Someone Call the fire Department

 A few strange things have happened over the last few weeks. First, the top of my deodorant stick broke off. I was heading out on a trip and I hate wasting money so I found a tiny plastic bag I'd saved from Baba's Bulk Bin, and shoved the piece in there. I am nothing if not inventive. And cheap. 

The strange part happened when I was getting changed. I lifted my arms up and noticed flecks of green in my pits. 'Am I growing mold in secret places?' I wondered. But as a pleasant, delicate odour wafted past I remembered my store purchase. The bag had been used to hold parsley, and it was covering the deodorant with the ferocity of sparkle dust. Naturally, I used the rest of the stick until it was gone. After all, the parsley was doing me no harm.

The next strange thing happened yesterday. I was  recently in Calgary, but since I hate shopping, I came home without the sports bra I desperately needed. I'm trying to up my activity level, and that kind of jumping around requires a stern undergarment with a bossy edge. I went to our local Red Apple store, which sells everything from groceries (they have the faint look of having been stored in an underground bunker) and plenty of other goods with tiny issues. Like beautiful sheets with an unsewn seam or an elegant jacket marked large when it's actually size small. It's fun going in there...its kind of like a treasure hunt. 

I found a beautiful black and gray racerback bra and brought it home to try on. It fit me perfectly and like a courteous escort, it said nothing but gave plenty of silent support. I promptly turned on YouTube and did a vigorus zumba workout. Then I bundled up for a walk and after returning home, got ready to settle in for the night. 

Now, I'd never worn this kind of garment before and it hadn't occured to me that it would be difficult to remove. In fact, it was impossible. During my desperate struggle, I began to understand the fear of a baby hippo trying to escape from the mouth of a crocodile. The elastic might have been made by Nasa, perhaps to fasten an escape hatch onto the mother ship. I wrestled harder, but made no progress at all. And then I thought, oh, no. I might have to call the fire department! They're the ones who rescue you when you're locked in a stuck elevator. And I was having my own locked-in moment. 

My neighbor Linda was away, and her husband Gerry and I are friends, but we don't have that kind of relationship. I thought about getting scissors and cutting the thing off me. But that seemed ridiculous. Besides, I'm a tad uncoordinated and could end up slicing myself instead. This was underwear and it was meant to be removed. 

I picked up my phone and googled 'how to remove a racingback sports bra.' Every answer started with, 'loosen the straps.' But there was nothing to loosen. My aha! moment arrived. This is why it was only $9.00! It was well made (too well made, really) but nobody had thought to install a zipper or clasp of any kind. 

Finally, through sheer desperation and with only the tearing of a few stitches, I got the thing off. Then I had to lie down on the bed and recover, since I felt like I'd just taken part in an Olympic wrestling event way above my weight level. 

Am I going to wear it again? You're darn tootin' I am. But first, the two of us will have a chat. There might be some amendments made to the thing. Because, really, the fire Department has more important things to do. But I'll have a friend on standby, just in case. 

Don't Let Me Die Wearing Gray Underpants

  Comfortable underwear has been my jam since I grew old enough to care. My preferred fabric is cotton, my style, granny. Back when I was nine months pregnant with our first child, I took to wearing my husband's cotton jockey shorts because nothing else fit me.

When Clarence saw me, his face fell, like this.

   'You look like a sumu wrestler,' he said. Thanks!" I replied. "So you think I'm the sporty type?" In response, he clapped his hands to his cheeks like McCauley Culkin in Home Alone.  I faced him down, hands on hips, my whale sized belly taking over the room. He got over it.

My love affair with comfortable underwear continued. At various times I attempted wearing things like tummy taming silky garments. "They really work for you," my hubby said flirtatiously.

"Are you taming your tummy?" I asked in a voice any sensible man would understand meant, Stop Talking Now." He slunk from the room, never to address the issue again. He'd made the mistake once of confiding in me that all a woman had to do to keep a guy interested was to show up. Ribbons and bows were merely wallpaper. I took him at his word.

But this isn't about that. Aside from my comfort, I have few underwear concerns, and tend to purchase my favorite pairs by the six pack. Sadly, there's always two pairs in gray. Now, I might not be the tummy slimming type, but that doesn't mean I've abandoned all sense of self worth. If these were a light and trendy gray, that would be different. These ones look like they were handed out in a Victorian Orphanage for the Poor. In spite of their comfort, to see them on myself is to be visited with a sense of hopeless despair. So I save them for working around the house or writing all day. 

But the  biggest reason I don't like wearing them outside is, what if I die? Say I've been hit by a car. (I'm a jaywalker.)  Now, let's pretend that for some reason, they had to take off my pants. I picture the ambulance attendant throwing in the towel a tad early. "She's gone," he'd say carelessly.The female attendant would not take this well.

"You think she's not worth saving because of her underwear? We can't let her die like this!' And through her sense of solidarity and genuine understanding of the situation, she'd persist until I coughed myself back into life.

Having written this, I've realized that the sensible thing to do is to package up the gray pairs and leave them at a second hand store. "New," I 'll write in an attached note. "But only for those who've abandoned all hope." On the other hand, maybe some other woman would be a bit more prosaic about the whole thing. Maybe the women  wearing fancy, uncomfortable underwear will buy them with a sense of relief. 

"And they're so cheap!" they'd say to themselves. And so my poorhouse underwear will become another woman's refuge. At the end of the day, it's just another story in the unfashionable circle of life.

If I Were in Charge of Time

 I was listening to the Current on CBC radio, where professor Rob Cockcroft discussed the construct of time. In other words, humans created the idea of time. Five thousand years ago, people like the Babylonians and Egyptians decided they needed to measure the day in hours. "The slaves are working 24/7 on that pyramid," boasted sun dial makers in that week's Papyrus. "But everyone else needs a bit more rest."

I learned that in either June or December, one second of extra time, a leap second, is added to the year's tally. The rotation of the earth isn't as predictable as we've been led to believe. (But what is? A question for the ages.) And it's slowing down...something to do with melting glaciers and rising rock. Anyway. To add a second, you actually stop time FOR a second. Since everyone's trying to save money these days, I pictured the people in charge asking for volunteers to keep an eye on the atomic clock. Since I donate my time regularly at church and in my community, I might be the perfect candidate. 

Ah, but therein lies the folly. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that when the scientists yell, 'Now, Judy! Stop the clock for one second!' —

—I will be finishing an exciting chapter in the Lord of the Rings trilogy that I've already read 13 times because it comforts me.( If Frodo and Sam can defeat the dark Lord, maybe the same will happen in November for our southern neighbors. Anyway.) I'd look up at them with bewildered eyes, my mouth ajar, perhaps a drip of saliva descending from my lips. 'What?' I'd say. They'd throw their arms in the air, then shrug it off, deciding to add two seconds in 2025 instead. 

Someone (I'm sure they have a name) has come up with the idea that instead of adding these seconds, they should wait sixty years and add a whole minute to the clock. I can just see the world when that happens. All the hockey players around the world will rest on their sticks while the fans wait, checking their cellphones. A guy on death row will lie there for a full extra minute as the warden waits for the signal. (But not in Canada. Instead, we torture people with endless years of waiting for a trial date. But I digress.) Let's face it, the whole thing could get very messy.

In conclusion, if they ever seek a volunteer, don't allow it to be me. 'Get me to the church on time,' is my mantra every Sunday, for a reason. Anything more, I won't be able to handle. Now, where did I put my book?

I'm in the Soup

 I appreciate the way my children take note of the things I love. For Christmas, I received one of my favourites gifts: a box of bath bombs. Baths are especially important for people who love to read. You can't take your book into the shower, but you can soak for hours while indulging your need for romance, fright, suspense, thrills, and of course, historical fiction, where you travel into the past and pretend you're on a Passge to India, or lodging in a Room With a View. The water grows cold as you get lost in the story. With your big toe, you turn on the hot tap and relax for another hour.

But I found one pesky flaw with these natural tension relievers. I was partway through my book when I discovered that my Apple Tree bath bomb was releasing small twigs and acorn style balls that floated around me, creating swamp-like conditions. I solved the problem by bringng a mesh sieve from the kitchen and scooping out all the wood. It was fine after that.

My next bath bomb, Rose Garden, scattered flower petals as it dissolved. They stuck to me like leeches, distracting me from my book. They floated around, poking themselves in places where no respectable petal should be found. Again, I fetched the sieve. The ones that clung to me had to be toweled off, but the scent was lovely. 

My last experience was the strangest. The bomb's name, 'Oregano!' should have clued me in. I was sitting in the tub, enjoying the feel of bubbles as it released soothing oil and a herbal kind of perfume and...oregano. Chopped finely.

It floated around me, coating the sides of the tub as well as myself. I thought, well there's oil in here, and oregano, and me. I'm the chicken in this soup. And I'm the dumplings, too, since I'm kind of a 'mature hen,' the sort that gets discounted in the freezer section of the grocery store.  

The amount of oregano floating around seemed impossible given the size of the bath bomb. And yet there I was, covered in vast amounts of tiny, green vegetation. 'I bet I'm one tasty chick,' was my first thought. And then, 'Ew.' 

It took a while to clean the tub. While I highly recommend all-natural bath bombs, make sure they contain only basic ingredients. Leave the forest and garden where they belong. That way, you'll never have to view yourself as lunch. 

I Need a Little More of That Sha Na Na

 I used to work with my mother. How it happened was she showed up at my front door the  day after she retired from nursing, wanting to help me with my home business. I'd designed a baby carrier, started selling it mail order and then online. Stores were showing interest, and mom thought I needed her. She was right. 

Every morning she'd start by cleaning up the kid's breakfast dishes, then begin wrapping up babyTrekkers. When my friend Crystal joined the gang, the three of us had a blast together. Technically, mom was my shipper, but she'd answer the phone if necessary.

'BabyTrekker!' she'd say a bit nervously, like she wasn't the shipper yet but was still auditioning. 

One time when Crystal was out of town, I was chatting with a customer on our 800 number when mom picked up the office line. 'Why yes,' I said into the receiver, 'The carrier comes in Hunter Green.' That's when my mother began shouting.

'Sha na na sha na na!'

I stared at her in horror, then quickly stretched my phone line and moved around the corner, crouching over the phone so I could protect my potential customer from whatever craziness this was. Mom carried on, "In the mighty name of Jesus, I pray peace upon you!' 

"Mom!" I hissed. "Who are you talking to?" Really, the possibilities were endless. I felt mortified, even as I started giggling.

For those not in the know, my mother was partly praying in English and partly speaking in tongues. This might lead you to believe that she was doing this with a Bible in one hand and a  poisonous snake in the other, (which I believe is actually a thing in the deep south.) First, let me explain about tongues. Ordinarily, it's a private conversation with God where you speak things even you don't understand. It's like pouring out your heart, and is very useful when  regular words fail you. It's meditative, kind of like a different version of 'Oooommmm.' I find it uselful in moments of despair when the world really sucks and I think Donald Trump might win the next election. Anyway.

Mom contiued exhorting the Holy Trinity while I kept hissing, "Who are you talking to?" Was it a customer who'd disprespected the babyTrekker? I couldn't think of any situation that would call for this kind of fervor. Finally, she hung up the phone and turned to face me. "Crystal called from Winnipeg needing prayer."

    "Did she need THAT kind of prayer?" I asked, kind of smiling but also feeling a bit stressed. Fortunately, I'd taken my customer's order and hung up. 

"Yes, she did," mom replied firmly. That was the thing about her. She was a dignified, deeply spiritual woman who never backed down when someone was in trouble. Many people loved and respected her, including all her grandchildren. 

When I asked Crystal about it days later, she confirmed that the prayer had really hit the spot. After that we got a portable phone so I could quickly flee the scene when things took a spiritual turn. Later, when we'd opened a factory and moved everything uptown, mom came with me for a while. And then she and dad started to travel. But I treasure those days...all the laughs and also the prayers. 

When things are tough like they've been over the last number of years, I miss my mother. And I'd give anything to hear her words of wisdom again. In spite of my reaction all those years ago, I realize that I need a little more of that Sha Na Na. I need the kind of prayer that lifts and soothes and calms my heart. There's too much of the other kind of noise in the world. Mom, thank you for everything, for your patience, and your prayers. The world is less without you. I know, without any doubt, my siblings and our children will give me an amen on that.

Girl With The Dragon Tattoo

 My sister Linda is a bit like a character from a 1950's musical—a good girl who likes to sing and doesn't have time for rule breakers. Frankly, the world would be in a better place if she were in charge of things. Like world peace. 'That'll be enough of that!' she'd tell Putin. The Middle East would get such a scolding, they wouldn't know what hit them. Actually, all hitting would cease immediately. 

So, imagine my surprise when I learned she was getting a tattoo. Not any old tattoo, either, but a dragon crawling down her right forearm. It's like she's joined a cult and this was her initiation. She's not a tattoo getting person. Yet, apparently she's been planning it for years. (She's careful like that.)

But now I can't help wondering what she'll do next. Shave her head and buy a studded leather jacket to accompany the gang tattoo on her neck? (She doesn't have it yet...I'm just projecting.) I picture her planning her gang's first book club meeting. (She used to be a librarian) There'd be a lot of shaping up and way less shenanigans once she got involved. (though Gangnam style shenanigans would be fine...she loves Korean dramas and the boy band, BTS.)

She often reminds me of Clint Eastwood's movie character,  Dirty Harry. (As children who attended Scouts and Brownies, we memorized all her expressions, obeying the mantra, Always Be Prepared.) I particularly remember her narrowed eyes asking us Clint-type questions:  'Do you feel lucky?' Or, "In this world, there are two kinds of people, my friend: Those with loaded guns and those who dig. You dig.” Obviously, a tattoo was going to happen at some point in her life. Madam Librarian has flung away her disguise of well dressed respectabilty and shown us her leather wearing, possibly bald headed, dragon self.

I find myself wondering, does everyone long for another version of themselves? Do others feel threatened by that new version? (I feel threatened by this version of my sister. I took her out for lunch just to keep her on my side.)

But truly, must we continue liking the same things, holding the same convictions and maintaining the status quo so that others feel comfortable in their interpretation of who we are? I'm someone who does not like change. But it keeps happening, and life has a way of forcing me to adapt if only to keep my sanity. My husband loved change and grew quickly bored with life's daily routines. I'm really hoping that death has offered him some crazy adventures so when I'm with him again, we can take it easy.

 'We're doing what?' I asked years ago, when he planned our camping trip through Asia and a hike up to Everest base camp. (Meanwhile, I'm challenged by hard pillows in a Canadian hotel.) But I adapted to his free spirit ways, because I knew that one of us had to have some spunk, and it wasn't going to be me.

After my sister joined a cult (kidding...just a tattoo, folks) nothing will surprise me anymore. My brother may decide to take up ballet. My sister, Joni, might choose to lie around for the rest of her life and do nothing, though I can't picture it. Her batteries will never die, and she will continue bustling around and helping people fix/clean/redecorate/stage their houses forever. In between all her travels, that is. 

Maybe I'll surprise myself and do something completely unpredictable. But I doubt it. For now, writing a blog about my eldest sister is as close to danger as I can get. On that note, it's goodbye for now. I need to find somewhere to hide.

Just Relax, Already

When the world feels heavier than usual, I put away my Game of Thrones novel or collected short stories by Virginia Wolfe (I want to love her writing, but no) and pick up something lighter. A mystery novel, perhaps, though nothing too suspenseful. Reading about a woman unaware of the strange man living in her attic is just not relaxing. 

Unfortunately, I chose a romantic comedy that backfired. Why? In spite of suffering from a serious heart condition, the main character ate nothing all day but candy and pizza. 'What about spinach?' I found myself asking her aloud. 'Or carrots?' (Dear reader, her diet caused heart palpitations in me.) So I abandoned the novel, picked up my phone and found a ten minute meditation on YouTube. My friend Penny had given me one, but I used it the night before and wanted to try something new.

Supposedly, meditation stops our thoughts from bossing our brains around. One can spend so much time worrying about things that may never happen that it can provoke a very unromantic heart condition. So I found a new meditation to try. 

A man with a relaxing voice directed me in hushed tones to make myself comfortable. I chose to sit on the sofa, leaning back and pretending that my legs were as bendy as my old yoga teacher's. In reality, I might as well be carved from wood. I closed my eyes when ordered to do so, and let the music wrap around me as I pictured myself standing at the edge of a lake. I was told to breathe, to notice my heart rate and pulse. I opened my eyes to peek at the candle my sister Joni had given me, mostly to distract myself from my heart beat.

Was it unusually fast?  I tried to calm myself by closing my eyes again, listening as the man quoted Winston Churchill. 'When you're walking through hell, keep going.' Excellent advice, but I immediately pictured the Gary Larson cartoon where hellgoers repeat endless leg lifts with the devil and his pitchfork on standby. 'One million one, one million two...

Stop it! I scolded myself, focusing once more on the voice. 'Count the clouds in the sky,' he ordered. And you know what? I didn't feel like counting the clouds. When I'm out kayaking, I take in the calm lake, watch for wildlife, stare at the rocks and peek up at the sky. Not once have I counted clouds. Why? It's boring. And dumb. My irritation made me anxious, so I disregarded his instructions, whispered a prayer of gratitude for my life and turned off the meditation. 

At first I felt a bit bereft, like a Hogwarts student who couldn't do spells and never got to spend time with Harry Potter. And then I started laughing. And I thought, okay. I feel better. 

I'll try another meditation, but not the kind where they aim too high. 'You can do anything!' some will say. I believe it on a spiritual level, but I've already given up on certain aspirations, like my old dream of skating in the Olympics. It was unrealistic anyway since I never took lessons. Besides, such things won't happen no matter how well I control my breathing. Perhaps I could envision myself skating competitively as a form of meditation. But no. My anxious imagination would make me fall, and I'd end up with a Judge's score of five at best. Oh, those Russians!

 You never want to meditate on being a loser. So, feel free to offer other suggestions, dear reader. I'm open to any of your YouTube referrals, so long as I don't have to count clouds.