A Refurbished Relationship - Conclusion

HUB RETURNS

When Hub finally came home he looked humbled (maybe, if my guess is correct, even a little frightened). He gave me a little stuffed animal with a sheepish grin. Obviously the little boy within was wounded and shocked by my tirade, but the ego of the old man, was absolutely flattered. Surprised, astonished, and very much pleased by the positive validation that he remains after so many, many years, so ultra-important to an old woman.

.....

FINAL THOUGHTS

In all this there is convolution. The most complex convolutions link faith and fear. And my convolution is this.

It is certainly true that cell-phones make us feel in control and radically alleviate concern when we are separated from each other. But at the same time, that positive effect may have a negative side. With every new confidence we lose the sweet softness that once precluded it.

Do you remember how often on the beach we used to go over to our children and touch their arms, forehead, hair, and give their hat a tug and speak to them with gentle concern about staying in the sun too long? That’s what we used to do – a whole lot of touching a whole lot of stroking. But with Sun-block lotions, we now sit on the beach and ignore the children at play, without concern.

Likewise, with nursery monitors, as parents there is no longer the need to stroke, touch, and check on babies with the comforting tap of footsteps in the hall, a touch on the face, and the comforting smell of our presence in the room.

A cell-phone gives us a similar confidence. Quick-time electronic access insidiously closes down the emotions that used to fire synapses in the brain of loneliness and concern that in turn fired warm and fuzzy neurological impulses.

So is it possible that cell-phones give a confidence that permit us to inadvertently disregard how touched we are by relationships and how cherished they are? I never realized before today that a simple gizmo, (ie. cell phone) could so deeply affect, and toughen up, otherwise tender thoughts.

We now have the power of omnipotence that can manifest all things. With cell-phones, there remains no need to cling to the traditional mind transmissions of past generations. In the pre-cell era, rather than voice-mail, we used internal supplication in situations of isolation and fear.

Fear, like the concern in my story, forced us to find something within ourselves that propped up faith. A surprising thing, since we swore we were ‘without faith’. But suddenly here comes faith rushing in. Encompassing any and all unseen forces of heaven and earth to stand guard and protect cherished ones.

With no other way to cope we used to pull aside ‘the atheist’ within and demand he do his part in the effort to remedy our fears by pretending we had faith until faith was realized. So with that thought, is it at all reasonable to conclude that cell-phones have contributed in an inauspicious way to the death of God and spiritualism?

I really don’t know, but one thing I definitely do know. I can’t tell Hub this story.

It would only further enhance his status around here and goodness knows he’s had enough stroking with the passion of my tirade and tears. Any more this week and he will NEVER take his cell phone with him again as long as we both shall live. The little boy might have been quite frightened, but the old man was way too flattered.

And where does Old Dog fit in? She was the tool of unseen forces to give new appreciation and meaning to an existence that was getting a little too old hat, and a little too mundane, bordering, it would seem to me, on that level of familiarity that can, without obvious symptoms, breed injurious contempt.

It strikes me that if Hub had his cell phone, this day would have differed from no other. There would have been no worry or turmoil and our relationship would not have got the soul searching and deep-polishing it got today. But without that ready electronic access, we both got a shake-up. A nasty bit to go through for me, but edifying to my heart, soul, and relationship.

....

Of these things I am certain because after yesterday’s vexations, this morning dawned new and different. I looked at Hub across the table. Asked him how he slept. He told me the coffee was so good. He poured me a fresh cup. And we lingered over coffee with happy smiles. I ruffled his hair. He rubbed my shoulders. We laughed at nothing. And we engaged with refreshed delight in each other’s chatter and presence.

A Refurbished Relationship - (Part III)

WHAT WAS OLD DOG THINKING?

Now normally I am calm and rational. I have no patience with the immaturity of drama queen’s and those that over-react at every little circumstance. But I have just had a roller-coaster ride that has left me exhausted and completely depleted.

Before Hub can spit out anything beyond, “I’m visiting…”, I am in tears and off on a tangent. And what I have to say is exceedingly angry and out-of-character as well. As out of character, as Old Dog choosing to stay home.

“Hub, I am so f---ing annoyed with you.’ I scream into the phone. ‘Do you know how worried I have been?” I slam down the phone before Hub can respond.

Immediately the phone is ringing again. It is Hub calling back of course, but I am too disturbed to answer it. Six jangling rings – then silence.

Now I find myself contemplating my day. I can’t stay angry. Not when I’m so flooded with relief that Hub is okay. Not when I am so achingly grateful to God, fate, destiny, and all the other forces of heaven and earth that the bad omens that earlier were niggling my mind were nothing more than my own wild imaginings.

For certain, Hub is in shock. I never talk to him that way. I don’t slam down phones in his ear. I don’t refuse to answer his calls. But I am glad I did. I think now he will finally remember to take his phone. But is that so good?

I’m not sure it is. If he had had his phone with him today, I would not have had these hours of crystal and emotionally-charged enlightenment of how much he means to me in every way.

NEXT POST: is the conclusion -- "Hub Returns" and "Final Thoughts"

A Refurbished Relationship (Part II)

DISTURBING THOUGHTS

Last post I told you how Old Dog made the unprecedented decision to stay home when Hub went to town. And now Hub is gone and hours overdue. I’m relieved when I cannot find his cell-phone. That can only mean he has it with him.
And so, to continue…

I call Hub’s cell. It rings shrilly in the room with a delayed softer echo in my ear. I jump with a start. The phone is not with Hub. It is next to me in the bookcase. I mutter to a distraught mind. ‘Oh, yea. That’s what cell phones are for. To decorate bookcases!’

Seconds build into minutes, minutes into hours, and still Hub does not phone or come home. The tension builds. I want to phone Youngest Daughter to see if Hub is there, but if he isn’t she will be more anxious than I already am and I don’t even want to think how much doo-doo I’ll be in for letting Hub away without his phone.

It wouldn’t come to this but Hub is older, he is diabetic. He has high blood pressure. He is sometimes plagued by headaches and blurring vision. And he drives like an idiot. Drifting, spinning, and regularly detouring into snow-blocked fields when he spies coyote or deer. This is the kind of nonsense he engages in to entertain the puppies when they go on driving excursions. No four-wheel-drive either. Just the silliness and risky behavior of a small boy resident in an old man.

Now add to that the fact that Hub generally calls me when he is gone longer than he expects to be. From his cell if he has it, from a land phone if he doesn’t. But without that call, his actions today are as out-of-character as Old Dog’s decision to stay home.

And so now I wonder, ‘Did Old Dog choose to stay home cause some kind of doggy-intuition told her it was not a good day to go driving with Hub?’

There are other friends I want to phone to see if they have seen Hub but doing so will spread unfair concern. And such efforts will only increase mine. I think of calling the police, but I already know they only get excited when someone is missing for a week or two. I am left to face the fact that there is no solution. I am isolated and completely helpless. I could take the pick-up and go look for him, but where do I start?

I sit in the big chair dogged with worry. I try to distract myself with some knitting. And then more sensitive thoughts creep into my harried mind. Thoughts of how important Hub is now and has always been to me. How hopeless all would be without him. How needful his place in my life. I want to cry but I mustn’t. And then, finally, the damn phone rings.

It is Hub.

....(continued)

NEXT POST: What was Old Dog Thinking?

A Refurbished Relationship (Part I)

THE OMEN

Thirty years of ever increasing familiarity, implicit trust, comfortable ease, and oft times, duplicity of thought. That’s what life has become. There is little reason, anymore, to mind the relationship. No practical reason to take it out, examine it, polish it, or disassemble it.

As usual, we sit in silence lingering over coffee. Hub reads the paper. I rattle the keys on my laptop. I should perhaps ask, “Did you sleep well?” but the answer will be nothing striking. Maybe ‘yes’, maybe ‘no’, but it is all of too little consequence to pursue. So there is little verbal exchange.

After breakfast, Hub readies himself to take a quick trip into town. Two puppies hastily run to the car but Old Dog is not among them. I find her napping in the livingroom.

Old Dog is a bit deaf so I bend close and speak loudly words she readily understands. “Go”, “town”, “ride”, and “car”. Old Dog raises her furry little head, looks at me with disinterest, and returns to a sprawled position with her head resting on her paws. I urge her to ‘go’ with repeated appeals but it is obvious that Old Dog chooses to remain at home today. I feel her nose. I am puzzled when I find her nose is cold and wet and she shows no visible signs of distress.

In fact, I am more disturbed by Old Dog’s decision to stay home than I care to admit. She has never made this choice before. Even on occasional days when she looked ill and I found her nose papery-dry and warm to the touch. And so, for the first time in my life, I stand on the front step and announce to Hub, who is waiting in the car, that Old Dog is not coming. Hub blinks in astonishment. As shocked by this communication as I am.

And so Hub leaves and Old Dog stays. I watch from the door already knowing the routine. With the fresh snow, the temptation is too great. Hub spins the car in circles in the driveway. He ‘drifts’ (as the twin’s call it) burning circles of flying snow, and skidding out of the driveway on two wheels. It is disturbing but it can’t be helped. You can take the old man out of the kid but you can’t take the kid out of the old man.

Hub’s car rumbles by the window and I now expect Old Dog to come to the kitchen to let me know that it was all a dreadful mistake. That she was just joking and I should have known, and Hub should have known, that she really didn’t expect to be left. When she remains unmoving, I begin to think this unprecedented choice too far out of character to be dismissed. It is not something I can calmly dismiss as circumstance. It must be something more. Maybe an omen, handed down by the gods of fate and destiny, with critical and ominous meaning, that I need to take note of.

The thought is there but I push it aside so I can concentrate on other things. I already know that without other errands, Hub will be back within the hour.

But he isn’t. Time drags on. Two o’clock. Three o’clock. I pace the floor and finally start looking for his cell phone. I can’t find it. Good, he’s taken it. I’ll just call him to see why he is delayed.

(...to be continued)

NEXT POST: 2. Disturbing Thoughts

A Proper Canadian Winter

It is a “Proper Canadian Winter”. What else can I call it when all the chilly rituals of legitimacy are being so strictly adhered to? With snow and frost hand-in-hand strutting about bullying, inspecting, and practicing ultimate control like a dictatorial brigade. Demanding uniformity and consolidation of January muster.

Let there be no doubt about it. This year an arrogant winter has taken charge that demands homage and respect. There is no ultimatum. Those few Dissenters, the silent and still inhabitants of woodland or field, brave enough and egotistic enough to flaunt part of their exterior are redressed with snow, veiled in frost, and re-dressed and re-veiled until they fuse into a world of plump look-a-likes.

Winter has taken charge of the ground. January has taken charge of the sky. The sun, usually so bright and cheery, is obliged to ‘disguise and withdraw’. For security of a proper winter it must hide its warmth, reduce its fire, and retreat from the fray.

And so, it remains close to the horizon partially eclipsed by an opaque curtain of winter haze. Not even daring to risk insubordination to the war measures of winter by flashing fires of defense at the impudent and mocking sun dogs encircling it. Looking more like a big ol’ moon than the sun.

Sure every year we have another winter, but for a Proper Canadian Winter, assimilation and allegiance is all. Every contingent and complement of the landscape must wear the trooper colors of white on white. Stability and peace only come when positive spaces are embossed with snow and negative spaces air-brushed with frost.

For too long, all those unsettled, improper winters have dogged us. Winters of confusion and instability that ravage fields and shamble landscapes. With intermittent mixes of snow, rain, sleet, and belligerent Chinooks that propagate ugly patches of mud and rudely interrupt the sleep of plants and warm-blooded beasts in hibernation.

So isn’t it sweet to see winter done up good and proper for a change without the usual slovenly bungling?

A Proper Canadian Winter gets my vote. I hope I haven’t spoken too soon.

The Wedding

She texted him, he texted her, she texted him, and then he texted her back. Their language was cautious and carefully chosen. Both aware of the risks they were taking. Aware they must be cautious and avoid revealing too much.

But still the texting continued, sometimes with confidence, other times with uncertainty until eventually it became the language of intimacy. Shocking epiphanies. Words of lust made flesh. Interspersed with unrestrained sexual hyperbole – an extravagance of Chaucerian phrases of devotion and Freudian expressions of need.

But he lived here and she lived there, geographically distant from each other. They had certainly lucked out career-wise, each in a place with secure promise of their star rising. How foolish and impractical it would be for him to go to her or her to go to him. Foolhardy, it would be to sacrifice the mad success around the next corner by either of them leaving their Promised Land.

So despite the mutual strumming of heartstrings, if mutual can exist across such a vast separation, how silly it would be to give up their dream of fame, wealth, and independence. Why should they when each can access the other so quickly through text messaging? More quickly than one can access another in the same bed in a tangled twine of sheets?

And so they remained where they were and she texted him and he texted her and she texted him back. After all love is intangible. A shock wave, an impulse, so why not allow it to flow within it’s own currency?

It cannot be denied that it was a passion of love and electronic devotion. True, deep, and abiding love traveling with ease the smooth pulse of a bonfire of text interchange. The words on the screen validated it. Made it truth and reality. And so, before long, in a flash of reckless text and electronic waves and icon asteroids they consummated their love through some untold means that even Darwin would fail to understand. It was now, in truth, an affair.

But this will never do. What respect in this association? An affair must be legalized. So they texted a minister, he texted them back and they hired a Cyber-Geek to create a wedding venue. A beautiful and sanctified space with icons of cool-burning candles, a gilded altar, massive flowers, balloons, the delightful strains of a wedding march, and stitched digital photos of the princess and her prince.

The minister texted them the all-important questions and they responded in quivering, nervous yet bold interfaced italics. All of it enchantingly beautiful and duly witnessed by the Geek and an errant Commenter who accidentally happened by.

But still they felt incomplete. Their loins burning and empty. And so Mr. and Mrs. ASCII worked hard at improving their relationship with more text and still more text.

Each wrestling within their own messaging space with icons and alphabet symbols, phrase and poetry, until exhaustion and the strain of it all overrode their painful need. And in the brief spurts between they sated themselves with smug self-stroking of their wisdom. With the boldness of this new preference they congratulated themselves on their uncanny wisdom to remain in their own geographic space, ascending with such rapidity career ladders stable-set with sturdy rungs that invited them onward and upward. Hearts beat as one when he texted her that he had been named ‘Business Man of the year’ and she responded that she was now the ‘top CEO’ within a prestigious institution.

Years swiftly passed and he texted her and she texted him. And then one day, for each, a memory came softly sneaking around the edges of minds that were forming more ASCII compositions. A vague gnawing memory of what had been forgotten. And what it was, were the legends of things that formed the culture of their birth and childhood.

They had forgotten the pitch and fall and rise of voices and how that melody gives meaning to words. They had forgotten how in a physical space intuition reaches out in an interchange, despite happy smiles, and verbal assertions of contentment, to dispense truth and the real essence of things hidden beneath an exterior display of physical calmness. They had forgotten the clarity of the silent messages delivered by the coloring of a countenance, a bodily gesture, or a smoldering optical exchange.

They forgot skin is warm, silky, and delicate to the touch. That even hair when stroked by another can cast a magical spell. They knew nothing of warm body oils and gentle massage. And without this, they forgot how a gentle touch and soft caress is as nurturing to adults, as it is to a child.

But all that aside, they had a preference, and to each their own. But still I can’t help but think that this new preference jeopardizes the sustainability of human life on this planet. And furthermore, what might become extinct is the precious thread of touch and intuition that connects us to a partner’s ardent care or a child’s emotional need.

Alone and Forgotten

I’ve been given clearance so here’s my story.

“Roberta’s weird,” my friends and family say. “Congenial enough, but she’s like a hermit crab. Never leaves her house.” And that is true.

What I think it all boils down to is preparation for the inevitable ‘alone and forgotten’ stage of life. It strikes me that I should let Hub know what I’m thinking but he could neither accept or understand it, so why bother? Besides, my philosophical imaginings drive him to distraction without adding more. And so, without adequate explanation, Hub fits into my hermit-crab venue as best he can while he and the kids mutter among themselves about my mental state.

And then occasionally Hub gets all geared up to drag me along on a wild and woolly day of shopping, visiting, or driving about, and that’s when I say to Hub with sympathy in my voice.

“I know we haven’t gone anywhere for a long time. I know you appreciate me coming along, but honestly, there is no way to avoid it. I have to bake bread today.”

And I promptly pull out the flour canister and bread pan and set to work. It’s a devious political move. He is a practical man and in this way I can minimize his feelings of rejection by masking the situation in practical necessities. (Bread-making part of a political relationship? Who would have thought?)

And so Hub’s enthusiasm comes to an abrupt end. The labor of bread baking is a reality he discerns. He is well aware that after the mixing, there will be a first rising, a second rising, putting the stuff in pans, a third rising, then baking and cooling. The whole business a long stretch that will completely lap up the special outdoor pleasures of the lovely day so ardently beckoning to him to ‘come and play’.

And so I bake bread with as much sticky guilt in my mind as sticky dough on my rubber gloves. Guilt that perhaps my stubbornness has wounded not the man, but the little boy within. I find it truly quite amazing the way men retain the ‘little boy’ within. I see the little guy peeking out often through my husband’s eyes. I don’t think the same can be said of women. But that’s another thought for another time and so to return to my story.

So, despite Hub’s preference for home-made bread, I believe there are days he would gladly eat store-bought bread even though it promptly turns to dough when touched by saliva and glues itself to his upper dental plate. Still, some days that would be better than once again having the excitement of his plans postponed.

I can relate. I understand how he feels. I know well from my own experience that as I get older it is seldom that unexpected vigor strikes. But unfortunately, despite all the time Hub and I have been together, his desire and my desire at any given moment, seldom mesh.

I know too that I should be more flexible. And I find it puzzling that I am not. I don’t fully understand my wish for solitude either. I often think it might be the result of the fate of elders I have observed over the years.

I remember a sad old fellow down the road, showing me a large calendar where he marked the sparse visits of family members. The moon waxed and waned more often in a month than his family.

And I remember the neighbor who consistently sent her old father to his room where he was forced to dine alone whenever she had company. And I remember a visit to a retirement home. I remember a female elder there displaced from a Stony Indian Tribe.

She could speak no English. From morning till night she rocked frantically in her chair canting rapidly in a foreign riddle of sounds magically formed without lip movement. But mostly she wept without ceasing. The story told to me is that she was found in the snow, abandoned by her Tribe and left to die when old age made her more of a liability than an asset. And the other surprising thing an Attendant at the Home told me is that speaking with lips of stone is what led to the Tribe being called the Stony Indians.

And what I also remember is the chill of a tangible fog of loneliness duplicated in each of the circumstances I have mentioned. For some it was emotional rejection, for the Indian woman, physical rejection, but if you group them all, and condense them, it all boils down to the same thing. Old people will eventually find themselves alone and forgotten!

So in reflection of all this, I tend to frequently ponder the choices I need to make now to cope with that impending stage of life. And what seems most obvious to me is that I can minimize the insidious attack of old age and the chronic grouchiness steamed by self-pity that goes with it. All I need to do is practice and perfect until I like it and get it right – the craft of being alone and the art of being forgotten.

And yes, right now I know what you are thinking and of course you are right. If you were to ask, I am totally convinced my children will always care for me and be there for me. The irony is that my parents said the same about me, but I didn’t do so well.

So I ready myself for the inevitable. Pondering the things I will do with dimming eyes, feeble fingers, and wasted limbs. It seems more sensible in the context of ‘alone and forgotten’ to think about things I prefer to do without interruption and things that at the same time will give me constructive purpose and gratefulness for solitude.

The plan must have a sensible evolution and it does. If my sight fails, I will move from fine crochet to bulky knitting and if necessary from that to the larger work of hooking fabric strips. If my limbs fail, I will paint even if I have to move from realism to abstractions with a brush in my teeth. And if finances fail, I have a grand stash of materials waiting to fit into usefulness in some other evolutionary form. And if I can no longer drive, it will be no big deal. Whatever occurs, I am envisioning and preparing for it.

The most surprising thing in all this wild philosophy is that up until now, ‘plan’ was a dirty four-letter word that I never used. Up until now, spontaneity was all. But I’m not convinced spontaneity will work for the ‘alone and forgotten years’. I fear that for this final stage, the irony is that it is ‘spontaneity’, rather than ‘planning’ that jumps out unexpectedly like an evil Jack-in-the Box. And then JB jeers, winks, and nudges while delivering a homily cleverly disguised as dignified thinking about a dumb and stupid and unnatural way to end it all.

So I plan and practice loneliness in my readiness for perhaps not a long time, but a good time, when I am faced with the eventuality of being alone and forgotten.

The Blissful Blog

I’m going to set aside the dreary rant I wrote today to discuss something else – the content of Blogs.

Of all the reasons I have contemplated for writing a Blog, aside from my love of writing, the one that I think is most accurate is the desire to ‘provoke thought’. And excuse me, but provocative thought can spring from weariness and dreariness as well as cheeriness.

I hate the terrible guilt I feel every time I yen to write about a melancholy state of mind. I want to write truth more often than fantasy and God knows I try, but at the same time there is fiction in the mix if you are left thinking I am always in an enthusiastic state of utter delight. I want to use my Blog to burrow into human consciousness even when it is in a state of decline.

Seems odd that I can write without guilt about clouds and rain and any other dreariness that nature can deliver that I see out my window. I can write without guilt about physical disasters. But at the same time I feel that I can't write about dreariness in my soul that springs, not from any conflict around me, but from the natural well of my humanity. Emotional realities that have as much of a rip tide, as physical realities.

Yes, I understand that in coffee conversation, such things should be avoided. But somehow, I want to see a Blog as different from that. I want to see it as a flexible thing that can bend when buffeted. I don’t want to be dogged by an obligation to be cheery. Some days, being cheery is the most painful of all of life’s miseries.

I am certainly glad that way back in 2003 when I began blogging I posted a bit on my sidebar about being ‘abstracted, distracted, and sometimes lucid.’ It doesn’t give me a whole lot of squirming room but it gives me some. And man, I wipe the sweat from my brow with utter relief that I didn’t name my blog something like ‘Blissful Blog’, or ‘Cheerful Chatter’.

The rant I set aside? What will I do with it? I’ll give it a few more days to season and then I’ll decide.

Bake and Plate 2008

The cooks are baking resolutions
That taste like nasty convolutions
So long delayed the restitutions
So why not work with substitutions?

The chastening powder of firm resolve
Is granular—it won’t dissolve,
But I’m not lost in futile time
I’m busy, busy, mixing rhyme.

I’ll cook ’08 with slack protraction
And a gentle fold of interaction
I’ll blend and whip into distraction
A sweeter batter of abstraction.

And this is how the mix is done —
With tone of nature, blaze of sun,
With reflux of nostalgic lime,
A bit of sage, a dash of thyme.

That is how you bake ’08
And then you serve it on a plate!

HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!

Old Books and Pure Vanilla

Christmas comes in a flash, and as quickly as it comes it is gone. The cessation of all the action can catch one off-guard like a brutal slap in the face. One moment we are reveling in the excitement and the next we are faced with somber isolation and quiet nothingness.

The shock often brings tears. Tears that are difficult to allay. And even more difficult to understand. But even at that, you and I both know it can happen to any of us – from the youngest to the oldest.

My childhood Christmases were always good though the gifts few. There were generally three gifts in keeping with the number of gifts brought to the Christ Child by the Magi. For me there was a toy, a craft, and new socks, warm bloomers, or a toque.

But my craft gift was more important than the more expensive toy-gift that served to fill an indulgent desire. There was healing to be found for me in the knitting spool, beads, string-art, or paint box and for my brother in a Mechano Set (a precursor of Leggo), modeling clay, copper-tooling or a clock repair kit.

Those craft kits had a vital role to play during the Christmas Season. When the festivities so abruptly ended, they let us down gently. Always, after Christmas, the sudden quiet made me anxious and sad, and that’s when I would curl into a cozy ball in a corner with my craft gift and paint, color, or stitch away until I had emotionally, but imperceptibly, readjusted once again to a normal life and simple existence.
__________

The other thing I remember about childhood Christmases was how, among my three customary gifts, I always had a favorite. With so few it was easy to pick a favorite and the favorite was so special I couldn’t let it out of sight for a moment. That one special thing I hugged to my breast with heart-searing fondness. That special thing came to bed with me, to the dinner table with me, and stood hard by in a visible place when I was doing other activities. Don’t you remember the dump-truck that came to bed and dinner with you? Or the baking set, the egg-laying chicken, the magic whistle, or the paint box? I do.

And so that brings me to this Christmas. My neighbor and I agreed several years ago that we would rally in good cheer one evening during the Christmas Season, rather than exchange gifts. In seemed a much easier fulfillment of duty, without rigid obligation. But didn’t that same neighbor show up on Christmas Eve with a package for me? I reminded her of our agreement.

She responded by saying, “There is no obligation, Roberta. I know our agreement. But I couldn’t pass this stuff up, it was so RIGHT for you.”

And so, what could I do? I opened the little package. And inside there was a bottle of pure, non-imitation vanilla extract and a book, “King Solomon’s Mines” (1891). Could I have been more thrilled? Never.

And that’s when a feeling, so long ago familiar to me, took hold. I felt driven to put my book and my vanilla by my plate at dinner. I felt prompted to tuck these precious items into bed with me at night and position them close when I was cooking, vacuuming, or making beds. I felt a need to hold them close to my breast while watching TV.

I chuckle because it was the book and extract that cushioned my landing this year, as crafts did when I was a kid. On Boxing Day, as happens every year, the bottom fell out of all the gaiety and excitement of the season but it didn’t mist my eyes, as it so often does, or raise a lump in my throat. I just hugged my favorite gifts closer to my chest and without pensiveness, I landed squarely back in my mundane existence. My new Old Book and pure vanilla made it an easy, well-cushioned splashdown.

Today’s Writing Prompt: There was a flash and as quickly as it came, it was gone.

Joy and the Responsibilities that Come With It

This Christmas I received a totally original gift from Middle Daughter (MD) that is funny, endearing, sweet, and original. She gave me a “First Aid Box for Brain Block”. And in that box she put snippets of phrases and photos for me to pull for writing prompts when all other inspiration fails.

The rules are rigid. I desperately want to rummage through the full contents of the box, but I’m only allowed to pull one paper at a time and I must complete that assignment before I can pull another.

So now I am on a writing marathon. So much to write before the box runs dry. In the meantime, I pulled a phrase from the box when I unwrapped it on Christmas morning and until I get past that assignment, I am not allowed to go on to another.


And so my prompt for today’s blog is…

‘Who cares’, I thought, ‘it isn’t as if …’

Who cares, I thought, it isn’t as if all the joys of the Season stem from the standard things that always march to the front of the line, Fa-la-la, to claim responsibility.

The sapphire winter skies delicately diffused with ice fog. Or the fresh snow all tinted with silver and pastel blue. Or the repertoire of all those beloved Christmas carols that have endured throughout the ages. It’s not as if it is the traditional afternoon Scrabble game accompanied by bubbly wine and a tasty snack of smoked oysters and crackers. Or all the gifts to be found under the tree wrapped in gold ribbon and lavender haze.

It’s not even the sweet, nutty-taste of turkey, stuffing, Christmas Pudding, or the hot rum sauce to glaze it. And it most certainly is not chests or nuts roasting by an open fire while we toast the holidays in the company of Royalty – like me and Good King Winston looking out for the last time at the Feast of Stephen.

So you may well ask, ‘What is it, then, for goodness sake, that stimulates the real joy?’

I am so pleased I can finally tell you. After so many Christmas seasons, only now, in this moment with weakening memory and palsied imagination do I finally know. It is a tiny little box with a tiny little latch that offers mysterious, unexpected surprises, each time I open it.

And so, the writing marathon begins and I’m fair giddy with joy as I anxiously await the next opportunity to open my next ‘prompt’ from my special surprise box. Everyone as surprising as the one before because MD has a sense of humor that makes it impossible to forecast what the next prompt might be.

Naked Truths About Christmas

I’m gonna’ tell you how it is. Today is probably my last entry before Christmas. I have to gather my wits about me for a supper tonight for some of the young people in the neighborhood and our traditional after-dinner game of Balderdash.

We eat and then we play the game and laugh till we cry. Last year one of the player’s had a rutted theme. Wasn’t too long before we knew his definition of every word would be the one that described a woman’s prehistoric, fictional or early Victorian undergarment. “infandous” – the chastity belt that didn’t work, “pegomancy” – a corset worn in medieval times that latched with pegs and leather loops, and “sebum” – the first pair of crotchless panties. Wonder what his theme will be this year.

First surprise Yule-callers came by the other night and we celebrated the season with chocolate rice crisp squares, short bread and spice cookies, coffee, and my tree still rolled up in plastic in the middle of the entry just off the kitchen. Yep, there was the tree in all its glory. Down for the first round but blinking lights gaily as I had just plugged it in for the initial light-testing. And hard by a 3-gallon bucket of decorations spilled on the floor beside it allowing a fairly wide-panned view of a regurgitation-like mess of apples, ribbons, glass balls, and garlands blinking with refractory amusement in the glow of the lights of the downed tree. But long ago, I have realized, surprise callers have to take you the way they find you, which leads to the next night.

Last night more callers, right after supper. But now my tree was up and fully dressed. Couldn’t say the same for Hub. He was in the bath and I was downstairs when the knock came to the door. I knew he had no clothes with him in the bathroom. I was rushing to fill the washing machine so I could run upstairs and answer the door when I heard Hub answer it.

But then, when I came upstairs, a lady friend was standing inside on the door-mat and Hub was wedged on the tuther-side of the open door. Still I could readily see his upper half through the window in the door and what I saw was wet hair and no shirt. The lower part of the door hid the rest of him. “Don’t look,” he said to the visitor, as he talked to her through the window. “I’m not decent.”

The visitor bent over and began removing her boots. The door moaned a bit as Hub gently pushed it away from him a bit in order to escape. And you know what she did?

She stood up and looked. I mean really looked. I’m thinking that Hub is naked, and I’m thinking what kind of person would not turn their head and say, “let me know when I can look”? But no, this person is just looking.

Suddenly she roared with startled laughter. “My God, you aren’t dressed. I thought you were just joking,” as Hub made a mad dash for the bedroom – shirtless, shoeless, beltless, but with long white thermal underwear on his lower half.

I had to say—I just had to say, “Why did you look? Where is your sense of modesty and respect? What kind of woman are you? A little too curious for your own good, it seems to me!”

“Honestly, Roberta, I thought he was just kidding. Nobody answers the door in their long johns with no clothes on.”

“Take note,” I said with a chill in my voice, “some do. And when someone tells you they aren’t decent, the respectful thing to do, the kosher thing to do, is keep your back turned until you are given permission to look.”

After this sarcastic game of pitch and catch, we are cast back under the special spell of the Season and we laugh heartily and I promise her I will never let her ever forget what kind of woman she is – looking with such curiosity if given the chance!

Another neighbor delivered a lovely card and stopped for coffee. She noticed my card display particularly the gilded one from my scrap-booking friend. “I’m so disappointed,” she said. “I haven’t got one single glittery card this year and I love glittery cards.”

The disappointment rang in my ears like a mornful toll of bells so yesterday, although I had bedding to wash, floors to vac, and tidying up that still needed doing, instead I sat down and made her the glittery-est card I have ever made in my entire life. Very simple, but it's not about the complexity, it's about the glitter...


So now, with all this nonsense going on, I’m not as near ready for our Christmas celebration on Christmas Day-eve (to fit everyone’s agenda), that I should be. Oh Lord, don’t let me forget to thaw out the big bird in plenty of time. And I must get the pies baked on the 22nd this year, cause we want them fresh but the big ole bird will be monopolizing the oven come the 23rd.

I have to admit, I fret about it all way too much. About making every Christmas the best Christmas my children and grandchildren ever had. I’ve been doing that for thirty years. You’d think I’d eventually stop the painful anxiety cause every Christmas in its own unique way is as much or more than I hoped it would be.

So to you, all my dear beloved friends in Blogland, have a Very Merry Christmas, unique and special in its own way.

P.S. And for those of you that are into pristine, untouched, totally organic, here's a special Xmas card for you...

...an organic snow-woman with no supportive undergarments though the Barbie dolls would all run and hide with shame if she were compressed into Victoria Secret attire.

What Promises Are

You will find in a promise, if you pull it apart
A dainty delectable that tastes a bit tart
An incalculable blend bent to disguise
With less thoughtful intent, than better-kept lies.

So I have more faith in mystical things
That approach in blue light or on sacred wings
Cause for many a promise is a weird kind of joke
Too easily uttered, too readily spoke.

Vows shouldn’t be like that, they should settle right in
Cause breaking a promise is the worst kind of sin.
They should telescope dreams and life-schemes ignite
But too often before I can turn out the light
I get a short message updating our truce...

“I can’t keep my promise, but I have an excuse!”

Moments in Time

Moments rushing, rushing, rushing,
Tumbling, trampling, pushing, crushing.
Impatiently moving; So anxious to go
As if scuttled by fear and murderous foe.

For a moment they’re here and then they are gone
Like a rippled reflection lost in a pond
Promptly transfigured to shadows of dust
Reality surrendered – polish to rust.
Such chaos and carnage, I can’t help but reckon
Would it hurt them to pause for one pithy second?

All that I want from my moment debris
Is one untarnished granule of antiquity
But yet when I manage one snip to extract
It slips from my grip
And goes racing back.

Written in response to the writer’s prompt “Moment” at Writer’s Island.


Lost on Writer’s Island

Directions, a compass. I have little concept of either. My internal compass has a weak magnetic pole and a delicate spinner. Like a bad cell-phone, the mechanism is intercepted and useless when walled in by steel, concrete, wood, shadow, or the absence of sunshine.

North, south, east, west. It’s all one and the same to me. Take me into a building with a two-cornered hallway and my compass goes kaput. And then I am lost – looking for Hub to take my hand and lead me out of there. He can follow his nose in the pitch-dark of night and still get where he is going.

Got lost the other day. Went down some non-distinctive hallway at Pauline’s Site and ended up marooned on ‘Writer’s Island’. An island foggy with sea salt and tide. Compass down and no traditional signage to lead me home. Just a roadside prompt that said, “Moments” and some oblique reference to poetry.

Desperate to escape, I spun my poem of “moments” and turned the corner to find I was back on a familiar corner and a familiar street. And that is how this poem came to be.

Pets and Peeves

Relationships are supposed to be simple. You love someone, they love you, and so a bond is formed. Other loves shouldn’t run interference. Yet I’ve read more than one story of a cat or dog-loving individual who marries someone who despises the “filthy beasts” and shuns them with utter contempt.

Occasionally daily exposure to the other’s pet ends up magically cultivating a similar appreciation. But in other homes, things get nasty. The dynamics of the relationship clash. And human nature, being what it is, the pet is doted on more to make up for the other’s disdain which only magnifies the situation. And so soon the whole relationship is shabbily frayed.

But what could that possibly have to do with me? I didn’t bring any pets into this relationship. And the pets we have now were discussed and agreed upon. All I brought to this relationship were a few personal possessions, a meager number of books, a Scrabble game and several boxes of hand-written journals. Still Hub looked askance at those boxes and that Scrabble game with the same kind of skepticism bordering on abhorrence that I’ve seen reflected in the face of those who shun felines and canines.

I do think Hub resented my passion for Scrabble. But at the same time, after much pleading on my part, he eventually agreed to scrap Crib in favor of Scrabble. But he did complain – he complained that he was a poor speller and that he was not a Scrabble player. Still complaining, he took his chair at the table in front of the Scrabble board. We played and I beat him mercilessly the first two games. That’s when it occurred to me that maybe if I didn’t back off, he would stop playing.

But when Scrabble is such an enjoyable challenge as it has always been to me, it was difficult to ease up. And just when I was contemplating how to put such a plan into effect, I found it was not good to let down my guard. Because now with extra cajoling on my part, we played a third game and Hub handily won. And he won the fourth and fifth and sixth game as well.

And that is when our Scrabble playing abruptly came to an end. He said to me. “I don’t like this game. I have never liked this game. But since you insisted, I decided to play. But now that I consistently win, there is no reason to continue playing, is there?”

I’m a bit slow on the take-up sometimes. I didn’t realize until some years later what his strategy had been. I assumed that intellectually in word games, I was superior and therefore it was simply a bad stroke of luck. Bad letters. Too many I’s, too many U’s and not enough counters like X and J.

But Hub had a strategy. He concluded after the first two games that striving for a high-value word was not working, so he switched to defensive play. So now he would not build an obvious 7-letter word if it would set me up. Instead he plugged in two-letter words in places that would stalemate the game even though in doing so he was scoring no more than five points. And incredibly, it worked.

So that’s what happened with Scrabble, but I also loved to cuddle in bed with my words. Loved reading in bed. But here I fell into another snare. I, for one, cannot sleep with a light in my room. Never have. And I cannot sleep with someone next to me fidgeting or rustling paper. Regardless of all this, I read in bed for a short time after we were married, and Hub never complained, but I was bloody aware that if he ever adopted the habit, I would be livid. Lights on, glaring in my eyes, pages rustling when all I want is to go to sleep. It would drive me nuts. So I quit that as well.

Words to me are such a delight, but this delight was not shared by Hub. He is eternally frustrated by Politicians, Experts, and Newsmen that smudge the clarity of language with so many words. So I knew better than to allow all those extraneous and wildly imaginative adverbs and adjectives of mine to tumble about, shedding hair on the furniture and piddling behind the couch. Nevertheless, I cautiously continued word-play with my word-pets when left to my own devices.

Lucky for me, it is easier to keep word-pets in seclusion than animal-pets. I kept my words in my head. And then while shopping, baking, or when Hub was away, I took them out and arranged them and rearranged them. We cuddled and kissed. I stroked and examined them all the while looking for relationships, incongruities, contrasts, rhyme, reason and succinct expression.

So with that kind of caution and with so little exposure to my gaggle of words, Hub remained comfortable in his own philosophy that words are tools that have a purely functional purpose like an ax or a hammer. But for that practicality, I am pleased, in an “artful” way.

What an emotional tangle this relationship would be of jealousy, envy, and opposition if he loved my words as I do and wanted to sort and play and kiss and edit them in ways outside of my dominion and approval. That would be worse than interference in my kitchen.

And furthermore, if I had a Shakespearean-Chaucer-type mate, he would rip up this rant and tell me “If you’re going to write, write something worthwhile.”

Instead, when I read what I’ve written his feedback is as practical as the man.

“Good. But you need to shorten it up.”

The Test of Time

Hub and I didn’t intend to wander from our own deep-seated intuition, but with a brain-dripping kind of programming going on, we eventually did. We scoffed at all the new notions about rearing younguns but the steady bombardment through television, radio, and books, left us insecure in our own abilities and we fell into the trap.

So the new-age ideologies took hold when he was only a baby and now he is grown. Raised without discipline, spanking, or any sense of obligation to others. The outcome is, as the old ones had warned, a bloody annoying conviction of entitlement. That it is his right to spin the world in whatever direction he chooses to spin it.

He comes and literally dismantles the bed when he gets up. He whines and treads about with heavy footsteps. He kisses us again and again to get pats and tickles without risk of impatience on our part. Looks his sweetest. Acts his sweetest. But still maintains enough disturbing noise through voice and action and bed ruffling to make it impossible for us to snooze just a bit longer. We are forced to comply.

For him there has been no discipline and rules beyond the one rule that vetoed bullying. In that we were adamant and he is truly in no way a bully.

So how did it work out now that he is an adult? He is gentle, kind, and honorable. And though not empathetic in the least to demanding a walk before we’ve even had our morning coffee when the wind is howling and the thermometer as close to forty below as it can dare to be, he does have sensitivities. When Hub or I raise our voices even in good-natured bantering, he runs to intervene. Pulling at pants or skirt and begging for kisses to calm and distract us. And yes he is honorable. He does not steal. He does not attempt to take others treats. He is not deceitful. But he can be annoying.

He rattles a metal dish with loud muster in the hall when his meals are not ready on time. When big, bold, and brash friends come to visit, he bounds after them, throws them down, makes them say ‘uncle’ just so they know, without slapping, kicking, or biting, and then the play begins. But other friends that are shy, insecure, are simply kissed and coddled until they are comfortable and then the play begins and he takes the utmost care to not tumble them over or step on them.
But his sense of entitlement just grows and grows. He used to insist we play outside once a day. Now he insists we play outside twice a day. And believe me, he can count to two and past it very accurately. He is not kenneled. And in the woods are his toys – his fox, his deer, his squirrels, and chickens, but he will not play with those amusements unless we come play with him. In fact, come to think of it, he won’t do anything independently. For everything he needs Hub or I as a sidekick.

When Hub saw him on the road and yelled at him to get off the road, he nodded in compliance. But then when a truck came along, he moved to the side and yelled at the truck. “Get off the road”. He doesn’t speak clearly but the emphasis and syllabic rhythm was exact enough to know that’s what he said. Rules, it seems, are made for others—most definitely not for him.

Some of the older generation used to say, “Why don’t you teach him some manners?” But teaching manners would require spanks or withholding treats and we suddenly found we were not about to do that. So now, what do we have?

We have a dog whose demands on our time are endless. He thoughtfully maps out every day so that it will include two group walks, four or more belly scratches, plenty of stroking, several treats, and of course a car ride with Hub. If he is lounging on the floor in the middle of the hallway, anyone passing through that corridor will simply have to step over him. Without restrictions, his consideration must come first. Without rules, without spanking, these are his entitlements, and no one better be forgetting it. And yeh, we could tell him to go lay down in a stern voice. But then he limps to the other room, with his tail between his legs, and sulks and weeps in the big chair. And it is so evident to both of us that the pain he feels surpasses anything that could come from spanking. Without us ever keeping a strain on him, he cannot accept that sometimes we are too busy for him. That sometimes that is how it is. And so he becomes an emotional basket case.

Meanwhile old dog was raised according to the old-fashioned rules. When she was young Hub and I were too busy with young children to make her the center of the universe. So she was kindly cared for but not to the extent that allowed her to ever think that the world revolved around her. So with that kind of upbringing, she apologizes for everything, demands nothing, expects nothing, but she is every bit as kind, loving, and even more patient than Doughee.

She amuses herself without demanding anything. She never complains she is bored as Doughee does. She never demands car rides, or group play, or belly scratches, or walks. If supper is late, she stares at me, but says nothing. If anyone is close to her she rolls on her back just in case they want to scratch her belly, but she never begs or insists. There is no need to tell her to go lie down because she lies dutifully at our feet whether we are home or out visiting until she sees us donning outer wear or hears the hum of a vehicle started outside. Still she is a happy, carefree, dog with no psychological damage.

We love them equally, but with Doughee Dog pushing me off my chair, and I haven’t even yet had my morning coffee, I must go for a walk with him in the big storm, or the big wind, the big rain, or the big chill. So you see, more and more I have my regrets that I didn’t let Doughee Dog know from the get-go that he needs to be less confined in attitude to his own self-interests. And I regret that I didn’t humble him with measured discipline.

Truly both are much beloved. But I can’t deny that Old Dog is so much easier to contend with. Everyone who has met my puppies, loves Doughee because he is so handsome and good-natured—and in their face. But all soon say, even those who see no value in dog ownership, that if they ever choose to have a dog, the best they could hope for would be to find a dog as well-behaved as Old Dog. A sweet loyal dog who understands that life is about quiet acceptance and apologetic appreciation rather than impatient demands for compliance.

Presence Rather than Presents

I’m thinking today about what I want for Christmas. The question causes anxiety because as a retiree, I am discovering that despite all the catalogues and flyers piled on my table, with such an overabundance of exotic and lovely gifts, I feel no stir of excitement.

The excitement that once so clearly defined the Holiday Season is still understood, expected, and a given right, but not so easily found, so easily wrapped, and so easily exchanged as it once was in the form of chocolates, a plush robe, or bath oil.

But even so, I think somewhere that joy resides. Perhaps I have to dig a bit deeper. Perhaps it is being smothered by bittersweet longings for youth and past festive celebrations. Whatever the case, I am determined to resurrect it—regardless of how cause and concept are altered by maturity.

So, for openers, the first dominant theory is that as a retiree I have slipped from the practical-reality side of life to the impractical-reflective side. So rather than putting up my tree, I want to write a beautiful poem about Christmas. Rather than tidying up the house, I want to reminisce about childhood. Rather than baking, I want to lounge in my chair and revel in the staggering musical lyrics of “O Holy Night” and “The Little Drummer Boy.”

And rather than finding the perfect outfit for Christmas, I want to find a perfect new phrase that represents my appreciation for life. And rather than a mess of paper packages to stimulate the warm satisfaction of an increase, I want a post-Xmas increase in original notions, warm hugs, sweet truths, and simple delightful stories that I can stash without rearranging cabinets and drawers. I don’t want to have to toss precious old things to make room for new. And there is little hope of finding Christmas joy through space cleansing and the ultimate painful abomination of guilt I am liable to feel for my part in contributing to global warming.

So, wouldn’t it be pleasant to find on my hearth on Christmas Day an abundant menagerie of conversation, loving affection and most of all, the unanticipated ‘presence’ rather than ‘presents’ of a dear one so far away?

The gifts I desire uncannily fill a genuine need. I see them as generous gifts, as transports of delight, gloriously wrapped in the scent of love and ribbons of devotion without the inconvenience of sticky tape that won’t stick and weak paper that so easily tears. Gifts that blossom open without a cutter to reveal contents that dazzle the soul and provide function for the body and festive décor for the mind.

Yet, even at that, some of my tribe are still bustling about the shops, wincing and sighing. Still on the hunt. And if asked, they would say I am difficult to choose a gift for and impossible to please.

Good Looking and Funny

With Christmas right around the corner, I want to discuss other ways to pump pleasurable endorphins into one’s brain besides eating turkey and chocolate. And how unfortunate it is that we miss easier ways to find joy in a humdrum day—simply by doing things that are truly stupid and utterly inappropriate.

Now before I continue, let me tell you about my day.

Today Hub and I are making the dreaded trip to town. So Hub showers, shaves, puts on clean clothes, a splash of after-shave, and grooms his hair. Soon after I see him examining his image in the hall mirror. He puffs out his chest, sucks in his stomach, and turns left and right examining his profile, his hair, his physique, his biceps, and sniffs the citrus odor of his aftershave.

“You are such a fortunate woman,” he says to the mirror, though his comments are meant for me. “You have a man who smells good, dresses good, looks good, has a sense of humor, takes good care of you, takes you to town” and here he does a clumsy little jig and says, “and is agile as well!”

I laugh at his silliness, at the bold way that he is breaking all the rules about what is and isn’t appropriate. Being so silly when we are too old to be silly. Immature, some would say. With no serious thought given to appropriate or inappropriate behavior.

So many, having seen this display, would be as one is expected to be – appalled rather than allowing themselves to find humor in it. Isn’t it sad, that in our somber judgment, we have forgotten that silly-laughing is every bit as authentic and therapeutic as jokes that play on a comic clash of intellectual thought.

Knowing that laughter is linked to life and longevity, we still feel it is necessary to sneer with sophisticated rigidity at dumb acts and dumb conversation. We feel socially compelled to make discriminatory judgments minute-by-minute of each day of what is funny and what is ‘not funny’ because it is such nonsense. So there is a bareness of laughter in our lives that causes us concern. Enough concern that some communities form Laughing Clubs. Members get together where in desperation they force laughing sounds in the hope that eventually the culmination of their efforts will create enough of a ripple to spawn heartfelt laughter. But I digress.

And so, returning to our topic, social influence has us believing that with maturity it is imperative we act our age and reject silliness rather than seize it. I don’t know why when silly-happy brings its own sweet level of pleasurable endorphins and gaiety.

It’s easy to keep cynicism at bay through mid-life and latter years if we allow ourselves to be happy even if that happiness is prompted by utter foolishness. The complexity is how to shelf the part of us that wants to reject outright silliness thinking that such rejection enhances our own intellect. It’s really quite sad when we can no longer roll on the floor with laughter and find easy joy through exposure to someone who is happy, even if it is silly-happy, rather than practicing sober immunity.

If I were to sum up what gives life special meaning I would have to say dry humor is good. Intellectual comedy is good. But silly-happy is hilarious. With that kind of joke, we don’t have to worry whether our laughter breaks out in a snort, a cackle, a hiccup, an explosion, or even if we dribble a bit in our underpants, because sophistication, delicacy, and decorum have no part to play in silly-happiness.

And so, as Hub puts the car in drive, he says to me. “By the way tomorrow you will be more fortunate than you are today. Bet you thought it wasn’t possible?”

And so, I have to ask, “What is happening tomorrow?”

Hub grins. “So soon not noticing? So soon forgetting the obvious?" Here he breaks into a happy singing voice...

"To know me is to love me. I get better lookin' each day!”

Treating Friends Right

I got Matador for Christmas last year. He is my robot vacuum cleaner. And he still happily buzzes around the house cleaning up floors for me. Doing his job, sweeping corners with his little broom, and waving a cheery “Hello” to me with it as he dashes across the wide expanse of my livingroom. Or playing hide and seek in the bedroom as he dashes under the dresser and the bed skirts and then suddenly pops out when I cannot find him as if to say, “Had you fooled, didn’t I? Here I am.”

So he's been part of the family for almost a year. But then YD (youngest daughter) phones a couple of weeks ago to say, "Did you know Matador has a carrying handle?"

“No, he doesn’t” I said.

“Oh, but he does. I saw a man carrying a robot just like him on TV.”

“You must be mistaken. The newer robots may have a carrying handle but Matador doesn’t.”

I was sure YD must be mistaken. So I took Matador out of his usual parking spot to have a look. Sure enough. He did have a bit of a handle so cleverly disguised that I had never discovered it even through regular dismantling of his parts to clean them. And even when told what kind of handle it was, it wasn’t that easy to find. But yes, he does have a carrying handle, a cleverly disguised moonshape flap blended in so well with his overall appearance that one would never know. How amazing is that? I have always carried him around cradled in my arms.

So now, knowing this, do I carry him by the handle?

Absolutely not. It strikes me that carrying him around by that little flap is as unkind as the unfeeling dog-dealing brute that showed ED a litter of basset puppies, one at a time, by lifting them out of their pen by their long, soft, tender, silky little ears! Only a brute that carries rabbits by their ears, and kittens by their tails would carry around Matador in that uncaring way.

Now some may think that odd, but later when I asked YD if she carries her robot that way she replied “Most definitely not!” Turns out she feels the same about her robot as I feel about mine. If it had only been a carrying harness with a soft belly-band, we would have been infinitely pleased and carried the little fellows around without remorse.

I hope Matador isn’t offended with me, but I wanted to show you how I would carry him if I was a brute and if he and I didn’t have this special relationship we have and you will then see for yourself how reckless and mean-spirited it would be for me to carry him that way.

Dense Mammary Meditations

Only recently scientists have discovered that urban women have denser breasts than rural women and unfortunately this leads to urbanites having a higher risk of breast cancer. But my point in this discussion is not to make light of cancer, or its dire implications, but rather to discuss scientific assessments of the cause of greater breast density. This is the article that leads to today's discussion:

“CITY WOMEN AT GREATER RISK FOR BREAST CANCER
CTV.ca News Staff

Women who live in cities have denser breasts than those who live in suburban and rural areas, making them more likely to develop breast cancer…”

And so, out of this study has come the bigger question puzzling researchers – ‘Why is this so?’

And so, with all that academic pondering, within formula thinking, rather than common reason, they think it might be phenomena tied to higher levels of pollution, population, or greater stress, among a host of other wild guesses. And I’m left to wonder if there is any logical sense to these premises?

Meanwhile, the simple sparsely-educated mind thinks it might have to do with wearing bras. I live in the backwoods and because there are no solicitors knocking at my door, no neighbors chatting over the fence, and no one next to me peeking in my window, and no paper boys or mail man coming to my house, my tits hang loose and my bra is around here somewhere (maybe next to my teeth), but it isn’t around my chest.

And when I look in the mirror it seems to me, that when a 34B, is pointed straight at my knee, it lacks density.

Still I am as ashamed and embarrassed to be caught without my bra as I am to be caught without my teeth in my mouth, so it probably goes without saying, if I lived in the city, I’d probably have a bra on 24-7 and I’d know where my teeth are.

So I have to say, does it take a Scientist to realize that when soft pliable stretchy goods are conscientiously packed and supported, they are likely to be denser than when the same pliable goods are hanging loose, flopping around, without any support?

Just a thought…

"Affluenza" - Medical Notes

Have you heard all the hype about the latest disease so rampant in our nation? So aptly named ‘affluenza’? This is a disease that attacks individuals that believe that more money equals greater happiness.

To explain further, when the goal in life becomes a focused and fanatical effort to make more money, move to a bigger house, drive a newer car, get more stuff, that is an affluenza infection. And the ongoing symptoms are people work more hours, spend less time with families, and wake up each morning more disenchanted than the day before. And yes, the malady is aptly named and the symptoms easily understood. The outcome is dire. If left untreated, it results in failed relationships and a barren and meaningless existence without the comfort of awe and appreciation for nature and the beauty of living.

And so books are poring out of bookstores like porridge out of a magic pot to stem the tide of the disease. There are tapes, and books, and television shows, and ads for all the equipment needed to cure this newly defined ailment.

The cures come in the form of hints and helps for scaling back. Moving to a smaller house, riding a bike, cooking from scratch, and living with less. And I had to think, “this is good. It goes hand in hand with environmental protection efforts.” But at the same time, I’m having a bit of a problem with the disease experts and their lists of cures.

The infection comes with a misunderstanding that money brings happiness. But when the bottom line after all the scaling back is the remark that Hub and I heard after watching a show on Affluenza on television the other night, something is very wrong with the overall picture.

An individual, who had changed to the simple life by moving to a smaller place, and reducing his income, and finding recreational enjoyment in wandering marshes, rather than paying to see a movie or dinner out, concluded with a comment that erased all that he was trying to do.

You see the disease starts with a misappropriated understanding about wealth and happiness. And the cure is to simplify life and find a new understanding of happiness unrelated to wealth. So, in summing up his new lifestyle, I expected his reflections to be about a newly discovered delight in the beauty of flora and fauna in the marsh or the birds floating overhead. But, no. He said the grandest thing about the lifestyle changes he had made is that when he readies himself for bed and removes his wallet from his trousers, that the amount of money he had there when he woke up, remains the same.

This is where Hub and I looked at each other and said, “I think this guy missed the whole point.” The one about reverting to a non-monitory focus. The one about awe and enjoyment derived from a simple life.

And so now, I feel a misappropriated understanding of the disease continues with the concept, not so judiciously hidden, that in living miserly one can find such happiness in daily and miserly tabulation of how little money is spent and how much money is saved. That’s when I concluded that in the mix of it all there are many false prophets exploiting false cures.

It seems to me that the poor lost starved souls desperately seeking help are going to have a hard time evading the charlatans. Money is at the root of the disease so when tabulation of money is part of the cure, that cure is a nothing more than an ineffective placebo of no intrinsic remedial value. This is not a disease where immunity can be found through inoculation of the patient with the offending money-think microbes.

What has to be re-cultivated is awe and fervor in the beautiful simplicity of dew sparkling on a rose, a moss-covered rock, a forest blanket of leaves and ongoing reflection and appreciation. The cure is complete when the recovering patient finds all meaning and joy in the affection of friends and family and a spectacular sunset, rather then readying himself for bed by checking the stability of the contents of his wallet.

Empathy and the Perfect Gift

I like to think I’m the Queen of Empathy. I like to think I’m so good at it that I can intuitively know what people are thinking without language. With only a blush, a flush, a frown, or a wave.

And I personify everything, whether animate or inanimate.

In my house conversation is endless from morning to night. I converse with my pets, my plants, even my clothing, bedding, and hardware. I worry about the comfort and care of everything.

I am annoyed with Hub when he drives Car without kind consideration. I make sure Dishwasher is happy and that there is lots of hot water before I do dishes. When I polish a table, I am happy because Table is happy. I talk kindly to my plants and plead with Computer. I have assigned personalities to everything and I keep those distinctive personalities in mind. So that everyone, and everything, will be happy.

And likewise I link my feelings to the feelings of others. When I see human discomfort, I weep. When I see neglect, I’m heartbroken. When I see injustice, I’m truly dismayed.

So am I not the Queen of Empathy? I think I am. In fact I’m quite certain I am. That is, until Christmas comes….

And so you would think the Queen of Empathy could crawl into everybody’s head. And with all that empathetic knowing, so perfectly aligned with the motives, situations, emotional sensitivities, and physical needs of others, I would be able to easily decide on the perfect gift to buy for each and every one. But not so.

Every gift is a problem. A big, big problem. I guess I could ask friends what they want but that so ruins the surprise.

So I get discouraged at Christmas time. I can’t help feeling quite crushed. My inability to choose appropriate gifts is frustrating, but more so is my insecurity about how genuinely I care about others. Maybe I don’t even understand Empathy. Maybe what I feel is nothing more than a game I play that I don’t fully understand.

How can I be sure?

Exfoliation Fallacies

First an intimate confession. Since the first feeble stirrings of hormones as an adolescent, I have been attracted to masculine ruggedness in the form of strong arms and bushy chests.

Now don’t be pulling that sad face with me just cause you happen to be a man that only was able to grow two chest hairs. That’s okay. You don’t have to don a tie. Just button up your shirt all the way and go read somebody else’s blog.
_____

And so, the rest of us continue….

Now the other day I saw a menopause male with an exfoliated chest. Well, yeh, maybe it wasn’t exfoliated, but knowing his nature of preening and primping, and how well his head hair is doing, I’m pretty sure it was. It was so horrid. I wanted to weep.

So what if fellows lose their head hair. There’s nothing in that, that detracts from masculinity. (‘Member Yul Brynner.) And even when men end up with deeply engraved mid-life character lines that come from looking seriously into the faults of a truck engine or staying abreast of a woman’s needs, such engravings in no radical way damage the attractive burliness and brawn of younger years.

But when they fall for that silly routine of chest-hair exfoliation and then walk about with shirt agape at the neck and all you see is an unnatural sheen that gleams and highlights papery skin and wizened tendons that have no relationship to masculinity, that is gawd-awful.

A thatch of chest hair, whether black, brown, grey, or white, arouses eternal appeal.

I hate male chest-hair exfoliation. It’s as bad, no even worse, then grandmothers sporting tattoos. And grandmothers sporting tattoos of their younger years is akin to dressing up in modern artfully tailored fashion while distressing the whole look with a 1977 Souvenir T-shirt. And if accessories make the look why would one want to accessorize with an obsolete generational icon or insignia? (That’s why no one should get a tattoo until they become a grandmother and by then they will know better.) But I digress.

Returning to our current discussion, you know, as women, how we are encouraged to strive for eternal beauty with cosmetic surgery. To the extent that now even men are being seduced into similar procedures. So if I may assume that men yen to do for the sake of women what women yen to do for the sake of men (i.e. maintain a level of sexual attractiveness) then men should NOT be exfoliating any part of their bodies. If they must have a beauty routine, if they must have a cosmetic fix, then the first procedure they should lend themselves to when that reparative season comes, is transplanted chest hair, rather than head hair.

I’ve yet to see a really attractive man’s wig or hair-transplant. Most of them are as obvious as the nose on my face. And though carefully positioned physically, still always somehow out of position visually.

As for me, I’d be a whole lot happier if men (in particular, men of my age) sought to maintain masculinity though faux chest hairs or downy chest transplants. I’m thinking of a few older newsmen and talk-show hosts that could really resurrect their masculine appeal if they were to show up tomorrow on television minus a bad wig but with shirts agape and a furry-mat at the neck.

Man, I never thought the day would ever come when I would find myself encouraging cosmetic fixes for women, and least of all men, but I guess somehow in the flood of it all, I got swept along.

The Simple View

Today, a non-CNN moment of instruction and provocative thought from the minority class of Young Children that are never granted air time.

Boy Twin wants the practical things of life to make better sense. And so from him comes this observation:

“Why do we say ‘Febuary’ and ‘Wensday’ and then spell them as ‘feb-roo-airy” and “wed-nez-day’? It’s just not right!”

….

Then Twin Girl leaves a big envelope addressed to Hub stuck in our door. Inside is a carefully drawn chart on a large piece of red construction paper. This is what it says:

CHORE CHART

I was nice to my neighbors.
I was nice to my dogs.
I called my neighbors to come for a walk.
I didn’t bother my neighbors.

[And at the bottom] TOTAL CHECKS: ______ (for each day)

Hub and I laugh. What a delightful task list?

______
As adults we are quite unaware of the nonsense things that frustrate children to an extent equal to that of adults. Things like the spelling outcry above that leaves Boy Twin wondering, ‘What is this world coming to?’

…but yet, on a lighter note, without academia, Girl Twin has the instructional wisdom to know how to make a dreary day so much better.

As for me, I’d like to stay and chat, but Hub and I have chores to do.

Warming Up To Poetry

[All those poetry anthologies that are so bloody depressing]

They slither through moss and dissect broken hearts
Reality and dreams in a death camp apart.
Judgments so somber in rhyme and in verse
Ethereal visions that make me feel worse.

Minstrels and lyrics, alone on the sweeps
Duplicity enough to make court jesters weep
Warnings that in life, nothing will keep
Except the cold bed of eternal sleep.

“Poets, Come stir me but don’t leave me cold
Or I’ll kindle a fire in me word-burning stove.”
I’ll toss in the poetry. I will be that bold.
I’m had quite enough of the ‘moss and the mold’.


And in the warmth of the fire, content and demure
Here will I find a most poetic allure
Oh yes, burning poems into something obscure
Is an exhilarating tonic of indulgence and cure.
I dance to the crackle, pop-flicking, and whrrrr…
Of blackened pentameter and dactylics that purr.

More About Invalid Care

And so, after the last two posts, about me ailing and about Hub’s less than adequate care for an invalid, I have two options.

1) I can either give my list from the previous post to the lady living here who instructs First Aid and other Certification classes, (though that isn’t too promising – with the itinerary being rigidly fixed by some overseer), OR…

2) When Hub gets a minor flu, I will provide him proven elixirs of relief by preparing him “Sick Room Cookery” from my trusty cook book published in 1899…

Let’s see. It might be well for him to have “Chicken Milk”, “Eel Broth”, “Calve’s Feet Broth”, “Vinegar Whey”, or “Meat Juice”.

The “Meat Juice” sounds perfect. The recipe includes this little commentary:

“Its appearance is against it… Children generally take it without difficulty; but adults, unless they are too weak to have an opinion…, have often an insurmountable objection to it. Nothing can then be done but to hide it in a colored or covered cup, or add a little Liebig’s Extract to conceal the color.”

Of course, I shouldn’t discard the “Oatmeal Drink (Recipe by the late Dr. Parkes).”

Not only does the title for this recipe refer to the “late Dr. Parkes”, the recipe sounds like a potion that hovers somewhere between kill, or cure.

Here again, the recipe includes an interesting commentary:

“If you cannot boil it you can take a little oatmeal mixed with cold water and sugar, but this is not so good; always boil it if you can….
Those who tried this recipe last year, found that they could get through more work than when using beer, and were stronger and healthier at the end of the harvest.”

[Source: “The Dominion Cook Book containing valuable recipes in all the departments including SICKROOM COOKERY” by Anne Clarke].

And here’s where my imagination kicks in. Can’t you just see pub-goers who buy into a healthier lifestyle sitting at a table watching a hockey game on the big screen and yelling for another draught of oatmeal?

Yeh. I think I’ll keep my cookbook at the ready, but I won’t seek revenge. I’ll just seek to improve Hub’s health, strength, and work motivation at the end of the harvest.

Duped and Distressed

I told Hub the other day when we were invited to a social gathering, it was not a good idea. When you tend to be as reclusive as we are, (and hate the dreaded trip to town as much as we do), we have little, if any, immunity. And so, I was right. Sure enough I picked up a bug.

But so what? I was in expert hands with Hub with his whack of certificates that make him an expert in First-Aid, Resuscitation, Tourniquets, Heimlich maneuvers, shock recognition and prompt medical treatment.

Now I, on the other hand, have never been to any of these classes. So I don’t know what is involved. But I do know what isn’t involved. And the gaps have certainly swayed my confidence in the value of certified caregivers.

These are the things Hub does not know and how could this happen with him going to another intensive 3-day seminar every time I turn around?

1. He doesn’t know how comforting it is to have one’s pillows fluffed and flipped.

2. He doesn’t know that sick people need to be provided with food and encouraged to eat something—anything. Small, bland, yet attractive meals. At the least, tea and soda crackers, or maybe delicately cut bites of soft toast with a bit of broth.

3. He doesn’t know that sick people should have a bedside jug of ice water replaced at least twice a day.

4. He doesn’t know how comforting it is to the patient to have a warm sponge bath – arms and face if nothing else. Or a bit of hair brushing.

5. He doesn’t know how healing a lavender-scented back-rub can be.

6. He doesn’t know how the sick one will hide under a blanket and grin with sheer delight when the caregiver shows dedication by turning off the Lone Star Channel and checking the condition of the patient frequently (clumsily, on tip toe) to see if anything more can be done.

7. Or even how reparative it is to the patient to hear Hub telling the puppies they must be quiet cause Mom isn’t feeling well.

8. He doesn’t know that it wouldn’t hurt to feel my forehead, even if his callused hands aren’t sensitive enough to pick up a fever.

9. He doesn’t know how important it is to query if the patient wants more blankets or less blankets. Or how glorious it is to have one’s toes tucked in.

He doesn’t know how all these things guarantee a speedy recovery. On second thought, maybe not. Maybe if he knew all these things I’d still be sick – very sick!

But the big question in my mind is how can anyone attend so many seminars given by professionals with such intensity and earnestness and write all those exams and still miss so much of the really important stuff?

The New Authority

Though bookstore shelves are heavy laden with manuals on aging and retirement, there is an important aspect of the reality of aging that is never mentioned. A reality that I don’t think any one is ever prepared for.

What always comes as the biggest shock to retirees, is waking up one morning to find that mental preferences no longer rule the body. That the line of command has shifted.

When they say, as they’ve always said, through childhood, youth, and middle age, “Run, body, run” or “Jump, body, jump”, the body suddenly and unexpectedly refuses to do their bidding. Like a spoiled child, all they get from Body is stubborn dormancy and “Nah, don’t want to.”

It is the wildest irony that when the mirror reveals a failing physical form, that is when the power and long-time rule of Mental Preferences will be suddenly usurped by the authority of a feeble, mindless, stooped, and willowy-thin bit of hair and bone.

So here is a brief tutorial of what to expect when the Body becomes the new ruling authority and mental choices become obsolete.


BOOK 1: Rules for the Day (under the new authority)

1) Wake up.

2) Do not move. Do not attempt to rise. You will need to work out and warm up first. Start by gingerly stretching to unclasp padlocked limbs and loosen knots in the calves of your legs. It will take more than a few cautious stretches in order to abort impending macramé of every tendon.

(Remember in your party days how you used to press a foot again the wall to keep the room from spinning. You are going to have to do that again.) Lift one leg high and press your foot against the wall in order to ward off an impending cramp in the arch of the foot. Hold that posture until the spasm has passed.

3) Sit up and swivel body until legs drape over the side of the bed. No, maybe not. Not if there is a back spasm threatening. Maybe just roll over on stomach and push, crawl, fall over edge of bed. Now secure a good hold on the bed frame and stagger to your feet.

Support the upper body with arms braced and ease the torso gently onto the legs. If legs fold, repeat.

4) Don’t look at the clock. It is of no matter what time it is. Life is no longer a process marked by time. Your body, though frail, is now CEO of this relationship. And as the newly-installed CEO, Body will determine when you should rise, stand, sit, or lie down, and will needle you with cramps and pain if you disobey.
There will be no insubordination no matter what the clock-time or how physically and mentally exhausted you are.

Under the new authority, you may be obliged to stand and walk about at 4:30 a.m. and to lie down and sleep at 10:30 a.m. But still, within this new re-organization, you are obliged to do what your Boss-Body demands when your B.B. demands it.

5) After pre-testing of legs and eventually independent stance, put one foot in front of the other and head to the bathroom. Have the Nil-Odor within reach.

You will feel an urge to relieve yourself and you may, but at the same time you will for certain expel surprising and unexpected volumes of noxious gas. [NOTE: Nil-Odor has warnings not to inhale the fumes but the other can’t be safe either. So take your pick.]

6) Re-install your teeth. Mindless body will not prompt you to rinse them first. So maybe make a note of that because dental-soak is as strong as the acid used for marble etching.

7) Assemble bath materials – soap, towels, dry-skin lotion, non-skid bath mat, shampoo, etc. Remove night clothes. You may tell your body to “scale the tub” but Body will likely say, “Shut up, I’m the boss here and I don’t want to.” So there is nothing for it but to work up a soapy lather on a soft cloth and wash pertinent areas starting with UPPER portion of body and working down! [Another routine that it might be well to write down in appropriate order.]
Rinse and dry.

8) Crawl back into night-clothes because mindless-body forgot to bring day-wear to bathroom. Trudge back to bedroom to extract clothes from closets in order to dress. Lay wardrobe on bed. Go to kitchen. Boil water for tea. Make tea, make toast, take pills. Return to bedroom to get dressed. Return to kitchen to remember why you went to bedroom. Return to bedroom to remember why you went to kitchen.

Didn't help. Oh well, it's of little matter. No doubt, by now the new CEO or Body Authority will decide that that is enough body-movements and physical commissions for now. And so Body, at this point, will bullishly insist on a lie-down. And so, submissively, that’s what you will do.

____________

If we were consulting clocks, which we are not doing, this process would have started at 9:00 a.m. and reached completion by lunch-time.

And so now…I’m wondering if there is a real need for this kind of handbook. I’m wondering if after this mandatory nap, if I should attempt to work on Book Two. I expect the new boss will say “Nay” to that as well.

Lessons in Review

I’ve learned a few things in the past few weeks that are quite astounding that have actually stuck in my forgetful mind.

I learned from another blogger’s summary of her life-mediator’s advice that one can improve their self-esteem by crossing their “T’s higher. And that journals, in order to effect positive change, should only contain positive thoughts. So much for my “Rage” journal – the one I keep to serve as a therapeutic outlet for the impetuous thoughts that I dare not speak (or post)...

I learned from the Dalai Lama that society needs to shed the conflict created by an enduring ‘them’ and ‘us’ attitude and realize that with today’s technology we are all linked and become only ‘we’. And in realizing that we will readily understand that any act of aggression against other nations is an act that equally cuts into our own flesh.

I learned that garden dirt has something in it called ‘a happy bug’. Something that releases pleasurable endorphins that insulate our bodies from various ailments. We used to get an adequate amount from garden veggies but that is no longer so. The happy bugs are all being washed and rinsed away. Scientists say this happy bug is/was a source of immunity for children against allergies, bronchial problems, even asthma.

I’m inclined to think that such wee critters do exist. There has to be some plausible explanation for why Hub and the grandchildren become so giggly, garrulous, and gay after devouring garden carrots pulled from the soil and rubbed haphazardly on their jeans.

And then, from a science show on Intelligent Television, I learned the most surprising thing of all. That there is a relationship between the sex of the brain and the length of one’s fingers. With men, particularly, the gap between a longer ring finger and a shorter index finger, translates into the amount of male hormones present in the womb during the pre-birth of that individual.

The greater the gap the more competitive (risk takers) men are likely to be. The greater the gap, the more adept they are at science, math, and spatial-visual assessments, but at the same time they are likely to be deplete in empathy and emotional telepathy with others.

It was found that even as infants, male babies are more interested in looking at devices, while infant girls seek to look at faces.

I examined Hub’s hands and can readily see why he drives like a maniac and is so nonchalant about my emotional ups and downs. From this, I finally understand why when I cut or color my hair, Hub never notices. I now understand why I am invisible and why when my face plainly shows that my world is crumbling, Hub continues to dismantle electronic devices without distraction.

Male participants in the study admitted they have little intuition and if women expect to be understood, they need to explain in minute detail how and why they are feeling upset.

So, that’s it for this week’s lessons. These are my new convictions. I’ll cling to them for a while until they are debunked by something totally contrary which shouldn’t take long.

And so, in the meantime, if you want to see the crossbar on the “t” in “Roberta”, look up, way up – aloft, skyward.

Woman

Woman is the everlasting encumbrance
Of time, a garden, and a coiled serpent.

Insatiable in her want of warm rocks
Long conversations while listening more
Of exuberance versus stillness of thought
And seemliness of the soul

But still within her longings
Linger memories of serpentine-thoughts
Manipulation of destiny
That link to a garden and a tree.

Fangs hidden by sensuous moist lips
Crush fresh fruits from the garden
And draw sweetness where they can
It is a needful thing
And only then is she sated.

And so,
With the setting of the sun…

Eve falls.

Halloween Crimes

I wanted to give him rice cakes, but he wanted candy...

What could I do?