will be seen in said suit by non-family members.
Waxing. don't want to think about waxing.
Stuff to do whilst I am there. Already snorkeling, so that's good.
Things to bring to leave behind, like soap and shampoo etc.

I am very excited to be going somewhere hot when things here are decidedly cold! Will take pictures and post any non-swim suit shots that seem post-able.

Karma. Please.

Movies like to tell their story and get it neatly tied up in two hours, give or take. Novels, particularly romance novels, not only like the ending to be neat and tidy, but quite often they lead one to believe that the world eventually balances out between things going horribly wrong and then miraculously well.

Intellectually I believe that things happen in a completely random manner. Good things happen, bad things happen, good things happen to bad people and bad things happen to good. There is no such thing as life being fair.

Irrationally I believe that life should be fair. If enough bad things happen, then something good must happen. Must! Surely even statistically that makes sense? On a more logical level I believe Rudyard Kipling had it right (I must believe it more than I thought – I didn’t even have to look this up):

The rain it falls upon the just
And the unjust fella
But mainly on the just because
The unjust steals the just’s umbrella

If, however, the world does want to show me that there is some strange cosmic balance I have a GREAT suggestion:

Yesterday – which was a Wednesday – the boy was in a bit of trouble with me. Enough that I was irritated with Him Whom I Love. The Wednesday before he was in deep serious trouble. Nope, nothing illegal or even bad, just a long day of my having to do things because he hadn’t to. Things that involved driving around, cleaning out mouldy thermoses, having no time to do my own errands, starting early to I could leave early and not being able to leave early because he forgot to come get me. Anyway – we had a pretty serious discussion about WHAT MUST CHANGE.

Today I found out, whilst doing my banking online, that the Wednesday prior to that I was in China, shopping with my Visa. And nope, not online either if that is what you were thinking. One purchase, at least, was made face to face.

Was I really in China? No, I wasn’t. Although the first person I talked to at the bank wanted to know if it was possible I’d been and forgotten about it. I guess there are people who travel so often to so many places that they might forget they’d been in China on a particular day, but I’m not one of them. I’d like to be, but I’m not.

So, three bad Wednesdays under my belt. What might next week bring? Well, next Wednesday they announce the winners of the Children’s Wish Foundation lottery. First prize for which is a house, or $695,000.00. This is a lottery for which I hold a ticket. I am also entered for the early bird prize ($75,000.00) and the vacation for life draw. One week a year, free, for the rest of my life. Not always at the same place if you choose to move around, but always somewhere swanky.

So there’s my suggestion life balancer: three bad= one beyond the moon fantastic. I’m waiting.

Shoes

I bought shoes yesterday. Two pairs, in fact. Shoes that I actually needed! Not that I am one of those people with far more shoes than they need, but it was still nice buying something knowing they were needed. One pair black, one pair brown.

why were they needed? Because - except for the usual number of summer sandals - I have no flat shoes. My theory is the shorter the woman the taller the heels. We need something not to look like little kids!

You know what doesn't help? Giving up on the grown up shoes and ending up with two bright yellow shoe boxes, covered with brightly covered little dancing stick figures. Because yes, in the end the shoes were from the kids section. I have - to quote a shoe salesmen who was trying to help me find shoes a while ago - ridiculous feet. NOT a good sales tactic, by the way.

My theory when paying for shoes is that if they ask if the shoes are for me, I say yes and pay the tax. If they don't ask, I don't tell. There were years of paying taxes on shoes for The Girl when I should have said who the shoes were for so I figure eventually it will even out. Reasonable, or fraud?

All will soon be safely gathered in.

The first day of Autumn has arrived, and with it the reminder that it is time to clear out the garden plot. We've been eating as the summer progressed, but there is a lot still in the ground. Time to get everything out and stored for winter.

The garden this year had some high points and low points. And some mystery points! One mystery would be carrots vs. parsnips. In my mind, they're almost the same thing. No, they're not but still. The carrots sprouted and did very well, particularly the purple skinned ones. Some of the seed tape carrots didn't grow but that would be due to the birds that apparently enjoy eating seed tape! The parsnips on the other hand...nothing. Not one single parsnip germinated. Bad seed? Seed eaten by birds and gophers? I've no idea. I just don't see how two such similar vegetables should have two vastly different results.

The peas were great. Almost the best in the whole garden, I think. However...we stopped for a handful on afternoon on the way out of town and that was the night of the hail storm. The poles, wires, strings and peas were pummeled into the ground. Not a single eatable pea remained. Ah well, at least we got that handful!

Potatoes and Onions have been so fantastic that you'd almost think I knew what I was doing. I planted more than a hundred onions. Some were so tiny and frail I had no hope for them, but I'd paid for them so in they went. I had bought a flat of what looked like grass, but it was fifty some tiny little onion plants.

Turns out nearly every single one grew! The bigger ones, which I planted as instructed with a minimum of half the bulb above ground were enormous. There was one that The Boy could hold and have his fingertips touch but I couldn't. It was like a swollen soft ball. We ate it and I was amazed to find it was sweet and juicy. I'd assumed that given its size it would be tasteless and woody.

The potatoes...we've been eating them for weeks on end. I still have about 25 plants left to pull. Thanks heavens I have friends that want some, because The Boy is not much of a potato eater. I do love them myself but even so there are more than I can deal with.

All in all a good year. 'Cept for the pepper plants, which did in the end bloom. In the first week of September! Ah well, they looked nice whilst they were growing. Deep dark green little shrubs. Maybe next year we'll have an early spring. Or at least not the super late spring we had this year!

When Push comes to lying.

Years ago - at least ten - I went on a blind date that did not go well. I knew quite quickly that there would be not even be a second date let alone a possible romance. When the date was over, I politely declined a further meeting. The guy asked why not, so I said the usual you're a nice guy, just not the guy for me.

He wanted to know why not. I didn't want to say. He really really wanted to know. He had an email address (the one I use when I don't want to be stalked. Hmmm. I never want to be stalked. Let's say the one I use with strangers) and he kept asking and asking. His issue was his weight; he had lost a lot, and was still quite heavy. He seemed to want me to come out and say it was a weight thing. The problem, for me, was that it had nothing to do with his weight. It had everything to do with his being as dumb as a sackful of hammers.

So what to do? He clearly had self esteem issues relating to his weight. Telling him it was his weight would confirm his certainty that one can't be loved if you're heavy. Telling him he was just, well, stupid would give him an entire new thing to worry about. What to do? In the end I gave him no answer other than he wasn't the one for me, and I blocked his email. No doubt he's decided on his own that it was the weight issue but at least I didn't cave and tell him the real problem.

I am in a similar situation. I've been out on a date or two with someone that isn't someone I'm romantically interested in. I will tell him that there is just no chemistry for me, which is totally true. If he,like the first guy, pushes for an answer I have a bit of a problem.


The thing is, the real reason for no chemistry sounds totally made up. So made up that I can see someone thiniking "jeez. Why not just say I'm not interested". But it is the truth. I could, on the other hand, make something up. Something that sounds completely reasonable.

So what to do? Should he keep asking, that is, which he may not. Tell the sounds like the most made up lie ever truth, or the lie that appears far more truthful?

Will be interested in finding new authors until I'm dead and gone.

I have found new authors the way may people do: someone recommends something, the book next to the one I’m getting looks interesting or Fantastic Fiction suggests authors similar to ones I’m looking up. Sometimes just the title interests me, sometimes the cover art. And sometimes I want to read books from a certain era (deeply into 1920’s mysteries right now) and I check out Historical Mystery Homepage.

I may, however, have found a new author in a way I’d never thought of. My dad and I read a lot of the same books. I don’t know how long it might have taken me to find how much I enjoyed Louis L’amour if he hadn’t been reading them first. And I think it’s likely that I’ve introduced him to an author or two as well. Hooray for friends and family!

This is where things get tricky. A friend recommended the novel Relic, by Lincoln Child and Douglas Preston. I ended up reading three books in that series before I lost interest. During a visit to dad, he mentioned a new author he was enjoying. He told me the name, of course, and a brief synopsis of the series. I thought I had filed it away to a safe spot in my brain, but sadly such was not the case.

Here, in its entirety, is all I could think to ask him: What was that book series you were telling me about, where our main detective sort of lives off the grid? Preston something? Lincoln something?

You can see where I got the names, yes? Despite this terribly unspecific request, it was enough! (Cracked is right, our brains do get better, not worse over time!) The author I was looking for was Lee Child. I guess I remembered L. Child, confused that with Lincoln Child and even managed to throw Preston in there. So I put in a request at the library for the first book in the Lee Child series, The Killing Floor.

At which point we get another twist. When I requested it online, I went by title. And ended up with a completely different book than the one I was asking for. Same title, different author. But it looks interesting, and it is part of a long series so hopefully they’re not awful. Can you even get more than a couple published if they’re terrible? I’m going to read it, since it’s already in transit to my local library. And if I like the book…a new series to get into discovered in a heretofore unheard of manner.

As I post this, it is almost ten where Blogfodder is. Evening Al!

Small stuff can make you sad. Small stuff can also make you very happy. I remember buying a coconut for just over a dollar to go with Hawaiian night*. The kids were happier with that than if I’d spent seventy five on a video game. Truly, they were fascinated; we talked about it all through supper, we used a veggie peeler to peel great wide strips of coconut off the shell and they each took a half to school the next day. It was awesome.

I am ridiculously pleased with…a clock. Yes, you read that correctly, a clock. At first I thought perhaps I was unbalanced, but no, because everyone loves this clock! I brought it to work so I could have more time playing with it. Or looking at it. Ok, yes, playing with. And I do. Way too much the first day but still, every day. And other people stop by and play with it too so although I may perhaps still be crazy I have company.

So now, of course, you need to learn about this clock. Oooh, I’ll try for a picture.
Anyway, here we go: it’s a rectangle, with a map of the world, 24 lines for time, and fifteen holes. There is also…a little silver plane! You can move it to any of those holes and plug it in and when you do the clock at the top reads my time on the left and what they call world time on the right, which is the time for wherever you put the plane, and major cities in that zone.



We’ve even learned some interesting things with this clock. For instance yes, you can make it a 12 or 24 hour clock - big deal. But you can also press a button for daylight savings time. AND you can change it between northern hemisphere and southern hemisphere DST. I didn’t even know that there was such a thing. Logical, of course, once I thought about it but still I hadn’t known that until now.

We also learned about the weird bend around Spain. A co-worker is going there next month (his brother and family live there). We assumed, looking at the lines, that Madrid time would be the same as London time. But it wasn’t! They had it as the same time for Amsterdam, Frankfurt, Paris, Zurich and Rome. I was so sad – my beautiful clock was flawed. But was it? WAS IT?

I Googled it. And my lovely little clock was not flawed. Portugal goes to London, but there is a scoopy curve thing and yes, Madrid is with the others. Ha!

*When the kids were small I found it difficult as a single parent (as do non single parents as do people without kids etc) to get meals to go beyond the very limited things we just always did. I felt so tired all the time and it seemed like such a chore to think of things they would like. Which isn’t fair to them; they were and are the most adventurous kids I’ve ever known when it comes to trying new food. But still, there we sat with the usual dishes. So I came up with World Wide Wednesdays.

Every Thursday whoever’s turn it was would come up with a country or cuisine that interested them. On Friday or Saturday I’d find recipes from that country that I’d be willing to make and that I thought had a fair chance of working out with kids. I’d print maybe a dozen recipes. The chosen one, so to speak, would choose the recipe for supper on the following Wednesday. They would also be assistant chef and (horrors) they had to learn something about that country to tell us at supper. This worked really well and lasted about three years. There are dishes that failed, dishes that worked and dishes so delicious we still use them today. Maddy chose Hawaii. We had a honey chicken, a salad with nuts and the aforementioned coconut. It was a good time.

Really, it's ok. I'm not offended

Sometimes with poor customer service I - like everyone else on the planet - want to rant. Or sigh, if it was merely poor-ish service instead of terrible service. Sometimes, though, its just funny. When for whatever reasons your feelings aren't hurt but they could have been and then the person is mortified and really you're ok with it. Especially, in this case, if it gives you something to blog about when you've been kind of skimpy on blog posts. (Are you looking at me? Well, fair enough because I am).

Incident # 1: I went to pick up coffee for the office. Just four of us. Two lattes no fat no foam and two coconut breezers. One regular and one - mine - with sugar free syrup and no whipped cream. Is this because I am particularly virtuous? Nope, it's because I don't particularly like whipped cream. It was hard enough losing weight, why gain it back with something I don't even like? If I gain the weight back it sure better be over something better than whipping cream!

By the time I got to the coffee place I decided I didn't want anything at all. Too hot a day for a hot drink, not hot enough for a cold one. Fussy fussy fussy! When the barista brought me the drinks (we get these same drinks fairly often) she said "I filled the coconut breezer to the top with extra whipping cream, since it isn't for the person who apparently won't eat whipped cream and always wants sugar-free syrup. You go ahead and enjoy that".

I just started laughing. Didn't mean to, because of course then you have to explain and she would feel terrible. And really, she's very nice. And I have no need to hurt people. Well, mostly I have no need but let's not discuss that ok? So I told her and yes, she was mortified. I explained that it took me a year to lose 50+ pounds and that I really didn't want to gain it back by eating whipped cream that I don't even like. She understood and, I think, felt a bit better.

The second incident was today, and was funny only because the woman realized partway through how awful what she was saying sounded and then she made it worse and then she just trailed off and apologized. Poor woman, I'm sure she'll have an embarrassing story to tell tonight!

So, background: I am worried about turning into a TV watching, curler wearing, muu muu sporting, cigarrette smoking, liquour swilling couch potato. I have told The Boy to intervene if that appears to be happening.

To prevent such a thing from happening I am going to start -or restart, actually - Scottish Country Dancing. Just about free, so that's good. And I am taking another round of Belly Dancing. Finally, I am going to go to a few plays at the Globe theatre. (Originally typed that as "Glove Theatre" which probably exists, but not here!). I phoned today to place the order for a few tickets. Here's how it went, more or less:
Very Good. Your total, tax included is xxyy dollars.

What? But the brochure here says x dollars, plus tax

That's right, the package is x dollars plus y for the tax. xxyy dollars.

But that doesn't make sense - that total is twice as much as it should be.

Oh! Are you not buying for two people?

No, just me.

Oh, well, it's just that people always buy in pairs, or groups, I just never thought, I mean, it's the kind of thing that people do together... I'm just not used to, that is, not that you have to have someone, of course, I mean sorry, not that you don't have someone one, just that.....

At which point she just stopped talking. Which was a good call.

Sorry cheese dude. Sort of.

There is a story – anything from funny to quite funny depending on the mood I’m in when I tell it – that I’ve told a number of times. My son finds it particularly funny, so he sometimes asks that I retell it. So I do. Indeed, I did last night, to MayB. I may never tell the story again. Or more than once, because I am about to tell it here:

I went to the fromagerie. Not the cheese section of a regular grocery store, but an actual cheese store. Wandering around looking at all the cheese I wish I could afford (both money wise and waist wise!) I saw several slabs of “Saganaki Cheese”.

Hmmm. Wonder what kind of cheese that is, given that saganaki is the name of the recipe not the cheese. It’s most likely to be Kefalotyri, Kasseri, Kevalograviera or maybe Halloumi. Or any other number of cheese possibilities. So I went and found the cheese guy at the store. And was a sad back and forth-ing of “what kind of cheese is this” “Saganaki” “no, that’s the recipe, it could be any kind of cheese, so what kind is it?” “Saganaki” “but really that’s like labeling cheese in a cheese shop lasagna cheese. I want to know what kind of cheese it is, not what it’s for”. “SAGANAKI”. So I left it there.

I just thought that if you work in a cheese store you should know your cheeses! Now, however, I hang my head in shame. I…I am wrong. Not that he was right! Don’t worry on that score, he was still wrong. It’s just that I was wrong too.

As it turns out that saganaki is the vessel it is cooked in. The little two handled (usually) cast iron pan. It’s an appetizer making thing. Cheese saganaki happens to be the most popular. Also popular is shrimp saganaki, mussel saganaki even (yeah!) scallop saganaki. So not only is it not a type of cheese, it isn’t even a specific recipe; it’s a cooking pot.

Must pay closer attention to things.

Or not. Perhaps there is something going on that I shouldn't mess with. Nevertheless, here is today's post:

My sister is a bit of a gulliboo (hey sis!). A gulliboo is someone on the extreme end of gullibility. This is a real word. Honest! As it turns out…I am an even bigger gulliboo; mainly because the same thing keeps happening. Seriously, repeat gullibility? I should be shot. You know that line about fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me? I wonder what the deal is if you fool me nine times. No wait; make that eight times, which I’ll explain in a second.

The problem is that I haven’t been looking at what people give me for change. I suppose I do if I’m not in a hurry, but clearly – looking at what is in my change purse – I don’t check anywhere near often enough. Bad enough that ten years or so ago I ended up with half a twenty dollar bill as change and didn’t notice (I still have it. I firmly believe that the day I toss it is the day I find another half a bill. Or that some one day only special at the bank arrives where they replace bits of money with legal tender), but now it appears that I’ve been accepting any old thing for change. Don’t believe me? Here’s a list of unusual things I’ve sorted out of my change purse:

4 Ruckers tokens. Same colour as loonies, I suppose if I didn’t think about the size and weight I might have accepted them. Once I can see. Four times?

1988 South African 50P coin. And yes, long before The Girl ever got home, so it isn’t from her.

1991 5 c coin, also from South Africa

1949 5 something (cents?) from Belgium, of all places. Belgium? The forties? Has my purse been time traveling? WITHOUT ME?

1960 2 cent – or something – coin from some Scandinavian Country. Whichever one had Gustav Adolph the VI as king at the time. (Ok, I went and Googled that. It’s Sweden.)

That’s eight. And the ninth one is actually Canadian, so I guess I wasn’t fooled on that one. But it’s still odd; 1934 nickel. Again with the time travel!

So much time and so little to do. Wait a minute. Strike that. Reverse it.

Ah Willy Wonka. Still a favourite. And quoted all the time, at least in our house. Anyway - on to the post:

I am going to make a list. Not that this is something I never do. People make lists all the time: grocery lists, birthday lists, to-do lists, magic-powers-I-wish-I-had lists, even the hideously named “honey-do” lists. BTW: should some future husband of mine be reading this, and should I at some point refer to a honey-do list you must –immediately – dump me at the side of some deserted grid road, with nothing but a compass and the clothes on my back. No penalties or punishments for said desertion.

However, I’ve been having some list-related issues lately. Not with actual written lists, the problem comes with the lists I’ve been working on in my head. Every night for the past month (a month filled with all the to-do things one worries about when you’re moving and selling your house) I’ve spent the last minutes before sleep – on the nights I do sleep – going over all the things that I didn’t get done that day. And then I get worried. The panic of never getting it all done in time sets in.

This finally came to a head – and ended, for good – when I was in the usual panic over the long list of things not done that day when smart brain (the brain I should listen to far more often) suggested I make a list of what I HAD accomplished that day. As it turned out, it was quite a long list. I had been looking at the empty part of the glass. And that is certainly not my usual way. I like the way someone else has put it: "Look! A glass! With stuff in it! And room for more stuff!". There is not a day long enough to get everything done in that one day. No matter what I do, it will take days. All I really have to worry about is making sure I do get something done every day. And I do.

Back to the topic at hand: next week there is an engineer coming to make a report on the basement and general construction of the house.This is a must, particularly in Regina, with its shifting ground. No one wants to buy a house and then find out that it needs to have the basement completely re-done! This means that there truly are things that MUST get done this weekend. And it involves things like taking things to the dump. I keep thinking that all that has to go is some garbage and a box spring and mattress. But there are dead things in the back yard (inanimate things, like an old Tonka truck, a BBQ that big puppy murdered and some broken lawn chairs) that need to go too. Can’t forget them, I only have the truck for an afternoon; don’t want to leave junk behind for a new owner to deal with.

So a list must be made. A list that will have all the things that need to get cleaned/moved/stored/mowed/whatevered before Monday dawns. And then I get the pleasure of checking each item off as it is done. And not just by me, the three of us will be very busy beavers this weekend! Avanté!

Best thing I've heard all day

And boy, I've heard some things today. Things like "you're first on the list, it should be half an hour". It was an half hour. AFTER I'd already waited two hours. I spent two and a half hours waiting to hear my doctor say "no, that's not really effective, we'll try a different treatment". I already knew attempt # 1 wasn't working (ten good nights, four hellish nights, every two weeks? No, not good), I really only needed a prescription for something different. Which I got. Less than sixty seconds with the doctor for 2.5 hours of waiting.

Also, during that long down time (yes, I had a book. I read it. All of it. And three magazines that were sorely out of date), I heard a girl -woman? female? - tell the person she was with that they couldn't date each other because "you are just...so...you, is all". Hope that cleared it up for the boy - man? male?- because it just confused the bejeebers out of me.

Anyway, whilst roaming the drugstore waiting for some new magic drug to still the restless legs, I heard this line: "oh hey wait whoa just a minute now".

Read that line. Think about it. Clearly, someone objecting to a suggestion, and given that we're in a store a purchasing suggestion. Think about situations where someone might say something like that. Now here's the actual speaker:

A six year old boy. With his mother and little sister. Responding to his mother's suggestion of a brownie and cookie purchase. He sounded like a highly sceptical - not to mention grumpy - nintety year old. It made my day. A day which had been frustrating, so the laugh was welcome. I have no idea if he talked her out of the sweeties!

If I ran the meetings

I know business meetings seems to be an odd thing to post after such a long absence, but so be it. I really shouldn't be posting at all, I've way too much to get done. Which is what has me thinking about meetings.

First, though, a side track to grade 7. I took a speed reading class. Best class ever. I was already a speedy reader. All you had to do was read what was assigned and then write a comprehension test. If you failed, then you had a class lesson to pay attention to. If you passed above a certain percent...you just got to read for the remainder of the class.I always got to read. For the whole class, and get a credit for it. Talk about easy A! Throw in some cooking and that would have been the bestest class in the world. So to speak.

When there are long drawn out office meetings, I'd like to be able to iron things. Or fold laundry. Or run a lint roller over things. Or mend things. Or any other quiet thing that can be done without disrupting said meeting that I have a hard time finding time for at home. Things that need to be done but that always end up on the bottom of the "chores to do tonight" list. As long as you can pass a test at the end of the meeting to prove you have been paying attention, you're ok with getting things quietly done at future meetings. Perhaps with some periodical snap quizzes to keep you on your toes. And maybe put the knitting down if it's your turn to speak.

Note to MayB: get this working at union meetings. You'd be able to stock an entire store or ten with knitted things!

Stuff is growing...I guess

Remember the garden plot? 'Cause I do, vaguely.

I have good cause to remember the beginning of July last year. At that point, I'd been in the garden three to four times a week, starting with the planting in May. This year? Five times.

Do I mean Five times a week? No, I mean five times altogether. Twice for planting, once (for thirty seconds) to see what had died, a fourth time to replace what had died (took two minutes) and once to weed.Which lasted perhaps a minute.

No, I'm not anti-weeding. I'm anti being bitten by thousands of mosquitoes. I pulled up one thistle, a thistle so tall it was mid-thigh on me. And for my pains received many many mosquito bites. So many it looked like I had the chicken pox.

I tried to go out last night. Honestly, I did. But...just getting out of the car and taking a couple of steps landed me in clouds of mosquitoes and a dozen new mosquito bites. So I got back in the car. And killed all the mosquitoes that had managed to get in the car. I guess I am partly to blame as I didn't get out there until early evening when they're at their worst.

I know from the minute I spent of taking out the thistle plant that some things are growing. Potatoes appear to be up; couldn't tell you if they all are, as I wasn't willing to stay and count. Not to mention taking the time to figure out what was a weed and what was a potato plant.

Peas are also up; I guess they really do like cool wet weather God bless them. There seemed to be some sort of green fuzz where carrots and parsnips were planted, but I didn't really check. Could be moss, given the weather. The onions? Yeah, they're there, but I couldn't tell the difference between onions and grass. And I won't be able to until I can get some weeding done. And I'm not going to do any weeding...unless. Hmmm. I have, on loan, a bee suit. No, not a costume. An apiarist's bee suit. Surely even Saskatchewan mosquitoes couldn't get through a bee suit? I can be crazy lady out in the garden lot in a bee suit. All I need is a hot sunny day, a light breeze and time off work to go to the garden in the middle of the day.

On a vaguely related note: I've met a number of people that mosquitoes don't bite. I've seen it with my own eyes, in fact. How does that happen? Is there some old wives tale? Eat lots of garlic and they won't bother you? Not that it would be garlic, of course. I eat a ton and mosquitoes love me. Maybe it's the other way around. Don't eat any garlic and the mosquitoes keep away!

A test that really isn't.

We have regular fire drills at this office. I am one of the red hat wearers, charged with making sure everyone is out of my assigned section of the building. This is not a difficult job. In fact, the test itself is hardly a test at all. Maybe all we're really drilling is out ability to walk. Because is sure ain't no test of how we respond to a possible fire.

The thing is, it is always planned. Fire alarm will go off on Day X at Y o'clock. Exit the building calmly. Not hard to do well when everyone is all primed and ready to go. I wanted a fire drill that arrived with no warning. Just the alarm going off unannounced some day. See how well we do, find out if there are things we could do better.

That isn't going to happen. Why not? Well...because if people thought there was a fire, they might panic. And someone might get hurt. I still think it's better to know now if there will be an all out panic instead of in the middle of an actual fire. Although, I don't know what we'd do about it. Can you fire someone for losing their cool during an unplanned fire drill?

Life gets Interesting.

So, there I was chatting with The Boy in the kitchen when it hit me. No, he didn't hit me. Nothing physical hit me, it was a coincidence, a strange sense of sort completing a circle. Here's the story:

A while ago...say 16 years ago, I had a birthday. Yup, I have one every year. That year, though, quite a bit happened. First of all, now that the family had increased and we had a baby and a toddler, my husband and I bought a house. Possession of the house took place the week of my birthday. Pretty awesome present eh?

I got some other things for my birthday though. I found out that the aforementioned husband was not going to be moving into the new house. And that he had been having an affair for ages. Since I was two months pregnant with the baby who was not even one at that point. So for my birthday I lost my marriage and gained a house I couldn't afford and single parent hood with a toddler and a nine month old baby. Yeah, not the best birthday I've had. In fact...yes, I can say that it was the second worst birthday ever.

In fact, that whole ugly situation is part of the reason I want to leave the house. And it is entirely the reason I have no regrets, no happy memories to say good-bye to when I leave.

At the time having a mortgage was horrible; I thought of how nice it would have been to have half of the down payment as a cushion for the hard times I knew were coming. I knew, as well, that I wouldn't be able to keep up with looking after the house. If you own a house, you need to be able to make repairs yourself or have the wherewithal to pay someone else to do it. I had neither, so it fell apart.

Now, this is not a feel sorry for me post. In fact, it is quite the opposite. The fact that it was a mortgage and not a rental means that even in the state that it is in I have a house with equity that I can and will be using. Indeed, that is what saved me when I nearly had a breakdown over worry about the house. The house will be sold to someone who wants a nice neighbourhood but can't afford a perfect house, and I will move somewhere that has a landlord who is responsible for maintenance. Yeah!

The big thing is, though...things appear to be coming together this week. The meeting with the bank, finding a place that suits and a way to make it happen, even if the house doesn't sell right away. So much happening this week that is good for me and my family. And what week is it? It's the week of my birthday. And what day am I making arrangements with the bank on? The same day that we took possession and everything fell apart 16 years ago. Full circle. It may have taken some time, but perhaps now when I think of birthdays that were somewhat overwhelming I'll think about this year, not that one.

Stress - it comes and goes

Actually, more like it goes away but comes back. The overwhelming panic that was making me sick, that bits gone. Which is how I knew I had made the right decision in making plans to get rid of the house.

However...I am still not sleeping and having WAY too many migraines worrying about other things. Even simple things that stuff that I would like to keep but won't have room for. Even if it is small enough to store at my sister's place, how do I get it out there? I've been having nightmares about going on a solo trip over the mountains with a car of stuff for storage.

And fixing things - so many kind people have offered to help me get painting done, but first things have to get out of the house which means all the stuff that is going to the dump (dumpster already set up for later this week), stuff to Value Village (14 bags so far!), things for a garage sale and then furniture that I think I should try to get rid of before the garage sale. Or maybe not. Maybe I should sell it all at once. At one garage sale. Or maybe a couple of consecutive sales. Or....

See? That is what is happening to my nights. I mean to sleep, but end of with a whole list of "maybe I should"s. Sigh. Working on the bit of the meditation prayer that says "all things pass". Because yes, some day, the house will be a bad memory that I will be happy to forget.

Inch by inch, row by row.

After a very long winter (approximately thirty-seven months, give or take) it appears that spring, at least, has arrived. I won’t say summer, because it isn’t expected until next month and if we start looking forward to it too much, it may never come.

But spring is here. Not the nicest, however. Oh sure, today is a good day, sunny and all. But the forecast for the next four days? Temperature hovering between five and seven Celsius, and rain. Rain tomorrow, rain Friday, rain rain and more rain. Guess that lawn better get mowed tonight before the grass…errr…weeds get knee high.

Howsoever – that is not the point of the post. The point is to tell you that the plot is planted! This is my third year at the community garden; my little bit of farming that I intend to continue, even when I’ve moved to an apartment. Actually, I suspect that I will need that wee bit of land even more when I’m not in the house any longer!

Back to the plot. Most of it was done on Victoria Day, by me. Not that I’m complaining, mind; The Boy is away, and The Girl had plans of her own. All of which is part of getting used to being on my own again, with the fledglings living their own lives!

By "most" I mean everything bar the carrots. By the time I’d done everything else I was bent like an old crone and had to hobble home bent over. I didn’t stand up straight until I was in the shower under torrents of hot water. But I digress. Back to the garden.

My apologies –and my admiration - to those with flower gardens. The only flowers I have are the tulips at the house. And while this year they are fantastic thanks to the new bulbs I put in last fall (yes, I will get pictures, even if only for Al and Tanya!), I’m not really much of a green thumb when it comes to flowers. If I can convince edible things to take root and grow, that’s good enough for me.

The Boy has the camera with him in BC, so no pictures just yet. I’ll see if I can get The Girl to take a picture of the tulips, as they will be past their peak before I have my own camera back. The veggie garden doesn’t really look like anything just yet. When things have started sprouting I’ll take some shots and post them. In the meantime, I’ll tell you what all has been planted:

Tomatoes (as per The Boy’s request): Ten plants altogether. Two cherry tomato plants, to yellow pear, four heirloom tomatoes who’s names I’ve forgotten but will check when I’m there next (two yellow and two orange is all I can recall just now) and two Best Boy, just to make sure we have some big slicing tomatoes for summer sandwiches.

The Girl picked up a four pack of hot Peppers. I don’t know if we’ll get anything from them, or anything ripe at any rate given the short season but she wanted to try them and I like it when the kids want to try growing things so into the cart of seeds ‘n things they went.

We bought onions. Lots and lots of onions. It is even possible that we’ll have enough onions to have some last until fall. Last year we ate them all as soon as they were big enough. Come harvest weekend I think we may have had a single onion plant left. Maybe. And last year was a vast increase from the first year when we thought a dozen onions might suffice. They didn’t. Increasing the total to two dozen didn’t help. Ok, it helped but it wasn’t enough! This year we’ve put in over a hundred. The majority are Walla Walla, because they’re so awesome (even when grown in our short season), but also red onions and two different types of yellow Spanish onions.

That’s it for plants, the rest was seeds. Well, except for the potatoes. Technically they went in as seed potatoes, but they were already so sprouted that it felt like I was putting in actual plants.

On the same row as the tomatoes, planted underneath a row of tomato cages I planted a row of peas. Homestead peas, nothing fancy. It doesn’t really matter what kind we plant, because they all get eaten raw anyway. The few times we’ve picked them to take home for supper by the time the shelling was finished so many had been eaten that we finished them off. Why boil water for six little peas?

Last year we ordered seed potatoes online; fingerlings, purple potatoes, German Butterball potatoes and a few others. Was it worth it? No, not really. The majority of the potatoes were pulled, scrubbed, steamed and eaten within the hour. So incredibly delicious that it didn’t really matter what we started with. This year we bought local; one box of Russet potatoes, one of Yukon Gold (because I love me a good yellow potato!).

I’m pretty sure I got at least 24 from the two boxes but the potatoes were the second-to-last last thing I planted on Monday and I was beyond counting. I just wanted to get out of the cold and the wind. The actual last things planted were parsnips. The seeds of which were not at all like what I thought they would be. The addition of parsnips to the list was a last minute request from The Boy. Last year all he wanted was tomatoes, which we planted. And then everyone was hit by the blight. I think we got one single cherry tomato from the original row of plants. I was so happy this year when he chose a second something for his bit of the garden. Not that either of them will spend much time there, it’s more of an escape for me, really. Peace and quiet when I need it! But still, it’s nice thinking of the parsnips as “his” parsnips.

Last night The Girl and I went and planted carrots. Two packages of Scarlet Nantes in seed tape, and one package of purple skinned carrots, all nicely planted and hopefully up and out in a few weeks!

There you have it – one garden, pictures to follow.

Priorites: right or wrong?

Having watched the end of a Daniel Craig movie on Saturday (not a Bond movie, although that is how I think of him: Daniel Craig, the new James Bond), it was not surprising that he appeared in a dream that night.

Lucky me, right? The delicious and delectable James Bond in dream form. Yeah, that sounds like the beginning of a very nice dream. The thing is, though, in the dream he...well he fixed my sink. Nope, that is not a euphemism for anything. I mean he fixed my sink. I had a dream wherein Daniel Craig came to my house and fixed the bathroom sink.

The whole thing was doubly disappointing; not only did I not have a better dream than that, but I woke up to a sink that still needed fixing. I have no idea what's wrong with my dream-life priorities!

Not because of the talking

So, our province (along with many others) has had a no cell phone when you're driving by-law for a while. Which is fine. It was terrible at first, because you'd be driving along behind someone who would suddenly - no signal or anything - pull over to answer the phone. Or, as happened TWICE to me, you'd be behind someone who just...stops. Right in the middle of the road. Because their cell phone rang, and on the one hand you can't talk and drive and on the other hand apparently it's more than your life - and car - is worth to just let it go without answering. IDIOTS.

Things settled down after a while. There are still people - LOTS of people - who don't care, and they use their cell phones regardless of the law. Me, I don't have spare cash for a ticket, so I don't use it. If I'm worried that some child has to find me, I pull over. I signal, and very carefully pull over. And then I check to see who called. I'm never in such a panic to answer that I pull over in time to answer the thing.

All of this is to say that I've always assumed that it was the talking that was a danger. You know, lack of focus means you could be so intent on your call that you don't see granny crossing the street. Call is answered, granny gets squished.

Turns out there are far more serious dangers with in-car cell phone use. I was driving up the main drag yesterday, and came upon a car that was swerving from one lane to the other. Thought the driver was drunk. Thought about the RID thing, "Report Impaired Driving". But then I'd have to find a place to safely pull over. That's when I saw what was really going on:

The driver was holding a cell phone out the window with his left hand. Driving - sort of - with his right. He was also using his right hand to fight off the passenger, who clearly wanted the phone back. Yup, you've got that right: fighting over a phone in a moving car. Whilst driving to drive said moving car. On a busy downtown street. And to quote my high school driver's ed class, "This is not a car. It is a 2000 pound killing machine". I took my turn (he was temporarily in the turning lane, but that was just part of the bad fight-driving), he/they kept going. I hope he tossed the phone out the window. And if they hit something...may it have been something non-living.

One plus One Equals Nine

I’m working – again – on creating a consistently fantastic rye bread. Don’t get me wrong, I can make rye bread. I make a marbled rye that is yummy (consistently so), and a light rye that is quite nice and a pumpernickel that is very…pumpernickel-y. There is a sour rye that I make that is quite good, but occasionally it turns out not quite as I want it to be. Very frustrating as consistency is necessary when you’re selling bread.

So, after a break of many moons I am starting again. I’m going to make a New York deli rye and a 100% sour dough rye. I decided - after I’d gone to bed last night – to start on the deli rye right away. I knew it would have a starter, so I got out of bed to get that going in the hopes of having bread by Thursday. It seemed like a reasonable hope, as the “time needed” note in the recipe said two days; starter day one, bread day two. However…

The ingredient list for the starter included a cup and a half of a different type of starter, with instructions on making it on a previous page in the book. So I went to that recipe. Turns out that starter takes three days to make. You’d think that this would mean bread in five days, yes? 2+3=5. However…

That starter had a seed culture. This, yes, is like a starter as well. If you want the actual terms the starter for the bread needs a cup and a half of Barm. To make the Barm you need a cup of seed culture. There, all clear? Trust me; it’s easier just to think of all of them as a type of starter. The recipe for the seed culture was also included in the book. (Well duh – what a terrible book it would be if it didn’t). It takes four days to make the seed culture.

So, Tuesday to Friday I add things to the seed culture. On Saturday it is ready for use. This means I can start on the three day Barm. Day one Saturday, day two Sunday, final bit ‘o magic on Monday. At that point I’ll be well into next week, but by Tuesday I’ll be making the starter for the bread, which ripens for 24 hours. What this means is that a week from today, the process that got started last night will be done. And if I’ve done well (I’ll be making a change or two of my own), I’ll have some tasty New York deli rye. In Saskatchewan! I do have some expert N.Y.D.R. guinea pigs available (hello Judy!) for feedback. I’ll get back to you in a week to let you know how it went. Unless, I suppose, in a fit of pique I give up on the whole thing. The things I do for love of bread!

The Dangers of Poetry

The work I am doing right now - and yesterday and most of last week - is all firmly mired in the 1940's. All military stuff. I feel very out-of-time when it's time for lunch. Nothing seems quite right, the way one feels when you've been deep into a good book and come up for a breath of air. I should go and visit my dad; having coffee with him and his coffee buddies may be the only place I'd feel comfortable right now.

None of which is what I intended to blog about. I can't, of course, give details of the actual records but it's ok when there is no way for you to trace who I'm talking about. The wording is actually more along the lines of not giving so many details that a "reasonable"* person would know who I was talking about. I used the quotes there because I'm still not entirely sure that the word reasonable should be used in legislation. Very vague, to my mind.

So, back to the story. All this long introduction just to tell you about one man and his quest to be re-enlisted. They decided to take him, despite a serious concern they all had. That concern? I'm going to quote it here, exactly as written. Because if I don't you'll think I'm making it up, and I'm not, this is exactly what the form says
"...will be of use and value despite a strong tendency to break into effusions of poetry".

Yes, I can see the concern there. Curse poetry for being so dangerous!

The longest fall

I've been having a lot of really awful dreams lately. Either really frightening (I woke up sitting upright and shouting from a dream where I thought the sound that woke me was The Boy screaming in agony as he died a fiery death in a hideous car accident. He didn't, by the way) or just bad (doing or saying something that I would never ever actually do or say). Given that after family and the usual stuff I live for dreaming, this has not been a happy state of affairs.

There are some silver linings, though. For instance, I had a dream last night about dying with a friend. Not quite dying, though. Why would this be a silver lining? Because a) we didn't actually die and b) we had the weirdest conversation during the longest plunge to death ever. And yet, somehow, I can see us having such a discussion, should there ever be a record breaking fall to death going on.

So, the basic set up: we were going somewhere by car, with Mayb driving her new car. This made sense, as she just got a car and I had just read her post about it. She pulled over so we could figure out where we were. It didn't seem odd to either of us that we were in Greece, but somehow driving home. The Boy is working in a Greek restaurant, maybe that's where Greece entered the picture.

At any rate...we pulled over, on this road right next to the Mediterranean, and we were too far over. So the car went over the edge, plunging us both to what seemed like certain death. And yet, dream-like, we had time to have the following conversation:

B: Didn't mean to do that. Sorry.
Me: S'okay. We're going to hit the water, though. We should be able to do something about that.
B: Anything we should do on the way down?
Me: Well, we'll want to get out, so open the windows. Myth Busters did a thing on that. We want to get out as soon as possible.
B: I don't want to get out at all. Unless I can do it mid-air and grab a branch or something on the way.
Me: Don't think we have time. Can you swim?
B:Don't you read my blog anymore?
Me: Oh yeah, you hate the water. Well, open your window and take off your seat belt. You should be able to kick yourself to the surface. I'll take you the rest of the way. (Yeah, like it hasn't been 30 years since I did any lifeguarding).
B: I won't float, I have this thing where I sink like a stone.
Me: I think all people float. I mean, dead people do, right?
B: But if I'm dead why bother coming to get me?
Me: I'm just saying I think you could float.
B: I think the car might float. What if we climb out now and get on top? Then we don't have to swim at all.
Me: Well...I guess all I care about is seat belt off and window open so yeah, if you want to, go ahead and climb onto the roof.
B: If we die in the new car, Wade is going to be mad as well as sad.
Me: I don't think the kids are going to be too happy either. Wonder if we can haunt them all or something, and say we're sorry.

Dream ends. And still the car hadn't hit the water. Truly, we must have fallen from space, not from the road!

Take some time before you call

I was listening to a call-in show yesterday morning (because it was relevant to my job) and I was amazed at the number of people who called in with...no actual question.

Oh, they had a question all right, that wasn't this issue. The issue was their inability (and I'm talking here about every single caller but one) to formulate an actual question. I felt so bad for the special guest and the host.

There would be a rambling thirty second...um...discussion...and at the end they would have to find a polite way to ask the caller what the question was. And they had to do that SIX times.

I used to work with someone who wrote things out before she made a phone call. At the time I thought she was being overly fussy but I'm finding myself thinking she could teach a class in marshaling your thoughts before you speak. Or perhaps all we need is a class in high school entitled "how to ask a question".

The Girl takes a class called "Life Transitions". It's an excellent idea, actually; a class about things like basic banking, renting an apartment or buying a house. Paying bills and finding a doctor, or a lawyer or planning a foreign holiday. The skills you need when you go from living at home to living on your own. Surely knowing how to frame a question is a needful skill? And from what I've heard lately it's quickly becoming a lost skill.

No time?

I keep meaning to post something, honest! But what with my regular job, the cooking being in the depth of a bazillion maple cookie orders (season ends in a week or so, so I'm almost done) and trying to work out the possibility of changing jobs after 23 years in the same place...I don't seem to find the time! My apologies, I'll get back to it...eventually.

Ignorance is ok...if you're willing to learn

I don't mind not knowing things. I know enough to know that no one knows everything, as awkward as that sounds. If I don't know something I'm generally interested in finding the answer. Or the location, or pronunciation or whatever it is that I don't know.

Consequently, I don't mind...too much...when other people don't know things. Even when it is something that I think they should know. I fail in being understanding, upon occasion. I did, for instance, laugh out loud (it just happened, I didn't plan to hurt anyone's feelings) at the woman in front of me in line at a hotel in South Africa who wanted to know if the surf sound (the hotel was built actually over water) would go on all night, or was there a time limit? I think most people would have a hard time not being humoured by someone who didn't understand the constancy of waves.

What I don't like is someone who tells me I'm wrong, when I know as a certainty I'm right. Not talking points of philosophy here, just basic facts.

Which brings us to our story. I was shopping for Hominy today. Canned hominy. Now, I get that most people living this far from the American south would have no idea what that means. This far west and north grits are not familiar either.

Hominy, by the way, is defined in the food dictionary as:


One of the first food gifts the American Indians gave to the colonists, hominy is dried white or yellow corn kernels from which the hull and germ have been removed. This process is done either mechanically or chemically by soaking the corn in slaked lime or lye. Hominy is sold canned, ready-to-eat or dried (which must be reconstituted before using). It's commonly served as a side dish or as part of a casserole. When dried hominy is broken or very coarsely ground it's called samp. When ground, it's called hominy grits — or simply grits — and usually comes in three grinds — fine, medium and coarse.

I was at a store - which used to carry it, and a type of store where there was a faint possibility they might know what grits and/or hominy are/is. I couldn't find any. So I asked. The clerk asked me to say it again, slower (fair enough, I do talk too quickly sometimes) so I did. She said she had no idea what I was talking about. Was it English? In retrospect I don't know if she meant the language I was speaking or the ingredient I was looking for. Not that it matters!

So I told her is was dried corn, that I've only seen it white, and that it isn't like corn niblets, it's more like dried corn the way peas for split pea soup are dried. I really didn't want to get into the chemical process then. I should have.

Why? When I told her it was treated dried corn kernels, she said "I don't think so". Ok, so she's never heard of it. No big deal. So I decided that I would explain a bit. Explained the whole popular in the south, chemically treated corn, when ground referred to as grits. At which point she said "grits come from pigs".

I was seriously tempted to just say "I don't think so", but she seemed pretty certain about where grits come from, despite not even knowing what they are! So I left if. I'm sure at some point she's heard "porc and grits", or "sausage and grits" and assumed they were the same thing. Or something. I don't know. All I know is that in this instance...I'm right. And she was seriously wrong. Poor pigs, like they're not giving enough as it is! Which brings us to the end, and who better to end it than Ogden Nash? The things you remember from reading to your kids!

The pig, if I am not mistaken
Gives us ham, porc and bacon
Let others think his heart is big
I think it stupid of the pig.

Kitchen Bliss

It will likely come as no surprise that I have a lot of kitchen gadgets. Some I’ve bought, some have been gifts. Some lay forgotten and covered in dust, some get used all the time. I’ve even given a couple away, when I thought they would be put to better use elsewhere – or, to be honest, when they scare me! And there are some things that I don’t have…yet.

I’ve been contemplating a new addition to the kitchen (a toy, not an actual additional space!), and that contemplation has me thinking about toys and tools, used and forgotten. I’m willing to let you in on what I use and what I don’t, and I’d love to hear what you use in your kitchen. Or what you don’t, won’t or maybe just what you keep meaning to use…some day!

Let’s start off with the given away things. As previously mentioned, I’m afraid of things under pressure, and of vats of boiling oil. I was given a deep fat fryer once. It was used when I got it, but never used when I owned it. I am not overly fond of fried food, and I believe the combination of me, The Girl, heat and a vat ‘o fat is a bad combination. I also gave away – or possibly traded, I don’t remember anymore – a cream whipper. It worked like a charm, but the dread that I had to deal with every time I loaded a new cartridge made it one of the least used gadgets in the house.

There are a couple of things that I may have but can’t remember where I’ve put them. Things that I never liked -which is why I don’t care if they’re gone or just lost. Things like a pancake batter dispenser (difficult to clean) an electric crepe maker (I like the swirling and flipping involved in regular crepe making), a pancake cooking thing with hinges and plastic clamping bits and a fajita maker.

Ok, that last one I know where it’s hidden. It’s this big oval thing with a flat spot at one end to keep the tortillas warm and then a grill to cook peppers and meat strips on. It’s just…it seems like a lot of work. But The Girl bought it as a Christmas present one year, so I’ll keep it. And use it, just not as often as I should for the space it takes up.

We’ve had a few ice-cream makers too. One that we liked – by Donvier – eventually died. Something warped and the parts never really fit together again. We had a soft-serve maker once too. That was a gift. And if “soft-serve” means “completely liquid” then it was great. It went the way of the trash. In the end I couldn’t bring myself to make someone as frustrated as we were with the non-performance of the ice cream maker. There was a third one in there somewhere…can’t remember why we didn’t like it, but it’s gone too. We’re not big ice cream eaters so it isn’t something we’ve pursued.

I have two waffle irons. One that makes your basic rectangular waffles, one (a gift) that makes waffles in the shape of Mickey Mouse’s head. Yes, the kids would fill his ears with syrup. I questioned the whole idea of such a waffle iron but it was a huge hit with both kids. I think I’ll pass it on to my sister, now that she has babies. Not much call for Mickey Mouse waffles with teenagers!

I have a pizza stone. I’ve had it for years, actually, but only recently has it become something I can’t live without. I’ve always liked it for bread making, despite only being able to bake one loaf at a time. Primarily, though, I love it for what it does for pizza. Having reached a point where home made pizza is sooooo much better than store bought, having a stone that makes for a perfect (to me) crust is not something I’m willing to do without. Should it break, it’ll be replaced tout suite.

I have a slow cooker. I think I’ve never been without one, actually. This latest one, though, is a very specific make and model as recommended by America’s Test Kitchen. I love it, although it is really big. The one I had before broke, which wasn’t the tragedy you might think. It had the worst design ever. It was a gift, so I had nothing to do with the choosing.

The problem was the base was quite small, and then it suddenly widened out ( I tried to find a picture online of it, because narrow at the bottom wide at the top doesn't really explain the terribleness of it all, but it's as though the thing never existed). Fine if you were making a large amount of soup or something, but terrible for things like ribs or a roast or chicken. I may have to buy a second slow cooker in a few years, if both kids are far away. Truly, the one I have is monstrous!

There are lots of other toys and such, and perhaps I’ll do another post on some of the hand tools. In the mean time – for those of you that persevered and read to the end – how many of you have Dutch ovens? And do you use it? Love it? Hate it? I posed this question on Serious Eats, and have decided it’s time to get one, but I’d still like to hear from you guys too.

Better than Bank Robbery

Call me crazy (oh come on, you do it anyway, with at least the courtesy to not say it to my face!) but...I've sent in an application for a food franchise.

I haven't heard back yet and no, it's not like my heart's set on it, but it would be worth trying. Even for a year. If after a year it's making money but I want my job back I'll hire someone to run it. Or Hire The Girl who will be finished high school by then. Or maybe The Boy, but I suspect his introversion would not be a good match. If it's really doing well and I love it and it's paying the bills, I'll quit the government job (after 23 years!) altogether and run it until I'm ready to retire. If it isn't making money, or I just don't like the headache I'll sell the franchise.

Or maybe...maybe the person that they said they hadn't heard from yet will have grabbed it in the interim. And I'll stay at this job for...well, until I can afford retirement I guess!

All because I'm feeling restless and out of sorts. Which usually makes me want to rob a bank. But given that jail as a deterrent works for me, that ain't gonna happen. And I'd feel guilty about bank costs going up for the customers and so on. I'd make a terrible criminal!

Cooking Tuesday, two days late

I think, actually, that I'm going to give up trying to do something specific in the blog on a specific day. As soon as I planned it, things kept happening to make it not happen, if that makes any sense.

I did have an interesting bit of cooking, however - interesting to me, at any rate - last night. I'd been hired to cater a gluten-free funeral. Or wake, the funeral itself can have as much wheat as it wants! And relax - no one in la famille Hingston has passed away.

The funeral is for (now follow carefully!) a co-worker's brother's mother-in-law. The daughter (wife of co-worker's brother) is the one with Celiac disease.

I've catered one funeral, and I've done lots of things for this co-worker when she is doing a birthday or something for her sister-in-law, but this was quite a bit more involved. Fun to think about (not the death part, the what on earth to make without flour part) as it happens. In the end, I made a layered pesto and sun-dried tomato torte with gluten free crackers to spread it on, chocolate brownies with a chocolate honey glaze, vanilla caramels with salted chocolate topping, coconut macaroons, chocolate fudge and Texas pralines. Only two things were chocolate-free, but that's what they asked for: no wheat, heavy on the chocolate. So that's what they're getting.

Here we are, March first, and what is the temperature? -38 with the wind chill. -30 if you don’t count the wind chill. And believe you me, the only time you don’t count is if you’re not here. Take my word for it: when you can guess the temperature with a fair degree of accuracy by the angle of a person’s body when walking into the wind, the chill factor counts.

Am I, however, about to post a sad and bitter post about how awful it all is, and how unhappy I am? No, I am not! As it happens, things are starting to bubble up that have turned my thoughts to warmer times.

First of all, last week I got a reminder via email to send in my payment for the garden plot for this summer! And this week…the first gardening catalogue arrived in the mail. This wouldn’t be happening with months and months of winter to get through now would it?

Also, even though I’ve decided that I don’t want to own large animals (unless, of course, I’m a multi-millionaire and someone else looks after them for me) because of the travel restrictions they cause, I’m not giving up on the idea of beekeeping. SIAST is not making it easy for me – they haven’t offered their beekeeping course in years and years. But years ago, to my great and lasting delight (yes, Graeme and Bron, I know you think I’m a nut bar and mayhap you are right) I got to go to a real working honey farm. It was, like, the bestest thing. I had a great time. And came home with lots of honey!

I still have an ever-expanding honey collection. Most friends – and once a friend of a friend who knows about me – bring me honey when they travel. From right next door to around the world, I have some really wonderful honey. Locally, a friend brought me some creamed honey with added herbs. Made by monks, I think. I could be wrong about that, that could just be a weird connection in my mind. Monks, honey, mead, herbs. They’re all interconnected in my mind. And another friend brought me some French lavender honey. One of the “must haves” for honey collectors, I was very glad to get some. I think at the moment – not counting a couple of Canadian honeys – I probably have a least a dozen different honeys from about as many countries. Lucky me.

Anyway – since I am not yet moving to the island, and with the garden plot I’m as close as I can be for the moment to urban farming, I decided to move on with the possibility of a future honey farm. And to that end I sent in an application last week to join the Regina and District Bee Club. And I got an email today thanking me for cheque and application. I’m in!

So there. Yes, it is ferociously cold out there. And yes, last weekend – last week, for that matter – sucked. But spring is coming, I will learn new things and tonight I’m going out for supper with my boy and a friend of his. Life is good.

Where is Fitzwilliam Darcy when you need him?

Looking for an idiot example? Here ya go, compliments of the house:
I had a bit of a weekend. When all was said and done it involved a migraine, a fever (?), nose-bleed, jaw bleed, fainting, concussion and post-concussion check up. Because apparently spending hours waiting to be looked at is more productive than sitting at home. Anyway...

No, I'm not the idiot. And I have the MRI to prove it! No, to me, the most ridiculous thing about the whole event was being told to "not faint where there are hard things to fall on that could cause further injury".

Oh. Ok. Didn't realize I could plan where and when to faint. I think I'd prefer no fainting at all, actually. But I guess, if it looks like it might happen again, I'll make sure there is a bed, a couch, a floor covered in cushions or some burly guy to catch me when I do go.

If that's true, we're screwed

First of all, I do not find mental illness funny. As a matter of fact, if I'm crying at work it's because I am working on mental health records from the late 1800's and early 1900's. So much that we can treat now that back then was eithermisunderstood, or not understood at all.

Because if it was either of those things, then the solution - those poor people, that this was a "solution" - was to bung them into the hospital. Hospital for lunatics, the insane or the mental depending on what decade you're talking about. Even the names are sad.

Sometimes one comes across things that read differently today than how they were originally meant to be read. For a while I wondered at all the patients whose "final disposition" was written down as "eloped". At first I was shocked, and then I gave myself a lecture: there should be no reason for patients/inmates in a mental hospital to not be allowed to marry. But then it occurred to me - duh - that it probably meant something else back then. And it did; to elope means "to escape from the authority of". That's why we use it the way we do. Kids running away from their parental authority to get married. We still use it, even when a couple isn't running away from any authority. Just the running away for a quick wedding is an elopement. That column in the registers now makes sense. Lots of people escaping, not lots of people getting married!

Sometimes, if I'm lucky, something strikes me as funny, and I can get a little chuckle in the midst of sadness. For instance....

There is a column in one of the ledgers regarding how a patient died, if they did die in hospital. Lots of what you'd expect, pneumonia and old age being the biggies. Suicide, sadly, makes a fairly regular appearance. What worried me last week was one patient who died of "idiot exhaustion".

This is terrible. I am around idiots all the time. And yes, they're exhausting. I just didn't think it could be fatally exhausting.

I have a little list

I am back from vacation. It was a vacation that had lots of rest time (yes, even with the twins running about!) and, consequently, lots of thinking time as well. I even had an afternoon at the spa.

My sister not only loaned me her car to get there and back (saving me the cost of a taxi) but gave me a gift card to bring the cost down. She has a number of gift cards, but no time to use them. I love the spa; twins or not if I had gift cards I’d find a way to use them! No complaints from me though, her having them helped me afford a lovely afternoon at the spa on Bear Mountain.

Sitting outside not enjoying the mineral pool (they very clearly stated that it was a mineral pool, not a hot tub. And they were right, the water was luke warm at best), I decided I should work on something to put in the blog. I’ve been getting very slack on that front, yes? So I did.

I thought about what I want to see when I look back on my life. Whether I’m looking back from a rocking chair at ninety, or in the few seconds before the falling piano lands on me next week, it doesn’t matter. What did I want to see? The words that came to me were if and should, did and tried.

I most emphatically don’t want to see "ifs "and "shoulds":

What is I had married someone else?

I should have moved when I had the chance.

What if I had stayed in Quebec?

What if mom and C. had lived?

I should have borrowed money and gone back to college.

I should never have dated that guy more than once.

I should have moved out of the house if I couldn’t keep up on repairs.

I should have worked harder on the business.

What if I had borrowed money for that café?

The list goes on, as such lists are wont to do. So I’m stopping there, because I don’t really want to think about it any more. And I don't want any of you to start thinking along those lines regarding your lives, so stop!

I do want to see a lot of "dids" and "trieds". Even if the things I tried were failures, so what? At least I tried them!

I’ve loved.

I’ve lost

I tried marriage

I have children

I’ve grieved

I wrote

I tried getting published

I traveled

I tried to have my own business

I tried to be a better person

This list could also go on, and I hope it does. Whether it’s next week or fifty years down the road, I hope the second list is ten times longer than the first. A hundred times longer! In fact, I hope the first list never even comes into play, so there.