%%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. |
| PROMPT May 10th The prompt today is very simple: Tell us a story about the person you call Mom. Ah, Mom memories, the best! My Mother has been 'gone' for years now. Sometimes, it seems as if she's stepped outside and will be right back. I still find myself speaking to her expecting a response. I recognize her in a phrase that escapes my lips, or a reaction that surprises me. Mom learned to drive out of necessity. With three of us and later four of us needing transport to various venues and her extended family residing at a distance, Mom decided she could and would drive the family sedan. I remember her practices. She refused to attempt this in the southern Ontario town where we lived. No, she preferred to get behind the wheel in a less-trafficked village in Northern Ontario. I never minded this. We'd enjoy a road trip for most weekends and an excuse to visit my maternal grandparents. With her staring straight ahead, this meant jaunts careening down dirt back roads, squealing at each bump and cheering Mom to go faster. We taught her all there is to know about distracted driving. This occurred in the pre-seat belt era. Our car , an impressive Pontiac, would now be classified as a land yacht and it provided plenty of room for three siblings to create mischief. We could and did refuse to sit preferring to stand. We rolled the back windows up and down over and over. We wrestled. We argued. I'm sure Mom felt a few of our errant kicks land in the back of her seat. We directed a gazillion questions at the back of her head. We suggested routes. We insisted she settle squabbles then and there. We whined about dying of hunger and thirst. Over the summer, Mom gained confidence. I still recall her indignant anger when she failed her first road test in our home town. I sided with her because clearly the tester needed eyeglasses. Mom had stopped at a stop sign before preceding onto a busy thoroughfare and her tester insisted that this stop sign did not exist. Eagle Street itself stretched along one end of Preston and it did not boast any stop signs. Mom had been instructed to turn onto Eagle from a side street where there were and always had been the familiar red octagonal signs. That tester proved lucky that I hadn't been present because I liked to argue. As luck would have it, Mom drew the same tester and the same route for her second road test. This time Mom chose to linger at the supposed phantom stop sign and provoke the tester into questioning the obvious delay. Mom simply pointed at the stop sign and raised her eyebrows. Anyone with a mom knows that look. She'd have crossed her arms too, but in order to pass her test she needed to keep both hands on the steering wheel. This time, Mom passed and received the coveted licence. That shiny ,baby blue Pontiac had been the first and only vehicle my father purchased as brand new. He returned home one evening to find two immense dents in the aluminum siding he'd spent weeks installing himself. Mom had pulled into the driveway and failed to brake in time. She'd collided with the house. The dents were actually perfect impressions of the Pontiac's headlights and housings. He chose not to replace those panels or hammer out the 'kinks.' Mom chose to never speak of this again, well she did utter one curse word. Every time she settled into the driver's seat she had to see her 'handiwork.' Her last words muttered through clenched lips were, "I'm so angry I could spit nails." |
| May 9th Prompt: Choose an event in your life that someone else remembers differently. Describe both memories and debate the differences. Who do you think is right? Why do you think you remember differently? Danielle surveyed the street fair from the safety and height of her mother's arms. She'd grown tired of toddling along with her right hand clasped in her mom's tight grip. From up here, she could see more than people's legs. Red, blue and yellow balloons swayed in the breeze. The sun warmed the back of her neck. Music blared and boomed. The crowds of walkers buzzed. A shadow approached Danielle blocking out the sun. Her eyes adjusted as a hairy hand reached out for her. She screamed as the rough hand grabbed her arm and tugged on it. In a wild panic, she shrieked and could only think of escape. Danielle scratched the arms cradling her as she fought to scrabble up and away. Still the hairy beast pulled at her. Danielle kicked and sobbed. I recall the lovely balmy afternoon my young family attended a nearby street fair. All the intersecting roads had been cordoned off to vehicle traffic and the three kids marvelled at strolling on the pavement. They were distracted by juggling clowns, floating balloons, strains of music from competing bands, crowds of bustling pedestrians and street vendors. One of the organizers asked my hubby to participate in a wee contest . I encouraged him to do it in the spirit of fun. Now you must be told and trust me to say that my spouse might possibly have the world's hairiest legs.Several people , men and women would be hidden behind a curtain with only their bare legs exposed to view. It seemed a harmless way to raise charity money and laughs. Someone could win the highly coveted award of The Hairiest Legs.I assured Paul he'd win this impromptu contest hands down. Why not use his obvious assets? We the spectators would be the unbiased judges. I'd recognize his legs anywhere.With a shrug, hubby went off to prepare for the friendly competition. Danielle and I were bopping to the offerings of a street band and laughing when a gorilla jumped in front of us. I may have gasped, but I knew a fake ape when I saw one. My three-year old daughter emitted earth-shattering screams and clawed at me. I struggled to hold onto her as she attempted to scrabble up my chest. Where did she hope to go? The gorilla insisted on touching my terrified child and initially, I shoved the creature away. A crowd of fair goers began to swarm us. In all that immediate commotion, I heard a familiar voice calling out the squirming bundle's name. I hissed at my partner to shut up and leave, but no, he had to continue his terrifying 'assault.' Danielle either could not hear him, or recognize her father's voice. A big, hairy ape meant to whisk her away from her mother. Knowing my husband to be the actual person inside the costume did not soften my urgent shoves. After what seemed like an eternity, Paul finally retreated. Danielle eventually calmed down. Her breathing slowed and her tears dried. She clung to me. My fresh scratches stung. I later learned that Paul had been recruited to act as a gorilla to drum up contestants for that hairy leg showdown.He assumed his own child would recognize his voice and he never dreamed she'd react as she did. When that contest began, the ape signalled to me with a come over here motion. Danielle went rigid in my arms and I shook my head. Even when he pulled that heavy head from his own noggin, Danielle wanted nothing to do with him. We kept a safe distance. Of course a three-year old panicked! She did not know a real gorilla from a fake one. My recall is that of a mother calming her child and a wife willing to bash her oblivious husband. Danielle does not seem to bear permanent scars. It's a fuzzy memory propped by our retelling of it. |
| May 8th Prompt: Pick your top 10 values and rank them based on their importance to you. Write about the values. Have any changed throughout your life. Only ten values? Hmmm... 1. Joy/Love/ Happiness: Loving and being loved is the basis of my happiness. I believe it does make the world go 'round. It is exhilirating and dizzying, plus I cannot envision a life without it. 2.Articulacy: There's nothing like communication. Voicing thoughts of love, approval, disapproval, support,anger, and more are critical to our emotional health. Expressing myself so that I am understood is important. Understanding others is crucial. We are complicated and being able to express ourselves unites us. 3.Sincerity:I think of this as being genuine and real.Life is short. Why waste it with deceit and subterfuge? Speak your truth. 4. Curiosity:There is so much to experience and explore. Ask questions. Listen. Attempt. Travel, meet new people. Taste new foods. Stretch your mental and physical muscles. I believe I have my entire life to learn. 5. Humour/ Silliness: I've always been drawn to humour and I love to laugh. I tend to see the silly and the absurd. Laughter , like a smile, is universal. It has no language barrier. 6.Creativity: I appreciate the ability to create. I see it as positivity personified. Artwork speaks to me. It is magic. Weaving words into a story, carving wood, shaping metal, combining fabrics, recreating an image with paints, stringing musical notes and more, all are creative pursuits. 7. Imagination:As a writer, I depend upon this. It's fun! I think and create beyond my everyday life. Anything is possible. 8.Education: I believe education is important. If I had not been taught to read and write my world would have been so small and stifling. I cannot fathom being unable to communicate. 9.Independence: I value my self-reliance. I like making my own decisions. 10.Perseverance:Never give up. Sometimes, bad things happen and adversity finds us. It's okay to struggle. |
| PROMPT May 7th Start your entry today with the words: “I used to believe...” I used to believe I had the world by the tail. The world was my oyster. Yes, yes, that's it. I saw myself as a luminescent pearl displayed for all to worship. The world was my playground. I had the world at my feet. The sky was the limit. Okay, I think you get my drift. Whew, there are a great many of these phrases. Once I get started... Once upon a time I could turn heads. All eyes would be focused on me as I flounced, or sashayed, or swept into a room. Oh, I heard the naysayers mutter that I seemed to have a high opinion of myself, who did I think I was the Queen of Bathsheba? But they still stared. So what if not everyone bowed before me. I had their attention as it should be. I almost shivered with delight when conversation ceased abruptly and animated gestures froze in mid air. I smiled when cups of tea crashed to the floor, or board game pieces scattered. Sometimes, I heard gasps and low whistles. People parted before me. They would scramble to make a path. They didn't hesitate to scoot over on the couch, or push another body onto the floor. I interpreted this as an invitation to join them. I could and did alter the tone of conversation by simply tilting my head, or stretching. I never really had to gaze into anyone's eyes. My mere presence seemed enough, feigning interest, staring off into the distance at nothing in particular. I admit I felt pampered, spoiled even. I never had to lift a finger to care for myself if I so chose. Massages and hair brushings were spontaneous. I never worried about the state of my nails. Meals just magically appeared and they were plentiful. For long rapturous, uninterrupted periods of time I luxuriated in the absence of noise. No kerfuffles, no hullabaloos, no raucous music and no raised voices. No activity snatched away my serene meditation. I achieved Zen-like states. I used to believe in the sanctity of my home, my oasis. Then something known as Covid-19 invaded and obliterated my life as I knew it. The family is always here, inside, in each other's faces. They never leave. From the moment they rise in the morning to the blessed moment they retire for the night, the peace is shattered. Computers hum non-stop. The tap tap grates on my nerves. The television blares. Video games screech and beep. Squabbles erupt in the kitchen. The refrigerator door has developed a squeak. The caterer is derelict. My meals are often late. Would it be asking too much to provide a clean dish? What happened to my favourite food? I think I'm experiencing hunger pangs. Did the world suddenly lose all fresh water? Now, I am forced to squawk to announce my arrival in a room. I find myself brushing up against any one, a leg, an arm. I've even tried head butting and swatting. Does anyone appreciate how uncomfortable a keyboard is ? Who else resorts to sprawling across it to cease those confounded keys? I'm not the least bit apologetic. Those papers and ledgers splayed across the desk are taking up valuable lounge space. I had to toss them to the floor. Has no one followed the sun beams around this house? Am I the only one who fully appreciates them? Not that you noticed, but I nibbled on a few of the leaves of those straggly things on the window sill. I'm the first to admit I don't have a green thumb, but a few bits of those plants tasted a tad dry. I displaced a wee bit of the soil looking for water, too. Wow, you came running. I believe I can stop my caterwauling now. First, let me assure you I despise acts of drama as much as the next feline, but this is beyond neglect. Where are your standards? Have you no pride? I used to believe the bathrooms of this house were adequate if not gleaming. Do you not see the copious lumps in my litter? How much of a picture must I paint? I demand that you do something immediately. You are here all the time, aren't you? I used to believe I was safe at home. |
| PROMPT May 6th Write about an object you own that has negligible monetary value, but is priceless to you. The Christmas when I could claim to be eighteen , my boyfriend surprised me with an engagement ring. He obviously hadn't heard my mother claim that Christmas engagements were considered bad luck. He'd only retired from competitive figure skating a few months before and still trying to decide what to do with his life and new free time. Paul himself was nineteen. He intended that I be a part of that future. He spent what precious scarce funds he had. No, really, this ring is not a piece of jewellery meant to dazzle and bankrupt the purchaser. At no point could I have hocked it to pay for a mortgage premium, or purchase a flash set of wheels. Well, okay, maybe I could've bought a new set of wheels, at the much-less-inflated cost forty plus years ago, but not the vehicle for them. This ring is tiny. First of all, I have tiny, child-size hands. My children have remarked that this ring looks like something meant to be a prize in a box of Cracker Jacks. Yes, it is gold, but the band fits no one else in my family. The single sparkling diamond is almost, but not quite miniscule. No one would refer to it as a rock, a chip of a rock perhaps. The thought of this gift is priceless. It represents a commitment, a promise. I did not require exorbitant bling to say yes. My future hubby believed in tradition, first an engagement and then a wedding. We married the following summer when we were both nineteen. About ten years ago, I drained the water from the kitchen sink only to discover that my diamond was missing. Fearing the worst and dreading its loss, I glanced into the strainer at the bottom of the sink and something caught my eye. There in a bubble, the errant diamond glistened. I scooped it out and carried it in my palm to my mate. I informed him that the engagement was off. He barely reacted. I suppose he wasn't worried that I'd pack up and move out. That band and stone resided in a dresser drawer for the better part of two years before I finally took them to a jeweller's for repairs. During that time, my left ring finger felt lighter, almost naked. I know it can't possibly weigh much, but I guess I missed its constant presence. Soon, we will celebrate our 42nd anniversary. Don't tell Paul, but I would've said yes without that engagement ring to seal the deal. |
| PROMPT May 5th Find a local news story that makes you feel something. Share the story along with your opinion on it in your blog. Meh, there's nothing newsworthy in my serene neck of the woods. Wait, I read a report of a rock-cut collision, an impaired driver at the wheel, but is that worth repeating? What did I feel? Incredulity. Why is this still happening? So, I broadened my search for scintillating news and I discovered a piece titled' Killer Wasps.' My first thought, is this real? After perusing this article and Googling, I discovered that killer wasps do indeed exist, but their entomological name is Vespa mandarinia japonica. Great. We have a virus some associate with a Mexican beer and now there's a large insect named after a motor scooter? Yes, yes, I do realize this isn't true, but this is a catchy memorable name. This is where I inform you that this species hails from Asia and currently China is considered the source of Covid-19.More possible vitriol? These aggressive, large wasps normally inhabit Japan and somehow they've appeared in North America, specifically Washington state and British Columbia, Canada. They've decided to become an invasive species, no passports, no visas, no warning. They just moved in and built their nests in the ground.Their preferred targets are bees which they decapitate. Gruesome! Scientists assure the public that though bigger than our native wasps and though capable of stinging repeatedly, the Asian giant hornet is "fierce but few." As is true of any stinging insect most probably due to allergic reactions, people can die. I'm still awaiting the arrival of killer bees from the U.S. Every year, reports spring up in newscasts to remind me they exist and may invade Canada. Now there's the possibility that a giant wasp is lurking and ready to cross the border? Any wasp, no matter it's size, is intimidating and best to be avoided. My family refers to our variety of wasps as assholes. They delight in dive-bombing us and hovering just out of reach. No one wants one of their stings let alone a sting from a hornet that appears to be buffed, or is that bulked, on steroids. How did the Vespa arrive in Canada? Okay, it is a sizeable bug, but surely it did not flap its wings and soar across the Pacific Ocean. Did it survive a ship-tossed voyage without prey to sustain it and without revealing its stowaway status? Is this wasp simply lost? Did it take a wrong corner somewhere? I can't fathom a person smuggling them into the country. "Anything to declare? What's that buzzing in your pocket? No, a giant Asian hornet is not considered a support animal." Anyway, eating wasps is a thing in Japan. I kinda accept this, after all some people dine on snails, or oysters so, why not wasps. Wasps are pan fried or steamed with rice. They are served on skewers. They are preserved in jars. Here, we may add honey to various foods and drinks, but never the actual bees. The Japanese add wasps to their liquor, a drink known as shochu. Much as Canadians celebrate maple syrup with festivals, the giant Asian hornet, or giant sparrow hornet, ( oh my God, this insect is the same size as a bird?), is honoured with a festival. Each November, at the Kushnihara Hebo Matsuri people gather to celebrate all things waspish. The wasp, or 'hebo' is eaten. There are prizes awarded for the largest nests. People actively hunt for wasps and this is likened to North Americans berry picking. Whaaa? Berries do not attack. Is there a wasp jam? Imagine spreading a little something on your toast and seeing a wing or two. Will swarms of these nasty wasps disrupt summer activities of the future? Will I be looking over my shoulder for the bully of the insect world? Will I shriek and cower when I hear a buzzing? What kind of offence do I need? Will I need to gird myself in a version of a bee keeper's outfit? What bug spray will annihilate the 'killer wasp'? I am Canadian and I am expected to be tolerant and polite. Sorry, Vespa you are not welcome here. My message to you is, "Get lost." |
| PROMPT May 4th Describe your cooking or baking ability. What was the last thing you cooked/baked that you were proud of? Are you a recipe-follower or freestyler? If I do say so myself, I am a pretty good baker. Just last week I delivered the homemade-only-Mom-can-bake oatmeal/cocoanut/chocolate chip cookies to my favourite and sole son. Four months into his Christmas gift of monthly batches of fresh cookies and he's content. I'm certain my physique is that of a successful baker. Taste-testing is a necessity as any baker worth her salt knows. Not to pat myself on the back, but I have mastered most delectables created from flour, cookies, cakes, loaves, muffins, cupcakes, breads, buns and biscuits. Noticeably absent from that braggart's list are pies and tarts. Oh, I can and do fashion the innards of these pastries. The crust is another irksome matter. Despite numerous attempts pastry and I cannot be said to be sympatico. We disagree like oil and water. This is my Achilles heel of baking. Pastry is my baking Kryptonite. If I crave a pie, I purchase a pre-formed frozen pie shell. I believe I am struggling with the curse of the pastry crust. Years ago or as I remember it, billions of consumed calories ago, I toiled as a personal support worker. I visited people in their homes to provide quality of life care and support. A bachelor of advanced years requested that I bake a pie for him, specifically a raisin pie. Hopeful that I would agree, he'd purchased ingredients and piled them on his kitchen counter. How could I refuse? I set about measuring, mixing, kneading, rolling and more. I did explain that I could not be trusted with pie crust, but he shooed my caution aside. He pointed out the legible instructions printed on the shortening box. Ah yes, reading and comprehension were not my issues. I dunno if I lack in the execution department. That raisin pie wannabe set an enticing aroma wafting throughout his home and I must admit it looked like a pie when I set it out on the counter before I said my goodbyes. The next morning I returned to the raisin pie connoisseur and the first thing I noticed was the pie plate on the counter, front and center. None of the raisin filling remained, but the crust still nestled where I'd left it. I shot my client a questioning look, the one with arched eyebrows, and he shrugged. "That raisin bit sure tasted mighty fine. That crust though..." It's as if he feared to insult me. I had warned him, so I laughed. I poked at the petrified crust with a fork and I swear the tine's bent back in on themselves. We then set about identifying practical applications for my pie pastry. I envisioned more than a life as a doorstop. Clearly, it qualified as a weapon of mass destruction. Thank goodness my secret recipe had never fallen into the hands of the Nazis. Imagine my pastry reconfigured as bombs raining down on England. I'm sure it could be used to build impenetrable tanks and submarines. Ah, if it's that strong it could replace Kevlar in bullet-proof vests. This is why I purchase pre-made pie shells. Wait a minute, my particular pie crust could be used to repair or replace turtle shells. It's a possibility and much safer than consumption. I offered to repave my bachelor's driveway, or reroof his house. He politely declined and never again asked that I bake him a pie. Hey, my curse knows no boundaries. Several Thanksgivings ago, my eldest grandgiggle insisted we were going to make pumpkin pies. Poor naïve Sydney had only known my baking successes and dismissed my rather silly excuse of a pastry curse. Swept up in her youthful optimism, I dared hope. We perspired side by side as we created not one, but two pumpkin pies. As in the past, the filling tasted delicious and appeared presentable. I cannot truthfully say the same about the crust. To describe it as amateurish, or even as pie pastry would be putting too high a gloss on it. For some unfathomable reason, our pie pastry shrank in the oven. Aww, Sydney had been so optimistic. She bluntly and I believe sarcastically referred to our hard work as, "They're one of a kind." I chose to present those pies as a new pie trend "light -crust pies." No, Syd had a differing perspective. They were "where's the crust pies." For some reason, we've agreed by our absence of further efforts not to build another pie crust. By my estimation, this makes five generations who have been stalked by this blight I've dubbed the curse of the pastry crust. My maternal grandmother, my mother, moi, my daughters and now my grandgiggle cannot seem to master the art of pastry. I'm convinced we're related to Marie Antoinette. Our family motto is "let them eat cake." In fine print on our family crest/shield there's a disclaimer. "Beware the pastry, though it is thick enough to stop a bullet no one has ever been harmed disposing of it." |
| May 3rd Prompt What do you do to relax and unwind in the evening? Paint us a picture of your ideal relaxation. With a sigh, I stretch. Fragrant bubbles float into the moist expanse of glittering stars. Hot water laps at my toes and soaks into my weary muscles. In the flickering flame of a candle fireflies dance. The only sounds to invade my solitude, the steady whirr of the hot tub jets and my steady breathing.Footsteps and clinking ice announce the arrival of Antonio with my cocktail surprise. Every evening, he pampers me with a different intoxicant. Without the exchange of words Antonio massages my shoulders. With a start, I shake my head and blink. An involuntary shiver creeps up my spine. My bath water is now cool and the once luxuriant vanilla bubbles have dissipated.An oily slick envelops me. Glancing down at the tiles, I notice shards of my ceramic mug swimming in a grey puddle of forgotten tea.I am alone. The novel I'd been idly perusing is floundering to stay afloat as it bumps my goose bump stubbled knee.I hope Antonio knows how to swim. |
| PROMPT May 2nd What one fictional character would most like to meet and talk to? Why? What would you like to ask? One, only one? Someday, I'd like to meet a minion, any one of them, and attempt to communicate with them. They emit a positive vibe and they speak their own garbled language, a lingo I'd like to understand. Anne of Green Gables has an irrepressible joie de vivre and a mischievous streak. I bet her brain never shuts off. Perhaps I'll arrange to bump into Shrek as I meander through a swamp. A guy with the philosophy "better out than in" has to be a straight shooter, a genuine take-me-or-leave-me sort. He's like Popeye, "I yam what I yam." But...since I must only pick one fictional character... Here is where I confess I am an Agatha Christie fan. That girl knew her way around a who-done-it. Her character, Hercule Poirot is a complicated genius enamored of himself. He oozes self-confidence and self-regard. He never seems to doubt his abilities and in fact believes he has superior intelligence. Who could resist or question a detective who refers to this mental prowess as his "little grey cells"? His faith in his cerebral cortex' logic is unshakeable. Poirot ignores the failings and perceptions of others. His appearance is that of an immaculate dresser adverse to dirt or wrinkles. He is well -groomed with nary a wayward hair and a waxed moustache, or as he would be quick to correct me, moustaches. Oddly, he speaks of himself in the third person.Too many times to his dismay, Hercule defends his heritage as being Belgian not French. He is well aware of himself and never apologizes. I admire his sense of self. We are both people watchers. To me they are fascinating and to Poirot they are enigmas waiting to be solved. Unlike this detective, I've yet to solve a murder. I'm also stressing that we do not share a love of moustaches. That kind of maintenance is beyond me. What would I ask this Belgian? Do you talk to yourself? Do you seek your own approval? Do you answer yourself? Do your grey cells need recharging and if so, how, where? Where did you come up with this idea that your brain had grey cells you could consult? Would you concede that your confidence presents as ego? What's with the moustaches? Is that facial exuberance not heavy? You lavish extravagant care upon them, why? Is that devotion ever too much? If you were alive and well today would you consider product endorsements such as moustache wax? Could you see yourself with a Facebook page? Would you deign to offer your services as an online consultant? Have you ever considered hobbies? Perhaps you'd like Sudoko? Would you exercise those grey cells writing a blog? Have you ever had the pleasure of meeting Dame Christie herself? Did she donate an infusion of her inimitable grey cells to you? |
| PROMPT May 1st Tell us something uplifting! We need good news now more than ever. What is something positive that happened or is about to happen in your life? What has made you smile recently? Well, today is a sunny, bare-feet-in-flip-flops and no-jacket-required kind of day. That freakish blizzard nine days ago dumped too much snow on top of the residual , stubborn, I'm-in-no-hurry-to-melt stuff. Finally, all traces of the snow have vacated the ground and the sun-starved grass is greening. The nearby lake has reappeared and the birdlife seems ecstatic. Now, I hear honking geese and quacking ducks, although the screeching sea gulls love the sound of their own voices. The pale white skin of my neighbours is flouted in shorts and t-shirts, the same people who bundled in coats and scarves two days ago. While grocery shopping this afternoon, the woman swathed in a knitted scarf wrapped around a face mask caught my eye. Come to think of it, most of her body appeared to be covered. I bet she simmered under all of her layers. Another woman, masked and gloved, trembled at a checkout. All shoppers overheard her say that she felt anxious and this was her first foray in six weeks. I engaged in a discussion with a clerk about the lovely smell of her checkout aisle. She laughed when I confessed that I liked the aroma of disinfectant, so I must be strange. I learned it was Pinesol and after a shift swiping everything with it a headache ensues. Grocery shopping evokes smells of a hospital now. A fellow shopper remarked that she never thought she'd be looking for supplies in a store with arrows taped to the floor to indicate traffic flow and that she'd be driving the wrong way down a one-way lane. At another 'intersection' in the store, this same woman glanced at me and rolled her eyes before nodding towards the meat department. Yes, we were spaced at intervals and each awaiting our turn to peruse the selection. We have accepted our new normal. It is tricky when we use our polite, Canadian code-of-conduct-card and insist, "No, no, after you." Someone has to make a move. I tried not to chuckle at the staff who endeavour to give us all a wide berth while stocking shelves. I don't know whether to feel important, or insulted. I doubt this is a show of respect, but rather a reaction to the possibility I'm a Covid carrier. The dance we attempt to do is sometimes comical. We often resort to an immediate backing up without first looking for other carts. The faces that these shoppers create are the stereotypical 'whoa' face. Are they surprised? Despite my belief that it's much too early, gardening paraphernalia is stacked up at the local grocer's. The sight of vibrant yellow and purple blooms made me grin. That pop of intense colour after a too long winter is more than welcome. This burst of glorious warm sunshine is life-affirming. What are those song lyrics? "Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy." Strolling at a deliberate sauntering pace is wonderful. No need yet to scurry and wave my arms at voracious bloodthirsty insects. For the time being, I'm not a crazy woman swatting and stomping my way down the street. My youngest daughter has 're-uncancelled' her impending wedding. It's set for the end of August. Maybe I'm no longer impartial, or perhaps I've lost count, but it seemed like every week she wavered as to a decision. I choose to see this as an optimistic sign. The official news from the province I reside in looks optimistic too. As of May 4th, some of the restrictions will be lifted re opening job sites. Although I've loved the bi-weekly Facetime chats with my daughters and my youngest grandgiggle, I miss the in-person interactions. Within a week or two, the inter-province travelling ban will be a thing of the past and I will be free to visit them. Huh, I will actually see, face to face, my other two grandgiggles who live a kilometre away, too. These are my reasons to smile today! |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
