%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| Groan. The racket has once again awakened me at the ridiculous hour of four in the morning. What could the squawking birds be sharing the moment the sun clears the horizon ? What do they have to be chipper about? Do they ever sleep? Can't they hear their raucous, amplified voices? Punching my pillow and rolling over I wonder if an RV exists with soundproofing. My right hand fumbles at the window and reaffirms that it's closed. Where are these early birds perched? Are they directly overhead? Do they expect me to stumble from my warm bed and revel with them? I may be half asleep, but I know I did not request a wake-up call. I'm camping, I don't need an alarm. Try as I might, I have no idea what they are declaring / sharing / blaring. Great, now I'm wide awake and my brain is considering this. Hmm, what are they saying? Is it a conversation? Should I feel paranoid? Are they commenting about me? Have I offended them with my desire to sleep in at least until dawn arrives? Wait, is it dawn now? Since I clearly am alert and thinking, I begin an attempt to translate this intimate exchange I cannot avoid. I am not an eavesdropper. There are no hushed tones or efforts to move this cacophony elsewhere. Is this what they are saying? "It's returned! It's back again! Do you see it, Bill? The darkness has disappeared and the sun is glorious." "Yep, it sure has,Flip. I never tire of seeing that sun. The way it beams through the branches is breathtaking. I wouldn't miss this moment." "Got any plans for today, Bill? Where are you off to?" "Don't you ask me that same question every morning, Flip? You're nothing if not predictable. I dunno. I might check out that new bird feeder on the other side of the park. I'm curious what they have. I'm not a fan of those sunflower seeds." "I'd like to find a secluded branch and catch a quick nap. The kids kept me up all night with their chirping. I threatened to sit on them, but the wife shot me a glare. When I built that nest it seemed so roomy. Now it's crowded." "You did scout the perfect location. I envy your lake view. That branch is a sweet one for sure. Are you thinking of renovations?" "Naw, the missus will be kicking them out of the nest soon enough. I can wait it out. Have you spied any grounded, featherless, two-leggers yet?" "Not a one. The day is passing them by. They're cooped up in their shiny cocoons.It's a shame." "Well,I'm more than ready for that me time now. See you around, Bill. Oh bother, the wife is screeching. I tell you there's never a dull moment with those chicks." "See you at the next sunrise, Flip. I'll just stretch my wings now. I feel kinda peckish." Oh, wonderful. They'll be back to torture me anew tomorrow. Bill, Flip, could you please turn down the volume? I'd appreciate it. |
| Lounging in my new comfy camp chair, lamenting the humidity and avoiding any unnecessary exertion, I noticed the tag of another seat hanging limply. Since it could be said that I appeared to be idling my mind decided to follow along. I realized that I'd never read this tag. My eyes were not perspiring at that moment, so they indulged my whim. Despite being mildew stained the bit of material seemed to be intact with legible printing. Its host chair presented as tattered and weathered. The canvas sported burn scars proof that this outdoor furniture had been present at many a roaring campfire. Huh, this tag discretely dangling for numerous summers was a warning label. How had I missed this? This chair had been proffered to family and friends alike. What dangers had lurked? What precautions had I ignored? Apparently, I've been remiss in not weighing the sitters before they relax. According to the first line of the tag this chair has a maximum load capacity of 102 kilograms, or 225 pounds. I've never thought to embarrass my guests. I put their comfort, their ease, their very privacy before their safety. The second line urges a potential user to "exert care during assembly / disassembly of frame so that fingers are not pinched." Obviously, this does not refer to a theft, but I robbed everyone of this specific alert. Yes, this chair doesn't require assembly because it simply folds, or unfolds, but I should have at least issued a "be careful." The manufacturer reiterated "exceeding maximum seated weight capacity may cause personal injury and / or damage to product: user must ensure weight is evenly distributed." First, this assumes that a user will indeed sit. There are occasions when a chair acts as a temporary step ladder. I must admit I've never considered the conscious effort of even weight distribution. My weight is contained. When I drop / flop / submit to a chair it's all or nothing. Where could a potential sitter shift their weight? Don't most butts spread during the act of sitting; isn't this a reflex? Should I chastise guests and correct posture? Do I presume every sitter is new to the science, the intricacies of sitting? The wording of this next caution is my favourite. "To avoid injury and product failure, any user should carefully enter / exit fabric seating." Sigh, there's that word 'careful' again. Who stops to map out a sitting strategy? Should intentions be expressed? "Just so everyone knows, I plan to park myself in that grey chair over there next to the tree. Yes, that'll be an entry. Be quiet now. We don't want to spook it. I'll approach slowly. Does it look to be agreeable? Hi, may I sit with you? I'm just gonna lower myself nice and easy. You let me know if I need to redistribute my weight, okay?" |
| A week has passed, but something is still bugging me and it's not the ravenous mosquitoes hovering about. I'd like some answers, yet me, myself and I shrug their collective shoulders, roll their eyes and sigh. Their lack of interest irks me. Can't they recognize a mystery when they see one? How can they not want to know what happened? On this particular late evening after the darkness had descended and we'd enjoyed a reunion with our camp neighbours, hubby and I met at the rear of our vehicle. Why? That detail escapes me now.I glanced at the license plate and for a brief moment I could not process what I was seeing. I even doubted the date specifically the current year. I had to convince myself that it was indeed 2021 and this is important because the plate sticker clearly read 2020. Huh? Our vehicle plate registration sticker had expired? This had never happened before. This car was not our first. As responsible owners and drivers we understood the law. For years, every October, hubby's birth month by the way,we'd renewed that vital sticker without fail. Sure, we bemoaned the expense,but it was the cost of being independent. Oh, and of course we'd rather not incur a fine. How had neither of us noticed this egregious faux pas? For many years, my partner owned a garage. Licensing vehicles occurred frequently. This car had recently been at its dealership of origin for re-installation of summer tires and an oil change. Had the attending mechanic not seen our outdated sticker? No, "hey, that sticker is old, eh?" All of us had not noticed? The best we could recall, when we'd purchased our new car last July the salesman had promised to give us a plate sticker valid to October of this year. He'd mentioned it being ridiculous to apply one good for only three months. So, we never verified it. Hmmm. And the usual vigilant government had not mailed us a reminder either. Double hmmm. This is not the mystery. What follows is strange and inexplicable. Hubby's first reaction that fateful evening was to consult the vehicle's paperwork. The last we'd been aware of it it resided inside a black pocket-sized pouch relegated to the glove box. He yanked open this cubicle and rummaged around not finding this pouch. I suggested that perhaps it had fallen under a seat and so with the aid of his cellphone's flashlight, bright enough to signal aircraft, he searched. Bear in mind it was late evening and the car's interior is black. "It's not here," he grunted. This is the same great hunter who cannot espy a jar of peanut butter right in front of him on the pantry shelf. He will holler, "Don't we have any peanut butter?" So, I couldn't help myself, I had to ask. "Are you sure?" I believe he snarled. I then requested he check his pockets and this earned me a glare. Hey, he's absconded with important documents before, but I did not rehash that. When the eldest rolled her father's newly restored pick-up truck along an icy embankment, the ownership and proof of insurance had not been up against the roof as he suggested. They'd been safely tucked into his wallet which was with him hundreds of miles away. Anyway, this time he did not possess said paperwork. We tossed the interior looking for it to no avail. This car and I have racked up the mileage and all of it illegally.I fail to comprehend why I was not detained during a border lockdown that saw me waved through by two different police forces? I just had to blurt, "Where are they?" Hubby glared once again as if I hadn't read the first one and snarled, "I don't know." Okay, I admit I may have said this more than once. I replied, "I told you I don't expect an answer. I'm just exclaiming out loud. You know, rhetorical." After a collision with a wayward deer several summer ago all I could repeat was "oh dear." So, the car's ownership, the proof of valid insurance and the plate registration were all missing. Why? When? How? We could do nothing that Sunday evening but retire to bed mystified. First thing the next morning we rectified our lack of valuable documents. Stopping back at home to awaken our computer we printed a copy of the insurance slip. Then we visited the local Ministry of Transportation office to purchase a replacement ownership and a current plate renewal sticker. Before anyone else had discovered our lack of proper vehicle verification we'd fixed it. Now this car is legal to be driven on the road until October of 2022. Everything has returned to normal, but I still wonder. Where are those documents? What became of them? What possessed me to notice the expired sticker that night? Why had it not been apparent months ago? Why is this still bugging me? The never knowing is irksome. |
| Perhaps this pandemic and the ensuing months-long lockdown of retailers has messed with me. Yesterday, I discovered that a new brand of cereal perches upon grocers' shelves hoping to entice curious buyers. Were the product promoters of a certain manufacturer asleep at the concept meeting? Who decided that a cereal tasting like chocolate Kisses would be a winner? Does this fulfill a fantasy foiled by mothers? No, as I've repeated countless times, you may not eat candy for breakfast. Did someone dump a package of Kisses into a bowl, smother them with a layer of milk, and declare this a delicious idea? Hey, how can I replicate this? Can this experience be somewhat legitimate? If it's slurped via a spoon and not unwrapped from a coloured tinfoil cocoon, it becomes something else. After all, this is a cereal that tastes like chocolate not actual candy. It's a breakfast food. There's a difference. I suppose these are the same geniuses who did not like their marshmallows roasted on a stick over a blazing campfire, but created in rainbow hues and mixed in with their cereal instead. How delectable, not. Stale, chewy bits do not enhance the first meal of the day. Again, this is a have-your-cereal-and-candy-too mindset. Cereal is a treat only palatable with extra sugar? Another strange marketing ploy is doughnuts as cereal. Are doughnuts swimming in a bowlful of milk considered tasty? Soggy mini doughnuts? I like mine as the finger food they were created to be and enjoying one once in a while for breakfast will not hurt me. Chasing my doughnut(s) 'round a bowl with a dripping spoon...no thanks. I hope the chemical giant that developed the formula to duplicate the flavour of chocolate made his / her fortune. Even Cheerios adopted this trend. General Mills must be set upon dominating the cereal market with their varied versions of the little oat 'o.' What flavour don't they have? Honey nut, frosted, whole grain, banana, and more. As I've mentioned, I'm new-product naive.Imagine my surprise when a lone, wee, plain Cheerio fell from a box and it resembled a heart. At first, I considered this to be an anomaly. I'm no stranger to the iconic shape of this cereal that my eldest insisted upon calling "ro-ros." Perhaps, somehow, the machine stamping out zillions of tiny circles suffered a glitch. Was this a one-off? I shook more oat hearts into my grandgiggle's bowl before I thought to cast my uncomprehending eyes upon the box. Ah, heart-wise Cheerios. A cereal with a message? Inconceivable! A breakfast food advocating healthy choices? Campaigning with a familiar brand? While it's debatable as to Cheerios' heart-healthy self-aggrandizing promise, this may well encourage people to consider their hearts. Make heart-affirming options in your diet and your exercise. Remember your heart. Heart strong, heart wise. Despite this not being subtle, this message resonates. It nags without the whining voice. It implies the eater of this cereal is important. It bolsters a feeling of self-love. If cereals exist for those with a sweet-tooth and the health-conscious, why can't there be a cereal to alter bad habits? What about a cereal that aims to discourage smoking? It's obvious that gruesome depictions of cancer-ravaged individuals splayed across cigarette packages do not disturb smokers in the least. They are not appalled or worried by images of blackened lungs either. Bold lettering decrying horrific effects do not seem to attract their hooded, smoke-clouded eyes. All printed warnings are ignored. These repeated cautions do not cause smokers to stop and consider the consequences of their habit. Are they impervious? What could this anti-smoking cereal look like? Should it resemble curled cigarette stubs? Should it be white with a red tip to depict a glowing 'smoke?' Or should each cereal bit represent a full ready-to-light ciggy? Perhaps a few bits could be shaped like portable lighters? Maybe throw in a handful of ashtrays? Would it be possible to make the milk change to an ash colour when it dampens the cereal? Surely a smoke flavour exists? There are nicotine-flavoured gums, right? Could this flavour increase in intensity near the bottom of the box? Would it be possible that this extra infusion numbs the smokers tongue nullifying the smoking experience? Am I indulging in wishful thinking? Most smokers probably do not have working taste buds. The cereal box would be created to seem like a cigarette box, bright blue or red. Of course, it would fold like a cigarette package, too. To open the interior and access the cereal, a tinfoil liner would need to be pierced, torn, whatever. Some smokers tuck their lighters into the box ready to be used. With this particular cereal the eater would be encouraged to tuck their favourite spoon inside. Oh, this box must be small enough to fit into a pocket, or wedge up along a vehicle sun visor, as well. Nagging and threats do not dissuade smokers. I think this galvanizes their incredible stubborn streaks. Would a soggy cigarette butt cereal do the trick? |
| Emily, my middle grandgiggle, has discovered a new passion.Photography piques her interest. My role is to chauffeur her around, or in modern parlance I uber her from shoot to shoot. I also act as crowd control, site scout, equipment monitor,keen-eyed observer, enthusiastic-approver-of-each-shot, snack provider, and a sounding board. Basically, I'm her shadow. I trail along in the background at her beck and call. Strolling along a rock-walled waterfront one gloriously sunny afternoon, dodging others intent on partaking of fresh air and a dose of Vitamin D, I espied a gash in one of the immense boulders that cried out for Em to explore it. On closer inspection, she discovered a hole , a two-inch hole that seemed to have been bored straight through like a port hole and framed a peek of the lake. She hunkered down to snap a few pics from this rock's perspective and captured its glinting metallic veins splashed by the restless waves. When we viewed her efforts the hole in the foreground resembled a damp tunnel leading to a body of water. I christened our find 'Emily's hole' and considered out loud whether I should post it to social media with this title. Of course, I kidded. I respect Em's privacy, I'm just that kind of Nanna. Inukshuks originally beckoned us to stop and snap images of their rugged beauty set against the wind swept backdrop of the lake. Creative types have balanced stones and rocks atop each other to fashion several of these inukshuks and then placed them along the winding wall. No two are alike and they exude personality. A pair resemble side-by-side dancers frozen in a spin. A few are squat while others stretch on spindly legs to the sky. Curious Emily stuck her lens into buzzing blossoms exposing fuzzy-looking bumble bees dusted in pollen. A white lilac appeared as popcorn in her view. Pink and mauve petals duplicated stars.A kaleidescope of colours caught her discerning eye. Reds, yellows, oranges glowed.She captured the roiling, bubbling surf of crashing waves. On another of our forays we recovered an abandoned red double-decker bus, a die cast replica, from a wooden bench. It became the subject, the focal point of her photos. She and I had great fun scouting unusual sites for that toy vehicle. It modelled in the sand and the surf. It perched in a vibrant green pine tree. It hid in the shadow of a tangled thicket. It balanced atop an inukshuk. It swung precariously on a swing. Emily preferred close-ups and the size of this bus became skewed. On the face of it, this bus seemed to be traversing rocky terrain under an azure sky. Inspiration struck a couple of days ago, and once again I accompanied my grandgiggle as she filmed slo-mo video of her little red bus in action. I suppose I acted as the stunt coordinator / equipment wrangler. Okay, I was the schlep. As per her instructions, I climbed a slide and released the unsuspecting bus at her command. Squatting at the slide's exit point Em captured the bus careening in its descent, flipping in mid air and spiralling into a crash. The best shots saw the out of control bus slam into the camera. I thought it could be how disaster scenes of a tornado are filmed. Who manages to send a full-size bus spinning through the air? Perhaps Em has a future career as a special affects creator? At the moment, Emily is enrolled in an integrated art program which is gobbledy-gook for a photography course. Each day she receives assignments and sets her imagination soaring. Her reluctant dogs have been subjects. Various household paraphanelia such as coloured pencils, clips, books, and more has been incorporated into her shots. Pine cones, dandelions, chipmunks, house flies, and blades of grass pose for her pics. Yesterday's project asked her to take a selfie with script. "I'm not scribbling on my body with permanent markers," Emily exclaimed. I commiserated. Once was enough for me and I only did it to amuse girls at a Girl Guide camp. The cartoon faces I drew stayed with me for two weeks. I guess they were my temporary tattoos. We had to be creative and resourceful. I'm now ensconced for the summer in my camp trailer and supplies are limited. I do keep a bag of Sharpies here, but as per Em's wishes, they were not to be used on her skin. After much thought and a looming deadline, I rummaged around in the craft supply cupboard, ( every self-respecting Nanna has one), and found self-adhesive flower stickers made of coloured foam. I adhered them to my sunglasses and we wrote ' i c u' on them. Next we loped down to the beach and I snapped photos of my grandbaby. This represents her shyness and her keen eye. She is always observing. Even if she thinks she is somewhat hidden behind a pair of sunglasses she is watching and well aware of what's transpiring around herself. True critical teenager that she is, Em demanded I not take a photo of her profile. She has decided she does not like the shape of her nose at that angle. I'm just the loving Nanna and the photography assistant. Emily is gorgeous, but what do I know? I possess almost fifteen years worth of photos to prove my unbiased point. |
Although I scribble and scrawl with a pen, specifically a ball point pen, I never stopped to consider its origin. In my limited understanding of this I thought it magically appeared on store shelves after being harvested from some sort of manufacturing haven. Like money, I knew on an instinctive level that pens did not grow on trees. They were plentiful. They were affordable. When one pen gave up the ghost I tossed it without a second thought and quickly replaced it. I've never known a time without a pen. Pens accompany me daily tucked into a knapsack, or a purse, or a pocket, or a desk drawer, or a car's console. Without a pen I'd be lost. When inspiration comes calling I must be prepared to commit its message to paper. Sometimes, I employ a pen to create lists. On the occasions I decide to treat others with snail mail, I compose letters with the aid of a pen. What else could I use to complete a crossword? Pens are without a doubt my favourite writing tool. It is only fitting then that today is National Ball Point Pen Day. Well, also on this date back in 1943, the ball point pen was officially patented. Of course, it was a revolutionary alternative to the humble pencil and the fountain pen. Did someone holler eureka at the concept of a pen that contained ink and did not require a constant dip into a messy supply? Finally, writers need not wait an eternity for their script to dry. With the clumsy method of old no spontaneous notes could be left about. All missives had to be carefully planned. Blotches, spills and smears were former bothers. Writers bore telltale stains. Left-handers must have wept with joy at the advent of this writing marvel. No longer did they risk losing their trains of thought or miss transcribing an important point waiting for ink to dry before their awkwardness smudged their efforts. Viva quick-drying ink! Imagine stuffing a bottle of ink and a quill into your pocket. The new pen introduced itself as portable. It did not require re-sharpening which also caused a pencil to shrink and eventually whittle away. Ink proved more permanent than pencil renderings which could fade, or be erased. My pens are humble and affordable Bics. Of course, I am not referring to the other infamous Bic immortalized in ads with the tag line "flick my Bic." That contraption permitted smokers to light their cigarettes. Now, I do not write with Bic's For Her pens, or lady pens either. What was this company thinking introducing a gender-bias writing tool? Who conceived of this? How had women survived handling other pens since the 40's? Did someone honestly believe regular pens to be too heavy, uncomfortable, unwieldy for women? Had any female been disfigured, maimed, or permanently injured by her use of the original Bic? I prefer the sensible workhorse of a pen. It needn't be fancy or sparkle in a glimmery rainbow colour. Sure, there are times when a retractable pen feels like a luxury. No one enjoys misplacing a cap, or discovering scribbles across their white leather wallet. My pens are shaped as a slim cylinder, but some exist that are hexagonal to prevent them from escaping rolling. Mind blown! I just put up with pens that disappear and wobble under furniture. I will bemoan the fact that pens must be held somewhat upright for ink to be dispensed. They dislike writing on anything but a flat, level surface. They also do not appreciate cold temperatures and when exposed they balk. Some finicky pens prefer clean, dry paper. Mind blown encore! Ingenuity and a generous research budget has reincarnated the ball point pen in the form of a tungsten carbide gas-charged marvel dubbed the Fisher Space Pen. It boasts a shelf life of one-hundred years and was patented in 1965. Why have I not heard of this? It's a super writing tool that will work in zero gravity, a vacuum and extreme temperatures. Wonder of wonders it also works under water, at any angle, and on wet, or greasy paper. The creators marketed their pen to NASA which had failed to develop a similar product. The only reliable writing implement in space had been the pencil. Another ingenious reinvention of the pen originates with a Swiss company and their Caran d'Ache 825 Wood Chip Pen. This pen is sourced from 60% renewable materials created and collected from this company's manufacture of coloured pencils. The hexagonal body is composed of wood chips and wood cellulose. Wow! I celebrated this momentous occasion with a couple of my current pens. I took them on an excursion to the local laundromat where I utilized their specialist skills to solve a crossword and record a few of my flashes of brilliance. They never faltered. They did not run dry. My pens are dependable allies. Not one of them is aware of the super pens that exist out in the world. They plod along with me. |
| Upsy daisy, oopsy daisy, parental murmurings from my youth. I suspect I heard this more than most children due to my proclivity to fall. Gravity and I battled constantly. To my puzzlement, I also heard descriptors such as ass over tea kettle and two left feet. Nothing surprises me anymore, or figuratively knocks me off balance. Today, I learned June eighth is Upsy Daisy Day. Okay. Really? A special day to commemorate the act of losing command of your motor functions? An occasion for klutzes to celebrate? A time to compare bruises and share 'war' stories? Well, in a nut shell, no. Upsy Daisy Day is a chance to take stock of what makes you grateful and puts a smile on your face. Positivity is the main focus. No negativity is permitted. Be happy. Turn that frown upside down. ( I've heard this simple platitude a few times and I admit I chose to glare which is technically not the same as a frown).Let a smile be your umbrella. (This is all well and good, but in the real world actual rain does pelt down and what protection does a grin provide?) It takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile. Maybe. Don't all muscles deserve a workout? Smile and the whole world smiles with you. Yes, I've found this to be true the majority of the time. It costs nothing to share a smile. It usually triggers a mirror response and is thus contagious. A smile knows no language barrier. When I'm out and about I always have a friendly smile ready to give away and mine shines brighter when it's been returned. Undeniably people exist who refuse to make eye contact. They stare at the ground, or they gaze off into the distance. Sometimes, they speed up to avoid a meeting, or they abruptly change course. The ones who pretend not to notice me make me laugh. I recognize a brush off , the reluctance to engage. Don't fret, I will not force my smile down your throat. Yes, you have a right to remain 'smileless.' And also true, smiling non-stop demands commitment and not everyone is ready to receive one. I do understand that circumstances collude to foil / thwart happiness. The down, miserable times exist without a doubt, but for the most part they are temporary. Gratefulness has an opposite. A frown, scowl or whatever is the opposite of a smile. How can we appreciate contentment without recognizing discontent? I wonder how people would react if I said to them, "Upsy daisy." I'd expect some sort of a reaction if only a direct glance, or a startled expression, or a 'bah humbug.' Do parents offer a 'upsy daisy' to reassure their children? You're okay. You stumbled, but you can get back up. Here, do you need me to help you? See, you can stand and walk again. I'm right beside you. Chin up. Let's try this one more time. Surely no one would argue that adults also crave reassurance. Adulting is not easy. It's a messy, exasperating, infuriating, frustrating, exhausting, grey-hair-sprouting, under-eyes-bags, wrinkle-inducing, weight-gain multiplying, worry-toting, endless responsibility. I know it's so much more than this and not everything about adulthood is depressing. There is the freedom to make choices and attempt new ventures. We can opt to smile. We can stop to notice others and acknowledge their existence. We can assist and share. I am grateful for this. Upsy daisy. |
| I'm melting! Oh, I am well aware that a certain nasty witch bewailed her fate as she too melted in 'The Wizard of Oz' and as such my pitiful declaration lacks originality. But, it feels like it. I feel like I am melting. It's only a week into June and the thermometer is glowing red ready to explode. Already the much anticipated longer, sunnier days are too hot. Officially the temperatures read as thirty degrees Celsius and present as forty degrees Celsius. For the Americans I shall convert this measurement to something relatable. After all, I straddle both the metric and imperial worlds. It's 86 degrees Fahrenheit when only two weeks ago I waffled as to the wearing of flip flops. It's not yet summer or so the calendar states. Let me clarify. For some unknown reason the humidity has arrived early and like the heavy, oppressive, damp blanket it is it's smothering. It's stifling. Winter weather is more accommodating. Dressing in layers is a given. If one should feel cold add another layer for warmth. Shrug on an extra sweater. Bundle up in fleece. Wrap yourself in all clothing woolen. Pull on heavy socks. A comfortable body temperature is achievable. There is nothing as extreme as heat. I shuck my flimsy clothing which consists of a cotton t-shirt and a pair of cotton shorts and still I cannot lower my body temp. There is absolutely nothing 'nakeder' than naked. The only layers remaining are those of my skin and with this unrelenting humidity they may slide off. My epidermis is slippery with perspiration, ( did someone famous once claim that ladies do not sweat they perspire?). Perhaps if a couple of inches slough off I'll not only feel lighter, but cooler as well? Just breathing induces streams of water to trickle down my hot torso and beads to drip from my nose. Inhaling is apparently a workout. Puddles form around me. If I sit, my slick skin forms some sort of adhesive and glues me to a chair. Rising rips screaming skin cells that for a blessed brief moment feel slightly less heated. The air is languid. Ceiling fans spin furiously as they push and twist air that refuses to soothe. There is no relief. I drink so much water I'm considering installing an intra- venous, (iv) line that will deliver fluid straight into my arm. Walking to and from the kitchen sink and/or the fridge is taxing. I expel valuable fluid with this effort. Perhaps I could scrounge up a garden hose, attach it to a faucet and run it directly to where I choose to suffer move as little as possible. If I could see past the distinct possibility of electrocution and thus grievous bodily harm, I might consider using my bathtub as a wading pool while I surf the internet and type on my keyboard. Of course, I would not be exerting any actual physical effort such as wading. I'd be wallowing. I'd hope not to be stewing, or steaming. As I write this the nearby freshwater lake shimmers and beckons. Oh, I am tempted to partake of its cooling waters, but... As I mentioned, I am naked. To dress even for a brief foray to the lake would require energy I don't seem to possess. Donning some kind of clothing would be a nod to the sensitivities of my small village neighbours. In this oppressive heat, the sight of my nudity would prove too much. We are all suffering as it is. And yes I would most assuredly be spotted. My get up and go has evaporated and thus I would not be capable of a nude sprint, or a flash run. The only flashes would come from the cellphone cameras capturing my desperate scramble. If I hastened without due care, in my slippery state I could stumble and that would not be a pretty sight. So, I sit and simmer. I roast. I imagine basting turkeys. I long for a refreshing breeze and daydream about savouring an unlimited supply of freezing cold ice cream, calorie-free of course. |
| According to DAILYHOLIDAYBLOG.COM today is Hug Your Cat Day. Now I'm all for celebrating diverse occasions, but alas I cannot participate in this special day because I no longer cater to a feline. My servitude ended years ago. No longer does a mere cat permit me to do exactly as it intended. I ceased to be at the constant beck and call of Itty Bitty when he died unexpectedly the hectic weekend I began a new job. I'm not insinuating that he disapproved of my absences, but his timing is highly suspect. He did far more than turn his back on me and ignore me for some perceived slight. That crazy cat entered my home stuffed into a shirt pocket and his diminutive stature earned him his name. Obviously, 'Cutie' and 'Tiny' did not rhyme with kitty. As he assumed his prominent position in my household it became apparent that he should've been tagged as 'Curiosity' and he seemed to have many of those fabled nine lives that are attributed to such a daredevil beast. For reasons only he understood, Itty Bitty decided to become my shadow. Oh, he never deigned to be stealthy, not at all. He loved the sound of his own voice and he spoke to me constantly. I was expected to listen without comment. If I did attempt to replicate his vocalization, Itty Bitty would approach me, plant his paws, cock his head and stare into my eyes. I received the message loud and clear. He did not appreciate my accent. Early one morning before the rest of the family members awoke, Itty Bitty followed me into the bathroom. Wishing to better see my reflection in the above-sink mirror, he perched on the seat of the commode. Somehow he lost his balance and or his concentration and he tumbled into the depths of the yawning toilet. He proved that the rumours re a feline's reflexes are not at all exaggerated. Even as his warm dry nether regions struck the ice cold water his paws were scrambling for an emergency exit. He exploded up and out with a great swoosh. Scrabbling on the tile floor he seemed to be out-running the cascade of water connecting him to its source. I chuckled at the frantic body contortions that had him slithering and racing while he both shook his wet feet and wiggled his sodden tail. I grabbed a towel and cornered him in the kitchen where I tousled him dry. Until every last hair had been returned to its rightful spot, he left me unaccompanied. This surprise dip did not cease his forays into the bathroom. If I dared to enjoy a soak in the tub with the door closed, Itty Bitty would scratch non-stop and howl his displeasure. He always got his way. I'd swing open the offending door and my cat would leap up onto the edge of the bathtub to keep me company. He relaxed his plume of a tail until it was immersed in the water and then he'd swish it back and forth. When he was ready, he'd leap to the floor and meow an order. As he commanded, I'd douse Itty Bitty with handfuls of water until he removed himself to a nearby spot and groomed himself. One day, Itty Bitty leapt into an empty cardboard box and careened down the basement steps. At no time did he attempt to vacate his impromptu ride. He stayed aboard until the box thudded to a stop. As I mentioned this loveable critter just had to be next to me. He found me irresistible I suppose. While sitting and viewing television I kept my hands busy with needlepoint and cross-stitching. For convenience sake I pushed needles into the armrest of my sofa and I also kept the various threads and scissors there, too. Itty Bitty insisted upon lounging on this same armrest, needles and all. He permitted me to reach under him to remove the sharp objects, but he never did wait for me to re-locate them before his recline. His spot was his spot. Despite his neediness, this cat was never a cuddler, a snuggler, a lap cat. On the rare occasions he sought affection, Itty Bitty asked for it. He'd tap me with a paw to get my attention and he'd emit a certain, distinct meow. At this indisputable signal, I'd gather him up and pet his head. I learned not to have allusions. If I failed to mark the time, a scant thirty-seconds, and release him ,Itty -Bitty would bite the loving hand supporting him. Obviously, he preferred his lovin' to be brief. If Itty Bitty were still shadowing me, I would not dream of disturbing his personal space to deliver a hug just because it happened to be Hug Your Cat Day. He had his dignity. He also had his strict regimen of measured doses of affection. I miss that grey tabby. |
| So, my birthday rolled around again on June first. I'm not putting this out there to garner congratulations, or cheers, or even pity. Yes, I'll be the first to admit that I am aging, but isn't everyone? I cannot be the only one. The strangest thing occurred this evening and I believe it correlates to my 'advanced' years. My time has come. I just experienced a wellness check. Yep, someone expressed concern about my welfare and sent another someone to check on me. What precipitated this? Had someone worried ? Had they envisioned a catastrophe? My first inkling that I had somehow caused a loved one undue stress came as I hustled from my easy chair in response to a pounding upon my door. I did not hasten to a normal knock, or a tap. This thunder was inflicted upon my door to catch my attention, or wake me from a perceived slumber / momentary faint /, or a coma. The pounder exerted an urgency. I swung open the door to greet my daughter-in-law who exhaled audibly and exclaimed, "Oh, you're alright then?" I tittered in response and I may have bowed to show my level of consciousness. I waved my arms and wiggled my toes for added effect. Terrilynn's furrowed brow and unblinking eyes revealed her skepticism. "Chris texted me to come and check on you. He said his dad has been trying to reach you all day. I was in town already. One minute I was snuggling Josh's new baby and the next I was driving here. I even forgot how to pass over a baby." I shook my head and shrugged. I retrieved my cellphone and searched for recent calls. My call log was empty for today and in fact, I'd last received a call from my long-distance trucker hubby on my birthday, June first. "Well Paul talked to your son and they both thought maybe you'd fallen, or something. You never answered your phone. Is it turned off? Did you turn down the volume?" In my defense, I showed my DIL that my phone was charged, the volume set to more than a whisper, and it had been placed next to my recliner within easy reach. My cellphone and I were blissfully unaware that we'd created a kerfuffle. Terrilynn and I engaged in more of our impromptu chin wag before she bid me adieu. Of course, she texted my son with the news that I was still standing and breathing. During our gabfest, I multi-tasked and sent a private message to my perturbed / concerned / frantic partner. Eventually, he and I connected via a Facetime chat. He could see with his own eyes that all his perceived fears had been for naught. Had there been a glitch in the satellite thingies shooting our communication attempts adrift in a vast nether world? Strange... Now, it's not as if I don't sometimes worry about my hubby when he's far from home. His semi is tracked by a satellite. He possesses two cellphones, an American model and a Canadian one both of which may be traced. As he drives, he wiles away the hours chatting with a network of friends and family. He travels along busy highways amongst other traffic. In other words, if something happened to him it would not occur in a vacuum. I suppose I should feel loved and I most assuredly do, but does this mean I can anticipate further wellness checks? Will I be gifted with one of those Alert necklaces meant for feeble seniors? Will my family install an emergency phone that lights up the sky and demands a swift response similar to the fabled bat-phone? Oooo, perhaps there will be more spontaneous visits, or drop-ins. |
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