It's the Rant Before Christmas

 Have you ever had one of those mornings where you'd rather not get out of bed? I woke up like that today. Nothing earth shaking. Just a low feeling of malaise. A temporary depressive state. And given the current events in the world, it's not all that surprising.

On days when I get that feeling, I use certain activities to shake myself out of the blues. Like dancing to online zumba classes. Or clapping my hands and jumping up and down. (Try it...it works.) Today, I made the mistake of going online and reading about the crazy happenings with our southern neighbors. It was too much. 

Fortunately, I went out to meet some friends at the Orange Toad, for tea. Sitting at a table next to other people in your community is relaxing.  I don't know about men, but women need each other's company. It's like free heart medication. I pictured myself lying on the floor of the coffee shop, barely able to lift my head, and Meghan, the owner, helping me up and saying, 'Here's your mint tea!' (I order the same thing every time. I'm very ritualistic...it's an ADD thing.) 

I felt much better when I left her place. Next, my friend Lois and I strolled over to the Red Apple, one of those 'we sell bar fridges and the cheapest sheets in the world' kind of stores. I was scanning the shelves for stocking stuffers when a Christmas song came on. Except in this one, nobody was wishing us a holly, jolly Christmas. Nobody was rockin' round the Christmas tree, or walking in a winter wonderland. Instead, the lyrics went like this:

Please Daddy, don't get drunk this Christmas
I don't wanna see my Mamma cry
Please Daddy, don't get drunk this Christmas
I don't wanna see my Mamma cry

I put back the shiny ornament I held in my hand and stared at a woman standing near by. 'Can you believe this song?' she asked me. 

The person singing might as well have been saying, 'Everything's bad. Lose all hope. Forget about Christmas.' Alan Jackson was the singer, but when I googled it, I discovered that John Denver wrote it! 

Look, folks. It's bad enough that 'He Who Shall Not Be Named,' won the US election. It's disturbing enough that I have to hear about it every single day, whenever I turn on my computer or listen to the news. But depressing Christmas music? 

Whatever happend to 'Grandma got run over by a reindeer? That one's funny, and the tune is catchy. 'Please Daddy' sounds like a funeral dirge, only daddy's not dead, he's just drunk as a skunk. And momma is sad. 

Perhaps the music channel wanted to make a statment. Maybe, like me, they find Hallmark movies depressing with their constant cheer and excessive decorating. But let there be some middle ground! A happy medium, where someone is having a hard day but then they meet friends for tea and everyone cheers up. 

Yes, John Lennon sang 'War is Over if You Want It' while depressing news played in the background. But that was the early seventies when people believed that anything was possible. Elvis sang 'Blue Christmas,' but listening to it didn't make you feel sad. It had you thinking, 'Get over here, buddy. I'll cheer you up in no time.'

But this song is an affront to Christmas. I'm someone who celebrates traditionally, with church on Christmas Eve and the singing of old fashioned carols like O Holy Night. But I embrace the other stuff, too. Like, Holly Jolly Christmas, and Jingle Bells and Rudolf the Rednose Reindeer. The classics. 

John Denver wrote Rocky Moutain High, and Annie's song. He's the guy who sang, ''You fill up my senses.' He's not supposed to be the 'You're killing your liver,' guy. 

I'm sure this song came from someplace real. And maybe it resonates with those who had a hard time while growing up. But please don't play this song in stores. We need Andy Williams and Michael Buble, and the Muppets. In these tough mental and emotional times (thanks for that, US Republicans) we need a pick me up, not a 'bring me down.' Now excuse me while I go watch Will Ferrell in 'Elf.' And let me end this blog by paraphrasing a line from that movie by addressing everyone's favourite, relaxing hangout. To the Orange Toad staff - 'congratulations on making the best mint tea in the world!' 

Dear Boomer

 Let's face it. We need to talk about our faces. Like, what the hell? You live for thirty, forty years and that image in the mirror doesn't change all that much. But you keep living your life (with gratitude, because not everyone gets to do that) and it starts to feel like time has sped up. It's a fast moving Ferris Wheel that won't let you off no matter how you yell at the carnie working the ride.

Every morning I gird my loins (my sayings are stuck in the past--it might be a boomer thing) and take that first look at myself. I kid you not, things can change in a day. 'Where did THAT wrinkle come from?' I say with a frown (adding ten more years to my face.) It's like the old age fairy has dropped by just to mess with me. 'I'll give her two new wrinkles, just for fun!' (The old age fairy is ancient and has not been in a good mood for many centuries.) But the worst thing about being a boomer? Having millenials talk to you in a loud voice.

Now, maybe this hasn't happened to you, yet. But let me tell you, it's weird. 

"I can hear you," I said, the first time it happened. Meanwhile I was thinking, 'Do I look THAT old?' And then I remembered. When I was 16, I couldn't tell if grownup people were thirty or fifty. I mean, I didn't think they were a hundred. I just knew they were old. 

And one day, you realize that all those claims you've heard about the flu or Covid or pneumonia hitting seniors harder, are true. 'But not me,' I once thought. 'Because I work out. I go for walks. I eat salad on a regular basis. So, I should get a pass, right?'

Apparently not. I'm just so delicate now. And it really makes me mad. I recently visited my children in Calgary where my skin had a savage reaction to the dry air. (Manitoba is apparently moisture central.) The rash on my face looked apocalyptic, and it took days to go away. I wore so much Nivea, my pores began to clog. My face finally cleared up, but then my sinuses seized up and I developed a cough. The day after I came back to Manitoba, it all went away. 

I know I'm lucky not to have more aches and pains than I do (although my right knee accurately predicts the weather) but honestly, I believed I would soar through my senior years. There has been some soaring...I slipped on the ice last winter...but life insists on showing me that I'm getting old. er. 

Aging people are like cars. Some are antiques that look fabulous, while others rest in empty lots with their wheels off, letting rust eats away at their bottoms. I'm working hard to make myself rust repellent, but really, there's not much you can do about your looks. Unless you're rich. But rich old people can look really stupid because of all the surgery and filler. I don't want that.

Now, I have to address something that can happen to senior Christians. Just for a minute. It's about us and the state of the world, so please avert your eyes, or head to the bottom of the page if this talk will upset you. Because I need a moment to speak to my people. 

So, to my fellow Christian boomers, I have some advice to help you negotiate these troubling times. ( I mean, it's my blog, right?)

1. Try not to get set in your ways. Don't visit Old Fartsville. It's hard to leave.

2. Sin is not what we thought in the past. It's not premarital sex or being gay or allowing people to have a sex change. Because that's not about you, and it's not your business. Sin means missing the mark. Missing the point of how Jesus lived and what he said to do.

Like,

Provide shelter to those with no place to live. Feed the hungry. Comfort the grieving. Let those without sin cast the first stone. Love one another. Forgive one another. 

In a country like ours, that means voting for policies that reflect your Christian views. Like supporting food banks, offering more public housing, and generally not acting like you're doing better than those struggling with poverty or drug abuse because you're superior in some way. Being Christian means acknowledging your privilege. Did you have love as a child? Were you fed? Housed? Encouraged? That means that even if money was tight, you had a great start in life.

Okay, other boomers. Please come back to the conversation. And don't try to make me feel better by leaving a compliment in the comment section. I never kid myself. Instead, let me know how this aging journey is going for you. 

Most importantly, keep your chin up. Because your neck looks way better in that position. And we all need to do what we can.

Reunion

 In the middle of September, I attended a Brandon University reunion. My third one, and not even mine, really. The class of 74 belonged to my husband. I'm not sure what it was about my own class of '76, but apparently, we weren't much fun and had no interest in reuniting. 

This time it was just me, along with a few of Ace's best pals. Walking through the campus where we met and fell in love felt poignant, yet kind of wonderful. The older you get, the more you appreciate all the things that helped make you, you. 

The last time the class met was ten years ago. Back then, we tried heading up to our old dorm rooms in McMaster Hall, but were blocked from entering the elevator by some belligerent students.

 'You can't come up here! You don't belong! Don't make us call security! Honestly, they would have been my least favourite people if I'd gone to school with them. Aren't you supposed to break a few rules when you're young? 

Fortunately, this time I ran into two young ladies who happily escorted me up to the 7th floor. I didn't get to see my old room, but there was the place for doing laundry, and the communal tub where I'd run a bath and play 'Strangers in the Night' on my recorder for an hour. (Seriously. But it was an alto recorder with a less screechy sound. Still...what was I thinking?) 

There was the 8th floor walkway where we dropped buckets of water onto the people below us during massive, multi-floor water fights. My friends and I, as grown ups and taxpayers, are not happy with some of the shenanigans we got up to back then. But the teenager hovering somewhere in the back of my brain still finds them delightful.

Many of us stayed at the Victoria Inn, where the university had reserved a block of rooms. The staff were lovely, but my room had a connecting door with a couple from the class of '64. They were both a bit deaf and left their TV on all night playing CNN loudly. I banged on their door at 3AM, but they didn't hear a thing. I, on the other hand, heard every word of their conversations. Fortunately, it mostly involved discussions around blood pressure and medication.

And then I tried to have a shower. Was the hotel secretly testing its guest's IQs? (I took a picture of the taps so you can see what I mean. )

Turning it on was the hardest part. I only wanted to use the rain shower on the ceiling, (missing from the picture) but water shot out from all the knobs, depending on how I turned the two centre ones. A tiny move to the right and the water was scalding. I kept hopping in and out of the cubicle like a demented rabbit. Who decided this was a step up from the old system, I'm not sure. As with most things, simplicity is best. It certainly looked classy, though. It's like they were trying to say, 'We're the Ritz, but not really.'

If we ever have another reunion and I stay there again, I'll be sure to request a 'single knob' shower. I'm sure they'll know what I mean. If not, I'll take a photo and write another blog on the hotel's latest IQ test. For now, this is Brandon Alumni, Judith Pettersen, signing off. 

Bug

 Last fall I was in bed at my daughter's house when a moth swooped past my head to brush against my cheek. I'm from northern Manitoba, so I'm used to bugs. Mosquitoes, house flies and a hairy spider or two have all been late night house callers. Over the last seven years I have taken a Bhuddist approach by capturing them with my Lee Valley bug trap...kind of a catch and release situation. Unfortunately, I didn't have it with me.

So I did the next best thing. I tried to kill the moth with my shoe. Oh, how the tender heart hardens when put to the test. But I couldn't bear the thought of it flying past my face all night long. I made more noise than I intended, and my daughter came rushing down the the stairs to my room. 

'Mom! What are you doing? You're going to wake the kids!' (As every parent knows, that's a no-no.) When I explained the situation, she gave me a 'Is she getting senile?' look. And then the moth brushed against her face and she bit back a scream. It took two of us but she finally landed the kill shot. 

This summer has been the most bug free one ever, if only inside my bedroom. I've  had just two strange moments, one of them quite recent.

The first entailed a bug that looked like the kind that haunts my rasberry bushes. ((Sometimes you have to pry them out of the raspberries.) But this thing was big as a moth and I couldn't decide if it was floating along the wall or climbing it. I hadn't noticed it until I got up to go to the bathroom. Quickly, I ran into the kitchen and grabbed my bug catcher. I stood on my bed and, in spite of its evasive actions, I managed to catch it, slam the trap door shut and carry the creature out onto the deck. 

As I opened the trap door, I realized that the bug had died. Perhaps from a fear related heart attack, but more likely, I'd clipped an important body part while shutting it inside. Per usual, I tossed it onto the deck while pretending it was still alive. "Fly back to your friends!' I called out, like I was faking my way out of a murder charge.

The last bug in my room descended just a few days ago. I was lying in bed reading a book when Tinkerbell (or one of her cousins) fluttered down in front of me and just hovered there, like someone treading water. She was lime green, about an inch in length and had small fluttery wings and a pair of arms and legs. (That's what I saw, alright?)

At first I was enchanted. I remember saying, 'Are we off to Neverland? Where's Wendy?' Then, an intriguing thought landed. 'Am I Wendy?' I asked aloud. Then the creature fluttered right next to my face and I gave a small scream. I ran for the bug catcher, but this insect was tricky. By the time I'd placed the trap against the wall, she'd escaped to another part of the room. So I grabbed my flyswatter, and when she landed on the footboard, I slapped her hard, grabbed a kleenex, and scooped her up. 

Instead of taking her out to the deck, I flushed her down the toilet. I didn't peek inside to see if she was still alive, either. I didn't want to see her lips form the words, 'Murderer!' as she breathed her last. 'You're not a Bhuddist!' 

I'm really not. 

But when the bugs inherit the earth, I want them to remember their friends. Especially the spiders. I used to holler at my girls when they screamed at the sight of hairy, eight legged creatures crawling out from under their beds. 'Spiders are your friends!'  I'd say. (But not when they're in your bed. That's crossing the line.)

 I never kill spiders, though. Although putting them outside when its -30 might be pushing it. Aside from these few, hypocritical moments, I consider myself 'pro-bug.' However, the climate is changing and we're getting strange insects up north that never lived here before. When the cockroaches start heading our way, I might have to abandon my principles and just use a fly swatter. Perhaps I'll send them to bug heaven while offering up a loud rendition of La Cucaracha. Some might see it as politically incorrect, but I call it a nice way for them to spend their last moments. 

You Again!

 

I made an unfortunate discovery this summer. Apparently, you can't just keep adding stain to your deck year after year and expect it to stick. It needs tough love to make it last. My friend Gaye offered to help, since they own a powerwasher. I'm almost certain I used a garden hose with poor pressure a few years ago, but what did I know?  I though it would take her about 30 minutes. When it went on longer, I checked in. "Isn't this good enough?" I said, pointing at the boards.

She replied like a nursery school teacher conversing with a dim three year old. "Judy, if we don't do it right, you'll just have to do it all over again next summer." With the gentlest tone and a small shake of her head, she got back to it. 

She worked for three and a half hours the first day and three the next. The loose strands of paint disappeared, leaving behind the dull echo of stain from years gone by that would need to be sanded away. She offered to do it, but how far can you let a friend go in the help department without feeling like you're taking advantage?

With my new palm sander and paper, I took over a week to finish the job. I ended up using a belt sander, too, which threw me around like a bull trying to toss a cowboy at the rodeo. Every evening my hands buzzed for an hour, and my back ached like the bull had not just thrown, but trampled me. And yet, I removed every speck of stain before purchasing Thompson water sealer in a cedar colour. 

After following the directions carefully, I ended up with a nicely finished deck the colour of Donald Trump's face. But after all the work that went into it, I'm okay with that.

Once my back unclenched from being stooped over for a week, I planted my garden and began the never ending tasks of weedwhacking, mowing the lawn and potting flowers. There are other tasks that I needed advice about, or required a small amount of help with, but really, I've bothered quite a few handy friends in the past. I don't like to think of them lying on the floor with the lights out and the door locked if they see me approaching their house. 

What we need in town, in the world, really, is a list. Much like the list for organ donors, only this one wouldn't be voluntary. If someone made the mistake of doing too good a job with their house, yard, car, fence, etc, then they would be added to the list. This would be especially beneficial to society if it involved people who broke the law. 

Say a guy worked for the mafia and got caught by the FBI. Or CSIS. After prowling around their property, agents would notice how well kept things were, and the bad guy/girl would make the mistake of saying, 'I'm good at breaking legs but I'm also handy with regular tools.' They would go on the list.

There'd be a second list of people like me who need  help with things. We have questions, like, how do I use this saw? How do I load my nail gun? Can I paint outside with this brand, even though YouTube says no? Of course, we'd all have our favourite handy people. I can just picture them saying, 'You again!' when I call. 'Do you want me to call the RCMP?' I'd reply. (Because yes, these people would have little choice in the matter.) 

It would be a tidier world. Pictures would hang straighter, my sidewalk wouldn't be coated in white paint accidentally spilled while I was attempting to paint my posts out front. I wouldn't have to have a side table in the place where my trim joined up in the living room. I'm not great at diagonal cuts, and unfortunately, I belong to the school of 'Eh! Good enough.' 

So, Justin Trudeau and Pierre Pollievre, stop squabbling and start making a list. All the handy people I know are honest, and I have to stop bothering them. I hope to hear about this new program soon. 

sincerely,

Me                                                      

Love Story

 To misquote author Erich Segal, what can you say about a girl who died? That she was beautiful? That she was loved? Yes. But since her loss has left me...all of us, with a ragged wound that refuses to heal, I'm first going to talk about how damned annoying she could be.

Susan was a beautiful child who never sat still. She was so competitive that she had to win every race. We'd stand at the top of our back lane, and she'd shout, 'Go!' I'd watch her take off running, a resigned look on my face, knowing I'd lost before I'd taken a single step, because she was not just fast, but determined. She flew like a little bird, her white blond, cotton candy hair floating above her like wings. 

As a teenager, she started wearing black eyeliner, even though Linda and I told her it looked dumb. While visiting my aunt in California, she insisted on speaking with an accent that was one part British, two parts made up European royalty. 'That's not how she talks!' we'd tell the effortlessly cool teenagers my aunt would invite over, hoping they'd befriend us. Susan didn't care what we, or they, thought. She was living her best, fake accent, life. 

I still remember the evening when her band made their debut at our high school dance. I was so nervous, I felt like throwing up. But they were spectacular in their cool, matching outfits, like the Beatles. 'Oh, thank God,' I remember thinking. 'They're so good.' Her future husband, Brent, was in the band, too. Music was a huge part of their love story. Later, there was a family band, and they were a big part of our community's social life.

Susan was my best childhood friend. We were soulmates of a different kind, and we could practically read each other's minds.When we were grown and had families, we lived just a few blocks away from each other. Our families lived in each other's pockets...that was true of all the siblings in town. When I watch family videos, I'm stunned at the utter chaos: children everywhere, parents oblivious to the deafening noise. It must have been awful for anyone visiting.

Susan and I were choir buddies, along with two other sisters and a brother. We usually sat together, though we occasionally fought over our friend, Michelle, who sang all right the notes. Susan had a beautiful voice, but like me, didn't read music when our community choir got started. We practiced together diligently. She worked hard at it, like she did everything else.

She was always up for whatever crazy notion I got into my head, like painting my entire Rumpus room one Christmas Eve. After Clarence died, she helped me clean up the garage...a gargantuan task because of my Father-in-law's fifty years of 'collecting things.' We must have taken ten trips to the dump before having a massive garage sale. She was my navigator whenever I took a wrong turn pulling the trailer. What I mostly remember is how much we laughed. Especially when she opened containers to find the stuffed heads of dead animals. That was worth a scream or two.

I loved how our families fit together. There were our Academy Awards parties, endless theme parties, really, where we laughed and sang and played charades. All the births we shared, helping each other through, and crying too, when things were hard. 

Susan was exceptionally kind and brave. She spoke up to defend others, and became a birth coach, helping many mothers navigate the system. As an Educational Assistant, she was an advocate for children, because she remembered what it was like for herself and her siblings, every one of us with ADHD, which teachers back then thought of as Annoying, Distracted, Heedless Daydreamers. Because of it, she read endless books about parenting and child psychology. 

She was effortlessy beautiful, something I didn't really notice as a sister. Not until she was gone. She was brave throughout her illness, and so stoic. It was a privilege being with her for the last few weeks, especially on the night she drew her final breath. Such beauty and dignity, despite everything she'd gone through. She's with the angels, now, probably singing beside our friend Michelle. So here's to you, my sweet, beautiful sister. I love you. I miss you. And I know I'll see you again.

Bachelor Billioniares...They're Selling like Hotcakes!

 I belong to a cheap bookbuying club that discounts all kinds of books. It lets you pick from a few different genres, and every day you have the option of selecting anywhere from 5 to 7 options. I've found some excellent reads there. But if you've even hinted that you can handle a romance novel, you will automatically receive every Billionaire Boyfriend book on the list. 

The titles are hilarious. The latest is called Her Bachelor Cowboy Billionaire, about a young woman and an old guy. Guess which one is rich? The thing that gets me is, who'd want a billionaire, anyway? I mean, sure, Warren Buffett is giving away most of his money before he dies. I'd love to have a conversation with him about that. But the rest of them? How ruthless do you have to be to end up a billionaire? Most of them start out with wealthy parents, like Elon Musk. But there must be a few self made ones out there, stepping on more than a few necks to propel themselves upward on their journey to extreme wealth. 

Currently, there are 3, 381 billionairs dashing around the planet in their private jets, or preparing themselves for their journey to Mars. If you had a billion invested at 8% interest, you'd make thirty million a year. And yet, what are these people doing with their money? 

Happily there's another good one, Yvon Chouinard, who founded the Patagonia company 52 years ago, is giving all 3 billion to a special trust and creating a foundation to help combat climate change and protect nature. Now, that's a guy to fall in love with. 

Please, Bookbub, no more billionaire love stories. You're making me throw up in my mouth. Now, a down-on-his-luck cowboy who just gave his last dollar to a food bank? That guy's dateable. Signing off, this is Judith, leaning just a little more to the left. 

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.