Old Habits, New Routines and Signs of Things to Come

I’ve been ten days in the new place, half way to the three weeks my Dad told me were required to make something new a habit or routine.

Twice last week when returning home I found myself headed to the old place, so I think I’m going to need all of those three weeks.

My kitchen here is smaller, less cupboard space and less counter. I was spoiled with the old one. I guess I’ll manage; it would probably help if I actually used it, and like cooked something.

My eating habits over the last…ha, ha, ha…three weeks have been atrocious, fast food, freezer dinners, cheese and crackers with cold meat. I guess I’ll have to train myself to eat healthier, to make better choices. That’s why my fridge is full of salad, vegetables and lean meats.

Three weeks eh? So no more snacking in place of meals, and I’ll start with breakfast, the most important meal of the day.

The one thing that has taken no adjustment time is the switch from my desktop to the laptop. I can’t believe how fast it is and have wasted a lot of time just surfing the net. My favourites list that was on the old computer has expanded on the laptop as I discovered numerous new art sites worthy of a revisit.

There’s a garden space to the left of my door that extends around the corner of the unit to the back door, so I spent an afternoon researching small gardens, along with artsy additions and statuary.

I have a lovely stone angel that was meant for the garden. It’s heavy as all get out, and covered in a sort of green verdigras. I always had it on a table at the end of my loveseat, as I thought it was too pretty to leave in the garden. Alas it will be in the garden now, but right outside my door where I can see it every morning.

I have to tell you about the strangest thing that happened tonight.

I was at my daughter’s to celebrate her son’s fifth birthday. After dinner, presents and cake, we left to go to his sister’s soccer game. I made the trip through the Tim Horton’s drive thru for tea and sat at the side of the field to enjoy the evening watching a really good soccer game. Unfortunately she lost 8-6.

Anyway, back to the strange thing. I was driving home, one town to another, about 15 kilometres and knew I wouldn’t make it home without a pit stop.

When I went to turn left onto the local highway to home, two cars ahead of me were also turning left, but from the right hand lane. Good thing they had their turn signals on, I stayed back and let them make their turn, exercising my right to yell and curse from the privacy of my car.

The first car made the turn and almost immediately changed from the left to the right hand lane, and put his signal on to turn into Tim’s. I did the same as that was going to be my pit stop. The older gentleman got out of his car and stood watching me with some trepidation as I pulled in beside him.

It took me a moment to understand why he was acting with such caution, he thought he was about to come face to face with a case of road rage. The look on my face had nothing to do with being angry, but more to do with how badly I needed to pee.

When I walked around the front of my vehicle with a cane I don’t know whether he was immediately relieved or feared I was going to hit him over the head.

We arrived at the entrance at the same time, and he kindly held the door for me and I gave him a smile and words of thanks. Even if I had been angry, I think he realized he could easily out run me.

Road Rage.

If I feel angry at someone’s driving, I keep my comments verbal, spoken aloud for my ears only, and I never gesture. I think it’s some of those rude gestures that can turn an annoyed driver into an irate one. It’s better to show some caution, you never know when the other driver may be on the edge, holding who knows what emotions in check and a simple ‘finger’ is the last straw, to send him into a rage.

There is one gesture I use all the time, its hand speak for ‘I Love You’. I believe it’s used in Sign Language, and the kids and I adopted it, instead of a simple wave, from the time they were very young.

Recently, I stood at the door of my old building, as my daughter drove out of the parking lot with her son, and raised my hand, little and forefinger raised, with thumb extended, in our usual parting’s last ‘word’.

I wish I had been in the car to hear my grandson’s response. He’s reached a new level of awareness since he’s started school and seems to notice things he missed before. Apparently he got very excited when he saw me sign, and I went up in Grandmother Points because he thought I was giving him the Spiderman Sign.

Aren’t I just the coolest Grandma, I made the Spiderman sign, though I failed miserably at throwing out any Spidey Web.

I had to laugh, for I am so not into Super Heroes, but I impressed, for that moment, a little boy with his love for make believe characters.

Well, shazam.   

 

  

How Can This Be Wednesday Already?

"I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date".I feel like I've fallen down the rabbit hole.

I’ve lost track of time, since everything has become a blur since Sunday, the day I moved.

Sunday was the official move-in date; though I’ve been moving my stuff in gradually for a month. As of the other night, my bed and body were finally in the new place.

I slept well Sunday night, whether it was overwhelming fatigue or a sense of relief, I don’t know. I’m more inclined to think it was the few glasses of wine I had with the neighbours at the old place before I left.  

When I was doing the A-Z Blogging Challenge in April I knew I was going to be moving. I look back and realize how the impending move flavoured my posts, like ‘Purge’ and ‘By the Yard’.

Downsizing is not easy, especially for an artisan hoarder like me. I spent days pulling out fabric, yarn, paper and other craft supplies from every nook and cranny in my apartment. There were lots of surprises, like ‘I remember what I was making this for’ and ‘I knew that was in there somewhere’.

I have a lot of ideas, but poor follow through, it seems.

It might be hard for others to understand this moving by bits and pieces, but it works for me. I have a limited amount of strength and energy, so my whole life is lived in bits and pieces. I needed to move the most important things first, and then sorting through the rest became easier.

I have my bookcases, most of my books, and my angel collection so I’m happy. I gave up my computer and desk for the laptop, but still have to figure out what I’m going to do about the printer.

I gave up my art table, but that wasn’t a big sacrifice, as I’d used the kitchen table for years.

Funny, I was able to keep the blog on schedule while I was packing and purging, but just couldn’t get to it the last couple of days. I think the stress of the last month has finally gotten to me.

I want to thank my kids, for all their assistance and their cooperation. I know packing and doing the move all at once would have been easier for them, and less of a demand on their time, but I needed to do it slowly, as I had the energy.

So, here I am, sitting on my sofa with my feet up, my cup of tea at hand, writing my blog and looking out my window at a bright and sunny day.

I need to get back to some serious work now, like finishing the edit on my NaNo novel and doing the prep to publish my second murder story.

And I’m determined to use up all that fabric and yarn the kids are storing for me. I see a rag quilt in everyone’s future.

My Dad used to say that it took three weeks for a change to feel normal. The weeks I took sorting through my belongings seemed ‘normal’ like that was my life, packing, making decisions and never actually going anywhere.

But it was only an interim, this is the real change. I have to laugh, my daughter helped me unpack the kitchen and had everything neat and tidy, and the counters clear when she left. There’s not much space there now, but I’ll get it clear again. I have to, for at some point I may want to cook myself a meal.

It fell to my son, by virtue of his being the adult male in the family, to ‘tote that barge/ lift that bale’.  What, you’re thinking, does that mean?

The origin is long before my time, but I always liked the rhythm of it, and have used it on occasion. It comes from the song ‘Ol Man River’, from the 1927 musical ShowBoat. The song was sung by dockworkers and contrasts the hardships of working on the docks with the endless, and carefree, flow of the Mississippi River.

My son did a lot of toting and lifting, and I’m sure there were times he thought he’d never see the end of it.

I always used that phrase as encouragement, come on, tote that barge, lift that bale, let’s get this job done. And now, the job is almost done. I have unpacking and some decorating to do, but that’s the fun part.

I feel content, I feel a freedom from the burden of what I’d let myself collect, and I feel…at home.

And isn’t that what we all want, a sense of home and belonging.

 

 

 

The Crazy Lady With the Cats

            When I was younger I aspired to be that crazy old lady in the neighbourhood, the one who lived all alone with her house full of cats. This goal came to me after a time, after I started acquiring cats as household pets.

             In my earlier life I was a dog person, and for most of that time had one, if not more, dogs in the house. It was after my divorce, from the husband and, unfortunately, from the dogs, that I was given my first cat. The children were used to having a pet, and as I was working full time, a cat seemed easier than a dog. We obtained the cat, one of a four kitten litter, from a friend of my daughter. 

            There were three male kittens in that litter that the owner had named Thomas, Magnum and PI. That should tell you I got my cat when Tom Selleck was on TV, running around the beaches of Hawaii in his shorts, to the approval of a grateful, female viewing audience. Thomas was our cat, affectionately called Tommy within the family.

            A long haired white cat, Tommy had soft camel coloured spots, one on each foot and one on his back with a matching coloured tail. He was a good cat in spite of the fact that he ruined all the corners on my sofa. When he was left alone during the day all the furniture had to be covered, for its own protection. No matter what scratchy toys I bought him, Tommy still loved the corners of the furniture the best.

            Even though he was an indoor cat I refrained from getting Tommy declawed, on the very insistent advice of the vet. Apparently it's not a nice procedure and leaves the cat defenseless. Tommy was affectionate and well adjusted...well, except for the couch thing, but he didn't like change. Unfortunately change is a fact of life and the kids and I had to move when I took a job in another town. I was working even longer hours and the kids were older, busier, and the house was often empty for hours on end. As it seemed to be my inclination, to remain single, I decided to get another cat, for companionship...for Tommy.  

            We found a cat shelter and picked out a young tabby cat that we named Guido. Let me be clearer, that the kids named Guido. 

            That was when I started my aspiration to be that old lady with all the cats. My plan was to get another cat each time I entered another decade of my life. My two cats and I could live happily, for another few years, before we cast another 'boy' into the mix.

            Cats, like any living creature, can be prone to health issues. Poor Tommy was plagued with recurrent bladder problems which eventually led to chronic renal failure, a progressive disease for which there is no cure. We watched our fat Tom cat lose weight and become less and less active. He was watched over by his younger friend but there was no saving him. Shortly after I lost my beloved Tommy and lost heart with the idea of adding a new cat for the new decade.

            Guido became the king of the castle and took over the time honoured responsibility for destroying my furniture. He also didn't respond well to change and didn't like the new house, didn't like being the 'only' cat and started escaping from the house for days on end. One time he was gone for such a long time I had almost given him up for dead. I was calling the animal shelter frequently but they had no cat like our Guido. When I stopped in at the shelter, after weeks and weeks of looking, we finally got our Guido back. He'd been found in another neighbourhood, so far from ours that I couldn't believe he’d traveled such a distance and remained safe. He had disappeared in winter and was picked up when he'd taken shelter, for days on end, in a basement window. 

            He was thin, very skittish and was never, ever, the same. His health deteriorated, he never regained the weight and he, too, fell victim to chronic renal failure. 

            For twenty years I had had the companionship of my cats and now, within a few short years, instead of adding a third cat, I had lost both of my 'boys'. The down side of having cats; the maintenance of the kitty litter, the destruction of the furniture and the constant shedding was never too much for me as the positives outweighed the negatives. These cats had been true friends.

            Both Tommy and Guido had been able to pick up on my moods, usually better than anyone else. I could never sit and have a cry without a cat pressing into my side to remind me I was not alone. They were always close by, closer when I needed, but otherwise a companion, a living thing to talk to, a reason to come home to an otherwise empty house.

            I hadn't realized how much I missed my cats until recently, when I entered yet another decade. If all had gone according to plan I should have been out looking for another cat, instead I'm reminiscing about the ones who have come and gone. Tommy and Guido were invaluable friends, at a time I needed such friends and I will always remember them.

            And what about all those aspirations to be that crazy old lady with the cats?  Well, it doesn't take cats for people to think you're crazy, if that's what you want. Maybe in this phase of my life I want to be known for something else, something more positive. Maybe I'll start with something easy...like the lady in the poem, 'When I'm an old lady I'll wear purple.....”

                 

A Friday Bonus...Where Ever Did I Put It?

           

            There is nothing more frustrating, and depressing, than being unable to locate an item that I'm sure is in the house somewhere. Losing your keys, which people often complain about, is a minor issue on the down slide of memory loss, for they will be found wherever you left them when you last came in the door. Simple, think what you were doing and what you were wearing and...behold...the lost keys are lost no more, found in the pocket of the jacket worn to the grocery store.

            People like me, those with more of their life behind them than ahead, worry about memory loss.  There's the safety issue; like leaving the stove on...a major fire hazard and thank goodness for those mandatory smoke alarms; running water in the tub then getting waylaid with a phone call and   wondering why the hall carpet is so wet. We've all had experiences like that. 

            I've found one system that works for me...the list. The problem is you have to remember where your list is, and if it's for shopping, you have to remember to take it with you. I have a metal door and I put a fridge magnet right above the door lock. When I start a list I post it on the door, and add to it as necessary. Sometimes the list is for things I need to give to one of the kids, or to take to their place. It's right in my face when I'm ready to leave so I have no excuse for forgetting anything.                                                                                

            I also use the magnets for the purpose for which they were intended, to collect junk on my refrigerator door. I have phone numbers, recent ones as I forget, and yet I remember the one from my teens when I lived in Toronto. I wonder who might have that number now; maybe I should call it, just for fun and see. Sorry, I digress, good thing I don't have the tub running. Also on my fridge are the to do items, calls I need to make, pictures of possible hair styles for my next cut, a possible new décor for the bedroom, a recipe I want to try. You know…the important stuff.

            I just took a moment to look up a word in the dictionary. Refrigerator. I had spelled it refrigerator, and used the term fridge, for short. It didn't look right, hence the dictionary. Now here's a question, why is fridge, which is short for refrigerator, spelled with a 'd' and refrigerator is not? See how easy it is for the mind to be led astray. Maybe I have ADHD, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. I go along with the attention deficit but believe me, I just got up from my afternoon nap and there's nothing hyperactive about me.

            Last month I lost something and I was frustrated no end in my search, only to come up empty handed. Being of a creative mind I love to get books and magazines from the library, my way of stimulating those creative juices. I have a routine for when I go to the library, a book bag that is used for nothing but the library, with a large side pocket. In that side pocket I keep my library card and the printout of what books I have taken out. At home the bag sits by my chair in the living room and the books stay in the bag.

            When I took my load of books and magazines back to the library one day last month I was missing a magazine. No way... this can't happen, I have a system. It had to be the library's fault. They, obviously, and rightly so, thought it was my fault. They allowed me to renew the magazine, giving me the opportunity to find it and return it without a fine. They only allowed me to do this once and then I had to face up to the fact that my no-fail system, failed. A magazine that was six months old and cost

about $3.50 new, cost me eight dollars to replace. 

            I took it on the chin, not only does my memory fail me at times but so did my beat-the memory-loss system. So I paid the fine, but the frustration never went away. I live in a one bedroom apartment and even though I have it crammed full of books, magazines and craft supplies there are only so many places the magazine could hide. I pretended to do some spring cleaning and looked in places I hadn't seen  in awhile, but only after all the more likely hiding spots were ruled out. No magazine.

            There was only one conclusion to make. If I didn't have the magazine, and the library didn't have the magazine, then I must have given it to someone to read. There must have been something in that magazine worthy of the risk of my forgetting who I gave it to. I have come to rely on the memory of others but that's not always reliable either.

            Maybe there was an article to do with parenting and I loaned it to my daughter. She was very definite, when questioned, that I had not given her the magazine. I basically knew this was true because if the article is good, I usually photocopy it for her so she can read it at her leisure and would have it to refer back to. I know how busy she is with a full time job and three kids and leisure time is not something she has a lot of.

            My other thought, was there an article that would interest my friend and neighbour? She does have leisure time and likes to read so I would be more likely to give her the magazine. My friend has a few years on me and understands the memory issues we face. She didn't deny I might have given her the magazine, but she was very definite that she didn't have it. Her place is one bedroom bigger than mine and she did a search of likely places and came up empty.

            For the last month I have been more cautious when I bring books home, check the printout to make sure I have everything, and always double check with the librarian that all items have been returned.     

            Today, almost one month to the day that I paid the fine, the magazine was found. My neighbour, that very same neighbour who had denied having the magazine, brought it back to me. It had gotten lost in a pile of magazines and papers and overlooked in her search. I'll take it back to the library tomorrow and get my money back as they told me to keep the receipt in case I found it.

            I am vindicated, my system did not fail me...my neighbour's system may need a bit of work, but my system held. This has been a small victory in the battle of shrinking brain cells and memory lapses.  It's too bad the magnet and memo on the door don't work for everything, like when I boiled the pot dry the other night.

           I'll have to think of some new system for that, and when I do I'll share it with my friend.

The Lending Library

            “Didn't your mother teach you sharing?”  That is what my husband, god rest his soul, used to ask me whenever I had something he wanted, usually in the food or drink category. I guess she did, because I don't mind sharing.           

            Like the library, it's all about sharing. I love to read, and since I could never afford to purchase or to store the quantity of books I read, I don't mind sharing books with other like minded patrons. But my gawd people, what are you doing while you're reading?

            The other day, while reading a library book, I found a large dark brown coloured stain, mirrored on two pages like a dirty ink blot, a wannabe Rorschach test. Four pages later there were a few more brown smudges, followed by some grease stains and then the book read clean. You, the reader, were eating a chocolate dip donut weren't you?  At least that's what I'm telling myself as I don't want to consider some of the other possibilities.

            I understand, I live alone and often read while I eat a meal or have a snack. But if I can't manage the food and the book, I set the book aside so as to not soil it's pages. Obviously some of the other library card holders are not as conscientious.

            I finished that chocolate stained book and started another...another mystery. Maybe that library patron who likes to eat and read has the same taste in books. This book has orange stains, Cheezies would be my guess. Now, come on, everybody knows if you eat Cheezies your fingers get stained with orange dust. If you're going to eat and read at least make an effort to keep your hands clean.

            This has all been very alarming and is taking away from my pleasure in reading, especially when the next book had green stains, not stains really but little green blobs. Ooh, nasty, makes me

want to wash my hands, and the book.

            This is all so disconcerting. Where is the respect, people?

            I read with clean hands, OK, maybe sometimes too clean. I like nothing better than to share my Calgon moment with a good book. Turning pages gets difficult with a wet hand, so I might leave damp marks on the pages. No stains, just water marks, maybe a slight thickening of the paper...except for that one time I dropped the book in the hot water...it was never the same.

            Since I'm so aware of food stains, (I feel better thinking they're food stains), I've come to notice something else. Little circles drawn around some of the page numbers. What is this?  I looked the page over and it was just part of the story, nothing so outstanding as to be marked. It wasn't like marking the pages with 'explicit sexual content' like some teenagers have been known to do. If the circles were in place of a bookmark the reader was not reading very long at any given time.

            And initials, have you seen those initials in the front of the book? So the reader will know he or she has read the book, in case the synopsis on the back didn't ring any bells. I understand that, I've read a synopsis and, thinking it sounded like a good story, signed the book out only to remember it had been a good story...when I read it the first time. When you read an average of three or more books a week it's hard to remember them all. That's why I keep a list, by author, in a little notebook. If we all were to put our initials in the front of the book we'd need to have stickers that would cover them over, like the library did when they hand stamped due dates on each book.

            The other day I was reading a James Patterson novel, from the Women's Murder Club series.  Someone had deemed themselves an editor. Now, we've all found the odd typo in a book and been tempted to correct it, to correct a mistake in typing, not to change the wording. This was entirely different. This was striking a line through the words as written and substituting other words. It occurred a number of times and I realized it was for all the same words. Things like “...had gotten sick...” was

changed to 'had become sick', “...had already gotten to the school...” changed to 'already arrived at school..'. That reader must have been an English teacher or something. It had looked OK to me, perhaps casual English, as opposed to formal English. If it was wrong, how did it not get corrected in the editing process? Made me curious, so I looked it up in a book of grammar, and the reader was right, as far as proper use of the language is concerned.

            I've just finished another book and this one was snack free and pencil free. There were no notations, no initials and no stains. Picking up the next book off the to-be-read pile of books by my chair I leaf through the pages looking for signs of misuse and abuse. I want to get it out in the open, to not let it be a distraction while I'm reading the story. This book is pristine, and it's two years old, what a marvel.

            Ah ha, this book contains a gift, in the form of a bookmark. Now I understand, the bookmark is a shopping list, for the grocery store. Which reminds me, it's dinner time and my lasagna is ready. A glass of wine, some Italian pasta, what could be better as I sit down to read a Lisa Scottoline novel about an Italian lawyer from Philadelphia. I promise to be neat.