Memory Almost Full

 

I now take Theracurmin for my bones. It’s a derivative of turmeric that’s lauded as a natural anti-inflammatory and so far, I’m a fan. My pain has reduced to almost nothing and I’ve been able to regain much of the mobility I feared I’d lost. It’s like the magic pill everyone hopes will be prescribed, and while it’s not quite that magical (I still have to avoid known inflammatory foods etc.), it’s the closest I’ve ever come to finding it.

A few weeks after I’d started taking it, Ter saw an ad for it in a magazine. “Hey,” she said, scanning list of the purported benefits, “not only is it an anti-inflammatory, it helps with memory and cognitive function, too!”

Bonus! I thought.

Later that week, I booked a date with my office tea buddy for my day in town. We put it in stone via meeting invites so the time is blocked in our calendars. I had another meeting scheduled ahead of our appointed time, so I sent her an instant message to say I was stuck in a call and would IM her when I was done. She sent back a thumbs up, and my meeting proceeded as planned.

It finished a few minutes later than scheduled. I hung up the phone and glanced at Treena’s status, which is indicated by the colour of a dot next to her name in the Skype for Business window. If it’s green, she’s available. If it’s red, it means she’s busy, in a call, or in a meeting. Hover your cursor over the dot and the system tells you which of the three applies.

Well, Treena’s dot was red. In a meeting. Huh. Must have come up suddenly (it does, sometimes).

I sent her an IM: “Zap me when you’re ready to go.”

She wrote back immediately: “I’m heading for the stairs!”

Only then did I realize her dot was red because she was in a meeting—with me!

Apparently, the Theracurmin has yet to kick in on my memory and cognitive function ...

Soul Food?

 

Quitting sugar is a bit like quitting booze. It can be awkward in a social situation. My office tea buddy is a treat freak who can rationalize herself into committing any form of dietary misdemeanour. “I’ve earned it” or “I deserve it” are two of her favourites, and she is notorious – or was, in the before times – for enticing co-workers with bowls of chips, boxes of cookies, and plates of gourmet doughnuts cut into bite-sized pieces (aka “quarters”). She’d often IM me with alluring details of a new chocolate bar she discovered at lunch, ending with a coy “Want some?” that I rarely resisted.

In truth, my powers of resistance are stronger than everything except my desire to please, so when the offer of some new sugary discovery was extended, I accepted to be polite. I do hate to disappoint people.

Still, when I recently told her that I’m off sugar for health reasons, she made all the right supportive noises before she said, “Well, the time will come when you have to surrender—just once—for the sake of your soul.”

Treats are comfort food, and comfort food is comforting for a reason. It’s emotionally gratifying. Soul food, as it were, being good for your soul because it feels good, period.

Oh, but wait a minute. As I understand it, my soul resides in but is not part of the compostable container. Being the spark of divinity that binds me to the Universe and all living things, it’s the one thing I will take with me when I leave. My soul needs attention, sure, but not in the form of food. It needs no physical nourishment. It certainly isn’t prone to sugar cravings that will wreck my mind and my body for hours after a treat is consumed in seconds. It just isn’t.

What is, however, is the sneaky little part of my brain that resides just out of sight behind my ears. Known to neurologists as the amygdale, it’s been described by one expert as “the toddler in the room” where demands, tantrums, addictions, and primal emotions like fear and anger reside. It’s the part of my makeup that claims comfort from food and will say anything to get it. Including “I’ve earned this”, “I deserve this”, or “My soul needs this”.

Clever, eh? How it uses first-person logic to negotiate and get its way? It actually tries to trick me into believing that a brownie will make me feel better when in truth that brownie will a) not taste as good as I remember and b) make me sluggish and crabby for the rest of the day. Why would my soul want to feel like crap? Well, it doesn’t. My soul knows what’s good for me and my body, and my prefrontal cortex (aka “the parent in the room”) concurs. It’s the voice that says,

“Away with you, Princess Amygdale. You’re busted.”

First World Problems

my bangs need a trim ...

BC has been trying to flatten the COVID-19 curve for almost 6 weeks now. According to our provincial health officer, who’s become something of a folk hero out here, we’re actually succeeding at it—but we’re not out of the woods yet. This means the parameters put in place when all this started will remain in place until mid-May at least.

Rats.

On the other hand, it’s not without purpose that we are asked to stay home, that businesses have had to cut staff, that non-essential services are on temporarily hold. Ah. Non-essential services. Here’s where I recognize how incredibly fortunate we are to be more worried about getting our eyebrows done during a pandemic than we are about dying from it.

Not that I get my eyebrows done. I just know people who do. Still, after six weeks of “doing without”, I am beginning to miss some things.

My monthly chiropractic treatment, for instance. Working from home has certainly helped my structural precondition, but I know I’m out of alignment. My chiropractor had to self-isolate on his return from the States in early April, then I got a call cancelling all appointments until further notice. I’m sure he’s fine; it’s just the closing of (how do I say this?) “non-essential” medical services that’s put my maintenance on hold. Ter’s chiro has had to do the same thing. They’ll take an emergency call, of course, but neither she nor I will play that card unless we’re well and truly immobilized.

Almost worse is the root growth and fading colour in my hair. Maintenance on the mane is a major operation every two months, with drop in tweaks to keep the bangs trimmed and the pink vibrant. My stylist makes no real money on me anyway (she mostly likes to play with colour and I’m fearless about it), and I miss visiting with her while she works her magic in the salon.

And have I mentioned lingering over tea with my office buddies? I’m able to nab a tea break with Treena when I drop by the office for printing/scanning/supplies once a week, otherwise I’ve resorted to buying my Blenz favourite in bulk and drinking it at home on workdays.

I understand the concept of social distancing, but continue to misjudge it. Most people are better about skirting around me than I am about eluding them, though I’m not out and about as much as usual. Being an introvert, I’m quite content to stay home for days on end. I sure am snacking a lot more, though. I’ve heard the “19” in “COVID-19” is because the disease was named in 2019 … but I suspect it will actually come to mean the number of pounds I’ve gained before house arrest is over.

Stay safe, stay healthy, stay positive - we've got this.

With love,

The Company You Keep

Come on, get Happy!

One never knows what one is getting when a new bear joins the household. It’s a bonus that Ter’s critter instinct has never let her down; every bear she’s brought home has been a winner, but it takes time for each unique personality to reveal itself, and the group dynamic often plays a part in what that personality looks like.

Take Cardigan, for instance. He came by way of my Christmas stocking in 2015, so we didn’t meet each other until it was theoretically too late. I looked at him, he looked at me, and nothing immediately happened. I didn’t even know his name until he’d sat in somewhat anxious silence for a few days (they’re almost always anxious at first; after all, they don’t know us, either ... and when I say “us”, I mean “me” because they flock to Ter like kids to the ice cream truck). With his natty scarf and cable-knit coat, he seemed an academic type, shy and introverted. First hint: the smoke detector incident in November 2016 (“Chirping”) freaked him out. To this day, if he sees me put on my coat, he says, “I don’t want the con, Mum.”

Slightly neurotic? Check.

Then he met Basher, which I figured was a good thing because he needed socializing. Besides, a quiet, studious companion might be a good influence on my little goon, who has always been a bit of a thug. Flyer fan, you know.

Well, Basher nicknamed him “Nerdy”, at which he took mild offense until he realized Basher isn’t that bright and didn’t mean to be mean. Now he’s okay with it. Anyone else calling him “Nerdy”, however, gets a reprimand.

Even if it’s his mother.

Cardie’s time with Basher is determined by the number of Flyer games on TV, as he resides in the living room and Basher is a bedroom bear. This means Cardigan spends a lot of time by himself—and as anyone who spends too much time alone can tell you, it messes with your head. While Cardie retained his sweetness, his shyness intensified and his neurotic tendencies became more evident. He stayed in his spot and didn’t want to stray, and while he seemed okay with being alone during the day, he worried incessantly that Ter and I wouldn’t be home before dark. Not a problem in summer. In winter, he was really bothered. I started to wonder if he might need professional help.

Then Happy Livewell arrived. He came to us last winter, as part of a Christmas present for Ter, but I think he’s been more of a gift to Cardigan. Happy immediately felt at home in the living room. He staked out his spot near the window, and one day asked Ter who the little blond guy was sitting under the lamp. She brought him over and introduced him to Cardigan.

Now the pair are inseparable. Every morning, Happy comes to hang out with Cardie while Ter and I are at work. They watch TV together in the evening. Happy is so cheerful and optimistic that Cardigan has finally begun to relax. He’s even cracked a couple of jokes! Happy always laughs at them, but his constant good humour has boosted Cardie’s confidence to the point where my little guy occasionally sasses me! He’s come out of his shell, and is so much healthier and happier with his new best friend than he was when he was his own best friend.

I think people are the same. Why not build positive, nurturing relationships rather than negative and needy ones? Remember, a single candle throws a whole lotta light. Don’t imagine for an instant that your attitude has no effect on others. It does. You can lift someone up as sure as someone else can bring you down—and if you spend too much time in your own head, that little voice will work its sinister magic and convince you the world is a hostile, lonely place. It is, and it isn’t. A lot of it depends on the company you keep.

With love,

Traditions 2.0

Before Christmas, one of our local radio curmudgeons did a bit about the importance of tradition. During the holidays in particular, we treasure the rituals that make us feel safe and secure in a world getting nuttier with every headline. Many of our rituals come with us from childhood, and new ones develop as we establish our own homes and families. For me, it’s alcohol and TV shows. I don’t drink so much at any other time of year, and it’s not Christmas until we’ve watched Charlie Brown.

Even at the office, we have seasonal traditions. On the day the fireplace went up, one of my colleagues paused when she saw it, broke into a grin, and announced, “It’s official! Christmas is here!”

It seems Ter and I have ton of them. The house gets decorated first. I get the cards done and gone by mid-month. The big tree goes up on the first Saturday in December (or the last one in November). We watch Jim Carrey’s Grinch on that night, and every other holiday movie/TV show we have between then and the 23^rd, when A Christmas Story kicks of the holiday hat trick that includes Alistair Sim on the 24^th and Jimmy Stewart on the 25^th. We stock the kitchen with Imperial cheese and garlic sausage, mincemeat tarts and eggnog (and my annual bottle of Prosecco). We visit my folks, friends, and a sibling or two ahead of Christmas Day, not to mention getting presents bought and wrapped for distribution at those visits. Our holiday CDs go on heavy rotation in the house and in the car.

You get the picture.

Well, this year something happened. A bunch of things, actually, that interfered with our nicely organized, pre-scheduled, comfortably familiar holiday hoopla. Some switchups were deliberate, like Ter deciding to bake fruitcake for the first time in a few years, but others were, er, forced upon us. We were too bushed after wrestling with the tree to watch Jim Carrey, so the Grinch got put off for a week. My parents were unavailable when we hoped to visit them, and we were unavailable when my older sister invited us to tea. (Happily, those visits happened after the 25^th, though it felt weird having to reschedule them.) We got hung up on some other oddball things that escape me now, but despite some of our traditions being waylaid by circumstance, other things happened to make holiday magic.

It snowed on Christmas Eve. It started within seconds of my return from dropping Treena home after her ritual holiday visit, and it didn’t stop until the street was thick with frosting and our view of Oak Bay had disappeared. Ter put on the cheeseball Christmas tunes channel, and we sat in a candlelit Ocean Room with wine and popcorn, watching the snow and revelling in the unexpected hygge.

We spent the next morning in the same room, opening our presents in the glow of the penguin tree when our habit is to spend Christmas morning with the big tree. Neighbour noise caused that one, but it worked out in the end. In fact, all the adjustments worked. The OR is my favourite room in the house; why not open our presents there? Visiting parents and siblings after Christmas Day was more relaxed than if we’d crammed it in ahead of the 25th. I survived without my jar of clotted cream and discovered the joy of vanilla and cinnamon Bailey’s. Limited rotation of Christmas music didn’t kill us, though it’s too bad we missed running Blackadder’s Christmas Carol and Nation Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.

Maybe new traditions were born of the pre-empted old ones; I won’t know until next Christmas. I do know however, that despite the hiccups and with the gift of snow on Christmas Eve, ours in 2017 turned out to be quite festive. Traditions are important, indeed they are, but when conditions are right—though they may seem wrong at the time—traditions can also be improved!

Auto Biography XV

“A Fine Set of Wheels”

This photo is not the photo I would have used for this post; however, the shot I would have used was never taken. It’s forever etched in my mind, though. If a picture is worth a thousand words, put up your feet while I try to describe the scenario on the night before we traded Jules for a new Volkswagen.

Our dear friend Treena has a professional grade camera and offered to take some photos for posterity. We don’t have many pictures of our beloved Camaro. What we do have are “working” snaps, pictures taken on road trips or after weather events like the Blizzard of ’96. We never did do the photo op we talked about when he was brand new. That’s why, in the shots Treena took, there’s a dent in his right flank and the hood on the driver’s door mirror is still wearing its factory primer (we never got it painted after the lens went phht!—but that’s another story). All the same, we took immaculate care of his motor and safety features; he had over 160,000 kms on him when we let him go, but he still ran like a dream.

I digress.

On his last night with us, I drove Treena up to Craigdarroch Castle and watched her do her photographer thing. She circled the car, snapping this way and that, taking cool background shots, artsy angle shots, and whatever else shots she felt would do justice to her unwitting subject. Through it all, Jules stood quietly, not posing precisely, but behaving like a gentleman for the lady. I wish I’d thought to bring my own camera, not to try my hand at emulating Treena, but to catch the moment when Jules ceased to be an inanimate object and became, for a brief instant, a living, breathing creature.

I was standing behind and to the right of the car as she crouched to get this shot. Treena is a delicate little thing, a fairy child with hollow bones, who might be blown into the trees by an aggressive gust of wind. Jules was coiled like panther, muscles bunched and thrumming, as she hunkered by his nose and lifted her camera. In that moment, in the mystic evening light, he looked about to pounce ... but then he lowered his head and let her take his picture. Seeing the two of them in that frame created a delightful memory which, unfortunately, I can only share through these inadequate words, but which will stay with me for the rest of my days.

Birthday Girl

Today is my birthday. I wasn’t going to blog about it, but I’m feeling particularly grateful so thought I’d post a “bonus” blog just to put it out there.

I’ve said before how birthdays act as my New Year’s Day, when I reflect on where I’ve been, where I am, and how far off track I may be from my original plan. Luckily, I don’t remember my original plan since I made it before I was born, but considering how happy I am today, I reckon I can’t have strayed too far off course.

Albert Einstein is quoted on the kitchen calendar today: “The ideals which have lighted my way, and time after time have given me new courage to face life cheerfully, have been Kindness, Beauty and Truth.”

If ever a statement was meant for me, this might be it. I almost burst into tears because that’s exactly how I feel about my life and the people in it – so many good folks have taught me about those three vital virtues, how to act on them, to appreciate them, and to use them as the lens through which I view my life. I am deeply, truly blessed. Not so long ago, I would have denied my worthiness, but nowadays I realize, heck, I deserve all the good (and probably the not so good) I’ve experienced and will experience during my time in this phase. But really, people have featured more prominently in my progression than circumstance. My wonderful parents, my fabulous siblings, and of course my magical Ter, have all inspired and supported me through the most important lessons life has to teach me, but there are secondary characters in my personal drama, too. Friends who have come and gone, co-workers of the same temporary nature, both delightful and painful (some at the same time—now that’s a rare talent!), even people I have not met in the flesh have influenced my development. What to write, how to write, how not to write ... sometimes the most valuable lesson is how not to do something. Another favourite quote is “A wise man once said nothing.” I laughed when I read it, but humour is often based on a nugget of truth and part of life is also learning when to be silent.

I’m working on that, too. I’m working on everything, in fact, but today, I’m giving myself break. Ter and I are meeting wee sis and Boy Sister for lunch, and though Saturday is typically laundry day, the undies can wait. Episode Seven of Versailles, however, cannot. That’s on tap for this evening, after dinner and prezzies and a day of being duly celebrated.

I have never felt so loved ... or so grateful. If I can give back a fraction of the marvels life has given me, my work here will be done. Happy birthday to Ru.

With love,

There’s No Place Like Home

What does home feel like? For me, it’s a place where – or a person with whom – I am safe. Loved. Accepted for myself and free to be myself. Home is not a physical thing for me. It was when I was a kid, but even then, we moved around so much that getting attached to the house was futile. Home was where my family was – and I know I was luckier than a lot of kids. Ter, for instance, feels more at home with my kin than she did with her own, since growing up for her happened harder and faster than it did for me.

But that was when we were kids. As adults, we’ve made a home wherever we’ve lived, whether for six months or sixteen years. Sometimes, I haven’t wanted to go home. When renos were happening or the neighbours were too close beneath our feet, my office was preferable to my house, which speaks to the closeness of my colleagues as evidence that home is a feeling rather than a location.

Years ago, when I figured out how to operate the speed dial on my work phone, I loaded “home” onto the button just below “parents”. One day, meaning to call my folks, I instinctively dialled “home” (well done, Mum and Dad!) Two years ago, when Ter and I each got a cell phone, she took our old land line as her new number. I haven’t bothered to change the speed dial ID. Home means many things to many people, but for me, it means “Ter.”

Well done, bud. <3

Mutable Earth

A buddy of mine is plagued by Virgos. She has me, for one. Her preteen daughter, just morphing into the ugly years, is another. She’ll often tell me story of the girl’s attitude then say, “Must be a Virgo thing,” which I’ll either confirm or deflect to pubescent hormones.

She recently met a guy whose birthday is the day before mine. It started out great, but went a little weird after a few days, during which she was inclined to some action, but held off for fear he’d “get all defensive” on her.

“Virgos don’t get defensive,” I snapped.

Nonplussed at the interruption, she blinked at me—and burst out laughing.

…

What?

All Good Things

It’s Thanksgiving. I usually celebrate the occasion earlier in the month, on Ter’s birthday because, of all the good things in my life, I am the most thankful for her.

I also mentioned to my sisters—wee and Boy—last week that they are among my top five. I didn’t say where, but they were happy just to have made the list. Sillies. My family is second, third, fourth and fifth, and includes older sister, both brothers and of course my wonderful parents.

After family come my friends—those who have become family, those who get me through my workday, and Nicky Bean, who stands alone as a beacon of inspiration, creativity and writerly support, and who also happens to agree that John Taylor is perfect.

I must also to give the nod to my pit crew—my voodoo medicine man, my massage therapist, my foot man and chiropractor. I wish I could be grateful for my dentist, but despite the miracle of having my own teeth (so far), I remain suspicious of how much work is actually required for my health rather than his home renovations.

Big picture, I am grateful for everything in my life, even the challenging stuff though I’m often snarky while dealing with those challenges (like dental work). Mortality can be a struggle, but it provides a plethora of opportunity to learn, to love, to hope and dream and laugh and cry and taste chocolate.

I am most grateful, perhaps, for gratitude itself, for it being the wellspring of abundance and prosperity, and a reminder that I have it pretty darned good in a world seemingly poised on the lip of the Dark Side.

Now, to give everyone something worth being grateful for, I’ll keep this short! Take a moment to consider the good things in your life. You might have to look for them, but trust me, they’re there, and if you focus on them instead of the things that drive you crazy, you’ll discover yourself to be in better shape than you thought.

With love and gratitude,

Fabulous 55

It’s my birthday!!!!!!!

I confess, I get a little wired on September 2 because Ter has been madly shopping and wrapping and planning for the occasion. No one is more grateful for me than she is, and while it feels weird to be celebrated just for existing, I appreciate her effort almost as much as I appreciate her just for existing.

It works two ways.

So, here I am at the almost-middle-age mark. No regrets, lots of memories, a happy Now, and excited about future episodes of “Two Girls and a Tiguan”. Life is, has been, and continues to be good to me. I am so very fortunate.

I have a great friend and soul sistah in my beloved Ter. Without her, I’d probably still be living in my parents’ basement instead of embracing a universe of potential and possibility.

I chose a kick-butt birth family spearheaded by wonderful parents who planned for me and gave me sibs whom I am always delighted to see whether days, months, or years have passed between sightings.

My friends are few and extremely precious. Writers, healers, humourists, and relatives (yes, sisters can be friends) all contribute to my creativity in ways they can’t imagine.

My colleagues are gold, to the point where my executive director worked to get me a salary increase rather than let me go when I was so unhappy last year. Though money was not a condition for me staying with the division, I’m grateful for the abundance nonetheless. There are still days when I don’t get paid enough, but in a world where a living wage is beyond many people’s reach, I recognize how spectacularly lucky I am.

My pit crew will get my compostable container to my intended 115^th birthday; by then I think I’ll be done.

I have a new writing rig that happened when the old one spontaneously combusted. It’s taken a couple of days, but I think the new computer has renewed my passion for writing—proof of the wisdom not to get too attached to things.

Wherever I am, I have a comfortable home where I feel safe and loved at all times.

In short, I’m in better shape now than I was a year ago. Who says things only get worse? In my universe, they only get better!

With love and gratitude,

Food Porn IX

“Whopper Wednesday”

Remember the Pepsi Challenge? Folks were asked to choose between two colas whose labels were hidden. Those who chose Pepsi got on TV and those who chose Coke were never heard from again.

An impromptu malt ball challenge was recently held at work. It came up as a result of the salt/sugar snackies I put out for my co-workers each day—there is always a bowl of chips, cheezies or pretzels, and a smaller bowl of fruit chews, chocolate or gummies. I try to accommodate preferences, but one day I put out my favourite Maltesers and caused a controversy.” These aren’t as good as Whoppers,” my ungrateful minion declared. “Whoppers are better.”

“You mean the cheapo crap malt balls from when we were kids?” I asked, duly offended.

“Yeah,” she replied. She made a face. “These are too oily and not malty enough.”

That’s stupid, I thought. According to my palate, Maltesers are light, crunchy, and plenty malty. “We should do a challenge,” my minion suggested.

Damn straight. Confident of a landslide Malteser victory, I set about preparing the test lab. Two identical bowls. An equal number of malt balls in each. Shiny, uniform Maltesers on the left, muddy cheapo Whoppers on the right. On appearance alone, the Maltesers would win. My minion and I invited three people in our division to take the challenge.

All three liked the muddy cheapo Whoppers better, but my malt ball motto is “never say die.”

Time to expand the target audience.

I knew for a fact that my tea fairy would side with me, so off we went to her corner of the floor. When she wasn’t at her desk, we pigeon-holed the co-op student and asked her to take the challenge instead.

She picked the Whopper.

My tea fairy Treena rounded the corner. “You missed the challenge!” my minion crowed.

Bewildered and despairing at a missed opportunity for treats, Treena looked at me. “What challenge?”

“Maltesers versus Whoppers,” I replied.

She scoffed. “That’s no challenge. Maltesers are better.”

Yes! High-five, Treena!

My minion folded her arms. “Sore loser.”

“Not really,” I replied. “Since everyone prefers the cheapo crappy malt balls, it won’t cost me so much to feed y’all.”

But sometimes the kids eat what Mum likes because Mum likes it and she doesn’t care about them. A few weeks later, I put out Maltesers. My minion popped one and rudely interrupted my conversation with the office manager. “Hey!” she exclaimed. “These are the losers!”

I arched a high brow. “You mean Maltesers? So they are.”

Her brows lowered. “Even though the majority of people prefer Whoppers?”

“And no one has ever gone broke underestimating the taste of the general public,” I retorted.

I may go broke trying to elevate the taste of my public, though. It’s a hard thing to admit defeat, so any malt balls I’ve put out lately have been Maltesers.

Feeding the Muse

A quote from form Lily Tomlin 

We have a staff library at work. People bring in books from home and leave them for others to borrow—that’s how I was able to nab a copy of Andy Weir’s “The Martian” after Ter and I saw the movie. I mentioned to Treena that I was looking for the book and she said, “There’s one in the break room.” Serendipity strikes! The film stayed pretty well true to the novel; anything that wasn’t used wasn’t missed as far as I could tell.

My next pick was … disappointing. A textbook murder mystery where the law falls for the prime suspect, who is innocent but confesses to protect a loved one. I had the loved one pegged from the third chapter, which hardly made for enthusiastic reading—it took me weeks to skim four hundred pages because I wasn’t hungry to see what happened next when I already knew what happened next. Except I didn’t. A weird twist in the final chapter deflected the spotlight from the loved one to a secondary character whose motivation didn’t, in my opinion, warrant the grisly murder suffered by the sleazeball victim. I wasn’t disappointed as much as bewildered. The twist felt like a deliberate attempt to derail the reader where it would have been, again in my opinion, more honest to let the story end as predicted. I whined to my boy sister, “This was written by a New York Times best selling author!” to which he replied, “Was this the book that made the list?”

Good point, BS. Whether or not the author could do or had done better, this book was mediocre at best.

A mediocre book does two things: it threatens to lower my standards for my own writing and, in direct opposition, urges me to revisit a known gem. Next up: a second run at Station Eleven, a story so gloriously enchanting that I’m delaying the moment simply to relish the anticipation of a truly nourishing read.

A fabulous book will encourage me to stretch my own muscle, and I would rather overextend my reach than settle for “good enough”.

Your Name Becomes You

aw, jeez

Family legend has it that my parents took days to decide what to call me. Finally, they settled on “Ruth”, but what made up their minds? Did I tell them myself? Did something in my eyes speak of my nature and they took the cue? I do know that my mother’s cousin had a daughter some weeks after I was born and also called her Ruth. Mum was peeved at that. I guess she’d hoped that my name would make me unique among my peers, and as it happened, she wasn’t far off the mark.

My fifth grade teacher once took me into the hall and had me wait there while he returned to the classroom. “This room,” I heard him say, “is now Ruth-less.”

I remember rolling my eyes while my classmates groaned. Even ten-year-old kids know a lame joke when they hear it..

After I started writing in earnest, I got a baby name book to help me with a story set in France. I found a ton of names with French comparatives, not to mention German, Norse, Italian, Spanish, Old English, Celtic, Hebrew, etc. Naturally, I looked up my own name to see what it meant.

(Insert laugh here.)

Ironically, the few Ruths whom I encountered growing up were not particularly pleasant individuals. The one in ninth grade was a nasty acquaintance, the complete antithesis of what the name actually means (she might have been a better friend but I can’t say because she definitely wasn’t a friend of mine). Through work recently, I had a conversation with another Ruth who asked me if I liked my name. “I must do,” I replied. “since I haven’t changed it.”

We agreed that now it’s cool to have a name that missed the top ten of our generation, though at the time it was awkward to stick out so formally among all the Debbies and Lindas and Karens and Pattys in school. (No one called me Ruthie until I reached my thirties, when it burst on scene alongside other nicknames such as “Ruthless”, “Rufus”, “Rufie”, and my personal favourite, “Ru”.)

Then there’s the Biblical connection—despite having her own book in the Old Testament, Ruth was hardly a superhero. “Whither thou goest, I will go,” she said to her mother-in-law after she was widowed—and off the two went like Thelma and Louise without the guns or a bare-chested Brad Pitt. I was, however, a third of the holy trinity at one office, working for years alongside an Esther and an Eve. Now I’m paired with a Naomi who is not my mother-in-law but is most certainly my mentor at work. and as for my role at home … whither Ter goes, I also goest—and I’m totally good with it.

A few years into our friendship, Nicole sent me the card pictured at the top of this post with the explanation that “Ruth” was the name of the heroine in a novel she was writing and the definition had helped her to find the character’s voice. She sent the card to me in propinquity, with the reminder that I was often in her thoughts (who’s the beautiful friend here, eh?), and it sat on my desk for months before I thought to tuck it into one of my journals.

I might have laughed when I first learned that “Ruth” means “friend”, but it may actually mean more than that. Check this out:

So now, my name is subjective depending on my relationship with the individual. Choose your definition, but don’t tell me what you’ve picked!

With love,

DIY

“Only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile” – Albert Einstein

After twenty years in the same suite, our dear friend Treena has bought herself a condominium. Before she moves in, however, she’s renovating. And she’s doing it herself.

Ter and I were called to assist with collecting supplies last week—namely transporting a thousand pounds of laminate flooring and seven gallons of paint from the shop to the condo. Tiggy is a little Stormtrooper, but he also has a maximum load capacity of 1110 pounds so, after some frantic mental math during which our combined weight was added to the load, we estimated that the flooring alone would take three trips. Picture this: one Tiguan, two babes in their mid-fifties, and one waif hauling 34 boxes weighing approximately 20 lbs apiece from the curb to the second floor suite.

Bwahahahahahaha!

The first load was tricky since, having committed and therefore unable to reverse, we had no idea how we were going to accomplish this feat without killing ourselves. We bumbled through 5 return trips, during which I predicted we’d be professionals by the time we were finished.

Load #2—half the remaining flooring and 5 rolls of underlay were picked up at the shop and sat in the Tiguan while his girls took a union lunchbreak. Appropriately fuelled up, the “curb to condo” routine went somewhat more smoothly. (Curiously, Ter was energized by the carbs she’d consumed while Treena and I could have used a nap.)

Load #3—the last 160 lbs of floor plus seven cans of paint (3 eggshell, 2 semi-gloss, 1 primer and something else that I’ve forgotten); Tig was all but doing wheelies up the road with the weight over his rear axle. And when we arrive at the building … no parking save for the passenger zone with its 3 minute maximum.

Ter slammed the car into “park”, killed the motor and declared, “We’re doing it.” And from sheer terror of being busted (and potentially fined) by the strata council, we had everything out of the car, up the elevator and down the hall in twenty minutes flat.

As I’d predicted six hours earlier, professionals.

Treena comes from a family of do-it-yourselfers. Her aunt happens to be Ter’s best friend from high school, and there is nothing she can’t fix, improve, or invent on the fly. Ter is equally smart when it comes to improvising. My superpower is pointing out that “you’ve missed a spot”. Thinking about hard work exhausts me, but something magical happened on the chain gang that day:

I had a blast.

I was aching all over and two loads of laundry awaited when I got home, but I spent the day helping someone I love alongside someone I love and that made me happy. Treena, bless her, was ever so grateful for our help, and I suppose that contributed to the joy (gratitude tends to inspire a greater effort), but I am grateful to her in turn, for giving me the chance to experience the unexpected delight of offering my time and my heart in service to one of my kind.

Love and service. That’s what life is all about, Charlie Brown.

Christmas Eve 2015

I drove a friend home after tea on Christmas Eve. It was just after five o’clock, fully dark and sprinkling a bit. Some, but not much traffic. One of the local radio stations had gone all-holiday hits for the week preceding Christmas, so Tig’s radio was set to that channel for the duration. The volume was low with company in the car, but after I dropped Treena at her place, I turned it up to catch a Christmas song on my drive home. It’s only ten minutes, through a winding, tree-lined neighbourhood removed from the main artery to/from downtown. Plenty long enough for one, maybe two tunes. Simon and Garfunkel’s “Silent Night” would be lovely in the burgeoning stillness.

I turn left at the four-way stop. The commercial set ends and lo, “Mele Kalikimaka” starts up. Sigh … but hey, it’s a Christmas song and it’s not as if I don’t know the words.

“Mele Kalikimaka is the thing to say on a bright Hawaiian Christmas Day …”

I’m singing with der Bingle. Tig is cruising down the hill, wipers occasionally clearing Christmas-coloured raindrops from the windshield. Fairy lights glow in gardens and on gabled rooftops. I am warm and, for the first time in a few days, alone. I reach the one traffic light on my route. A single set of headlights beams at me from across the intersection. Red turns green, we each roll forward in opposite directions, then I have the street to myself. The song (mercifully) ends. With luck, I won’t be looping it for the rest of the evening, and there’s still time for another.

What I get is an update from NORAD. The base in North Bay is monitoring communications and confirms that Santa has left the North Pole. As soon as he reaches Canadian airspace, jets will be scrambled to provide a military escort … and for some oddball reason, a tingle of excitement runs up my spine. For a singular moment, I feel the magic of Christmas Eve in a way I haven’t felt since I was little. Santa is coming; he’s on his way …

I’m glad to be alone when it happens, even though it’s the first thing I blurt to Ter when I come through the door.

It was nice to discover that I’m not as immune, as grown up, as I believe I am.

Halloween Hangover

It’s November first and the world is choked. Mother Nature is throwing fits worthy of a screaming toddler: heavy wind, pounding surf, sporadic bouts of pouring rain—and then a rainbow appears as if to apologize for the tantrum.

Ter comes home from the grocery store. “Boy, is everyone out there cra-bee!” She’s been a little grouchy herself, on the heels of bolting a Bucky’s “Frappula” yesterday. It tastes like a Viva Puff mallow cookie and drops you like a drained corpse when the sugar high wears off. I suspect that a few folks have indulged in the seasonal specialty this weekend, and if they haven’t, the honking horns and crashing carts at the store today must be the result of those “one for you, two for me” trips to the candy bowl last night.

Then there’s the time change. Spring forward, fall back. I got the saying right, this time, but it hasn’t stopped me from feeling disoriented and easily annoyed … though the latter may be attributed to the bowl of caramel/cheese popcorn I devoured with my chocolate tea yesterday afternoon.

Why do we do this to ourselves?

Because it’s fun, silly.

Last week, the office held a cake walk that turned into a charity bake sale when no one else in the building turned up to play. I looked at a table piled high with cake, cookies, muffins and more, and was truly grateful that the only gluten-free item was the pineapple upside down cake I’d contributed and had no desire to reclaim. Oops, but there were the mountainous meringues donated by someone who had promised to bake but ran out of time—I’m not a huge meringue fan, but these babies came with blueberry whipped cream and one of my evil office fairies coerced me into splitting one with her (for a good cause), hence the buzz in my ears that began last Thursday.

As Nic would say, Blerg.

Tomorrow, everyone at work will be sick of candy and bakery treats. This will not stop me from refilling the Vader bucket with the last of the Rockets, treacle kisses, lollipops, jelly beans, tiny Mars and Snickers bars that I bought to get us into the Halloween spirit. Neither will it stop me from indulging if I get too stressed—it is the workplace, after all.

I am advised that the Red Cups are back at Starbucks, launched at opening time this morning to get us all into the holiday spirit and onto insulin drips after New Year.

Buckle up, folks. ’Tis the season!

The Importance of Tea XII

“Extremitea”

1000 grams!

My tea fairy, Treena, gave me a sample of Davidson’s Organic Spiced Peach for my birthday. It’s one of the best peachy teas ever, and I promptly wondered if we can get it online?

Fast forward a few weeks. Treena emails to advise that she’s aiming for free shipping on something and a pound of Spiced Peach will push her total past the eligible amount. Did I want to chip in for half?

Naturally, I agreed (it really is delicious).

David’s “Tea of the Month” is Ginger Beer – a herbal infusion that demanded I stock two hundred grams pronto, which of course I did. At the same time, I topped up my tin of Mumbai Chai from Blenz. All that remains is to purloin a package of Murchie’s seasonal Snowflake, and I’m all set for winter sipping.

Once the Spiced Peach arrived, I happily informed Treena that my cupboard is stuffed to the gunwales and no new tea purchases will be made for the rest of the calendar year. She gave me the knowing sidelong look and said something about, “Yeah, until the Christmas flavours come out.”

I remain steadfast in my resolve. Murchie’s Snowflake won’t be out for another few weeks, but once I’ve bought my stash of that, I mean it, I’m done. After all, I have half a pound of Spiced Peach to plough through; do I need more tea???

*sigh*

My other tea buddy, Julie, roped me into visiting David’s so she could try their Chai and Mighty. I was happy to tag along, with absolutely no intention of buying anything beyond a cup to go. I bypassed the Halloween display and went straight for the counter. Julie, however, paused to peruse the merchandise. I’m chatting with the counter staff when she cries, “Ruthie! Stormy Night is back!”

I pivot so fast that my ears buzz. “What?”

“Oh, yeah,” says the store manager, “it’s back for Halloween, but only in the tombstone packaging. What you see there is all we have.”

Stormy Night is one of my favourites; I pitched a fit when they discontinued it and proceeded now to rant a reminder of my displeasure before I snatched up a tombstone. “Now you have one less,” I declared. “Chocolate Macaroon, by the way, is a poor replacement.”

I can order fifty grams of Stormy Night from their website for $8.50. Fifty grams in a cardboard tombstone cost me twice that much in store. And I didn’t care. I bought it anyway.

Now that’s scary.

The Day After

My desk calendar is hardly a forward thinker. It features no Buddhist wisdom or Zen images. Every quote is taken from A Song of Ice and Fire—I might be sour on the TV show, but I remain a loyal fan of the novels. Sometimes the saying is relevant, sometimes not, and it doesn’t really matter beyond the date. Each morning, I tear away the previous day’s page and flip it over to see the bonus feature. Mazes, word searches, sudoku puzzles, household hints, terrible puns, and the dumbest feature of all: the unknown holiday.

This would be a genuine bonus if it appeared on the back of the page before the date. Among other gems, I have missed Ice Cream Day, Name Your Car Day, Do Nothing Day, and the worst omission of all—Book Lover’s Day. This bibliophilic nod falls on August 10, but I didn’t know about it until August 11.

That August 10 also happened to be Duran Duran Appreciation Day is of little comfort. I am a ferocious book lover, perhaps even more than I am a Durannie, and while one might argue that every day can be Book Lover’s Day, it struck me as absurd that the notification was placed so as to be missed until after the occasion.

Doof.

The main purpose of a calendar, I believe, is to mark special dates ahead of time … though I recall a friend’s amusement at the notion of a Zen calendar. “A timeless watch,” he said quietly, poking fun with love at an attempt to incorporate some serenity into a crazy environment.

I’m a Virgo and it’s cheating to turn a page before the one you’re on is finished. I suppose it would be worse if the surprise holidays were statutory days off, but I’d have enjoyed the excuse to hit the ice cream shop on that day back in July … if I’d known about it at the time.