Who You Callin' An Antique?

I was recently in a hotel elevator, when two well dressed gentlemen in their 40's got on. "Wow, there's an antique", said one to the other while glancing my way furtively.

Shocked by the comment, and feeling particularly offended, I felt the need to reply. "Well, some antiques still have a lot of life and usefulness left in them." I rushed out at the 4th level and in my haste banged into the still opening elevator doors.

Ah, how satisfying when you are instantly able to come up with just the right comment in response to someone's rude observation. What ever happened to standing quietly, pushing a button and staring at the floor or ceiling in an elevator? Wouldn't that have been preferrable? "Yes indeed, I sure told them," I muttered as I strode down the hall quite pleased with myself.

As I reached for the room key card, I realized that I was holding my rather conspicuous 15 year old Sony walkman CD player in one hand. Oops. I could feel my face redden. Oh well, my comment still worked didn't it? In my head though, I instantly reverted to my teenaged years when dumb things coming out of my mouth were the norm. As a result, I decided to avoid taking the elevator for the next few days lest I bump into those same "boys".

So Many Questions...

*Clarification of asterisks at end of blog.

Have you ever noticed how some people always manage to look terrific? Not only that, they seem to remain assembled and intact for the better part of a day or evening. Their clothing is neat, clean, stylish and in good repair. They've shaved or plucked all stray facial hairs, their socks match, their makeup and nails are meticulous and they have salon perfect hair. These same people never have spinach, poppy seeds or other foreign objects wedged in their teeth nor do they have toilet paper stuck to their shoes or dresses tucked into their pantyhose. They could walk through the eye of a tornado and come out looking unscathed.

Sadly, I concluded long ago that I have been born without the prerequisite gene.

In the spectrum, I fall more closely toward *Pig-Pen than to *Bree Van de Kamp.

How is it possible I wonder, to leave the house feeling confident only to show up at work or at an event looking as if I've had several cats walk across my clothes, face and hair? How is it possible, to arrive at a social gathering and realize that I am wearing matching shoes but in two different colours? How is it possible to cement my hair with $10 worth of spray, gel and mousse only to discover that every photo at a function shows me to have an *Alfalfa-like fountain sprouting out of the centre of my head? How is it possible to spend double the normal time on my makeup, in this case a full 2 minutes and not notice that at least a half dozen bristles have fallen out of my makeup brush and decorated my face all day?

Then there are the days when I make it out of the house unaffected. Does dirt actually fall from the sky and land only on certain people? Is there a lint fairy that envelopes only me while I am innocently driving down the road? Am I the only one who can't drink out of the tiny slot of a take-out coffee cup without decorating the front of my shirt with unflattering brown spots? Do buttons only fall off when I'm out in public? Is it possible I haven't done them up properly in the correct holes in the first place?

Could it be that there are others like me? Could that in fact be the reason for the surge in the popularity of public pajama pant wearing? Could it be that one day soon, humans will be divided into two groups...those who get out of bed looking perfect and those who just get out of bed and don't bother? I believe I have just solved another of life's myteries. Now excuse me while I go shopping for a wardrobe of colourful flannel pj bottoms.


*Pig-Pen is the character who walks around surrounded by a dust cloud in the Charlie Brown comics.

* Bree Van de Kamp can only be described as the most "Stepford Wife" like character on the tv show "Desperate Housewives".

*Alfalfa in this case refers not to the grain, but to the character in "Lil Rascals". This group existed waaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyy before my time of course, but I am aware of them.

Old Wisdom...or Not

I was recently in a classroom getting twenty kindergarten kiddies ready for home as their assorted parents, babysitters, relatives and friends waited patiently outside. In the midst of all the hustle, bustle and chaos of zippers, shoes, backpacks, notices and library books, came a rather shrill little voice yelling, "Hey look. Look at me."

It's amazing what happens to even the most trained professionals when we are overwhelmed, rushing about, multi tasking, desperate for more hands and unable to focus. All evidence of psychology training, learned teaching strategies and early childhood courses falls by the wayside.
In this instance, "Hey look. Look at me," came from the mouth of an impish young fellow who elected not to get dressed, but rather demonstrate a talent for rolling both eyeballs toward his nose. Of course, he elicited the desired attention from his classmates who chanted in unison, "Ewwwwwwwwww."

Super teacher that I am, I immediately took action to regain control over the situation. With years of education and experience under my belt, I responded sternly with, "Stop doing that or your eyes will stay frozen that way forever." I couldn't believe my own ears. Did that actually just come out of my mouth? I shook my head and looked around sheepishly hoping nobody over the age of five had actually just witnessed this embarassing moment.

I'm thinking that I'm not the only one who grew up with, and still has some of her parents' words of wisdom ringing in her ears. Remember these brilliant and enlightening phrases? "Wear clean underwear in case you're in an accident." "Don't eat that, you'll get worms." "You'd forget your head if it wasn't screwed on." "Don't put that in your mouth, you don't know where it's been." Or, my all time favourite, "this hurts me more than it hurts you."

I guess my tiny classroom transgression can be described rather as a moment of regression.

Noisy Nights...A Poem

"No human being believes that any other human being has the right to be in bed when he himself is up." Robert Lynd

Noisy Nights

My eyelids are heavy. I hear sounds in the hall
Voices of strangers, making their nightly call.

Real people or spirits, my own thoughts I guess
I really don't like it, this I confess.

The dog in her wrappings, her nest on the floor
Is sleeping behind you, a soft little snore.

I stare at your nostrils, I gaze at your head
As I sit up and wonder, at night in our bed.

I move myself closer and blow in your ear,
Why don't you wake up and see what I hear?

A tug of the covers a kick of the toes,
Oh why don't you 'waken and share in my woes?

I've said it before. I hear voices at night.
They're quite indistinct, should I turn on the light?

But my eyes are too heavy to read anymore,
So I sip on my water and look at the door.

Do I get up and wander, should I look for the source?
My sleeplessness surely will lead to remorse.

Ahem, cough and sputter, my throat I do clear.
Oh, I am so sorry, did I wake you my dear?

Well, since you are up now, do you share my concern?
About voices, the voices that make your head turn?


No! I've told you before, I'll repeat what I've said.
The voices aren't real nor are they in your head.
We've a street full of seniors, so don't you agree?
The houses are close, it's the neighbours' t.v.


Your breathing is rhythmic. The lights are all dim.
Are they living among us, or are the walls thin?

Yes We Have No Bananas....

Last night I went to get some essential groceries to survive the Good Friday shopping drought. I picked up some salad, a tub of non hydrogenated margarine, cottage cheese and English muffins. Yes, I know, I'm starting to eat like a senior. I also wanted some bananas. Bananas! Those thick skinned yellow crescents that are piled in at least three different locations in the store. Bananas! Usually found in the organic section, the regular produce green but will ripen some day section and the store packaged slightly darkened discount banana area. Bananas! The things I like to slice up on my 130 calorie Special K breakfast.

I searched in all the usual places. No bananas. My brilliant observational skills allowed me to locate stacks and stacks of banana crates with the words "Imported" and "Chiquita" emblazened on top. Ah yes, my brain started singing, "I'm Chiquita banana and I'm here to say, bananas have to ripen in a bowl of Special K". Remember that or at least some unadulterated, unHilde-esque version of the jingle? I determined that there was no way I could leave the store without satisfying my now desperate need for bananas. Finally, as a last resort, I asked.

"We're sold out," the clerk responded.

After I picked my jaw up off the floor, I shook my head in disbelief. Sold out? Sold out! What store is ever, ever sold out of bananas? I went to two other grocers with the same strange result.
I shared this story with a friend who responded with "Yep, it's that pre-Easter shopping."

Pre-Easter shopping? Ah yes, of course I forgot that bananas are traditional Easter fare. Oh no! Whatever will I do? No bananas. Now what can I possibly dye for my annual Easter banana hunt? Oh dear, no banana stuffing for the turkey and and I can't believe there won't be any mashed bananas and gravy.

Could it be that there might be an impending world wide banana shortage? Bananas...the most popular and most consumed fruit in the world becoming extinct? Should this happen, the cost of this delicacy could rival the price of say...gas in the upcoming months. Some country might have to wage war to gain control over banana crops. But alas, let's not go there.

Ain't Love Grand?

Who knew when I got married almost three years ago that I'd be a party to such love and adoration by my husband? With a tear and a sigh I'm going to attempt to describe some of the phrases I'm hearing and behaviours which I am noting daily. I'll categorize them as best I can. Even some of the less flattering comments are said in such a kind and delightful way. Talk about a lucky woman!
Verbal Praise
You're so sweet. You're so smart.
I love you too.
You have such lovely brown eyes.
I missed you.
Thank you for the kisses.
You make me laugh...laughter is healthy you know.
Concern
Are you ok? What's the matter? Are you happy?
Can I get you anything? Would you like a cookie?
You shouldn't have to live in a climate that's cold like this. Let's go someplace else next winter.
Let's go for a walk.
Come sit on my lap.
Are you papa's girl?
Negative Comments
You're so demanding.
You're getting to be an old lady.
Jealous little creep.

This constant attention and gushing is actually bordering on annoying. I do think that if all men would treat women this way and speak to them so lovingly, marriages would be much better off. Having said that, how do I get my husband to quit paying all this attention to the dog and start noticing me? I believe that I'll have to insist that I too get acknowledged from time to time. That mini long-haired dachshund thinks she's the centre of the universe, probably because she is the centre of his.

Saying Goodbye to an Old Friend

I have been wearing several items of clothing for far too long...specifically, a men's large gray t-shirt and a men's large gray hoodie. I'm not sure where they originated. It feels as though I've always had them. They have been the comfort food of clothing. Where other pieces of my wardrobe have come and gone, these two have become staples.

The hoodie keeps me snuggly and warm during the winter days and nights. It is fleece lined, cozy and yet is thin enough to allow a coat to be tossed over it. I leave it on underneath my parka for a more formal appearance as is expected when going out in public, grocery shopping, for walks and the like. It gives me the perfect "Walmart shopper" look. The t-shirt is a world traveller. It has accompanied me on many excursions and has passed for a workout top, a nightie, a bathing suit cover and well, just a basic muumuu to hide the body. It has in line skated, rock climbed, kayaked and slept on the high seas.

I don't know what it is about the colour gray. Gray is distinguished. Gray is warm. Gray is intelligent and mature. Gray is sporty. Gray is in fact the most popular car colour. Oh, I know that there are people who actually believe that their car is "cinerescent silver", "argentine ash" or "shadowy shellfish". But if they're being honest, it's just another shade of gray. Gray is a descriptive colour. On the other hand, I don't suppose that saying "Every cloud has a gray lining" would sound quite as pretentious or poetic as "Every cloud has a silver lining."

When the zipper on my favourite gray hoodie broke, I decided it was time for a change. I went shopping and came back with not one, but three new hoodies. I had blue, black and brown. Made sense to me. Those colours should match almost everything in my closet. I could alternate and all would last for quite a few years. I picked up my old gray hoodie, turned it over a few times and decided I just wasn't ready to part with it. Three new hoodies now sit idle in my closet.

Last year, I went on a cruise to Alaska where I found the ultimate bargain. It was a gray t-shirt with "Hoonah" emblazened across the chest. I made a decision. For only $2 I would replace the old gray shirt with this brand new version. Besides, this one was a better fit since I am in fact only a medium man. I got home, took out my tattered tee, then put it back in its drawer. Finally, after six more months of wear, I made a bold decision. Upon removing my favourite t-shirt from the washer and noting that it had not one but many holes, oil type stains and runs, I walked ever so slowly toward the rag bin. I looked at the shirt, thought about what it represented and enjoyed the flood of recollections it brought me. Then I knew what I had to do. With a tear in my eye, I got some scissors, made a snip and shredded it before changing my mind. I then gingerly deposited the remains of my old friend into the container with the rest of the ragged memories.

So here I sit, in my nubbed gray fleece hoodie with the broken zipper, pondering its future and thinking about the phrase from Andrew Gide, "The colour of truth is gray". The truth is, I am not ready to part with another comforting friend in the same year.

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.