Mystery Meals

Before I was married, I wondered why we would possibly need my husband's chest freezer. Now I know. He loves to shop, cook and freeze leftovers. I am the envy of women everywhere. Each week, he carefully pores over flyers, then goes out to hunt and gather enough items to feed a family of twelve. Our freezer is filled to the brim. If there's a world wide famine, we're ready. If a spontaneous neighbourhood block party breaks out, we're prepared.

I once had a work friend who brought sealed cans of items to eat for her lunch. What's so unusual about that you might ask? Well, nothing except that none of the cans had labels. That meant that her meals could consist of anything from soup, to my all time favourites... artichokes, black olives or cocktail wieners. She always ate whatever was in the can. One day, the smell of sardines wafting across my already scented egg salad sandwich compelled me to ask.

"How do you know what's in the can if there's no label?"

Looking at me as if the question were ridiculous and the answer obvious, she responded "I don't. My mother and I use the labels to enter contests."

I sat back, too baffled to ask why then, they didn't also use a sharpie to identify the can contents after removing said label.

This afternoon, while hubby was at a conference, I decided to take advantage of the opportunity to use up some leftovers. I rummaged through the freezer for a single person meal. This process required excavating and identifying the remains of one of our previous dinners. Since it is often difficult to cook a small enough amount for two, we have many smidgens of mysterious edibles in plastic containers.

"Aha, I see plastic," I announced to the dog who was watching me curiously.

After a huge struggle between my arm muscles and the top of a tupperware container, the lid flew off like a frisbee and sailed across the room. Fortunately, the meatballs remained inside in a frozen mass.

"Hmmm...meatballs...don't think so." I muttered.

Next container...pizza..."Nope. I'd rather eat the freezer ice."

Then, I found something that looked more promising. I peered inside, ready to give up and sadly determined that it was the same turkey dressing my husband and I had both recently examined. But wait, specks of noodle were visible and summoned me through the side of the vessel. I felt as though I'd found treasure. Only one way to find out I thought...microwave. After heating the container I discovered a delicious creamy beef stroganoff which I proceeded to devour.

So why then don't we use a sharpie to label the containers? What, and ruin the element of surprise?

Time Waits for No Man

Cliches are wonderful things aren't they? We often use them without a second thought. A number of years ago I was in a grocery store pondering the saying "all things come to those who wait". Whilst in my pensive state, I blocked the produce aisle "waiting" for the desired cauliflower, cabbage and carrots to "come" into my shopping cart. I waited. I waited. They didn't co-operate. My visions of veggies with little smiling faces, canes and top hats, dancing toward me from their assorted shelved spots became more and more vivid. They provided me with considerable mental entertainment before an impatient person nearby muttered something about "rude people...inconsiderate...blocking the okra". Who buys okra anyhow? I remained in my trance-like state for a while longer. Suddenly, I was jolted back to reality by the realization that I was too close to the vegetable sprayer. It hit its intended fresh and fibrous targets but also overshot just enough to moisten my newly coiffed hair and dampen not only my fun but my freshly made-up face.

Through this experience, I did confirm what I already knew. I was a little "off" on the meaning of the expression "all things come to those who wait". So I began to consider it differently.

When we are speaking to youngsters we often say "just wait" thereby implying that their childhood excitement and exhuberance is a bad thing. Certainly, we want to teach them a modicum of patience, not to mention good manners. On the other hand, perhaps we could learn from children. During their early years, patience is almost non existent. A minute to a small child might as well be an hour. Next week? Well, forget it. Next month, next year, next Christmas all feel as though they'll never come. Everything needs to happen in the here and now and many of their important events do. Going out to play, having a cookie, watching t.v., playing a game on the computer...all things that they are able to do immediately and all things essential in a child's world.

At some point, children enter the planning stage. By this I mean they discuss and develop their play by announcing things like "let's pretend you're the bad guy and I'm the good guy...no wait, I wanna be the cop and let's say you're the good guy who helps him" and so on. They often spend so much time planning, that they run out of available time before they actually play their game. Is this the stage where many of us are stuck as adults? Whereas "patience can be a virtue", yet another cliche, I think a lot of people spend too much of their lives "waiting" and planning for a future that may or may not come. What exactly are they waiting for? Do they even know what they expect to happen at the end of their wait? At what point does the waiting end?

Teens wait to be out on their own, having their independence, own money and living space. Young adults wait for their ideal job, mate and house. Adults wait for the children to be grown and older adults wait for retirement. In fact, some spend all of their time "waiting", as if at some point, a magical time will appear when their lives will be perfect and fulfilled. Some people even plan their death before they consider their lives. I was at a conference recently where the speaker said words something like "Are you there yet and what does there look like?" In my opinion, we should always be "there".

Some time after the great supermarket veggie caper, I concluded that I'm not afraid of dying. I'm afraid of not living until I die. What was wrong with childlike excitement, exhuberance and yes, even a little impatience? I changed a lot of my attitude and perspective. I was through planning and waiting. Amazingly, all things came to me at that point. Why? Because I was no longer passive. I became an active participant in my own life.

Thanks to Violet Fane for these words that I wish I'd written...
"Ah, all things come to those who wait, (I say these words to make me glad), But something answers soft and sad, They come, but often come too late."

Streetwalking, the oldest....

I haven't always liked walking. In fact, I hated it. I'm not certain at what point I developed an appreciation of this seemingly pointless activity. I know it wasn't during the winter of my formative years when I lived in the north and crossed a frozen lake to attend school. I'm also pretty certain that it wasn't in the spring as I ran home through the woods while encountering assorted mid sized wildlife.

Perhaps it was during the car-less years in the suburbs before my children were born. It was an experiment...one year, no car, let's see how we survive. The ex and I were fed up with the all too frequent and expensive repairs and maintenance, not to mention insurance. We disposed of the vehicle at a dealership in a neighbouring town, trekked home approximately 5 miles and the rest is history. We became physically and fiscally fit.

The experiment lasted not one, but three years. During that time, walking became the main form of transportation. When it was absolutely necessary, we rented. After buying a house some distance from work, I hiked there and back. Sometimes, laundry would accompany me. I transported it in my car trunk, aka a suitcase, washed dried and repacked it before marching it back home.

It was great when I found a colleague interested in joining me. Each day, I met her part way and we hoofed it to work. Hard to imagine that our feet plowed through some of the most inclement winter weather and, just as when driving, we compensated by leaving home early. Snowshoes might have helped, but I'm not sure where we might have parked them. Eventually, as the weather improved, walking turned to jogging.

Fast forward many, many years. I was a busy single parent. As an inexpensive exercise regimen, I took daily walks with two of my neighbours. We had all joined a weight loss group and enjoyed our evening strolls and gossip fests. The further the hikes, the more successful we were at keeping out of the kitchen and away from snacks.

When I moved from that neighbourhood, I was forced to create a new route for myself. At first, it was somewhat boring and the frequency of my walks decreased dramatically. It was around this time that I discovered the joys of talking books. These became my new walking partners. Besides that, when I became overheated I was forced to stop at the local pub to cool down before continuing on my jaunt. It was liberating, it was literating and it was libationating. Invented words, but it worked for Dr. Seuss.

Last weekend, I saw the movie "Julie and Julia" where Julie tried to cook every recipe in Julia Child's cookbook. It gave me an idea. I picked up a map of Cobourg from the library. There are exactly 250 streets in this town. My plan is to walk the length of every street...just walk. I do not have a set time goal. So, here comes the challenge. Do I also have to walk "to" every street thus repeating some roads over and over, or do I allow myself the luxury of driving to some of them, then walking? At this point, I'm leaning toward option A, walking from my house to and along each street. But then, at this point the weather is terrific for walking.

So the oldest form of transportation, my old hobby, has become a new goal. I'm looking forward to finding out what I learn.

Ole Ladyyyy Whooooooooo.....

Being more of a suburban type girl, I have found it an adjustment living in a small town. It's usually an eventful day if I have an excuse to go to Walmart or to the bank. Coupled with the lack of excitement is the fact that this place has the highest percentage of seniors of anywhere in Ontario. It's true. With each excursion, I've made it my mission to see if I can find someone who does not have the definitive female hair, gray and curly or male hair, gray and straight. Should I detect someone bald, of either gender, it's always a bonus.

Yesterday, I made my weekly trek downtown and I use the term "downtown" loosely. Bank day. The traffic was particularly heavy and it took me 4 minutes instead of the usual 3 to get there. I hate rush hour. I felt a sense of deja vu as it were, very "Groundhog Day". In this case, it was the repeat of any similar trip I've taken over the past 2 years. I sought parallel parking on King Street. Murphy's law was at work. There were parking spots on the opposite side of the road but not in the direction I was driving. I proceeded to the next intersection, turned around and by the time I got back 30 seconds later, the spots I had seen were not only gone, but there were now spaces on the original side. I gave up and abandoned the van in a makeshift bumpy gravel lot, aka potential condo site across from city hall.

After walking into my financial institution I took my place in line. Woohoo, third! I soon learned, third assured me of nothing. I stood. I waited. I shuffled from one leg to the other. I stretched. I looked around dreamily. I stared in the overhead "robber identification monitor"wondering where the camera was hidden. All the while I was turning, squatting, waving, stretching and making faces to entertain myself. Everyone was oblivious, which, now that I think of it was probably a good thing. I had an idea. I yawned loudly. This did nothing to rouse the employees or speed up the process. In true small town fashion, pardon the cliche, someone was sharing the latest gossip with teller Leanne. Another person showed 100 of the newest photos of her grandkids to teller Leona and a third customer was sharing accounts of his recent surgery with teller Lynne. Curious. Is an "L" name perhaps compulsory for a job at this bank?

Ten minutes later, there had been no movement. I studied the two people in front of me. For some reason they were unperturbed by the fact that they had made no forward progress. I noted that for the 5th time this month, I saw someone (a woman, lest there be any doubt) with the same style purse as mine. Was it actually possible that I crossed paths with the same woman five times? Or could it be that I saw five different women with the same purse? Could my thoughts get any more fascinating? As I yawned yet again, for real this time, no longer all that happy to be customer #3 in the line, I took a notebook out of aforementioned "Stepford" purse and wrote a message to myself. "Ditch the brocade bag."

Notebook still in hand, I took advantage of the time to jot down some potential story ideas. At the very least I thought I might develop characters by describing the appearance and characteristics of people I'd observed that day...hooded quilted winter jackets, black gloves, elasticized waist pants in a wash and wear fabric, loose fitting shirts, white socks, sensible shoes. Yikes!

It was at that moment that I realized it. My description sounded all too familiar. I was turning into one of THEM.

What now?

Reading was sometimes a struggle. Writing never was. Ever since first grade, when I proudly deciphered the word "funny" in my "Dick and Jane" reader and printed said word all over a large white sheet of paper, I've been hooked. My first real success came a few years later when the teacher displayed one of my stories for Open House. It recounted an unfortunate incident involving my mom, a huge bowl of freshly brewed jello, a partially open fridge door and a linoleum floor. I was eight and it was funny. The teacher was impressed. My mother wasn't.

In high school, I encountered my first "stickler". She was quite a wonderful English teacher to whom I am indebted to this day. We flogged grammatical rules and parsed sentences ad infinitum. I'm fairly confident that this repetitive activity led to my affinity for the book, "Eats, Shoots and Leaves."

Although I never had a huge interest in penning the next great American novel (or Canuk novel as it were), I often wrote for enjoyment during the early morning hours when my world as a single mom was most peaceful. I saw myself as a bit of an Erma (that's Bombeck not La Douce) and so I began to slog, or should I say blog about daily events that struck me as odd, annoying or amusing. There were many.

It has sometimes occurred to me to offer my services to the local newspaper as a "proof reader". Unfortunately, prerequisites are rigid. Accuracy in spelling, grammar and punctuation are not necessary. A degree in journalism is.

So here I sit in the hopes of gaining some insight about where I might fit into the literary world. As I try to find "my voice" I will write about what I know best...my thoughts on everyday life, my experiences, my gripes and my history.

IN THE BEGINNING...

Disclaimer: Any similarity to "characters" real or imaginary is purely coincidental. No animals were harmed in the writing of this blog.

Once upon a time, a child was born to a young couple. They named her Hildegard. It was a fairly common name in the land of bratwurst and beer. Many people chose to call their children (mostly the daughters) Hildegard after a well known nun. Life was good.

One day, the mom visited a mystic of another sort, and was told that their small family would be going on a long long journey.

"Nein", said the mom.

"Nein", said the dad.

"Ja, ja" said the opa and oma enthusiastically, since the couple was living with them at the time.

So they said, "Auf wiedersehen" to their family, friends, and homeland, in search of a better life. With only a homemade strudel, $5 and a wooden trunk holding all their worldly possessions, off they ventured. Their long journey took them to a country known to them as Kanada. Here, the family moved onto an island in a small lake. They were very happy to own not one, not two, but three small houses, one of which was their very own outhouse. Life was good.

After her 5th birthday, little Hildegard was able to begin her formal education. Her parents told her to walk to school using a shortcut across the lake. Sometimes, the lake was even frozen. As the mom was coming home from the supermarket one day, she encountered a bear. The bear was angry. The mom ran. Later that night, she went to use their other little house and discovered that it had been overturned by a group of hooligans, or perhaps another bear. It was time to move to the big city.

"Nein" said Hildegard.

"Meow" said the cat.

"Ja, ja" said mom and dad.

So they said, "Auf wiedersehen" to their friends, shot the dog, waved goodbye at the cat, and left the island in search of a better life. With only some homemade sauerkraut, fifty dollars (which they got for selling the little houses) and a 1950 something green Chevrolet wagon holding all their wordly possessions, off they ventured.

The long drive took them to a city known as Toronto. The family saw a sign "Flat for rent". It had a room, a kitchen and one "indoor" bathroom which they were very fortunate to be allowed to share with the other two families in the house. Life was good.

Despite being mocked for her odd name, her large brown lace up shoes, and her lack of "show and tell" skills, Hildegard was developing into a well adjusted 3rd grader. She would do her homework dilligently, attend bible studies, and get her own lunches (if eating cherry pie at the local diner counts). One day, in 4th grade, she decided to roller skate all afternoon instead of attending school. Then, in 5th grade, she knocked the neighbour's annoying 12 year old son off his tricycle. In sixth grade, she put gum on the teacher's chair. In 7th, she cut off her hair, wore tight sweaters and started complaining about boys. It was time to move to the 'burbs away from the evil big city influences.

"Noooooooo" said the landlord.

"Noooooooo" said Hildegard.

"Yes, yes" said mom and dad.

So they said goodbye to their friends, their neighbourhood and their city life. With only a homemade bundt cake, a $500 down payment, a 1960 something silver Corvair, and u-haul truck to carry all their worldly possessions they headed for suburbia in search of a better life. Their long journey took them to a place called Bay Ridges. Here, they purchased a brick bungalow with their own private bathroom, three bedrooms, living and dining room, and a kitchen! Life was good.

...to be continued

A bird by any other name...

So, how did I happen to select the name Robin as my internet persona? It's a story that began many years ago when I discovered computer "chat". My teen children had installed a function called ICQ on our computer. Occasionally, when I was actually allowed to use said computer, I perused the site. I unearthed a few people with whom I enjoyed regular conversations. It was suggested by one that I go to yahoo since it was more user friendly, fewer lags and so on. There were also singles chat rooms. I needed a "name". Not being very savvy in the workings of chat rooms and "some" of their users, I selected an ID. It seemed appropriate at the time. It was spring. I was a kindergarten teacher. I picked the first thing that popped into my head..... robinredbreast. BIG MISTAKE!

The rude questions and lewd comments soon became tiresome if not repetitious. Honesty in chat was not a prerequisite and before long, I learned something. IQ's were not necessary, performance skills were. There seemed to be some kind of presumption associated with my choice of ID and I really couldn't fathom. I finally settled in a room with some lovely people. I'm pleased to say that I still have a few of those nice people as facebook friends. Anyhow, it was then that I selected a more "innocent" yet familiar name for myself. Yahoo Room 7 in the 50's age group became my chat home and my new alter ego became RockinRobin. Much better......Thanks Elton.

So here I am....

Last year I took a writing course. The participants had to promise the instructor that we would write for a minimum of 15 minutes a day. I seem to have some catching up to do. How much is 15 minutes x 365 days? That's why I write instead of being a mathematician although I do know how to divide 365 by 4 and calculate that I have been remiss to the tune of a lot of hours. I currently have three posts "under construction". None are complete and none are edited to my satisfaction. The good news is that nobody is desperately waiting to read them. Sooooooo...I think I'll play with this for awhile.

I noted that some bloggers have creative motifs on their pages. Perhaps I'll get there too if I am ever at the point where I can easily retrieve my page and have uninterrupted hours to spend with my imagination.

So now I do have one thing to share. This was a piece written in class a year ago and based on a movie that couldn't have possibly been a chick flick. It probably says far too much about me, although I think that was the point of the assignment. Here is my version of the "I believe" monologue from "Bull Durham". In my case, however, no content warning is required.

I believe in loyalty, honesty, humour and patience.... fresh flowers, music, bubble baths and warm sand between my toes. I believe in a force greater than the universe, that there are no coincidences and that aging is not necessarily the cause of cynicism. I believe that a mother's love endures and that her words "you'll be sorry some day" are realized when her own children become teens. I believe that a vanilla bean is the most perfect shape, pure taste and delightful scent and that the colour red is vivacious, envigorating and sensual. I believe that baby ducks are not only soft and cute, but highly intelligent. I believe that good friends, personal choices, and great adventures are more important than material things. I believe that the sun will always shine and that technological advances will surpass my ability to comprehend them. I believe that adult children eventually appreciate their parents. I believe that I've made a difference.