So yesterday my goal was to finish the hand pieced quilt square for class on Saturday. Contrary to popular opinion it isn't a difficult task, I actually find it soothing. You start by sewing the triangles together to make a square. When you have all the squares complete you sew three together to make a row. When you have all three rows done, you sew them together to make a block. Simple, and elegant. Until you start sewing rows together, each individual piece is relatively small so it goes together quickly. The biggest problem occurs if you don't consult the pattern to be sure that you're sewing the squares together correctly. And if you don't notice that you've made a mistake in a row, until you're sewing two rows together, then you reach the level of frustration illustrated above.
I had all my squares done, correctly. I had two rows sewn together, incorrectly and one row pinned together correctly. It took me a while to figure out that I had sewn the dark blue triangles to the centre square instead of the green triangles. Fortunately it was still pretty hot and humid yesterday, so I hid out in the basement and figured everything out. Then I sewed it together correctly and carried it around with me for the rest of the night so I could admire it.
That makes a total of two blocks completed now, in a lap quilt that will probably require about 20. Here is what the finished block looks like on the right. It still looks a little funky because I haven't got the precise measuring habit yet, and besides, it needs to be ironed. I'm told that the Mennonites, who are world class quilters, always make a deliberate error somewhere in one of their hand made quilts. Because only God is perfect. Fortunately, I don't have to worry about making a mistake on purpose at this point in my quilting career.
I can't believe that I'm enjoying this process as much as I am. Last class, I had to take a break and go upstairs to the fabric shop and clomp around muttering to myself because I was frustrated. I only got two large triangles sewed together through the entire class, and had to complete everything as homework. My needle was too big, my thread was too thick, my thimble was on my wrong finger. You name it, I was doing it incorrectly. But, once I got it home and sat down by myself everything fell into place. That doesn't mean that I'm planning on hand piecing every quilt block.
I'm starting my next project today. It's a rag quilt for my oldest son's friend, who is having a little girl at the end of June. The first step is to be sure that all the blocks are squared and the correct size (9" x7"). I've never done this before and am a little intimidated, but am planning on leaping forward with both feet. The first quilt I ever completed used this technique, and I know how forgiving it is. I am actually pretty confident that I can do this project entirely on my own, and have it done before the baby arrives. I'll keep you posted.
It's a toasty day today. I haven't heard the explanation, but apparently we are enjoying a wave of hot, humid air from somewhere down in the States. I haven't turned the air conditioning on, and have no intention of doing so because of the new time-of-day hydro charges imposed on us by our present government. That's a rant for another day, and one that nobody else is interested in hearing about in this blog. Anyway. The heat and humidity are only going to hang around today, and then the temperature will drop fairly dramatically and I'm hopeful that we'll finally get some badly needed rain.
I buzzed around this morning and got everything on my list done. First of all was to mail that baby afghan to my cousin's daughter. The baby was over a week late but arrived safely last night. I had been procrastinating with the afghan because it's hot to knit when the project is long enough to occupy your lap. I was beginning to feel like the babe would not arrive until I finished my project, and as it happens I finished around 4pm yesterday and he was born around 8:30. Coincidence? You decide.
Then I went grocery shopping. I'm going to spatchcock a smallish chicken and marinate it for a few hours this afternoon. Then I'll cook it on the barbecue and we'll have leftovers for a couple of days. When it gets this hot out I try to plan things so that I cook early in the morning, or barbecue later in the afternoon. With a couple of salads that should do us for a while, I hope.
I still haven't bought all my container plants. The pansies are not happy with the heat, so I have to replace them soon. I used to plant coleus and begonias and such because of all the shade in the backyard, but of course that has changed. I'm going to experiment with geraniums and wax begonias for one container, and wait to see the results before I go nuts. I have been given a bitter melon plant and some Japanese eggplants by someone who works with my husband. I've never grown either, but will plant them by my back deck and keep my fingers crossed. There is definitely a rabbit roaming the neighbourhood and nibbling gardens, but maybe it's called bitter melon for a reason? There's a picture of it above, doesn't it look pretty? I love growing things I've never tried before, and I have no idea what is going to happen next. If I'm successful, I'll have to check out some recipes.
Now that the baby project is over, I have to get my act together and finish the hand pieced quilt square before next week's class. I've received an email with the square we'll be tackling on Saturday and it looks like I'll have to hit the store to find a new blue and green fabric to coordinate with the ones I have. Possibly a new gold or yellow background fabric as well. I enjoy searching out the perfect match for what I already have and would have done that today if I had remembered to bring my glasses. It's hard to match colours using sunglasses! Since I'm only buying fat quarters, it isn't a decision that will break the bank.
After his unscheduled flight and abrupt landing the other day, I'm sure my former ceramic owl is asking "why me" from his perch in the garbage. I guess the first question is, why owls?
I don't know. I've been attracted to, and collecting owls, since I was a teenager. There is something about them that appeals to m
e. They can look so dignified and wise and there is always an air of alertness and tension within them, as if they were planning to fly off at any moment. Traditionally owls are associated with wisdom; the goddess Athena had an owl companion. I always felt that owls would be good at keeping secrets too. Owls have a very distinctive silhouette, and can't be mistaken for any other bird.
Over the years, I have received many owls as gifts. It started over 30 years ago when my friend Joan gave me a picture of an owl for being her best man. My parent's friends brought me an authentic Greek owl from their trip to Athens, and I bought myself an owl there during our 25th anniversary celebration. I have a small black plastic owl on my key ring that my husband found in a big box store. The owl used to hoot and his eyes flashed blue, but either his batteries were weak or I played with him too much. He is silent now. This Christmas my brother in law gave me an awesome owl hat and fingerless owl gloves. I wore them all winter, and received many compliments. I must remember to get a picture next year.
My computer screen saver is always owl related. I used to have trouble locating good free owl wallpaper, but have found an excellent site now. One of my sons gave me a book called "Hungover Owls" for Christmas. It's based on the premise that although owls look dignified and wise they are, in fact, severely hungover. There is a website with the same name, which posts pictures taken by readers and emailed in. Then the author makes up a caption. The humour can be very rude. Do not go looking the website up and then emailing me to say that you are insulted, because you have been warned. I have been known to have a juvenile and rude sense of humour, probably as a result of mothering male teenagers.
Have I mentioned that my first, rag quilt, had two different owl fabrics in it? Well, actually the same pattern but different colours. When I was at the CreativeFest in Mississauga a few weeks ago I found a baby quilt that was adorable. All it needs is to have the binding sewn on, but it has a very sixties vibe to it with owls and flowers in pinks and greens and golds and blues and oranges. I fell deeply in love with it, and then remembered that one of my sons' friends was going to have a baby, so I had a perfect excuse to buy it.
For Mother's Day, my daughter in law (with a little assistance from my son and her mother) made me a beautiful canvas owl knitting bag. He is a goodly size, and will actually fit any project in progress, from afghan to quilt. I love the colours and the imagination and will certainly be proud to take it to any of the classes I attend.
Oh, and my favourite cup of coffee? It's cafe con leche, made in my bestest owl mug, and savoured at home on weekends when we're reading the papers. In my experience, anything is better if it is owl related.
I have no photos I can show you of the kitty boys' most recent and excellent adventures. Mainly because I was so shocked at the time that a photograph was the last thing on my mind.
It all started a couple of days ago. I've shown you the photograph of the display shelves in my living room, and how they're seasonally decorated with snowmen or owls. Because I have far more snowmen than owls, I guess the bottom shelf looked too ... inhabited to Tugby because although he prowled amongst the snowmen he never did any damage. But there was lots of space between owls, and although I have some relatively heavy metal owls we moved them off the shelves because they started to fall onto the landing below; they were too heavy to land on any passers by, accidentally. I left a couple of larger owls on the shelf, thinking that they were visually imposing and would be safe. Not so. The other night, one of my ceramic owls took flight, and landed in pieces on the stairs below. Tugby just happened to be beside him when it happened, and I don't know who was more shocked: Tugby or the owl. You could almost see a cartoon caption with the words "I thought he was a bird, Mum, and birds can fly!" coming out of his mouth.
Here you see a
photograph of the display before the owls were moved. The ceramic owl
who is no longer among us is directly to the right of Hooty McOwl. Now,
here is a picture of Tugby in his favourite perch. He loves to rocket
across the floor and end up on the stereo shelves, or clinging to the
bottom display shelf with all four paws. He scares the living daylights out of me, that one day I'll come home and find him sprawled on the landing below with a broken leg. I can't think of any way to cat proof the display shelves. I can understand the 
joie de vivre that Tuggy has when he tear asses across the living room and onto the shelves. There is a painful lesson in my Tuggy's future, and I can't do anything to prevent it. Keep your fingers crossed!
Then this morning I was getting dressed when I heard a peculiar noise in the kitchen. It wasn't a 'something's broken and it wasn't me noise'. It wasn't a 'I'm sure I can get catfood out of this cupboard if I just paw at it for a while' noise. And it wasn't a 'Mum isn't here so I'm going to pound the daylights out of you' noise. But it needed to be investigated. When I went into the kitchen, Huck was crouched on the top of the pantry beside my garden door. Which happens to be at least 6 feet in the air. He has been fascinated by bugs on the ceiling recently, and I guess he finally figured out how to get closer to them. He saw me standing there with my mouth open, jumped onto the kitchen table and then back to floor level. I picked him up, checked for damage, and gave him a cuddle.
I have a sinking feeling we'll be spending some time at the vet's this summer, with the possibility of broken bones. These are not my first cats, but they certainly are keeping me on my toes with my throat in my mouth.
Today is an achy day. Partly because I've been out weeding in the garden. Partly because I hurt my back in Pilates when my husband was away, and it's taking its sweet time to recover. And of course, I've changed back to Weight Lifting after a few sessions of Fit for Life. This cartoon is a good example of how I generally deal with discomfort. First I ignore it, then I visit my chiropractor, then I hop into a warm bubbly Epsom salts bath, and then I take a Tylenol. Today I can hardly wait for my bath, and I may take the Tylenol first.
The last thing I want to do is stop exercising and going to classes. I didn't seriously
hurt anything, it was just a warning to make me a little more cautious. I may stay on progression 1 instead of bopping into progression
2, or attempting progression 3, until everything relaxes. This summer after the formal sign up classes are over I'm planning to continue going to the gym to weight lift three times a week, and to go to a combination class twice a week. I really enjoy feeling more fit and energetic when I am working out, and don't want to stop and then go through weeks of misery when Pilates starts again in September. Because Pilates is non-negotiable in my life. I have finally found something that I really enjoy doing, that is making a difference how I look and feel, and I don't want to stop.
I just finished reading a book called "Between a Rock and a Hot Place: Why Fifty is Not the New Thirty" by Tracey Jackson. It is a very informative book, laugh-out-loud funny in places, and I really enjoyed it. She dwelt a little too long on the sections about botox and plastic surgery, as well as on her neurotic fear of breast cancer and tumours, but on the whole I would recommend this book. One of the first point she makes is that as we age it is very important to find some form of exercise and stick to it, no matter what. As we lose flexibility and muscle mass, we leave ourselves open to a variety of problems which will result in our body ageing faster than necessary.
I have no intention of living forever. And I agree with Tracey that I will never recover the body I neglected and ignored at thirty now that I'm over fifty. But heading into the next few decades, I intend to be sure that my body is as resilient and flexible as possible.
Me, not so much. Since I raised two sons, my tolerance of bugs and other crawlies has been pretty thoroughly tested. I have to admit I don't love all bugs, but as a general rule I don't run screaming or kill indiscriminately.
There are a few offenders that I just can't handle, but on the whole I try to cultivate a live and let live policy.
Spiders are just fine in my books. They kill a lot of flying insects, and I've always believed that the occasional spider in the house is proof that you're living a "green" lifestyle. That doesn't mean I get carried away. If a large creepy spider starts waving its palps at me menacingly, I have been known to apply Kleenex and stomp. If there happens to be a son handy, they lovingly corral the beast in the Kleenex, carry it gently outside, and relocate it. I know which attitude is the best, but there are always exceptions to the rule. Certainly in late summer when those pesky fruit flies/fungus gnats start to swarm, it's handy to have a spider or two lurking. Now that I think of it, I can remember one night when my sons were about 5 when a previously unnoticed spider's nest suddenly started to disgorge baby spiders. What felt like hundreds of baby spiders. The boys were thrilled, but I wasn't. They got really upset when I hauled out the vacuum cleaner and sucked as many as possible up. I guess I blew our Charlotte's Web moment, but I really didn't want that many spiders in the house.
I don't know too many people who like earwigs. I certainly don't. There is just something about the pinchers behind them, and the creepy way they crawl all over the place when you lift up something in the garden. They decimate the plants I love, but strangely the ground cover and weeds that are infesting our lawn are always untouched. If there is going to be something as icky looking as an earwig, it would be nice if they did something useful. Like eat dandelions, instead of lettuce. There is nothing worse than getting a head of romaine lettuce in the summer and trying to get all the earwigs out of it before you take it in the house. You can wave it in the air, submerge it in a bucket of water and then shake it, and you'll still find earwigs when you wash it.
Grasshoppers have to be one of my all time hates. This is undoubtedly due to spending a childhood in Saskatchewan. My father had a good sized vegetable garden, and used to go out with a pair of garden scissors and cut all the grasshoppers he found in half. I guess that was a relatively organic way to deal with the problem, but it sure made an impression on me. We had a garage wall beside our garbage bin, and it was my job to take the garbage out. My father had nets against the side of the garage with sweet pea plants trained up them. The flowers smelled wonderful, and we picked them all summer and brought them into the house for my mother. I can still recall the terror of taking the garbage out to the bin and having to pass the wall of sweet peas. The grasshoppers loved them, and would fly into the air and land on me as I walked past. I get goosebumps remembering the feel of their feet clinging to me.
Remember when ladybugs were good? I do. Now apparently we've been invaded by a different ladybug who is not as friendly as the ones I recall when I was a child. I know when we lived in the country there was one season when we had literally thousands of ladybugs on the side of our house, and eventually in the windows and attic. They still look cheerful and happy to me, and I believe even the invasive ones eat aphids and such, but they are no longer a strictly benign insect. I do know that they can bite now, which was a rude shock the first time it happened to me.
I was at a garden club meeting a few weeks ago, and one of the presenters got very excited about praying mantis. She sells egg cases, and was telling us what wonderful organic pest controls they are. I would be interested in pursuing this, because I understand they love to eat ants, but I think I've left it too long and the eggs have hatched. Maybe next year.
We're into a stretch of very sunny days, and the temperature is perfect. It's warm enough to wear shorts, but not too hot. After weeks of gazing outside and trying to figure out how our 
yard has changed now the black walnut is down, it's time to get to work! The people who owned our house before us had very firm ideas about their gardens, but by the time we purchased, the lady was a widow and her memory was very poor. As a result, the gardens have always been overgrown. I haven't done much to change anything because there were so many enormous trees that I wasn't sure anything would grow other than hostas and daylilies.
I love this time of year. I'm busily pulling weeds, and trying to get all the twitch grass out of the gardens. I'm going to be very cautious and check out how the sunlight falls before buying a lot of new plants. We had a very unhappy rose garden between the red maple and the black walnut, but the roses did very poorly because of the lack of sunshine. This is the last year for them, if they don't start to look happy because the walnut is gone, we're going to dig them up in the fall. This is their written eviction notice, so they'd better smarten up.
We don't have enough
sunlight for a vegetable garden, although we tried tomatoes and peppers
in a spot by our backdoor for a few years. Fortunately, my neighbour
loves his tomatoes and peppers, and happily shares his produce in the
late summer. He is pretty organic too, so I don't need to worry about what chemicals have been used. Last summer a bunny took up residence under his garden shed, and I know we saw him in our yard during the winter. Hopefully he doesn't eat all the seedlings, or nibble the tomatoes when they're green. You don't mind losing the odd veggie, but it would be really frustrating to lose everything.
Another major challenge in our backyard is that we have the mother of all anthills close to the rose garden. I hate the idea of poisoning the ants, but it's so huge that the grass has stopped growing over it. Even mowing the lawn or weeding in the vicinity of the ant hill is not a pleasant way to spend time. I've heard that pouring boiling water on the hill works, but it sounds very cruel, and I don't think it would be effective over such a large area. You couldn't transport enough boiling water safely. I should check the internet for ways to destroy ant hills, because I contacted a pest control company for an estimate and there were way too many zeros in the bill to be comfortable. Besides I really don't like the idea of using poison on such a large scale, killing the worms and all the benign insects indiscriminately.
Enough chatting. The sky is blue, the sun is shining and the garden is calling. I'm going to go putter around!
Well, it's Mother's Day again, and as usual I have mixed feelings. I think Mother's Day was invented by a woman, and then over exploited by the greeting card and chocolate industries.
It has become a bit of a sore paw for me because my mother died in 2009, so I have no one to celebrate. My mother wasn't a particularly maternal or cuddly person and after I was past the macaroni necklace stage, Mother's Day was a bit of a minefield. Things were peachy as long as I figured out exactly what she wanted, but not so rosy if I guessed wrong. And there were never any clear messages about what she wanted. However, no matter what your personal experience with your mother was, you still wish you had the perfect Hallmark relationship that you could enjoy together, and I miss being able to give my mother a hug and a kiss. I don't recall my brother being actively involved in Mother's Day, other than sending her a card, but of course he lives in another province.
We will be driving to my husband's home town tomorrow to take his mother out for lunch and bring her here overnight. My brother in law and his girlfriend will be meeting her, and taking her to spend the night with them and driving her home tomorrow. She is no longer capable of driving and will enjoy the outing and spending time with her sons.
It's very difficult to avoid the topic of Mother's Day because of all the advertising and hoopla that have sprung up around it. What started as a sincere gesture towards a beloved mother has changed into a commercial occasion. Whether we realize it or not, the constant mention of the date has morphed into a certain level of expectation, which our children may not wish to live up to. There is so much pressure today to provide a "perfect" experience for so many occasions: Christmas, Mother's or Father's Day, Thanksgiving and Easter seem to have almost become obligations instead of reasons to enjoy our families.
I have been spending quite a bit of time these days trying to locate a thingamajig. I'll know what it is when I find it, but I'm running out of hope because I've been to all the usual big box stores and I can't find one anywhere. I know that they made them once upon a time, because I used to have one, and it was exactly what I needed. But for whatever reason, they've stopped making them and I'm getting frustrated. I've been spending most of my time in male-dominated departments, and I'm getting a little tired of the condescending smiles. Once I describe my thingamajig, they stop smiling and consult their mental stock records. Then they shake their heads and I leave, sighing. I've come close to finding exactly what I want twice, purchased it and brought it home, but it doesn't quite fit. I need about 2 more inches in length in order to have the proper size.
I'm not sure why they've stopped manufacturing my thingamajig. It's not like I'm the only person in the world who could use one. Obviously if I had one several years ago, they were making them at one time. Most of the men I've consulted have nodded wisely and said they had something similar several years ago. One man pointed out that if the manufacturers had made money on the item, they would have continued to make it. I'm not so sure about that, because certainly in the grocery store there are items that we used to eat, or favourite brands of things we liked, that aren't available any more. I may be mistaken but most big box stores these days have all kinds of stuff, but only in limited sizes or colours. Whatever is in style at the moment is overstocked, but there are lots of basic things that aren't available.
I've started to think outside the box. If my thingamajig isn't available, maybe I'll have to resort to looking for a doohickey. I've seen a lot of interesting looking doohickeys, just not quite what I wanted. Probably I would be better off pursuing the doohickey because at least I can find them. I can be very determined, so I'll consult the product listing on the right, and continue to search for my perfect item until I find it.
I like to think of myself as a relatively good natured person. Easy going, and generally pretty happy. But yesterday morning I quit the Fit for Life classes that I had been attending and switched back to the weight lifting classes. Actually, what I did was walk out of the first class, visit the registration desk to switch, return to class to grab my stuff and leave. Why? Because no matter how even tempered I am, there is a line that you are better off not crossing until after I've had my morning coffee. Only one cup of coffee, but if you yell or whine or flap nasty attitude at me before I've had a chance to caffeinate, there will be repercussions and consequences.
Yesterday was the start of our final 6 week set of classes for the season. Some people have dropped out because they are keeping fit by golfing or gardening. Other people have joined the classes. We had two new attendees. They are obviously sisters, there is a very strong resemblance. And that's another story. You know how very few people are naturally beautiful? Most of us muddle around in the middle of the range, not ugly most of the time, kinda scary on the bad days, and looking okay on the good days. Then there are people who just look bad tempered. Their brows are furrowed and their mouths turn down all of the time. They look squinchy around the eyes and don't ever smile.
Well, that's what these two sisters looked like. Their hair was blonde-gray and standing up in places, like Phyllis Diller (except she actually worked very hard to look that way). They looked bad tempered and stomped around the gym. The scariest one stomped up to me, flapped her gym mat on the floor, grabbed the rest of her equipment and said "everything is a fricking challenge" in a loud and angry voice. Well. I had no idea what she was talking about, but it got my back up immediately. Apparently I had positioned myself between the two sisters, inadvertently. I moved myself and my gym mat and equipment over so that these two charming ladies could stay together, but once the class started it became obvious that they were uncoordinated and they both ended up in my space.
I looked around the gym and there was nowhere obvious that I could move to, because the class is pretty full. I contemplated my choices, and decided that it would be better for me to return to the weightlifting class than to continue working out with these ladies. Now, possibly they could have turned out to be perfectly wonderful companions, and we could have become friends for life. But as petty as it sounds, once someone has irritated me to that extent, it's highly unlikely that I'm going to give them another chance. I know it's a character flaw but it just seemed to be a lot easier to avoid any future aggravation.
As it turns out, I prefer the weightlifting class anyway. There are only 6 people in this session so I'm getting the benefit of a semi-private weightlifting class at a very nice price. There is no waiting for equipment, and after comparing the two classes, I prefer the weightlifting. A happy outcome after a shaky start to the day.
I took the boys to the
vet yesterday. Huck needed a rabies booster, 
and both boys got a flea
prevention shot. Last year my grandpuppy Boston came home from the lake
with a severe case of fleas, which he immediately shared with the cats
he lives with. My son and daughter in law went through several months
of flea infestation, and everybody suffered all summer. They tried
collars, and potions to be applied to the animals' necks, and sprayed the
entire house. Not to mention vacuuming daily!!! Fortunately, our house
escaped the problem, but I decided to be sure that we were protected this year.
The first issue was getting both boys into the kitty carrier. It's large enough for two at a time, but my reflexes weren't good enough. First I corralled Huck and locked him in. Then I cornered Tuggy, opened the door, and Huck escaped. Tuggy wriggled out of my arms before I could insert him into the carrier. Finally I caught both characters at the same time, and stuffed them into the carrier before they figured out which legs belonged to which cat. They were not overly pleased with me, and complained all the way out to the car. Actually, they hopped around the carrier like maniacs so they kept overbalancing and ending up in a kitty pileup in the corner, which seemed to be the main point in their complaint. Once they got into the car and onto a level space they calmed down.
We made it into the vet's office safely, and settled in to check out all the other animals. We were the only cats on the premises but several dogs were coming to board for a while, and there were four adorable malti-poo puppies that were getting their first shots. I seriously contemplated stuffing one of the 3 
lb babies into the cat carrier and running, but decided I couldn't move fast enough to succeed in the heist. When we got into the examining room, I let the boys wander while we waited for the vet. Huck had a blast checking stuff out, but Tuggy is more timid and tried to blend into the sink. We've learned that Tuggy is around 10.5 lbs, and that Huck is around 7.5 lbs. Huck won't get as large as his buddy, because he is much smaller boned, unless we overfeed him. I thought that Tuggy must weigh much more than 10 lbs because he is a very solid cat, but now we know for sure.
Our return trip was a piece of cake because the boys weren't speaking to me after getting their shots. They managed to express their opinion as they left the kitty carrier, but weren't as rude as I might have been under the same circumstances. My biggest lesson of the day was that black cats stress shed as much as any other colour of cat. And although I wore a black tshirt and sweater, the fur does not blend in with the fabric. I've used a lint roller and a fabric brush, and I still look like a walking fur coat.
I love thunderstorms. We had a storm rumbling around last night and got quite a bit of rain, but there wasn't enough thunder and lightening for me.
I guess my fascination with storms started when I was a very young girl in Saskatchewan. Back in the day indoor mechanical dryers were very rare, and women hung their laundry to dry in the stiff Saskatchewan breezes. Most homes had a kind of a platform about 6 feet square and about 4 feet high, where the women could put their laundry baskets and hang the laundry on the line. That way people didn't run into the clean clothes.
I can remember sitting on my father's lap up on the laundry platform and watching the storms come across the fields towards us. The sky would darken in the distance and the 
wind would pick up, then the thunder would start to rumble. Eventually the lightening would appear on the horizon and start to put on a show. We had a front row seat for all kinds of displays: ball, chain, fork and sheet lightening. In retrospect sitting on an elevated platform in a thunderstorm is not the best idea, especially when you're living on flat terrain. But at the time, I felt loved and totally safe. Originally I think I had been afraid of storms, but my father enjoyed them, and took me with him to share his enthusiasm. His strategy worked. I consider myself a connoisseur of storms, although I no longer go outside and watch them.
As an adult I was living south of Barrie, Ontario when the tornado came through in 1985. I was a stay-home mother with twin sons under a year in age, and can vividly remember that the sky got so dark that the street lights came on. It was so windy that metal shutters were ripped off our house, and we were nowhere near the tornado. Less than a year later my mother and I attended a family reunion near Edmonton, Alberta when the tornado came through there. Although we were safe I was absolutely terrified because I had very young sons who were dependent on me. I will never forget how dark the sky was, yet the horizon was bright silver. It was utterly quiet for about 5 minutes, and then the sirens started.
I have learned to respect storms, and it seems to me that the potential for violent storms has increased as I have gotten older. I still love a good thunder and lightening show, but I have lost that sense of invulnerability that I had as a young girl.
Bless me, for I have sinned. It has been seven days since my husband's departure, and in that time I have:
Not made the bed. I don't see the point if it's just me, because I'll only mess it up at night anyway. And truly, unless the cats come visit I don't make much of a mess anyway.
Slept in the middle of the bed. What bliss! I never get the middle of the bed, I wake up at 3 am clutching the edge of the mattress and overheating. It's really hard to be grumpy with someone whose only sin is to cuddle you, but it's hard to overheat too. To have a whole bed, all to myself, has been a habit that will be really hard to break.
Not set the alarm clock. Or rather, set the alarm clock to back up whatever time I have to get up. Generally the cats wake me up demanding food before I actually have to get up. When my husband is home, the alarm clock goes off at 6:30 am, no matter what time he has to get up.
Eaten chocolate at almost every meal. Well, if not at every meal certainly between every meal. This is a prime example of how not to eat healthy when you live alone. And I know better.
Eating more takeout food than usual. I know I had all kinds of good intentions when my husband left, and I really stuck to them for the first few days. My son and grandpuppy ate supper with me both Saturday and Sunday, and I really did cook. Then I stopped.
Not unloaded the
dishwasher. Since I'm not eating proper meals at regular hours, when
the dishwasher got full I turned it on. I haven't emptied it yet, I'm just
washing the odd dish or glass that I dirty.
Watching whatever TV show I want to. Which boils down to not watching any NHL playoff hockey. It has been 7 days, and I don't know what's happened since Boston was eliminated. This is a most unusual situation, sure to be remedied as soon as my husband regains custody of the remote control. My personal taste runs more to documentaries and history or true crime (I know, I'm boring) whereas my husband enjoys a lot of sports. He doesn't mind switching between channels when there are ads, but I get annoyed when I miss chunks of my programs, so it's easier to just tape what I want to see. On the other hand I still have that baby afghan to finish, and her due date is approaching rapidly. I'll have lots of time to knit as soon was the regular programming schedule is in place.
Of course I've really missed my husband. Sleeping in the middle of the bed doesn't mean I haven't noticed that I'm alone. And watching whatever I want means that there hasn't been anybody to discuss what I'm watching. Obviously I take better care of cooking for two than I do when I'm only feeding myself. I've had a lot of fun, I've taken some classes and day trips that were real treats, and I've enjoyed my "me" time. But I'm looking forward to his return tomorrow night.
